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61007 | Why does Adam refuse to play checkers?
Choices:
(A) He does not want to humiliate the priest by beating him.
(B) The priest is too eager to go up against him, and he doesn't want to disappoint.
(C) He has no reason to play. He is omniscient and would win without contest.
(D) He is scared of losing and giving away his true identity. | [
"D",
"He is scared of losing and giving away his true identity. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE
<br/>
WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A
<br/>
CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS
</p>
<h1>
IN THE GARDEN
</h1>
<h2>
BY R. A. LAFFERTY
</h2>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there be
life traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. So
they skipped several steps in the procedure.
</p>
<p>
The chordata discerner read
<i>
Positive
</i>
over most of the surface. There
was spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omitted
several tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thought
on the body?
</p>
<p>
Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; it
required a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they found
nothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Then
it came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.
</p>
<p>
"Limited," said Steiner, "as though within a pale. As though there were
but one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of the
surface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hours
before it's back in our ken if we let it go now."
</p>
<p>
"Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest of
the world to make sure we've missed nothing," said Stark.
</p>
<p>
There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult of
analysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This was
designed simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this might
be so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and the
designer of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.
</p>
<p>
The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locator
had refused to read
<i>
Positive
</i>
when turned on the inventor himself,
bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he had
extraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. He
told the machine so heatedly.
</p>
<p>
The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, that
Glaser did
<i>
not
</i>
have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinary
perception to an extraordinary degree. There is a
<i>
difference
</i>
, the
machine insisted.
</p>
<p>
It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but built
others more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the owners
of Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.
</p>
<p>
And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (or
Eppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read
<i>
Positive
</i>
on a
number of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could not
even read music. But it had also read
<i>
Positive
</i>
on ninety per cent of
the acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been a
sound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Mi
it had read
<i>
Positive
</i>
on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out of
billions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at all
was shown by the test.
</p>
<p>
So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the area
and got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently one
individual, though this could not be certain) and got very definite
action. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, and
assumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.
</p>
<p>
Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it ever
produces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrug
of the shoulders in a man. They called it the "You tell
<i>
me
</i>
light."
</p>
<p>
So among the intelligences there was at least one that might be
extraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to be
forewarned.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner," said Stark, "and the rest
of us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will go
down on that one the next time it is in position under us, in about
twelve hours."
</p>
<p>
"You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere away
from the thoughtful creature?"
</p>
<p>
"No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reason
that thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will go
down boldly and visit this."
</p>
<p>
So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, the
Captain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,
the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of the
Little Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguist
and checker champion of the craft.
</p>
<p>
Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationary
in the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probe
went down to visit whatever was there.
</p>
<p>
"There's no town," said Steiner. "Not a building. Yet we're on the
track of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, a
sort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it."
</p>
<p>
"Keep on towards the minds," said Stark. "They're our target."
</p>
<p>
"Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That looks
like an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,
I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well be
Earth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light coming
from?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'll
go to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious tool
with us."
</p>
<p>
Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people were
like them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed either
in very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a very
bright light.
</p>
<p>
"Talk to them, Father Briton," said Stark. "You are the linguist."
</p>
<p>
"Howdy," said the priest.
</p>
<p>
He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled at
him, so he went on.
</p>
<p>
"Father Briton from Philadelphia," he said, "on detached service. And
you, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?"
</p>
<p>
"Ha-Adamah," said the man.
</p>
<p>
"And your daughter, or niece?"
</p>
<p>
It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but the
woman smiled, proving that she was human.
</p>
<p>
"The woman is named Hawwah," said the man. "The sheep is named sheep,
the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock is
named hoolock."
</p>
<p>
"I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is it
that you use the English tongue?"
</p>
<p>
"I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;
by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English."
</p>
<p>
"We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. You
wouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, would
you?"
</p>
<p>
"The fountain."
</p>
<p>
"Ah—I see."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,
but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles like
the first water ever made.
</p>
<p>
"What do you make of them?" asked Stark.
</p>
<p>
"Human," said Steiner. "It may even be that they are a little more than
human. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seem
to be clothed, as it were, in dignity."
</p>
<p>
"And very little else," said Father Briton, "though that light trick
does serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia."
</p>
<p>
"Talk to them again," said Stark. "You're the linguist."
</p>
<p>
"That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself."
</p>
<p>
"Are there any other people here?" Stark asked the man.
</p>
<p>
"The two of us. Man and woman."
</p>
<p>
"But are there any others?"
</p>
<p>
"How would there be any others? What other kind of people could there
be than man and woman?"
</p>
<p>
"But is there more than one man or woman?"
</p>
<p>
"How could there be more than one of anything?"
</p>
<p>
The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:
"Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?"
</p>
<p>
"You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and then
you can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is named
Engineer. He is named Flunky."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks a lot," said Steiner.
</p>
<p>
"But are we not people?" persisted Captain Stark.
</p>
<p>
"No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there be
other people?"
</p>
<p>
"And the damnest thing about it," muttered Langweilig, "is, how are you
going to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling."
</p>
<p>
"Can we have something to eat?" asked the Captain.
</p>
<p>
"Pick from the trees," said Ha-Adamah, "and then it may be that you
will want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which does
not need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But you
are free to enjoy the garden and its fruits."
</p>
<p>
"We will," said Captain Stark.
</p>
<p>
They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were the
animals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, though
they offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though they
wanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.
</p>
<p>
"If there are only two people here," said Casper Craig, "then it may be
that the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertile
wherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. And
those rocks would bear examining."
</p>
<p>
"Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else," said Stark. "A
very promising site."
</p>
<p>
"And everything grows here," added Steiner. "Those are Earth-fruits and
I never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figs
and dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,
the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But I
haven't yet tried the—" and he stopped.
</p>
<p>
"If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think," said Gilbert, "then it
will be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream or
whether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one."
</p>
<p>
"I won't be the first to eat one. You eat."
</p>
<p>
"Ask him first. You ask him."
</p>
<p>
"Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Well, the analogy breaks down there," said Stark. "I was almost
beginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.
Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamah
and Hawwah mean—?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course they do. You know that as well as I."
</p>
<p>
"I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact same
proposition to maintain here as on Earth?"
</p>
<p>
"All things are possible."
</p>
<p>
And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: "No,
no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!"
</p>
<p>
It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.
</p>
<p>
"Once more, Father," said Stark, "you should be the authority; but does
not the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to a
medieval painting?"
</p>
<p>
"It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrew
exegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated."
</p>
<p>
"I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is too
incredible."
</p>
<p>
"It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?"
</p>
<p>
"Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I never
did understand the answer, however."
</p>
<p>
"And have you gotten no older in all that time?"
</p>
<p>
"I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from the
beginning."
</p>
<p>
"And do you think that you will ever die?"
</p>
<p>
"To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property of
fallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine."
</p>
<p>
"And are you completely happy here?"
</p>
<p>
"Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taught
that it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek it
vainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing and
even death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taught
that on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost."
</p>
<p>
"Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But I
am further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect."
</p>
<p>
Then Stark cut in once more: "There must be some one question you could
ask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how about
a game of checkers?"
</p>
<p>
"This is hardly the time for clowning," said Stark.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice of
colors and first move."
</p>
<p>
"No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat the
champion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checker
center on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But I
never played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,
and have a go at it."
</p>
<p>
"No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.
It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only two
inhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.
</p>
<p>
"What is there, Adam?" asked Captain Stark.
</p>
<p>
"The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has long
been cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But we
are taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if we
persevere, it will come by him."
</p>
<p>
They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their time
there. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when they
left. And they talked of it as they took off.
</p>
<p>
"A crowd would laugh if told of it," said Stark, "but not many would
laugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullible
man, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure world
and that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.
Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. They
are garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness that
we have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyone
disturbed that happiness."
</p>
<p>
"I too am convinced," said Steiner. "It is Paradise itself, where the
lion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.
It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the part
of the serpent, and intrude and spoil."
</p>
<p>
"I am probably the most skeptical man in the world," said Casper Craig
the tycoon, "but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.
It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling to
the wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way that
perfection.
</p>
<p>
"So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: Ninety
Million Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,
Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,
Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large Settlement
Parties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary offices
as listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whose
names were "Snake-Oil Sam," spoke to his underlings:
</p>
<p>
"It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'll
have time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equipped
settlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to strip
and slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of."
</p>
<p>
"I think you'd better write me some new lines," said Adam. "I feel like
a goof saying those same ones to each bunch."
</p>
<p>
"You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in show
business long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I did
change Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to the
pomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becoming
better researched, and they insist on authenticity.
</p>
<p>
"This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in human
nature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks will
whoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and mar
it. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that is
strong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison what
is unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage of
this trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring you
have to acquire your equipment as you can."
</p>
<p>
He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiers
of materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuff
space-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; and
power packs to run a world.
</p>
<p>
He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and at
the rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.
</p>
<p>
"We will have to have another lion," said Eve. "Bowser is getting old,
and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to have
a big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb."
</p>
<p>
"I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of the
crackpot settlers will bring a new lion."
</p>
<p>
"And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It's
hell."
</p>
<p>
"I'm working on it."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:
</p>
<p>
"Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climate
ideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from Planet
Delphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenic
and storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenial
neighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm of
our own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—"
</p>
<p>
"And you had better have an armed escort when you return," said Father
Briton.
</p>
<p>
"Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?"
</p>
<p>
"It's as phony as a seven-credit note!"
</p>
<p>
"You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced by
our senses? Why do you doubt?"
</p>
<p>
"It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.
Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,
zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot through
with anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers."
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game of
checkers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; it
was just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally."
</p>
<p>
"They looked at the priest thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
"But it was Paradise in one way," said Steiner at last.
</p>
<p>
"How?"
</p>
<p>
"All the time we were there the woman did not speak."
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He does not want to humiliate the priest by beating him. \n(B) The priest is too eager to go up against him, and he doesn't want to disappoint. \n(C) He has no reason to play. He is omniscient and would win without contest. \n(D) He is scared of losing and giving away his true identity. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; Outer space -- Exploration -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Life on other planets -- Fiction"
} |
62349 | Why does Jig bluff to Beamish initially?
Choices:
(A) He knows he can get away with it - Beamish has the money to match what they ask.
(B) He doesn't trust Shannon to close a good deal.
(C) He doesn't trust Beamish, and wants to see if he's committed to the idea.
(D) For them to start a new tour would be costly for them, and Jig wants to get the maximum price. | [
"A",
"He knows he can get away with it - Beamish has the money to match what they ask."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
The Blue Behemoth
</h1>
<h2>
By LEIGH BRACKETT
</h2>
<p>
Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed
<br/>
space-carny leased for a mysterious tour
<br/>
of the inner worlds. It made a one-night
<br/>
pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to
<br/>
find that death stalked it from the
<br/>
jungle in a tiny ball of flame.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories May 1943.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. He
knocked over the pitcher of
<i>
thil
</i>
, but it didn't matter. The pitcher
was empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, not
very hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough to
spring them.
</p>
<p>
"We," he said, "are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up and
down the drain." He added, as an afterthought, "Destitute."
</p>
<p>
I looked at him. I said sourly, "You're kidding!"
</p>
<p>
"Kidding." Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me through
a curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. "He says
I'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show in
Space, plastered so thick with attachments...."
</p>
<p>
"It's no more plastered than you are." I was sore because he'd been a
lot quicker grabbing the pitcher. "The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!
I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle for
eleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!
Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!"
</p>
<p>
I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insults
Buckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's face
unless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.
</p>
<p>
Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see his
grey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martian
girl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch the
slanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing round
toward us, pleased and kind of hungry.
</p>
<p>
I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven to
Shannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.
</p>
<p>
I said, "Bucky. Hold on, fella. I...."
</p>
<p>
Somebody said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister Buckhalter
Shannon?"
</p>
<p>
Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiled
pleasantly and said, very gently:
</p>
<p>
"Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?"
</p>
<p>
I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even if
he was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannon
settled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.
</p>
<p>
The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressed
in dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering of
grey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfully
clean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trust
with their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.
</p>
<p>
There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with pale
blue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.
</p>
<p>
He said, "I don't think you understand."
</p>
<p>
I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chair
back. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. I
got my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,
and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.
</p>
<p>
Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.
</p>
<p>
I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.
It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,
quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.
</p>
<p>
Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. "What's eating you,
Jig? I'm not going to hurt him."
</p>
<p>
"Shut up," I said. "Look what he's got there. Money!"
</p>
<p>
The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. "Yes," he said.
"Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?"
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. "Delighted. I'm
Shannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager." He looked down at
the table. "I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity."
</p>
<p>
The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his face
stayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a start
that it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan I
ever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any more
than you could see through sheet metal.
</p>
<p>
I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,
"Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, looking
like hungry cats at a mouse-hole."
</p>
<p>
The little guy nodded. "Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. Simon
Beamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn't
say anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a fresh
pitcher of
<i>
thil
</i>
on the table. Then I cleared my throat.
</p>
<p>
"What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?"
</p>
<p>
Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. "I have
independent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lighten
the burden of life for those less fortunate...."
</p>
<p>
Bucky got red around the ears. "Just a minute," he murmured, and
started to get up. I kicked him under the table.
</p>
<p>
"Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish."
</p>
<p>
He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamish
ignored him. He went on, quietly,
</p>
<p>
"I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the most
valuable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation of
toil and boredom...."
</p>
<p>
I said, "Sure, sure. But what was your idea?"
</p>
<p>
"There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where no
entertainment of the—
<i>
proper
</i>
sort has been available. I propose to
remedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to make
a tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt."
</p>
<p>
Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started to
speak, and I kicked him again.
</p>
<p>
"That would be expensive, Mister Beamish," I said. "We'd have to cancel
several engagements...."
</p>
<p>
He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,
</p>
<p>
"I quite understand that. I would be prepared...."
</p>
<p>
The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and I
glared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.
</p>
<p>
It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terran
colony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like the
scenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding the
curtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much larger
than the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again."
</p>
<p>
"Gertrude be blowed," growled Bucky. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
</p>
<p>
Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. "I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrude
ain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something...."
</p>
<p>
I said, "That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now."
</p>
<p>
He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber to
fit me for a coffin. "Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,
see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-pot
ship'll hold her."
</p>
<p>
He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamish
cleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,
</p>
<p>
"Gertrude?"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah. She's kind of temperamental." Bucky took a quick drink. I
finished for him.
</p>
<p>
"She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swamp
Venusian
<i>
cansin
</i>
. The only other one on the Triangle belongs to Savitt
Brothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude."
</p>
<p>
She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may be
a little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped she
wouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-looking
circus than even I could stand.
</p>
<p>
Beamish looked impressed. "A
<i>
cansin
</i>
. Well, well! The mystery
surrounding the origin and species of the
<i>
cansin
</i>
is a fascinating
subject. The extreme rarity of the animal...."
</p>
<p>
We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, "We'd have to have
at least a hundred U.C.'s."
</p>
<p>
It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.
Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of a
second I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and my
stomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will be
agreeable to me." He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeled
off half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.
</p>
<p>
"By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you in
the morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night."
</p>
<p>
We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky made
grab for the money, but I beat him to it.
</p>
<p>
"Scram," I said. "There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.
Here." I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. "We
can get lushed enough on this."
</p>
<p>
Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath back
he said suddenly,
</p>
<p>
"Beamish is pulling some kind of a game."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah."
</p>
<p>
"It may be crooked."
</p>
<p>
"Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake!" I
yelled. "You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?"
</p>
<p>
Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunic
where the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," he said. "I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury." He
poked his head outside. "Hey, boy! More
<i>
thildatum
</i>
!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport where
Shannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Late
as it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sitting
around and smoking and looking very ugly.
</p>
<p>
It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restless
under the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead and
dried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blown
red dust gritted in my teeth.
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance to
the roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on his
feet. He waved and said, "Hiya, boys."
</p>
<p>
They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. I
grinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot more
than money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out of
his own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time in
weeks we'd come in at the front door.
</p>
<p>
I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,
Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.
Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.
</p>
<p>
"Now?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"Now," I said.
</p>
<p>
We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to join
in. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all went
home happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.
</p>
<p>
The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and the
green girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt the
muscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkers
and joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in the
passageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.
"They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I've
rewarded them."
</p>
<p>
I said, "Sure," rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go see Gertrude."
</p>
<p>
I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny going
into the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a city
guy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. But
Bucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye."
</p>
<p>
"You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'...."
</p>
<p>
The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall down
the ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....
Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?
</p>
<p>
It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there was
a dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started down
the long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks and
compression units.
</p>
<p>
Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn't
near as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It's
the smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,
breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walled
around them as strong as the cage bars.
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, and
then wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.
A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,
ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.
</p>
<p>
It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the same
time. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name I
could think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a great
metallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gow
had them nicely conditioned to that gong.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feel
them inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared of
them. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wanted
to put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,
all of a sudden....
</p>
<p>
Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. "She's gettin'
worse," he said. "She's lonesome."
</p>
<p>
"That's tough," said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like an
owl's. He swayed slightly. "That's sure tough." He sniffled.
</p>
<p>
I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tank
and even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking a
deep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a
<i>
cansin
</i>
. There's only
two of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say will
make much difference.
</p>
<p>
They're what the brain gang calls an "end of evolution." Seems old
Dame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The
<i>
cansins
</i>
were pretty
successful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works and
now there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where even
the Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.
</p>
<p>
I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stuck
some place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a little
bird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cage
with her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky head
sunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.
Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.
</p>
<p>
The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made the
mane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyes
clear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked like
old Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.
</p>
<p>
Gow said softly, "She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one."
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, "Be reasonable, Gow!
Nobody's ever seen a male
<i>
cansin
</i>
. There may not even be any."
</p>
<p>
Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.
The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. That
close, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and cold
inside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, "You'll have to snap her out of
this, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts."
</p>
<p>
He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stood
looking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then he
turned to Gertrude.
</p>
<p>
"I saved her life," he said. "When we bought her out of Hanak's wreck
and everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I know
her. I can do things with her. But this time...."
</p>
<p>
He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like a
woman's talking about a sick child.
</p>
<p>
"This time," he said, "I ain't sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we need
her." I took Shannon's arm. "Come to bed, Bucky darlin'."
</p>
<p>
He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look at
us. Bucky sobbed.
</p>
<p>
"You were right, Jig," he mumbled. "Circus is no good. I know it. But
it's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there with
Gertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love...."
</p>
<p>
"Sure, sure," I told him. "Stop crying down my neck."
</p>
<p>
We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomed
high and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion all
around us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.
</p>
<p>
Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mist
rose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintly
with blue, cold fire.
</p>
<p>
I yelled, "Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!"
</p>
<p>
I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limp
and heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans and
roars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it all
I could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.
</p>
<p>
I thought, "
<i>
Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wants
to kill us!
</i>
" I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. I
sobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.
</p>
<p>
One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. I
rolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in the
hollow of his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along the
back of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting my
mouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.
</p>
<p>
Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,
"This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!"
</p>
<p>
Then I went out.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. His
little brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of his
teeth, and he gummed
<i>
thak
</i>
-weed. It smelt.
</p>
<p>
"You pretty, Mis' Jig," he giggled. "You funny like hell."
</p>
<p>
He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him and
said, "Where's Shannon? How is he?"
</p>
<p>
"Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow come
nickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!"
</p>
<p>
I said, "Yeah," and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell down
a couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over the
washstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damned
snakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotch
plaid. I felt sick.
</p>
<p>
Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there was
a big burn across his neck. He said:
</p>
<p>
"Beamish is here with his lawyer."
</p>
<p>
I picked up my shirt. "Right with you."
</p>
<p>
Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.
</p>
<p>
"Jig," he said, "those vapor worms were all right when we went in.
Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose."
</p>
<p>
I hurt all over. I growled, "With that brain, son, you should go far.
Nobody saw anything, of course?" Bucky shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?"
</p>
<p>
"Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped."
</p>
<p>
"One hundred U.C.'s," said Bucky softly, "for a few lousy swampedge
mining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?"
</p>
<p>
I shrugged. "You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off the
creditors."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," Bucky said reflectively. "And I hear starvation isn't a
comfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign." He put his hand on the
latch and looked at my feet. "And—uh—Jig, I...."
</p>
<p>
I said, "Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!"
</p>
<p>
We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,
and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around looking
like a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovian
strong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat had
kittens.
</p>
<p>
Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. It
lived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes out
of their pants. Circus people are funny that way.
</p>
<p>
Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.
Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. It
didn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you at
dinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, I
was ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.
</p>
<p>
Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on our
itinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. It
was Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and a
bunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middle
of it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.
</p>
<p>
I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, and
our router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.
</p>
<p>
"A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!"
</p>
<p>
I snarled, "What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show!" and
went out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but they
weren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venus
heat was already sneaking into the ship.
</p>
<p>
While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,
screaming.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing in
the mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and I
stood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.
</p>
<p>
I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman was
standing in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and her
triangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything on
but her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn't
sound nice.
</p>
<p>
You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks with
the electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusian
middle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.
</p>
<p>
Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed with
white reptilian teeth.
</p>
<p>
"Death," she whispered. "Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I can
smell it in the swamp wind."
</p>
<p>
The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin under
her jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.
</p>
<p>
"The deep swamps are angry," she whispered. "Something has been taken.
They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!"
</p>
<p>
She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tight
and cold. Bucky said,
</p>
<p>
"Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump."
</p>
<p>
We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landing
field when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. We
could see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.
</p>
<p>
He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three or
four tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.
</p>
<p>
Bucky said, "Jig—it's Sam Kapper."
</p>
<p>
We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeled
around to see what was happening. People began to close in on the man
who crawled and whimpered in the mud.
</p>
<p>
Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses and
carnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren't
too broke, and we were pretty friendly.
</p>
<p>
I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,
hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,
looking down at him.
</p>
<p>
Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all over
like animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned over
and put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.
</p>
<p>
I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. I
only caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn't
realize until later that he looked familiar.
</p>
<p>
We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with a
couple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulled
the curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on the
cigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.
</p>
<p>
Bucky said gently, "Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard lines
of his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was covered
with mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.
</p>
<p>
He said thickly, "I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found it
and brought it out."
</p>
<p>
The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. "Help
me," he said simply. "I'm scared." His mouth drooled.
</p>
<p>
"I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It's
got to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but they
wouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it...."
</p>
<p>
He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. "I don't know
how they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.
I've got to...."
</p>
<p>
Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,
suddenly. I said, "Get what back where?"
</p>
<p>
Bucky got up. "I'll get a doctor," he said. "Stick with him." Kapper
grabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his hands
stood out like guy wires.
</p>
<p>
"Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.
Promise you'll take it back." He gasped and struggled over his
breathing.
</p>
<p>
"Sure," said Bucky. "Sure, well take it back. What is it?"
</p>
<p>
Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight for
air. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was no
use. Kapper whispered,
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Cansin
</i>
. Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back."
</p>
<p>
"Where is it, Sam?"
</p>
<p>
I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamish
was standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kapper
made a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.
</p>
<p>
Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky felt
Kapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.
</p>
<p>
"Heart?" said Beamish finally.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. "Poor Sam."
</p>
<p>
I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked at
Beamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon and
pushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.
</p>
<p>
"Keep this guy here till I get back," I said.
</p>
<p>
Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. "Shut up," I
told him. "We got a contract." I yanked the curtains shut and walked
over to the bar.
</p>
<p>
I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in the
place. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunch
of miners in dirty shirts and high boots.
</p>
<p>
Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they never
did any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.
</p>
<p>
The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartender
was a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white hair
coiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.
</p>
<p>
I leaned on the bar. "
<i>
Lhak
</i>
," I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of a
green bottle. I reached for it, casually.
</p>
<p>
"That guy we brought in," I said. "He sure has a skinful. Passed out
cold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Selak
</i>
," said a voice in my ear. "As if you didn't know."
</p>
<p>
I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standing
behind me. And I remembered him, then.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He knows he can get away with it - Beamish has the money to match what they ask.\n(B) He doesn't trust Shannon to close a good deal. \n(C) He doesn't trust Beamish, and wants to see if he's committed to the idea. \n(D) For them to start a new tour would be costly for them, and Jig wants to get the maximum price. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Adventure stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Science fiction; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Circus -- Fiction; PS"
} |
62324 | What is "La-anago Yergis"?
Choices:
(A) It's a panacea that can cure any ailment.
(B) It's medicine. It's a cure for "asteroid fever."
(C) It's purified water.
(D) It's a placebo. It's not real medicine. | [
"D",
"It's a placebo. It's not real medicine. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
GRIFTERS' ASTEROID
</h1>
<h2>
By H. L. GOLD
</h2>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever
<br/>
to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!
<br/>
Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them
<br/>
five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories May 1943.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,
though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with
no dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of land
that had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontifically
into the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—his
tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something
incoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.
</p>
<p>
"We're delirious!" Joe cried. "It's a mirage!"
</p>
<p>
"What is?" asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.
</p>
<p>
Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,
speechless for once.
</p>
<p>
In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea
purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never had
they seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.
</p>
<p>
Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two
hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the
remaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish
Harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this
impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit
juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense," Harvey croaked uncertainly. "We have seen enough queer
things to know there are always more."
</p>
<p>
He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:
"Water—quick!"
</p>
<p>
Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought out
two glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked
for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender
had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so
fast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender's
impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.
</p>
<p>
"Strangers, eh?" he asked at last.
</p>
<p>
"Solar salesmen, my colonial friend," Harvey answered in his usual
lush manner. "We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
, the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in
the ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous in
proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history
of therapeutics."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah?" said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaser
glasses without washing them. "Where you heading?"
</p>
<p>
"Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gone
without water for five ghastly days."
</p>
<p>
"Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port?" Joe asked.
</p>
<p>
"We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't land
here unless they're in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off."
</p>
<p>
"Mayor takes care of that," replied the saloon owner. "If you gents're
finished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos."
</p>
<p>
Harvey grinned puzzledly. "We didn't take any whiskey."
</p>
<p>
"Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with every
chaser."
</p>
<p>
Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. "That—that's robbery!" the lanky man
managed to get out in a thin quaver.
</p>
<p>
The barkeeper shrugged. "When there ain't many customers, you gotta
make more on each one. Besides—"
</p>
<p>
"Besides nothing!" Joe roared, finding his voice again. "You dirty
crook—robbing poor spacemen! You—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
"You dirty crook!" Joe roared. "Robbing honest spacemen!"
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Harvey nudged him warningly. "Easy, my boy, easy." He turned to the
bartender apologetically. "Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands are
sometimes overactive. You were going to say—?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.
</p>
<p>
"Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em," he said,
shaking his head. "Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitter
as some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in with
buckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—I
was chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I charge
because I gotta."
</p>
<p>
"Friend," said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight
five-bucko bills, "here is your money. What's fair is fair, and you
have put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be an
unconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man's
thirst."
</p>
<p>
The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.
</p>
<p>
"If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss filling
your tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, official
recorder, fire chief...."
</p>
<p>
"And chief of police, no doubt," said Harvey jocosely.
</p>
<p>
"Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here just
call me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water will
you need?"
</p>
<p>
Joe estimated quickly. "About seventy-five liters, if we go on half
rations," he answered. He waited apprehensively.
</p>
<p>
"Let's say ten buckos a liter," the mayor said. "On account of the
quantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts me
more to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,
that's all."
</p>
<p>
The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks with
them. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intently
watched the crude level-gauge, crying "Stop!" when it registered the
proper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and
wetted his lips expectantly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: "But what are we to
do about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would be
preposterous. We simply can't afford it."
</p>
<p>
Johnson's response almost floored them. "Who said anything about
charging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.
It's just the purified stuff that comes so high."
</p>
<p>
After giving them directions that would take them to the free-water
pool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headed
back to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.
</p>
<p>
"Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague?" said Harvey as he and Joe
picked up buckets that hung on the tank. "Johnson, as I saw instantly,
is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly."
</p>
<p>
"Just the same," Joe griped, "paying for water isn't something you can
get used to in ten minutes."
</p>
<p>
In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang from
the igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,
according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled their
buckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine on
a bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko sign
in front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keeping
a faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went to
investigate.
</p>
<p>
Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender mound
that was unmistakably a buried pipe.
</p>
<p>
"What's this doing here?" Harvey asked, puzzled. "I thought Johnson had
to transport water in pails."
</p>
<p>
"Wonder where it leads to," Joe said uneasily.
</p>
<p>
"It leads
<i>
to
</i>
the saloon," said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing the
pipe back toward the spaceport. "What I am concerned with is where it
leads
<i>
from
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion of
scrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burst
into the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.
</p>
<p>
Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.
</p>
<p>
"I am growing suspicious," he said in a rigidly controlled voice.
</p>
<p>
But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water and
tasting it.
</p>
<p>
"Sweet!" he snarled.
</p>
<p>
They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.
His mouth went wry. "Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! The
only thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor's
conscience."
</p>
<p>
"The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on," said
Harvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. "Joseph, the good-natured artist in
me has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until we
have had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from this
point hence."
</p>
<p>
Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door they
stopped and their fists unclenched.
</p>
<p>
"Thought you gents were leaving," the mayor called out, seeing them
frozen in the doorway. "Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.
Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City."
</p>
<p>
"You don't need any more," said Harvey, dismayed.
</p>
<p>
Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair
and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been
born and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would have
kept him down near the general dimensions of a man.
</p>
<p>
He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his own
hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when
his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed
one.
</p>
<p>
"Pleased to meet you," piped a voice that had never known a dense
atmosphere.
</p>
<p>
The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick and
unpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....
</p>
<p>
"Joseph!" he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. "Don't you
feel well?"
</p>
<p>
Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes were
gently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his features
drooping like a bloodhound's.
</p>
<p>
"Bring him in here!" Johnson cried. "I mean, get him away! He's coming
down with asteroid fever!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course," replied Harvey calmly. "Any fool knows the first symptoms
of the disease that once scourged the universe."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean,
<i>
once
</i>
?" demanded Johnson. "I come down with it
every year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get him
out of here!"
</p>
<p>
"In good time. He can't be moved immediately."
</p>
<p>
"Then he'll be here for months!"
</p>
<p>
Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor and
his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe
in tiny, uncontaminating gasps.
</p>
<p>
"You'll find everything you want in the back room," Johnson said
frantically, "sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suction
cups—"
</p>
<p>
"Relics of the past," Harvey stated. "One medication is all modern man
requires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" asked the mayor without conviction.
</p>
<p>
Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-hand
rocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within a
few minutes, carrying a bottle.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowly
crossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,
put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.
When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partner
drink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back and
waited for the inevitable result.
</p>
<p>
Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for several
moments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomed
to perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his features
straightened out.
</p>
<p>
"Are—are you all right?" asked the mayor anxiously.
</p>
<p>
"Much better," said Joe in a weak voice.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you need another dose," Harvey suggested.
</p>
<p>
Joe recoiled. "I'm fine now!" he cried, and sprang off the bar to prove
it.
</p>
<p>
Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,
and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Johnson ejaculated.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
La-anago Yergis
</i>
never fails, my friend," Harvey explained. "By
actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three
minutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caught
this one before it grew formidable."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. "If you
don't charge too much," he said warily, "I might think of buying some."
</p>
<p>
"We do not sell this unbelievable remedy," Harvey replied with dignity.
"It sells itself."
</p>
<p>
"'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a whole
case," said Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared with
the vast loss of time and strength the fever involves."
</p>
<p>
"How much?" asked the mayor unhappily.
</p>
<p>
"For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundred
buckos."
</p>
<p>
Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of
doing so. "F-four hundred," he offered.
</p>
<p>
"Not a red cent less than four seventy-five," Harvey said flatly.
</p>
<p>
"Make it four fifty," quavered Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"I dislike haggling," said Harvey.
</p>
<p>
The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos and
fifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: "And we will include,
<i>
gratis
</i>
, an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurian
handicraftsmanship."
</p>
<p>
Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. "No tricks now. I want a taste of
that stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me."
</p>
<p>
Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. The
mayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuing
minute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle which
the man gradually won.
</p>
<p>
"There ain't no words for that taste," he gulped when it was safe to
talk again.
</p>
<p>
"Medicine," Harvey propounded, "should taste like medicine." To Joe he
said: "Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task to
which we have dedicated ourselves."
</p>
<p>
With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed the
clearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe dropped
his murderous silence and cried:
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of that
snake oil?"
</p>
<p>
"That was not poison," Harvey contradicted quietly. "It was
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
extract, plus."
</p>
<p>
"Plus what—arsenic?"
</p>
<p>
"Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufacture
our specific for all known ailments, with the intention of selling
yonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,
mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had been
swindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit have
been, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course."
</p>
<p>
"But why use it on me?" Joe demanded furiously.
</p>
<p>
Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. "Did Johnson ask to
taste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to produce
the same
<i>
medicine
</i>
that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were a
guinea pig for a splendid cause."
</p>
<p>
"Okay, okay," Joe said. "But you shoulda charged him more."
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of which
that swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables he
possesses. We could not be content with less."
</p>
<p>
"Well, we're starting all right," admitted Joe. "How about that thing
with six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?"
</p>
<p>
Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.
</p>
<p>
"I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.
Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.
At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our
streamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic
suckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on the
audio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendous
figure to the zoo!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carried
the case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared a
place of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put it
down carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gave
him, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been at
least as good as the first; he gagged.
</p>
<p>
"That's the stuff, all right," he said, swallowing hard. He counted
out the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously
balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain
at paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,
and asked: "You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now."
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking about
food at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.
</p>
<p>
"It's only water we were short of," Harvey said apprehensively. "We've
got rations back at the ship."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
H-mph!
</i>
" the mayor grunted. "Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.
Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcome
to our hospitality."
</p>
<p>
"Your hospitality," said Harvey, "depends on the prices you charge."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying," answered
the mayor promptly. "What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here you
can't get anywhere else for any price."
</p>
<p>
Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He saw
none.
</p>
<p>
"Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe," he said guardedly.
</p>
<p>
Johnson immediately fell into the role of "mine host."
</p>
<p>
"Come right in, gents," he invited. "Right into the dining room."
</p>
<p>
He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more or
less private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was little
chance of company.
</p>
<p>
Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen with
two menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,
silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,
which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices were
phenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, he
grinned, bowed and asked: "Everything satisfactory, gents?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite," said Harvey. "We shall order."
</p>
<p>
For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, the
culinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the service
was as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius played
deftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian
<i>
viotars
</i>
, using his other two
hands for waiting on the table.
</p>
<p>
"We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen," Harvey
whispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in the
kitchen, attending to the next course. "He would make any society
hostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sum
to women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire."
</p>
<p>
"Think of a fast one fast," Joe agreed. "You're right."
</p>
<p>
"But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,"
complained Harvey. "I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest
merchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimate
our check at a mere bucko twenty redsents."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.
</p>
<p>
"It's been a great honor, gents," he said. "Ain't often I have
visitors, and I like the best, like you two gents."
</p>
<p>
As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe and
Harvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished in
a yelp of horror.
</p>
<p>
"What the devil is this?" he shouted.—"How do you arrive at this
fantastic, idiotic figure—
<i>
three hundred and twenty-eight buckos
</i>
!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,
not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirty
fingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.
</p>
<p>
Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty with
rage. The minute note read: "Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80
redsents."
</p>
<p>
"You can go to hell!" Joe growled. "We won't pay it!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson sighed ponderously. "I was afraid you'd act like that," he said
with regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it on
his vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. "Afraid I'll have to
ask the sheriff to take over."
</p>
<p>
Johnson, the "sheriff," collected the money, and Johnson, the
"restaurateur," pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign to
remain calm.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said to the mayor, and his tones took on a
schoolmasterish severity, "your long absence from Earth has perhaps
made you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered the
folk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is folly
to kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is pound
foolish.'"
</p>
<p>
"I don't get the connection," objected Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you put
out of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantial
deal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer for
the peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds the
way you have—"
</p>
<p>
"Who said I wanted to sell him?" the mayor interrupted. He rubbed his
fingers together and asked disinterestedly: "What were you going to
offer, anyhow?"
</p>
<p>
"It doesn't matter any longer," Harvey said with elaborate
carelessness. "Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's right," Johnson came back emphatically. "But what would your
offer have been which I would have turned down?"
</p>
<p>
"Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?"
</p>
<p>
"Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable to
sell."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would
tempt you!"
</p>
<p>
"Nope. But how much did you say?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll tell you something," said the mayor confidentially. "When
you've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,
it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,
you can buy this and that and this and that and—"
</p>
<p>
"This and that," concluded Joe. "We'll give you five hundred buckos."
</p>
<p>
"Now, gents!" Johnson remonstrated. "Why, six hundred would hardly—"
</p>
<p>
"You haven't left us much money," Harvey put in.
</p>
<p>
The mayor frowned. "All right, we'll split the difference. Make it
five-fifty."
</p>
<p>
Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then he
stood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensively
acquired.
</p>
<p>
"I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature," he said to
Johnson. "I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only your
filial mammoth to keep you company."
</p>
<p>
"I sure will," Johnson confessed glumly. "I got pretty attached to
Genius, and I'm going to miss him something awful."
</p>
<p>
Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing off
the table almost all at once.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said, "we take your only solace, it is true, but in his
place we can offer something no less amazing and instructive."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. "What is it?" he
asked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at its
worst and expects nothing better.
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room of
the ship," Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: "You must see
the wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partner
will soon have it here for your astonishment."
</p>
<p>
Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. "Aw, Harv," he
protested, "do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we were
getting the key!"
</p>
<p>
"We must not be selfish, my boy," Harvey said nobly. "We have had our
chance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who might
have more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here."
</p>
<p>
Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiosity
would probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting with
questions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. For
his part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoeba
until Joe came in, lugging a radio.
</p>
<p>
"Is that what you were talking about?" the mayor snorted. "What makes
you think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers and
political speech-makers."
</p>
<p>
"Do not jump to hasty conclusions," Harvey cautioned. "Another word,
and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,
with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor
of this absolutely awe-inspiring device."
</p>
<p>
"I ain't in the market for a radio," Johnson said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey nodded in relief. "We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.
He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue our
study, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to an
enormous fortune."
</p>
<p>
"Well, that's no plating off our bow," Joe grunted. "I'm glad he did
turn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three whole
years."
</p>
<p>
He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.
</p>
<p>
"Now, hold on!" the mayor cried. "I ain't
<i>
saying
</i>
I'll buy, but what
is it I'm turning down?"
</p>
<p>
Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His face
sorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"To make a long story, Mr. Johnson," he said, "Joseph and I were among
the chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just before
his tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane." He
banged his fist on the bar. "I have said it before, and I repeat again,
that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredit
his greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!"
</p>
<p>
"This what?" Johnson blurted out.
</p>
<p>
"In simple terms," clarified Harvey, "the ingenious doctor discovered
that the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged by
energy of all quanta. There has never been any question that the
inhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized than
ourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge would
find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!"
</p>
<p>
The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.
</p>
<p>
"And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?"
</p>
<p>
"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor
Dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact."
</p>
<p>
The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and stared
thoughtfully at the battered cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts," he
conceded. "But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks up
there wouldn't talk our language."
</p>
<p>
Again Harvey smashed his fist down. "Do you dare to repeat the scurvy
lie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?"
</p>
<p>
Johnson recoiled. "No—no,
<i>
of course not
</i>
. I mean, being up here, I
naturally couldn't get all the details."
</p>
<p>
"Naturally," Harvey agreed, mollified. "I'm sorry I lost my temper.
But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcasts
emanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that be
so difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there was
communication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admired
our language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their own
hyper-scientific trimmings?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, I don't know," Johnson said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
"For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detect
the simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosed
broadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctor
failed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his could
stand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure to
solve the mystery caused him to take his own life."
</p>
<p>
Johnson winced. "Is that what you want to unload on me?"
</p>
<p>
"For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will be
rewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man who
could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a
person with unusual patience."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," the mayor said grudgingly, "I ain't exactly flighty."
</p>
<p>
"Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson asked skeptically: "How about a sample first?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It's a panacea that can cure any ailment. \n(B) It's medicine. It's a cure for \"asteroid fever.\" \n(C) It's purified water. \n(D) It's a placebo. It's not real medicine. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Asteroids -- Fiction; Short stories; Swindlers and swindling -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
62324 | Johnson claims to have a multitude of jobs. Which title best describes him and what he does?
Choices:
(A) Conman.
(B) Bartender.
(C) Mayor.
(D) Sheriff. | [
"A",
"Conman. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
GRIFTERS' ASTEROID
</h1>
<h2>
By H. L. GOLD
</h2>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever
<br/>
to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!
<br/>
Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them
<br/>
five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories May 1943.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,
though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with
no dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of land
that had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontifically
into the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—his
tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something
incoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.
</p>
<p>
"We're delirious!" Joe cried. "It's a mirage!"
</p>
<p>
"What is?" asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.
</p>
<p>
Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,
speechless for once.
</p>
<p>
In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea
purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never had
they seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.
</p>
<p>
Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two
hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the
remaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish
Harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this
impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit
juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense," Harvey croaked uncertainly. "We have seen enough queer
things to know there are always more."
</p>
<p>
He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:
"Water—quick!"
</p>
<p>
Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought out
two glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked
for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender
had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so
fast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender's
impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.
</p>
<p>
"Strangers, eh?" he asked at last.
</p>
<p>
"Solar salesmen, my colonial friend," Harvey answered in his usual
lush manner. "We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
, the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in
the ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous in
proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history
of therapeutics."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah?" said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaser
glasses without washing them. "Where you heading?"
</p>
<p>
"Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gone
without water for five ghastly days."
</p>
<p>
"Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port?" Joe asked.
</p>
<p>
"We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't land
here unless they're in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off."
</p>
<p>
"Mayor takes care of that," replied the saloon owner. "If you gents're
finished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos."
</p>
<p>
Harvey grinned puzzledly. "We didn't take any whiskey."
</p>
<p>
"Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with every
chaser."
</p>
<p>
Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. "That—that's robbery!" the lanky man
managed to get out in a thin quaver.
</p>
<p>
The barkeeper shrugged. "When there ain't many customers, you gotta
make more on each one. Besides—"
</p>
<p>
"Besides nothing!" Joe roared, finding his voice again. "You dirty
crook—robbing poor spacemen! You—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
"You dirty crook!" Joe roared. "Robbing honest spacemen!"
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Harvey nudged him warningly. "Easy, my boy, easy." He turned to the
bartender apologetically. "Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands are
sometimes overactive. You were going to say—?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.
</p>
<p>
"Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em," he said,
shaking his head. "Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitter
as some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in with
buckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—I
was chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I charge
because I gotta."
</p>
<p>
"Friend," said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight
five-bucko bills, "here is your money. What's fair is fair, and you
have put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be an
unconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man's
thirst."
</p>
<p>
The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.
</p>
<p>
"If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss filling
your tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, official
recorder, fire chief...."
</p>
<p>
"And chief of police, no doubt," said Harvey jocosely.
</p>
<p>
"Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here just
call me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water will
you need?"
</p>
<p>
Joe estimated quickly. "About seventy-five liters, if we go on half
rations," he answered. He waited apprehensively.
</p>
<p>
"Let's say ten buckos a liter," the mayor said. "On account of the
quantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts me
more to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,
that's all."
</p>
<p>
The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks with
them. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intently
watched the crude level-gauge, crying "Stop!" when it registered the
proper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and
wetted his lips expectantly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: "But what are we to
do about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would be
preposterous. We simply can't afford it."
</p>
<p>
Johnson's response almost floored them. "Who said anything about
charging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.
It's just the purified stuff that comes so high."
</p>
<p>
After giving them directions that would take them to the free-water
pool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headed
back to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.
</p>
<p>
"Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague?" said Harvey as he and Joe
picked up buckets that hung on the tank. "Johnson, as I saw instantly,
is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly."
</p>
<p>
"Just the same," Joe griped, "paying for water isn't something you can
get used to in ten minutes."
</p>
<p>
In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang from
the igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,
according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled their
buckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine on
a bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko sign
in front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keeping
a faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went to
investigate.
</p>
<p>
Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender mound
that was unmistakably a buried pipe.
</p>
<p>
"What's this doing here?" Harvey asked, puzzled. "I thought Johnson had
to transport water in pails."
</p>
<p>
"Wonder where it leads to," Joe said uneasily.
</p>
<p>
"It leads
<i>
to
</i>
the saloon," said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing the
pipe back toward the spaceport. "What I am concerned with is where it
leads
<i>
from
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion of
scrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burst
into the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.
</p>
<p>
Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.
</p>
<p>
"I am growing suspicious," he said in a rigidly controlled voice.
</p>
<p>
But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water and
tasting it.
</p>
<p>
"Sweet!" he snarled.
</p>
<p>
They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.
His mouth went wry. "Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! The
only thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor's
conscience."
</p>
<p>
"The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on," said
Harvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. "Joseph, the good-natured artist in
me has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until we
have had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from this
point hence."
</p>
<p>
Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door they
stopped and their fists unclenched.
</p>
<p>
"Thought you gents were leaving," the mayor called out, seeing them
frozen in the doorway. "Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.
Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City."
</p>
<p>
"You don't need any more," said Harvey, dismayed.
</p>
<p>
Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair
and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been
born and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would have
kept him down near the general dimensions of a man.
</p>
<p>
He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his own
hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when
his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed
one.
</p>
<p>
"Pleased to meet you," piped a voice that had never known a dense
atmosphere.
</p>
<p>
The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick and
unpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....
</p>
<p>
"Joseph!" he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. "Don't you
feel well?"
</p>
<p>
Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes were
gently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his features
drooping like a bloodhound's.
</p>
<p>
"Bring him in here!" Johnson cried. "I mean, get him away! He's coming
down with asteroid fever!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course," replied Harvey calmly. "Any fool knows the first symptoms
of the disease that once scourged the universe."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean,
<i>
once
</i>
?" demanded Johnson. "I come down with it
every year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get him
out of here!"
</p>
<p>
"In good time. He can't be moved immediately."
</p>
<p>
"Then he'll be here for months!"
</p>
<p>
Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor and
his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe
in tiny, uncontaminating gasps.
</p>
<p>
"You'll find everything you want in the back room," Johnson said
frantically, "sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suction
cups—"
</p>
<p>
"Relics of the past," Harvey stated. "One medication is all modern man
requires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" asked the mayor without conviction.
</p>
<p>
Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-hand
rocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within a
few minutes, carrying a bottle.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowly
crossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,
put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.
When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partner
drink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back and
waited for the inevitable result.
</p>
<p>
Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for several
moments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomed
to perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his features
straightened out.
</p>
<p>
"Are—are you all right?" asked the mayor anxiously.
</p>
<p>
"Much better," said Joe in a weak voice.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you need another dose," Harvey suggested.
</p>
<p>
Joe recoiled. "I'm fine now!" he cried, and sprang off the bar to prove
it.
</p>
<p>
Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,
and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Johnson ejaculated.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
La-anago Yergis
</i>
never fails, my friend," Harvey explained. "By
actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three
minutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caught
this one before it grew formidable."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. "If you
don't charge too much," he said warily, "I might think of buying some."
</p>
<p>
"We do not sell this unbelievable remedy," Harvey replied with dignity.
"It sells itself."
</p>
<p>
"'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a whole
case," said Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared with
the vast loss of time and strength the fever involves."
</p>
<p>
"How much?" asked the mayor unhappily.
</p>
<p>
"For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundred
buckos."
</p>
<p>
Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of
doing so. "F-four hundred," he offered.
</p>
<p>
"Not a red cent less than four seventy-five," Harvey said flatly.
</p>
<p>
"Make it four fifty," quavered Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"I dislike haggling," said Harvey.
</p>
<p>
The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos and
fifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: "And we will include,
<i>
gratis
</i>
, an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurian
handicraftsmanship."
</p>
<p>
Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. "No tricks now. I want a taste of
that stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me."
</p>
<p>
Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. The
mayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuing
minute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle which
the man gradually won.
</p>
<p>
"There ain't no words for that taste," he gulped when it was safe to
talk again.
</p>
<p>
"Medicine," Harvey propounded, "should taste like medicine." To Joe he
said: "Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task to
which we have dedicated ourselves."
</p>
<p>
With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed the
clearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe dropped
his murderous silence and cried:
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of that
snake oil?"
</p>
<p>
"That was not poison," Harvey contradicted quietly. "It was
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
extract, plus."
</p>
<p>
"Plus what—arsenic?"
</p>
<p>
"Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufacture
our specific for all known ailments, with the intention of selling
yonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,
mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had been
swindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit have
been, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course."
</p>
<p>
"But why use it on me?" Joe demanded furiously.
</p>
<p>
Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. "Did Johnson ask to
taste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to produce
the same
<i>
medicine
</i>
that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were a
guinea pig for a splendid cause."
</p>
<p>
"Okay, okay," Joe said. "But you shoulda charged him more."
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of which
that swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables he
possesses. We could not be content with less."
</p>
<p>
"Well, we're starting all right," admitted Joe. "How about that thing
with six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?"
</p>
<p>
Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.
</p>
<p>
"I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.
Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.
At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our
streamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic
suckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on the
audio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendous
figure to the zoo!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carried
the case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared a
place of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put it
down carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gave
him, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been at
least as good as the first; he gagged.
</p>
<p>
"That's the stuff, all right," he said, swallowing hard. He counted
out the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously
balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain
at paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,
and asked: "You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now."
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking about
food at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.
</p>
<p>
"It's only water we were short of," Harvey said apprehensively. "We've
got rations back at the ship."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
H-mph!
</i>
" the mayor grunted. "Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.
Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcome
to our hospitality."
</p>
<p>
"Your hospitality," said Harvey, "depends on the prices you charge."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying," answered
the mayor promptly. "What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here you
can't get anywhere else for any price."
</p>
<p>
Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He saw
none.
</p>
<p>
"Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe," he said guardedly.
</p>
<p>
Johnson immediately fell into the role of "mine host."
</p>
<p>
"Come right in, gents," he invited. "Right into the dining room."
</p>
<p>
He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more or
less private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was little
chance of company.
</p>
<p>
Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen with
two menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,
silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,
which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices were
phenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, he
grinned, bowed and asked: "Everything satisfactory, gents?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite," said Harvey. "We shall order."
</p>
<p>
For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, the
culinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the service
was as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius played
deftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian
<i>
viotars
</i>
, using his other two
hands for waiting on the table.
</p>
<p>
"We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen," Harvey
whispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in the
kitchen, attending to the next course. "He would make any society
hostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sum
to women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire."
</p>
<p>
"Think of a fast one fast," Joe agreed. "You're right."
</p>
<p>
"But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,"
complained Harvey. "I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest
merchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimate
our check at a mere bucko twenty redsents."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.
</p>
<p>
"It's been a great honor, gents," he said. "Ain't often I have
visitors, and I like the best, like you two gents."
</p>
<p>
As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe and
Harvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished in
a yelp of horror.
</p>
<p>
"What the devil is this?" he shouted.—"How do you arrive at this
fantastic, idiotic figure—
<i>
three hundred and twenty-eight buckos
</i>
!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,
not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirty
fingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.
</p>
<p>
Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty with
rage. The minute note read: "Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80
redsents."
</p>
<p>
"You can go to hell!" Joe growled. "We won't pay it!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson sighed ponderously. "I was afraid you'd act like that," he said
with regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it on
his vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. "Afraid I'll have to
ask the sheriff to take over."
</p>
<p>
Johnson, the "sheriff," collected the money, and Johnson, the
"restaurateur," pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign to
remain calm.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said to the mayor, and his tones took on a
schoolmasterish severity, "your long absence from Earth has perhaps
made you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered the
folk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is folly
to kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is pound
foolish.'"
</p>
<p>
"I don't get the connection," objected Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you put
out of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantial
deal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer for
the peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds the
way you have—"
</p>
<p>
"Who said I wanted to sell him?" the mayor interrupted. He rubbed his
fingers together and asked disinterestedly: "What were you going to
offer, anyhow?"
</p>
<p>
"It doesn't matter any longer," Harvey said with elaborate
carelessness. "Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's right," Johnson came back emphatically. "But what would your
offer have been which I would have turned down?"
</p>
<p>
"Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?"
</p>
<p>
"Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable to
sell."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would
tempt you!"
</p>
<p>
"Nope. But how much did you say?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll tell you something," said the mayor confidentially. "When
you've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,
it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,
you can buy this and that and this and that and—"
</p>
<p>
"This and that," concluded Joe. "We'll give you five hundred buckos."
</p>
<p>
"Now, gents!" Johnson remonstrated. "Why, six hundred would hardly—"
</p>
<p>
"You haven't left us much money," Harvey put in.
</p>
<p>
The mayor frowned. "All right, we'll split the difference. Make it
five-fifty."
</p>
<p>
Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then he
stood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensively
acquired.
</p>
<p>
"I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature," he said to
Johnson. "I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only your
filial mammoth to keep you company."
</p>
<p>
"I sure will," Johnson confessed glumly. "I got pretty attached to
Genius, and I'm going to miss him something awful."
</p>
<p>
Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing off
the table almost all at once.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said, "we take your only solace, it is true, but in his
place we can offer something no less amazing and instructive."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. "What is it?" he
asked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at its
worst and expects nothing better.
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room of
the ship," Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: "You must see
the wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partner
will soon have it here for your astonishment."
</p>
<p>
Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. "Aw, Harv," he
protested, "do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we were
getting the key!"
</p>
<p>
"We must not be selfish, my boy," Harvey said nobly. "We have had our
chance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who might
have more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here."
</p>
<p>
Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiosity
would probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting with
questions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. For
his part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoeba
until Joe came in, lugging a radio.
</p>
<p>
"Is that what you were talking about?" the mayor snorted. "What makes
you think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers and
political speech-makers."
</p>
<p>
"Do not jump to hasty conclusions," Harvey cautioned. "Another word,
and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,
with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor
of this absolutely awe-inspiring device."
</p>
<p>
"I ain't in the market for a radio," Johnson said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey nodded in relief. "We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.
He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue our
study, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to an
enormous fortune."
</p>
<p>
"Well, that's no plating off our bow," Joe grunted. "I'm glad he did
turn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three whole
years."
</p>
<p>
He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.
</p>
<p>
"Now, hold on!" the mayor cried. "I ain't
<i>
saying
</i>
I'll buy, but what
is it I'm turning down?"
</p>
<p>
Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His face
sorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"To make a long story, Mr. Johnson," he said, "Joseph and I were among
the chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just before
his tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane." He
banged his fist on the bar. "I have said it before, and I repeat again,
that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredit
his greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!"
</p>
<p>
"This what?" Johnson blurted out.
</p>
<p>
"In simple terms," clarified Harvey, "the ingenious doctor discovered
that the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged by
energy of all quanta. There has never been any question that the
inhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized than
ourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge would
find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!"
</p>
<p>
The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.
</p>
<p>
"And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?"
</p>
<p>
"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor
Dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact."
</p>
<p>
The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and stared
thoughtfully at the battered cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts," he
conceded. "But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks up
there wouldn't talk our language."
</p>
<p>
Again Harvey smashed his fist down. "Do you dare to repeat the scurvy
lie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?"
</p>
<p>
Johnson recoiled. "No—no,
<i>
of course not
</i>
. I mean, being up here, I
naturally couldn't get all the details."
</p>
<p>
"Naturally," Harvey agreed, mollified. "I'm sorry I lost my temper.
But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcasts
emanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that be
so difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there was
communication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admired
our language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their own
hyper-scientific trimmings?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, I don't know," Johnson said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
"For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detect
the simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosed
broadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctor
failed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his could
stand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure to
solve the mystery caused him to take his own life."
</p>
<p>
Johnson winced. "Is that what you want to unload on me?"
</p>
<p>
"For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will be
rewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man who
could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a
person with unusual patience."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," the mayor said grudgingly, "I ain't exactly flighty."
</p>
<p>
"Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson asked skeptically: "How about a sample first?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Conman. \n(B) Bartender. \n(C) Mayor. \n(D) Sheriff. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Asteroids -- Fiction; Short stories; Swindlers and swindling -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
62324 | Why does Johnson stay on the asteroid, even though few people come by?
Choices:
(A) Here he's able to meet traders like Harvey and Joe and barter with them.
(B) He's able to run business even with few customers.
(C) Here he's able to take advantage of travelers who are lost or in need of supplies.
(D) He doesn't want to give up the spring of water. | [
"C",
"Here he's able to take advantage of travelers who are lost or in need of supplies. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
GRIFTERS' ASTEROID
</h1>
<h2>
By H. L. GOLD
</h2>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever
<br/>
to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!
<br/>
Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them
<br/>
five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories May 1943.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,
though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, with
no dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of land
that had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontifically
into the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—his
tall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing something
incoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.
</p>
<p>
"We're delirious!" Joe cried. "It's a mirage!"
</p>
<p>
"What is?" asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.
</p>
<p>
Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,
speechless for once.
</p>
<p>
In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panacea
purveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never had
they seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.
</p>
<p>
Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in two
hands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in the
remaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpish
Harvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering this
impossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruit
juice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense," Harvey croaked uncertainly. "We have seen enough queer
things to know there are always more."
</p>
<p>
He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:
"Water—quick!"
</p>
<p>
Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought out
two glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, asked
for more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartender
had taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water so
fast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender's
impersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.
</p>
<p>
"Strangers, eh?" he asked at last.
</p>
<p>
"Solar salesmen, my colonial friend," Harvey answered in his usual
lush manner. "We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
, the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves in
the ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous in
proclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire history
of therapeutics."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah?" said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaser
glasses without washing them. "Where you heading?"
</p>
<p>
"Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gone
without water for five ghastly days."
</p>
<p>
"Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port?" Joe asked.
</p>
<p>
"We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't land
here unless they're in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off."
</p>
<p>
"Mayor takes care of that," replied the saloon owner. "If you gents're
finished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos."
</p>
<p>
Harvey grinned puzzledly. "We didn't take any whiskey."
</p>
<p>
"Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with every
chaser."
</p>
<p>
Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. "That—that's robbery!" the lanky man
managed to get out in a thin quaver.
</p>
<p>
The barkeeper shrugged. "When there ain't many customers, you gotta
make more on each one. Besides—"
</p>
<p>
"Besides nothing!" Joe roared, finding his voice again. "You dirty
crook—robbing poor spacemen! You—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
"You dirty crook!" Joe roared. "Robbing honest spacemen!"
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Harvey nudged him warningly. "Easy, my boy, easy." He turned to the
bartender apologetically. "Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands are
sometimes overactive. You were going to say—?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.
</p>
<p>
"Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em," he said,
shaking his head. "Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitter
as some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in with
buckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—I
was chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I charge
because I gotta."
</p>
<p>
"Friend," said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eight
five-bucko bills, "here is your money. What's fair is fair, and you
have put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be an
unconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man's
thirst."
</p>
<p>
The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.
</p>
<p>
"If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss filling
your tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, official
recorder, fire chief...."
</p>
<p>
"And chief of police, no doubt," said Harvey jocosely.
</p>
<p>
"Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here just
call me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water will
you need?"
</p>
<p>
Joe estimated quickly. "About seventy-five liters, if we go on half
rations," he answered. He waited apprehensively.
</p>
<p>
"Let's say ten buckos a liter," the mayor said. "On account of the
quantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts me
more to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,
that's all."
</p>
<p>
The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks with
them. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intently
watched the crude level-gauge, crying "Stop!" when it registered the
proper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger and
wetted his lips expectantly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: "But what are we to
do about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would be
preposterous. We simply can't afford it."
</p>
<p>
Johnson's response almost floored them. "Who said anything about
charging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.
It's just the purified stuff that comes so high."
</p>
<p>
After giving them directions that would take them to the free-water
pool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headed
back to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.
</p>
<p>
"Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague?" said Harvey as he and Joe
picked up buckets that hung on the tank. "Johnson, as I saw instantly,
is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly."
</p>
<p>
"Just the same," Joe griped, "paying for water isn't something you can
get used to in ten minutes."
</p>
<p>
In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang from
the igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,
according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled their
buckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine on
a bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko sign
in front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keeping
a faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went to
investigate.
</p>
<p>
Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender mound
that was unmistakably a buried pipe.
</p>
<p>
"What's this doing here?" Harvey asked, puzzled. "I thought Johnson had
to transport water in pails."
</p>
<p>
"Wonder where it leads to," Joe said uneasily.
</p>
<p>
"It leads
<i>
to
</i>
the saloon," said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing the
pipe back toward the spaceport. "What I am concerned with is where it
leads
<i>
from
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion of
scrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burst
into the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.
</p>
<p>
Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.
</p>
<p>
"I am growing suspicious," he said in a rigidly controlled voice.
</p>
<p>
But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water and
tasting it.
</p>
<p>
"Sweet!" he snarled.
</p>
<p>
They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.
His mouth went wry. "Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! The
only thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor's
conscience."
</p>
<p>
"The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on," said
Harvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. "Joseph, the good-natured artist in
me has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until we
have had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from this
point hence."
</p>
<p>
Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door they
stopped and their fists unclenched.
</p>
<p>
"Thought you gents were leaving," the mayor called out, seeing them
frozen in the doorway. "Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.
Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City."
</p>
<p>
"You don't need any more," said Harvey, dismayed.
</p>
<p>
Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hair
and held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously been
born and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would have
kept him down near the general dimensions of a man.
</p>
<p>
He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his own
hand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again when
his fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressed
one.
</p>
<p>
"Pleased to meet you," piped a voice that had never known a dense
atmosphere.
</p>
<p>
The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick and
unpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....
</p>
<p>
"Joseph!" he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. "Don't you
feel well?"
</p>
<p>
Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes were
gently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his features
drooping like a bloodhound's.
</p>
<p>
"Bring him in here!" Johnson cried. "I mean, get him away! He's coming
down with asteroid fever!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course," replied Harvey calmly. "Any fool knows the first symptoms
of the disease that once scourged the universe."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean,
<i>
once
</i>
?" demanded Johnson. "I come down with it
every year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get him
out of here!"
</p>
<p>
"In good time. He can't be moved immediately."
</p>
<p>
"Then he'll be here for months!"
</p>
<p>
Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor and
his gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathe
in tiny, uncontaminating gasps.
</p>
<p>
"You'll find everything you want in the back room," Johnson said
frantically, "sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suction
cups—"
</p>
<p>
"Relics of the past," Harvey stated. "One medication is all modern man
requires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" asked the mayor without conviction.
</p>
<p>
Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-hand
rocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within a
few minutes, carrying a bottle.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowly
crossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,
put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.
When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partner
drink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back and
waited for the inevitable result.
</p>
<p>
Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for several
moments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomed
to perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his features
straightened out.
</p>
<p>
"Are—are you all right?" asked the mayor anxiously.
</p>
<p>
"Much better," said Joe in a weak voice.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you need another dose," Harvey suggested.
</p>
<p>
Joe recoiled. "I'm fine now!" he cried, and sprang off the bar to prove
it.
</p>
<p>
Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,
and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll be hanged!" Johnson ejaculated.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
La-anago Yergis
</i>
never fails, my friend," Harvey explained. "By
actual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-three
minutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caught
this one before it grew formidable."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. "If you
don't charge too much," he said warily, "I might think of buying some."
</p>
<p>
"We do not sell this unbelievable remedy," Harvey replied with dignity.
"It sells itself."
</p>
<p>
"'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a whole
case," said Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared with
the vast loss of time and strength the fever involves."
</p>
<p>
"How much?" asked the mayor unhappily.
</p>
<p>
"For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundred
buckos."
</p>
<p>
Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression of
doing so. "F-four hundred," he offered.
</p>
<p>
"Not a red cent less than four seventy-five," Harvey said flatly.
</p>
<p>
"Make it four fifty," quavered Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"I dislike haggling," said Harvey.
</p>
<p>
The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos and
fifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: "And we will include,
<i>
gratis
</i>
, an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurian
handicraftsmanship."
</p>
<p>
Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. "No tricks now. I want a taste of
that stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me."
</p>
<p>
Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. The
mayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuing
minute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle which
the man gradually won.
</p>
<p>
"There ain't no words for that taste," he gulped when it was safe to
talk again.
</p>
<p>
"Medicine," Harvey propounded, "should taste like medicine." To Joe he
said: "Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task to
which we have dedicated ourselves."
</p>
<p>
With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed the
clearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe dropped
his murderous silence and cried:
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of that
snake oil?"
</p>
<p>
"That was not poison," Harvey contradicted quietly. "It was
<i>
La-anago
Yergis
</i>
extract, plus."
</p>
<p>
"Plus what—arsenic?"
</p>
<p>
"Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufacture
our specific for all known ailments, with the intention of selling
yonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,
mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had been
swindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit have
been, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course."
</p>
<p>
"But why use it on me?" Joe demanded furiously.
</p>
<p>
Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. "Did Johnson ask to
taste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to produce
the same
<i>
medicine
</i>
that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were a
guinea pig for a splendid cause."
</p>
<p>
"Okay, okay," Joe said. "But you shoulda charged him more."
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of which
that swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables he
possesses. We could not be content with less."
</p>
<p>
"Well, we're starting all right," admitted Joe. "How about that thing
with six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?"
</p>
<p>
Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.
</p>
<p>
"I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.
Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.
At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with our
streamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolic
suckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on the
audio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendous
figure to the zoo!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carried
the case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared a
place of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put it
down carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gave
him, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been at
least as good as the first; he gagged.
</p>
<p>
"That's the stuff, all right," he said, swallowing hard. He counted
out the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously
balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain
at paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,
and asked: "You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now."
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking about
food at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.
</p>
<p>
"It's only water we were short of," Harvey said apprehensively. "We've
got rations back at the ship."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
H-mph!
</i>
" the mayor grunted. "Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.
Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcome
to our hospitality."
</p>
<p>
"Your hospitality," said Harvey, "depends on the prices you charge."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying," answered
the mayor promptly. "What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here you
can't get anywhere else for any price."
</p>
<p>
Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He saw
none.
</p>
<p>
"Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe," he said guardedly.
</p>
<p>
Johnson immediately fell into the role of "mine host."
</p>
<p>
"Come right in, gents," he invited. "Right into the dining room."
</p>
<p>
He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more or
less private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was little
chance of company.
</p>
<p>
Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen with
two menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,
silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,
which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.
</p>
<p>
Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices were
phenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, he
grinned, bowed and asked: "Everything satisfactory, gents?"
</p>
<p>
"Quite," said Harvey. "We shall order."
</p>
<p>
For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, the
culinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the service
was as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius played
deftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian
<i>
viotars
</i>
, using his other two
hands for waiting on the table.
</p>
<p>
"We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen," Harvey
whispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in the
kitchen, attending to the next course. "He would make any society
hostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sum
to women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire."
</p>
<p>
"Think of a fast one fast," Joe agreed. "You're right."
</p>
<p>
"But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,"
complained Harvey. "I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honest
merchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimate
our check at a mere bucko twenty redsents."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.
</p>
<p>
"It's been a great honor, gents," he said. "Ain't often I have
visitors, and I like the best, like you two gents."
</p>
<p>
As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe and
Harvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished in
a yelp of horror.
</p>
<p>
"What the devil is this?" he shouted.—"How do you arrive at this
fantastic, idiotic figure—
<i>
three hundred and twenty-eight buckos
</i>
!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,
not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirty
fingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.
</p>
<p>
Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty with
rage. The minute note read: "Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80
redsents."
</p>
<p>
"You can go to hell!" Joe growled. "We won't pay it!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson sighed ponderously. "I was afraid you'd act like that," he said
with regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it on
his vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. "Afraid I'll have to
ask the sheriff to take over."
</p>
<p>
Johnson, the "sheriff," collected the money, and Johnson, the
"restaurateur," pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign to
remain calm.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said to the mayor, and his tones took on a
schoolmasterish severity, "your long absence from Earth has perhaps
made you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered the
folk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is folly
to kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is pound
foolish.'"
</p>
<p>
"I don't get the connection," objected Johnson.
</p>
<p>
"Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you put
out of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantial
deal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer for
the peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds the
way you have—"
</p>
<p>
"Who said I wanted to sell him?" the mayor interrupted. He rubbed his
fingers together and asked disinterestedly: "What were you going to
offer, anyhow?"
</p>
<p>
"It doesn't matter any longer," Harvey said with elaborate
carelessness. "Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's right," Johnson came back emphatically. "But what would your
offer have been which I would have turned down?"
</p>
<p>
"Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?"
</p>
<p>
"Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable to
sell."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money would
tempt you!"
</p>
<p>
"Nope. But how much did you say?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll tell you something," said the mayor confidentially. "When
you've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,
it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,
you can buy this and that and this and that and—"
</p>
<p>
"This and that," concluded Joe. "We'll give you five hundred buckos."
</p>
<p>
"Now, gents!" Johnson remonstrated. "Why, six hundred would hardly—"
</p>
<p>
"You haven't left us much money," Harvey put in.
</p>
<p>
The mayor frowned. "All right, we'll split the difference. Make it
five-fifty."
</p>
<p>
Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then he
stood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensively
acquired.
</p>
<p>
"I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature," he said to
Johnson. "I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only your
filial mammoth to keep you company."
</p>
<p>
"I sure will," Johnson confessed glumly. "I got pretty attached to
Genius, and I'm going to miss him something awful."
</p>
<p>
Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing off
the table almost all at once.
</p>
<p>
"My friend," he said, "we take your only solace, it is true, but in his
place we can offer something no less amazing and instructive."
</p>
<p>
The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. "What is it?" he
asked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at its
worst and expects nothing better.
</p>
<p>
"Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room of
the ship," Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: "You must see
the wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partner
will soon have it here for your astonishment."
</p>
<p>
Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. "Aw, Harv," he
protested, "do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we were
getting the key!"
</p>
<p>
"We must not be selfish, my boy," Harvey said nobly. "We have had our
chance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who might
have more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here."
</p>
<p>
Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiosity
would probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting with
questions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. For
his part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoeba
until Joe came in, lugging a radio.
</p>
<p>
"Is that what you were talking about?" the mayor snorted. "What makes
you think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers and
political speech-makers."
</p>
<p>
"Do not jump to hasty conclusions," Harvey cautioned. "Another word,
and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,
with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventor
of this absolutely awe-inspiring device."
</p>
<p>
"I ain't in the market for a radio," Johnson said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
Harvey nodded in relief. "We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.
He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue our
study, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to an
enormous fortune."
</p>
<p>
"Well, that's no plating off our bow," Joe grunted. "I'm glad he did
turn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three whole
years."
</p>
<p>
He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.
</p>
<p>
"Now, hold on!" the mayor cried. "I ain't
<i>
saying
</i>
I'll buy, but what
is it I'm turning down?"
</p>
<p>
Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His face
sorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"To make a long story, Mr. Johnson," he said, "Joseph and I were among
the chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just before
his tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane." He
banged his fist on the bar. "I have said it before, and I repeat again,
that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredit
his greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!"
</p>
<p>
"This what?" Johnson blurted out.
</p>
<p>
"In simple terms," clarified Harvey, "the ingenious doctor discovered
that the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged by
energy of all quanta. There has never been any question that the
inhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized than
ourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge would
find himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!"
</p>
<p>
The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.
</p>
<p>
"And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?"
</p>
<p>
"It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied Doctor
Dean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact."
</p>
<p>
The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and stared
thoughtfully at the battered cabinet.
</p>
<p>
"Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts," he
conceded. "But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks up
there wouldn't talk our language."
</p>
<p>
Again Harvey smashed his fist down. "Do you dare to repeat the scurvy
lie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?"
</p>
<p>
Johnson recoiled. "No—no,
<i>
of course not
</i>
. I mean, being up here, I
naturally couldn't get all the details."
</p>
<p>
"Naturally," Harvey agreed, mollified. "I'm sorry I lost my temper.
But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcasts
emanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that be
so difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there was
communication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admired
our language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their own
hyper-scientific trimmings?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, I don't know," Johnson said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
"For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detect
the simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosed
broadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctor
failed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his could
stand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure to
solve the mystery caused him to take his own life."
</p>
<p>
Johnson winced. "Is that what you want to unload on me?"
</p>
<p>
"For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will be
rewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man who
could devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously a
person with unusual patience."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," the mayor said grudgingly, "I ain't exactly flighty."
</p>
<p>
"Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!"
</p>
<p>
Johnson asked skeptically: "How about a sample first?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Here he's able to meet traders like Harvey and Joe and barter with them. \n(B) He's able to run business even with few customers. \n(C) Here he's able to take advantage of travelers who are lost or in need of supplies. \n(D) He doesn't want to give up the spring of water. ",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Asteroids -- Fiction; Short stories; Swindlers and swindling -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
62569 | Referring to the passage’s title, who was the “Monster Maker”?
Choices:
(A) Click
(B) Human imagination
(C) Gunther
(D) Irish | [
"B",
"Human imagination"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
The Monster Maker
</h1>
<h2>
By RAY BRADBURY
</h2>
<p>
"Get Gunther," the official orders read. It
<br/>
was to laugh! For Click and Irish were
<br/>
marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only
<br/>
weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Spring 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or get
scared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listening
to it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting a
damned sweet picture of everything that was happening.
</p>
<p>
The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,
wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in the
dark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and this
meteor coming like blazing fury.
</p>
<p>
Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal's
skin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked the
rear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.
</p>
<p>
There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he was
picked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn't
long in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on to
his camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that had
been of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out of
the controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.
</p>
<p>
It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroids
rushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking a
tom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.
</p>
<p>
Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was the
nearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and you
ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk of
metal death. What a fade-out!
</p>
<p>
"Irish!" he heard himself say. "Is this IT?"
</p>
<p>
"Is this
<i>
what
</i>
?" yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.
</p>
<p>
"Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?"
</p>
<p>
Marnagan fumed. "I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'm
ready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!"
</p>
<p>
They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of
gravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.
</p>
<p>
The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end over
and stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattled
around—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,
air and energy flung out.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinking
quick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reach
film, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like
<i>
this
</i>
one! His
brain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of his
camera.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.
Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera locked
to his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, cold
that pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of the
wreckage into that silence.
</p>
<p>
He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in his
fingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,
thinking "Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—"
</p>
<p>
A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated seven
feet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.
</p>
<p>
"Hold it!" cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camera
whirred. "Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathed
from asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!"
</p>
<p>
"From the toe of me boot!" snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shoulders
flexed inside his vac-suit. "I might've died in there, and you nursin'
that film-contraption!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. "I never thought of that.
Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You always
have. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to." Hathaway
stared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy he
couldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,
pale. "Where are we?"
</p>
<p>
"A million miles from nobody."
</p>
<p>
They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain that
stretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.
Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it look
sick.
</p>
<p>
"If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shaking
hands the other side of this rock in two hours." Marnagan shook his mop
of dusty red hair. "And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'd
capture that Gunther lad!"
</p>
<p>
His voice stopped and the silence spoke.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. "I checked
my oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left."
</p>
<p>
The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoric
rocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supply
mashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or
<i>
was
</i>
suffocation a better death...?
<i>
Sixty minutes.
</i>
</p>
<p>
They stood and looked at one another.
</p>
<p>
"Damn that meteor!" said Marnagan, hotly.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:
"Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, looked
it right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.
Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I've
got it here, on film."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. "It's not proof we need
now, Click. Oxygen. And then
<i>
food
</i>
. And then some way back to Earth."
</p>
<p>
Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: "This is Gunther's work. He's
here somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.
Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get back
to Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a pirate
whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins
through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by
yours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward a
bony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn't
much to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan said, "We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweat
with except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We got
fifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'll
be Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk all
you like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, any
words, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk about
it. As for me—" he twisted his glossy red face. "Keeping alive is me
hobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order."
</p>
<p>
Click nodded. "Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.
It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and
the crash this way."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, far
down, and the green eyes blazed.
</p>
<p>
They stopped, together.
</p>
<p>
"Oops!" Click said.
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" Marnagan blinked. "Did you feel
<i>
that
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless and
limbless, suddenly. "Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!"
</p>
<p>
They ran back. "Let's try it again."
</p>
<p>
They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.
"Gravity should not act this way, Click."
</p>
<p>
"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! No
wonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!
Gunther'd do anything to—did I say
<i>
anything
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his hand
came up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievable
horrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts with
numerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, some
tubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing along
in the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat broke
cold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmed
after him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, in
Click's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurt
the creatures at all.
</p>
<p>
"Irish!" Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an incline
toward the mouth a small cave. "This way, fella!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. "They're
too big; they can't get us in here!" Click's voice gasped it out,
as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.
Instinctively, Hathaway added, "Asteroid monsters! My camera! What a
scene!"
</p>
<p>
"Damn your damn camera!" yelled Marnagan. "They might come in!"
</p>
<p>
"Use your gun."
</p>
<p>
"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,
eh, Click?"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah. Sure.
<i>
You
</i>
enjoyed it, every moment of it."
</p>
<p>
"I did that." Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. "Now, what
will we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?"
</p>
<p>
"Let me think—"
</p>
<p>
"Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt
funny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monsters
and Gunther and—
</p>
<p>
"Which one will you be having?" asked Irish, casually. "A red one or a
blue one?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway laughed nervously. "A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,
now you've got
<i>
me
</i>
doing it. Joking in the face of death."
</p>
<p>
"Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck."
</p>
<p>
That didn't please the photographer. "I'm an Anglo-Swede," he pointed
out.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan shifted uneasily. "Here, now. You're doing nothing but
sitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so take
me a profile shot of the beasties and myself."
</p>
<p>
Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. "What in hell's the use? All
this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it."
</p>
<p>
"Then," retorted Marnagan, "we'll develop it for our own benefit; while
waitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to our
rescue!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway snorted. "U.S. Cavalry."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. "Snap me this pose," he
said. "I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,
my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peace
negotiations betwixt me and these pixies."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaver
for nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking running
around in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, but
his mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture of
Marnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.
</p>
<p>
Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smiling
for the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, without
much effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing death
wall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not saying
anything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and they
had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.
</p>
<p>
When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it
up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:
</p>
<p>
"Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we felt
back on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,
what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Space
war isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectory
is lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, which
dispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?
Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.
It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikes
unseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan rumbled. "Where is the dirty son, then!"
</p>
<p>
"He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them." Hathaway nodded at
the beasts. "People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or from
wounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animals
tend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtle
his attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if the
Patrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,
then."
</p>
<p>
"I don't see no Base around."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Click shrugged. "Still doubt it? Okay. Look." He tapped his camera and
a spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he stripped
it out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while it
developed, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developing
film. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,
leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured the
impressions. Quick stuff.
</p>
<p>
Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,
Click handed the whole thing over. "Look."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. "Ah,
Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented."
</p>
<p>
"Huh?"
</p>
<p>
"It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroid
monsters complete."
</p>
<p>
"What!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:
Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationally
with
<i>
nothing
</i>
; Marnagan shooting his gun at
<i>
nothing
</i>
; Marnagan
pretending to be happy in front of
<i>
nothing
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!
</p>
<p>
The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hair
like a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.
Maybe—
</p>
<p>
Hathaway said it, loud: "Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of this
mess! Here—"
</p>
<p>
He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,
the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said the
monsters weren't there, they weren't there.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," said Marnagan. "But step outside this cave—"
</p>
<p>
"If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid," said Click.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan scowled. "You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet or
infra-red or something that won't come out on film?"
</p>
<p>
"Nuts! Any color
<i>
we
</i>
see, the camera sees. We've been fooled."
</p>
<p>
"Hey, where
<i>
you
</i>
going?" Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller man
tried pushing past him.
</p>
<p>
"Get out of the way," said Hathaway.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. "If anyone is going anywhere,
it'll be me does the going."
</p>
<p>
"I can't let you do that, Irish."
</p>
<p>
"Why not?"
</p>
<p>
"You'd be going on my say-so."
</p>
<p>
"Ain't your say-so good enough for me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—"
</p>
<p>
"If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, stand
aside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle their
bones." He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't exist
except under an inch of porous metal plate. "Your express purpose on
this voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol later
for teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-hand
education. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give me
profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The
Lion's Den."
</p>
<p>
"Irish, I—"
</p>
<p>
"Shut up and load up."
</p>
<p>
Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.
</p>
<p>
"Ready, Click?"
</p>
<p>
"I—I guess so," said Hathaway. "And remember, think it hard, Irish.
Think it hard. There aren't any animals—"
</p>
<p>
"Keep me in focus, lad."
</p>
<p>
"All the way, Irish."
</p>
<p>
"What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!"
</p>
<p>
Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,
two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters were
waiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.
</p>
<p>
Right out into the middle of them....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and the
monsters!
</p>
<p>
Only now it was only Marnagan.
</p>
<p>
No more monsters.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. "Hey, Click, look
at me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and
ran away!"
</p>
<p>
"Ran, hell!" cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed and
animated. "They just plain vanished. They were only imaginative
figments!"
</p>
<p>
"And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, you
coward!"
</p>
<p>
"Smile when you say that, Irish."
</p>
<p>
"Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears in
your sweet grey eyes?"
</p>
<p>
"Damn," swore the photographer, embarrassedly. "Why don't they put
window-wipers in these helmets?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll take it up with the Board, lad."
</p>
<p>
"Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in one
hunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part
of his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back
into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing
suspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animals
kill them."
</p>
<p>
"Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill."
</p>
<p>
"Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they could
have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If
that isn't being dangerous—"
</p>
<p>
The Irishman whistled.
</p>
<p>
"But, we've got to
<i>
move
</i>
, Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.
In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,
Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters." Click
attached his camera to his mid-belt. "Gunther probably thinks we're
dead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they never
had a chance to disbelieve them."
</p>
<p>
"If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—"
</p>
<p>
"Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident—" Click
stopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head and
felt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steady
himself, and swayed. "I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.
This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. "Hold tight, Click. The
guy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach."
</p>
<p>
"Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animals
came from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to come
back!"
</p>
<p>
"Come back? How?"
</p>
<p>
"They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if we
believe in them again, they'll return."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan didn't like it. "Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—if
we believe in 'em?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. "Not if we believe
in them to a
<i>
certain point
</i>
. Psychologically they can both be seen and
felt. We only want to
<i>
see
</i>
them coming at us again."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Do
</i>
we, now?"
</p>
<p>
"With twenty minutes left, maybe less—"
</p>
<p>
"All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. "Just think—I will see
the monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.
Think it over and over."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. "And—what if I forget to remember
all that? What if I get excited...?"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking at
Irish.
</p>
<p>
Marnagan cursed. "All right, lad. Let's have at it!"
</p>
<p>
The monsters returned.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming
in malevolent anticipation about the two men.
</p>
<p>
"This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, a
sending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contorted
faces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped and
raised his gun and made quick moves with it. "Click! This one here!
It's real!" He fell back and something struck him down. His immense
frame slammed against rock, noiselessly.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered the
helmet glass with his hands, shouting:
</p>
<p>
"Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force into
your mind! It's not real, I tell you!"
</p>
<p>
"Click—" Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.
"Click—" He was fighting hard. "I—I—sure now. Sure—" He smiled.
"It—it's only a shanty fake!"
</p>
<p>
"Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan's thick lips opened. "It's only a fake," he said. And then,
irritated, "Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!"
</p>
<p>
Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, and
little bubbles danced in his eyes. "Irish,
<i>
you
</i>
forget the monsters.
Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you might
forget."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan showed his teeth. "Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? And
besides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty."
</p>
<p>
The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.
Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.
</p>
<p>
"We'll be taking our chances on guard," hissed Irish. "I'll go ahead,
draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,
<i>
you
</i>
show up with
<i>
your
</i>
gun...."
</p>
<p>
"I haven't got one."
</p>
<p>
"We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. They
probably got scanners out. Let them see me—"
</p>
<p>
And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked about
five hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heaved
up, and there was a door opening in the rock.
</p>
<p>
His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. "A
door, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!"
</p>
<p>
Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard the
thud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.
</p>
<p>
Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.
</p>
<p>
"All right, put 'em up!" a new harsh voice cried over a different
radio. One of Gunther's guards.
</p>
<p>
Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.
</p>
<p>
The strange harsh voice said, "That's better. Don't try and pick that
gun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.
How'd you get past the animals?"
</p>
<p>
Click started running. He switched off his
<i>
sending
</i>
audio, kept his
<i>
receiving
</i>
on. Marnagan, weaponless.
<i>
One
</i>
guard. Click gasped. Things
were getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept running
and listening to Marnagan's lying voice:
</p>
<p>
"I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundles
and stacked them up to dry, ya louse!" Marnagan said. "But, damn you,
they killed my partner before he had a chance!"
</p>
<p>
The guard laughed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his head
swimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. He
let himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn't
have a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!
</p>
<p>
A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in that
yellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,
air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, a
proton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guard
had his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: "I think I'll let
you stand right there and die," he said quietly. "That what Gunther
wanted, anway. A nice sordid death."
</p>
<p>
Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.
</p>
<p>
"Don't move!" he snapped. "I've got a weapon stronger than yours. One
twitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behind
you! Freeze!"
</p>
<p>
The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, dropped
his gun to the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Get his gun, Irish."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. "Thanks for
posing," he said. "That shot will go down in film history for candid
acting."
</p>
<p>
"What!"
</p>
<p>
"Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the door
leading into the Base?"
</p>
<p>
The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.
</p>
<p>
Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.
"Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Double
time! Double!"
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen on
their backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,
hid him in a huge trash receptacle. "Where he belongs," observed Irish
tersely.
</p>
<p>
They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothing
more than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.
Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and was
short-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships to
rocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them for
cargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and the
swarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren't
wanted. They were scared off.
</p>
<p>
The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank of
intricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored film
with images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated them
into thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.
</p>
<p>
"So here we are, still not much better off than we were," growled
Irish. "We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turn
up any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project the
monsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?"
</p>
<p>
"What good would that do?" Hathaway gnawed his lip. "They wouldn't fool
the engineers who created them, you nut."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. "Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would come
riding over the hill—"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Irish!" Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. "Irish. The U.S.
Cavalry it is!" His eyes darted over the machines. "Here. Help me.
We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century."
</p>
<p>
Marnagan winced. "You breathing oxygen or whiskey?"
</p>
<p>
"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture
of Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's face
when you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good an
actor are you?"
</p>
<p>
"That's a silly question."
</p>
<p>
"You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front of
you, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heart
and fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall down
and twitch on the ground. Is that clear?"
</p>
<p>
"Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula...."
</p>
<p>
An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into a
sort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,
lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in a
wide, green-lawned Plaza.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walked
across the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building that
was pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.
</p>
<p>
He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.
</p>
<p>
He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination and
pushed him into a room where Gunther sat.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway looked at him. "So you're Gunther?" he said, calmly. The
pirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,
questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds of
metal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before he
could speak, Hathaway said:
</p>
<p>
"Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now and
we're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand men
against your eighty-five."
</p>
<p>
Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin hands
twitched in his lap. "You are bluffing," he said, finally, with a firm
directness. "A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the
last. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were being
pursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed."
</p>
<p>
"Both. The other guy went after the Patrol."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible!"
</p>
<p>
"I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther."
</p>
<p>
A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, lounging
on carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet and
started yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one side
of his office. He stared, hard.
</p>
<p>
The Patrol was coming!
</p>
<p>
Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.
Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysis
guns with them in their tight hands.
</p>
<p>
Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.
"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!"
</p>
<p>
Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathaway
had to credit them on that. They took it, standing.
</p>
<p>
Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.
His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped him
from filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther was
throwing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of his
fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.
</p>
<p>
Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw three
of the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground and
twitch. God, what photography!
</p>
<p>
Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. He
fired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.
Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaos
taking place immediately outside his window.
</p>
<p>
The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. And
out of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, "Here!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Click\n(B) Human imagination\n(C) Gunther\n(D) Irish",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Adventure stories; Short stories; Pirates -- Fiction; Asteroids -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS"
} |
61499 | Why did Pete send the rebels to break Brian out of jail?
Choices:
(A) Pete believed in the rebel cause.
(B) Pete felt bad since it was his fault Brian was in jail.
(C) Pete would do anything to help his boss.
(D) Brian told Pete that he wanted to get out of jail. | [
"D",
"Brian told Pete that he wanted to get out of jail."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
MONOPOLY
</h1>
<h2>
By Vic Phillips and Scott Roberts
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
Sheer efficiency and good management can
<br/>
make a monopoly grow into being. And once
<br/>
it grows, someone with a tyrant mind is
<br/>
going to try to use it as a weapon if he can—
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"That all, chief? Gonna quit now?"
</p>
<p>
Brian Hanson looked disgustedly at Pete Brent, his lanky assistant.
That was the first sign of animation he had displayed all day.
</p>
<p>
"I am, but you're not," Hanson told him grimly. "Get your notes
straightened up. Run those centrifuge tests and set up the still so we
can get at that vitamin count early in the morning."
</p>
<p>
"Tomorrow morning? Aw, for gosh sakes, chief, why don't you take a day
off sometime, or better yet, a night off. It'd do you good to relax.
Boy, I know a swell blonde you could go for. Wait a minute, I've got
her radiophone number somewhere—just ask for Myrtle."
</p>
<p>
Hanson shrugged himself out of his smock.
</p>
<p>
"Never mind Myrtle, just have that equipment set up for the morning.
Good night." He strode out of the huge laboratory, but his mind was
still on the vitamin research they had been conducting, he barely heard
the remarks that followed him.
</p>
<p>
"One of these days the chief is going to have his glands catch up with
him."
</p>
<p>
"Not a chance," Pete Brent grunted.
</p>
<p>
Brian Hanson wondered dispassionately for a moment how his assistants
could fail to be as absorbed as he was by the work they were doing,
then he let it go as he stepped outside the research building.
</p>
<p>
He paused and let his eyes lift to the buildings that surrounded the
compound. This was the administrative heart of Venus City. Out here,
alone, he let his only known emotion sweep through him, pride. He had
an important role in the building of this great new city. As head of
the Venus Consolidated Research Organization, he was in large part
responsible for the prosperity of this vigorous, young world. Venus
Consolidated had built up this city and practically everything else
that amounted to anything on this planet. True, there had been others,
pioneers, before the company came, who objected to the expansion of the
monopolistic control. But, if they could not realize that the company's
regime served the best interests of the planet, they would just have to
suffer the consequences of their own ignorance. There had been rumors
of revolution among the disgruntled older families.
</p>
<p>
He heard there had been killings, but that was nonsense. Venus
Consolidated police had only powers of arrest. Anything involving
executions had to be referred to the Interplanetary Council on Earth.
He dismissed the whole business as he did everything else that did not
directly influence his own department.
</p>
<p>
He ignored the surface transport system and walked to his own
apartment. This walk was part of a regular routine of physical exercise
that kept his body hard and resilient in spite of long hours spent in
the laboratory. As he opened the door of his apartment he heard the
water running into his bath. Perfect timing. He was making that walk
in precisely seven minutes, four and four-fifths seconds. He undressed
and climbed into the tub, relaxing luxuriously in the exhilaration of
irradiated water.
</p>
<p>
He let all the problems of his work drift away, his mind was a peaceful
blank. Then someone was hammering on his head. He struggled reluctantly
awake. It was the door that was being attacked, not his head. The
battering thunder continued persistently. He swore and sat up.
</p>
<p>
"What do you want?"
</p>
<p>
There was no answer; the hammering continued.
</p>
<p>
"All right! All right! I'm coming!" He yelled, crawled out of the tub
and reached for his bathrobe. It wasn't there. He swore some more and
grabbed a towel, wrapping it inadequately around him; it didn't quite
meet astern. He paddled wetly across the floor sounding like a flock of
ducks on parade.
</p>
<p>
Retaining the towel with one hand he inched the door cautiously open.
</p>
<p>
"What the devil—" He stopped abruptly at the sight of a policeman's
uniform.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry, sir, but one of those rebels is loose in the Administration
Center somewhere. We're making a check-up of all the apartments."
</p>
<p>
"Well, you can check out; I haven't got any blasted rebels in here."
The policeman's face hardened, then relaxed knowingly.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I see, sir. No rebels, of course. Sorry to have disturbed you.
Have a good—Good night, sir," he saluted and left.
</p>
<p>
Brian closed the door in puzzlement. What the devil had that flat-foot
been smirking about? Well, maybe he could get his bath now.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Hanson turned away from the door and froze in amazement. Through the
open door of his bedroom he could see his bed neatly turned down as
it should be, but the outline under the counterpane and the luxuriant
mass of platinum-blond hair on the pillow was certainly no part of his
regular routine.
</p>
<p>
"Hello." The voice matched the calm alertness of a pair of deep-blue
eyes. Brian just stared at her in numbed fascination. That was what the
policeman had meant with his insinuating smirk.
</p>
<p>
"Just ask for Myrtle." Pete Brent's joking words flashed back to him.
Now he got it. This was probably the young fool's idea of a joke. He'd
soon fix that.
</p>
<p>
"All right, joke's over, you can beat it now."
</p>
<p>
"Joke? I don't see anything funny, unless it's you and that suggestive
towel. You should either abandon it or get one that goes all the way
round."
</p>
<p>
Brian slowly acquired a complexion suitable for painting fire plugs.
</p>
<p>
"Shut up and throw me my dressing gown." He gritted.
</p>
<p>
The girl swung her legs out of bed and Brian blinked; she was fully
dressed. The snug, zippered overall suit she wore did nothing to
conceal the fact that she was a female. He wrapped his bathrobe
austerely around him.
</p>
<p>
"Well, now what?" she asked and looked at him questioningly.
</p>
<p>
"Well, what do you think?" he burst out angrily. "I'm going to finish
my bath and I'd suggest you go down to the laboratory and hold hands
with Pete. He'd appreciate it." He got the impression that the girl was
struggling heroically to refrain from laughing and that didn't help his
dignity any. He strode into the bathroom, slammed the door and climbed
back into the bath.
</p>
<p>
The door opened a little.
</p>
<p>
"Well, good-by now." The girl said sweetly. "Remember me to the police
force."
</p>
<p>
"Get out of here!" he yelled and the door shut abruptly on a rippling
burst of laughter. Damn women! It was getting so a man had to pack
a gun with him or something. And Pete Brent. He thought with grim
satisfaction of the unending extra work that was going to occur around
the laboratory from now on. He sank back into the soothing liquid
embrace of the bath and deliberately set his mind loose to wander in
complete relaxation.
</p>
<p>
A hammering thunder burst on the outer door. He sat up with a groan.
</p>
<p>
"Lay off, you crazy apes!" he yelled furiously, but the pounding
continued steadily. He struggled out of the bath, wrapped his damp
bathrobe clammily around him and marched to the door with a seething
fury of righteous anger burning within him. He flung the door wide, his
mouth all set for a withering barrage, but he didn't get a chance. Four
police constables and a sergeant swarmed into the room, shoving him
away from the door.
</p>
<p>
"Say! What the—"
</p>
<p>
"Where is she?" the sergeant demanded.
</p>
<p>
"Wherethehell's who?"
</p>
<p>
"Quit stallin', bud. You know who. That female rebel who was in here."
</p>
<p>
"Rebel? You're crazy! That was just ... Pete said ... rebel? Did you
say rebel?"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, I said rebel, an' where is she?"
</p>
<p>
"She ... why ... why ... she left, of course. You don't think I was
going to have women running around in here, do you?"
</p>
<p>
"She wuz in his bed when I seen her, sarge," one of the guards
contributed. "But she ain't there now."
</p>
<p>
"You don't think that I—"
</p>
<p>
"Listen, bud, we don't do the thinkin' around here. You come on along
and see the chief."
</p>
<p>
Brian had had about enough. "I'm not going anywhere to see anybody.
Maybe you don't know who I am. You can't arrest me."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Brian Hanson, Chief of Research for Venus Consolidated, as dignified as
possible in a damp bathrobe, glared out through the bars at a slightly
bewildered Pete Brent.
</p>
<p>
"What the devil do you want? Haven't you caused enough blasted trouble
already?"
</p>
<p>
"Me? For gosh sakes, chief—"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, you! If sending that damn blonde to my apartment and getting me
arrested is your idea of a joke—"
</p>
<p>
"But, my gosh, I didn't send anybody, chief. And this is no joke.
That wasn't Myrtle, that was Crystal James, old man James' daughter.
They're about the oldest family on Venus. Police have been after her
for months; she's a rebel and she's sure been raising plenty of hell
around here. She got in and blew out the main communications control
panel last night. Communications been tied up all day." Pete lowered
his voice to an appreciative whisper, "Gosh, chief, I didn't know you
had it in you. How long have you been in with that bunch? Is that girl
as good-looking as they say she is?"
</p>
<p>
"Now listen here, Brent. I don't know—"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it's all right, chief. You can trust me. I won't give you away."
</p>
<p>
"There's nothing to give away, you fool!" Brian bellowed. "I don't know
anything about any damn rebels. All I want is to get out of here—"
</p>
<p>
"Gotcha, chief," Brent whispered understandingly. "I'll see if I can
pass the word along."
</p>
<p>
"Come here, you idiot!" Brian screamed after his erstwhile assistant.
</p>
<p>
"Pipe down there, bud," a guard's voice cut in chillingly.
</p>
<p>
Brian retired to his cell bunk and clutched his aching head in
frustrated fury.
</p>
<p>
For the nineteenth time Brian Hanson strode to the door of his cell and
rattled the bars.
</p>
<p>
"Listen here, guard, you've got to take a message to McHague. You can't
hold me here indefinitely."
</p>
<p>
"Shut up. Nobody ain't takin' no message to McHague. I don't care if
you are—"
</p>
<p>
Brian's eyes almost popped out as he saw a gloved hand reach around
the guard's neck and jam a rag over his nose and mouth. Swift shadows
moved expertly before his astonished gaze. Another guard was caught and
silenced as he came around the end of the corridor. Someone was outside
his cell door, a hooded figure which seemed, somehow, familiar.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, pantless!" a voice breathed.
</p>
<p>
He knew that voice!
</p>
<p>
"What the devil are you doing here?"
</p>
<p>
"Somebody by the name of Pete Brent tipped us off that you were in
trouble because of me. But don't worry, we're going to get you out."
</p>
<p>
"Damn that fool kid! Leave me alone. I don't want to get out of here
that way!" he yelled wildly. "Guards! Help!"
</p>
<p>
"Shut up! Do you want to get us shot?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure I do. Guards! Guards!"
</p>
<p>
Someone came running.
</p>
<p>
"Guards are coming," a voice warned.
</p>
<p>
He could hear the girl struggling with the lock.
</p>
<p>
"Damn," she swore viciously. "This is the wrong key! Your goose is sure
cooked now. Whether you like it or not, you'll hang with us when they
find us trying to get you out of here."
</p>
<p>
Brian felt as though something had kicked him in the stomach. She was
right! He had to get out now. He wouldn't be able to explain this away.
</p>
<p>
"Give me that key," he hissed and grabbed for it.
</p>
<p>
He snapped two of the coigns off in the lock and went to work with the
rest of the key. He had designed these escape-proof locks himself. In a
few seconds the door swung open and they were fleeing silently down the
jail corridor.
</p>
<p>
The girl paused doubtfully at a crossing passage.
</p>
<p>
"This way," he snarled and took the lead. He knew the ground plan of
this jail perfectly. He had a moment of wonder at the crazy spectacle
of himself, the fair-haired boy of Venus Consolidated, in his flapping
bathrobe, leading a band of escaping rebels out of the company's best
jail.
</p>
<p>
They burst around a corner onto a startled guard.
</p>
<p>
"They're just ahead of us," Brian yelled. "Come on!"
</p>
<p>
"Right with you," the guard snapped and ran a few steps with them
before a blackjack caught up with him and he folded into a corner.
</p>
<p>
"Down this way, it's a short cut." Brian led the way to a heavily
barred side door.
</p>
<p>
The electric eye tripped a screaming alarm, but the broken key in
Brian's hands opened the complicated lock in a matter of seconds. They
were outside the jail on a side street, the door closed and the lock
jammed immovably behind them.
</p>
<p>
Sirens wailed. The alarm was out! The street suddenly burst into
brilliance as the floodlights snapped on. Brian faltered to a stop and
Crystal James pushed past him.
</p>
<p>
"We've got reinforcements down here," she said, then skidded to a halt.
Two guards barred the street ahead of them.
</p>
<p>
Brian felt as though his stomach had fallen down around his ankles
and was tying his feet up. He couldn't move. The door was jammed shut
behind them, they'd have to surrender and there'd be no explaining
this break. He started mentally cursing Pete Brent, when a projector
beam slashed viciously by him. These guards weren't fooling! He heard
a gasping grunt of pain as one of the rebels went down. They were
shooting to kill.
</p>
<p>
He saw a sudden, convulsive movement from the girl. A black object
curved out against the lights. The sharp, ripping blast of an atomite
bomb thundered along the street and slammed them to the ground. The
glare left them blinded. He struggled to his feet. The guards had
vanished, a shallow crater yawned in the road where they had been.
</p>
<p>
"We've got to run!" the girl shouted.
</p>
<p>
He started after her. Two surface transport vehicles waited around the
corner. Brian and the rebels bundled into them and took away with a
roar. The chase wasn't organized yet, and they soon lost themselves in
the orderly rush of Venus City traffic.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The two carloads of rebels cruised nonchalantly past the Administration
Center and pulled into a private garage a little beyond.
</p>
<p>
"What are we stopping here for?" Brian demanded. "We've got to get
away."
</p>
<p>
"That's just what we're doing," Crystal snapped. "Everybody out."
</p>
<p>
The rebels piled out and the cars pulled away to become innocuous parts
of the traffic stream. The rebels seemed to know where they were going
and that gave them the edge on Brian. They followed Crystal down into
the garage's repair pit.
</p>
<p>
She fumbled in the darkness a moment, then a darker patch showed as
a door swung open in the side of the pit. They filed into the solid
blackness after her and the door thudded shut. The beam of a torch
stabbed through the darkness and they clambered precariously down a
steep, steel stairway.
</p>
<p>
"Where the dickens are we?" Brian whispered hoarsely.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, you don't have to whisper, we're safe enough here. This is one of
the air shafts leading down to the old mines."
</p>
<p>
"Old mines? What old mines?"
</p>
<p>
"That's something you newcomers don't know anything about. This whole
area was worked out long before Venus Consolidated came to the planet.
These old tunnels run all under the city."
</p>
<p>
They went five hundred feet down the air shaft before they reached a
level tunnel.
</p>
<p>
"What do we do? Hide here?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say not. Serono Zeburzac, head of McHague's secret police
will be after us now. We won't be safe anywhere near Venus City."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be crazy. That Serono Zeburzac stuff is just a legend McHague
keeps up to scare people with."
</p>
<p>
"That's what you think," Crystal snapped. "McHague's legend got my
father and he'll get all of us unless we run the whole company right
off the planet."
</p>
<p>
"Well, what the dickens does he look like?" Brian asked doubtfully.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know, but his left hand is missing. Dad did some good shooting
before he died," she said grimly.
</p>
<p>
Brian was startled at the icy hardness of her voice.
</p>
<p>
Two of the rebels pulled a screening tarpaulin aside and revealed
one of the old-type ore cars that must have been used in the ancient
mines. A brand-new atomic motor gleamed incongruously at one end. The
rebels crowded into it and they went rumbling swiftly down the echoing
passage. The lights of the car showed the old working, rotten and
crumbling, fallen in in some places and signs of new work where the
rebels had cleared away the debris of years.
</p>
<p>
Brian struggled into a zippered overall suit as they followed a
twisting, tortuous course for half an hour, switching from one tunnel
to another repeatedly until he had lost all conception of direction.
Crystal James, at the controls, seemed to know exactly where they were
going.
</p>
<p>
The tunnel emerged in a huge cavern that gloomed darkly away in every
direction. The towering, massive remains of old machinery, eroded and
rotten with age crouched like ancient, watching skeletons.
</p>
<p>
"These were the old stamp mills," the girl said, and her voice seemed
to be swallowed to a whisper in the vast, echoing darkness.
</p>
<p>
Between two rows of sentinel ruins they came suddenly on two slim
Venusian atmospheric ships. Dim light spilled over them from a ragged
gash in the wall of the cavern. Brian followed Crystal into the smaller
of the two ships and the rest of the rebels manned the other.
</p>
<p>
"Wait a minute, how do we get out of here?" Brian demanded.
</p>
<p>
"Through that hole up there," the girl said matter-of-factly.
</p>
<p>
"You're crazy, you can't get through there."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yeah? Just watch this." The ship thundered to life beneath them
and leaped off in a full-throttled take-off.
</p>
<p>
"We're going to crash! That gap isn't wide enough!"
</p>
<p>
The sides of the gap rushed in on the tips of the stubby wings. Brian
braced himself for the crash, but it didn't come. At the last possible
second, the ship rolled smoothly over. At the moment it flashed through
the opening it was stood vertically on edge.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Crystal held the ship in its roll and completed the maneuver outside
the mountain while Brian struggled to get his internal economy back
into some semblance of order.
</p>
<p>
"That's some flying," he said as soon as he could speak.
</p>
<p>
Crystal looked at him in surprise. "That's nothing. We Venusians fly
almost as soon as we can walk."
</p>
<p>
"Oh—I see," Brian said weakly and a few moments later he really did
see. Two big, fast, green ships, carrying the insignia of the Venus
Consolidated police, cruised suddenly out from a mountain air station.
</p>
<p>
An aërial torpedo exploded in front of the rebel ship. Crystal's face
set in grim lines as she pulled the ship up in a screaming climb. Brian
got up off the floor.
</p>
<p>
"You don't have to get excited like that," he complained. "They weren't
trying to hit us."
</p>
<p>
"That's what you think," Crystal muttered. "Those children don't play
for peanuts."
</p>
<p>
"But, girl, they're just Venus Consolidated police. They haven't got
any authority to shoot anyone."
</p>
<p>
"Authority doesn't make much difference to them," Crystal snapped
bitterly. "They've been killing people all over the planet. What do you
think this revolution is about?"
</p>
<p>
"You must be mistak—" He slumped to the floor as Crystal threw the
ship into a mad, rolling spin. A tremendous crash thundered close
astern.
</p>
<p>
"I guess that was a mistake!" Crystal yelled as she fought the controls.
</p>
<p>
Brian almost got to his feet when another wild maneuver hurled him back
to the floor. The police ship was right on their tail. The girl gunned
her craft into a snap Immelmann and swept back on their pursuers,
slicing in close over the ship. Brian's eyes bulged as he saw a long
streak of paint and metal ripped off the wing of the police ship. He
saw the crew battling their controls in startled terror. The ship
slipped frantically away and fell into a spin.
</p>
<p>
"That's them," Crystal said with satisfaction. "How are the others
doing?"
</p>
<p>
"Look! They're hit!" Brian felt sick.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The slower rebel freight ship staggered drunkenly as a torpedo caught
it and ripped away half a wing. It plunged down in flames with the
white flowers of half a dozen parachutes blossoming around it. Brian
watched in horror as the police ship came deliberately about. They
heard its forward guns go into action. The bodies of the parachutists
jerked and jumped like crazy marionettes as the bullets smashed into
them. It was over in a few moments. The dead rebels drifted down into
the mist-shrouded depths of the valley.
</p>
<p>
"The dirty, murdering rats!" Brian's voice ripped out in a fury of
outrage. "They didn't have a chance!"
</p>
<p>
"Don't get excited," Crystal told him in a dead, flat voice. "That's
just normal practice. If you'd stuck your nose out of your laboratory
once in a while, you'd have heard of these things."
</p>
<p>
"But why—" He ducked away instinctively as a flight of bullets spanged
through the fuselage. "They're after us now!"
</p>
<p>
Crystal's answer was to yank the ship into a rocketing climb. The
police were watching for that. The big ship roared up after them.
</p>
<p>
"Just follow along, suckers," Crystal invited grimly.
</p>
<p>
She snapped the ship into a whip stall. For one nauseating moment they
hung on nothing, then the ship fell over on its back and they screamed
down in a terminal velocity dive, heading for the safety of the lower
valley mists. The heavier police ship, with its higher wing-loading,
could not match the maneuver. The rebel craft plunged down through the
blinding fog. Half-seen, ghostly fingers of stone clutched up at them,
talons of gray rock missed and fell away again as Crystal nursed the
ship out of its dive.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Phew!
</i>
" Brian gasped. "Well, we got away that time. How in thunder
can you do it?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, you don't do it on faith. Take a look at that fuel gauge! We
may get as far as our headquarters—or we may not."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For twenty long minutes they groped blindly through the fog, flying
solely by instruments and dead reckoning. The needle of the fuel gauge
flickered closer and closer to the danger point. They tore loose from
the clinging fog as it swung firmly to "Empty." The drive sputtered and
coughed and died.
</p>
<p>
"That's figuring it nice and close," Crystal said in satisfaction. "We
can glide in from here."
</p>
<p>
"Into where?" Brian demanded. All he could see immediately ahead was
the huge bulk of a mountain which blocked the entire width of the
valley and soared sheer up to the high-cloud level. His eyes followed
it up and up—
</p>
<p>
"Look! Police ships. They've seen us!"
</p>
<p>
"Maybe they haven't. Anyway, there's only one place we can land."
</p>
<p>
The ship lunged straight for the mountain wall!
</p>
<p>
"Are you crazy? Watch out—we'll crash!"
</p>
<p>
"You leave the flying to me," Crystal snapped.
</p>
<p>
She held the ship in its glide, aiming directly for the tangled foliage
of the mountain face. Brian yelped and cowered instinctively back. The
lush green of the mountainside swirled up to meet them. They ripped
through the foliage—there was no crash. They burst through into a
huge, brilliantly lighted cavern and settled to a perfect landing. Men
came running. Crystal tumbled out of her ship.
</p>
<p>
"Douse those lights," she shouted. "The police are outside."
</p>
<p>
A tall, lean man with bulbous eyes and a face like a startled horse,
rushed up to Crystal.
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean by leading them here?" he yelled, waving his hands.
</p>
<p>
"They jumped us when we had no fuel, and quit acting like an idiot."
</p>
<p>
The man was shaking, his eyes looked wild. "They'll kill us. We've got
to get out of here."
</p>
<p>
"Wait, you fool. They may not even have seen us." But he was gone,
running toward a group of ships lined up at the end of the cavern.
</p>
<p>
"Who was that crazy coot and what is this place?" Brian demanded.
</p>
<p>
"That was Gort Sterling, our leader," the girl said bitterly. "And
this is our headquarters." One of the ships at the back of the cavern
thundered to life, streaked across the floor and burst out through the
opening Crystal's ship had left. "He hasn't got a chance! We'll be
spotted for sure, now."
</p>
<p>
The other rebels waited uncertainly, but not for long. There was the
crescendoing roar of ships in a dive followed by the terrific crash of
an explosion.
</p>
<p>
"They got him!" Crystal's voice was a moan. "Oh, the fool, the fool!"
</p>
<p>
"Sounded like more than one ship. They'll be after us, now. Is there
any other way of getting out of this place?"
</p>
<p>
"Not for ships. We'll have to walk and they'll follow us."
</p>
<p>
"We've got to slow them down some way, then. I wonder how the devil
they traced us? I thought we lost them in that fog."
</p>
<p>
"It's that Serono Zeburzac, the traitor. He knows these mountains as
well as we do."
</p>
<p>
"How come?"
</p>
<p>
"The Zeburzacs are one of the old families, but he sold out to McHague."
</p>
<p>
"Well, what do we do now? Just stand here? It looks like everybody's
leaving."
</p>
<p>
"We might as well just wait," Crystal said hopelessly. "It won't do us
any good to run out into the hills. Zeburzac and his men will follow."
</p>
<p>
"We could slow them down some by swinging a couple of those ships
around so their rocket exhausts sweep the entrance to the cavern,"
Brian suggested doubtfully. She looked at him steadily.
</p>
<p>
"You sound like the only good rebel left. We can try it, anyway."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They ran two ships out into the middle of the cavern, gunned them
around and jockeyed them into position—not a moment too soon.
</p>
<p>
Half a dozen police showed in brief silhouette as they slipped
cautiously into the cavern, guns ready, expecting resistance. They met
a dead silence. A score or more followed them without any attempt at
concealment. Then Brian and Crystal cut loose with the drives of the
two ships.
</p>
<p>
Startled screams of agony burst from the crowded group of police as
they were caught in the annihilating cross fire of roaring flame.
They crisped and twisted, cooked to scorched horrors before they
fell. A burst of thick, greasy smoke rushed out of the cavern. Two of
the police, their clothes and flesh scorched and flaming, plunged as
shrieking, living torches down the mountainside.
</p>
<p>
Crystal was white and shaking, her face set in a mask of horror, as she
climbed blindly from her ship.
</p>
<p>
"Let's get away! I can smell them burning," she shuddered and covered
her face with her hands.
</p>
<p>
Brian grabbed her and shook her.
</p>
<p>
"Snap out of it," he barked. "That's no worse than shooting helpless
men in parachutes. We can't go, yet; we're not finished here."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, let them shoot us! I can't go through that again!"
</p>
<p>
"You don't have to. Wait here."
</p>
<p>
He climbed back into one of the ships and cut the richness of the fuel
mixture down till the exhaust was a lambent, shuddering stutter,
verging on extinction. He dashed to the other ship and repeated the
maneuver, fussing with the throttle till he had the fuel mixture
adjusted to critical fineness. The beat of the stuttering exhaust
seemed to catch up to the other and built to an aching pulsation. In
a moment the whole mass of air in the cavern hit the frequency with a
subtle, intangible thunder of vibration.
</p>
<p>
Crystal screamed. "Brian! There's more police cutting in around the
entrance."
</p>
<p>
Brian clambered out of the ship and glanced at the glowing points
in the rock where the police were cutting their way through outside
the line of the exhaust flames. The pulsating thunder in the cavern
crescendoed to an intolerable pitch. A huge mass of stalactites crashed
to the floor.
</p>
<p>
"It's time to check out," Brian shouted.
</p>
<p>
Crystal led the way as they fled down the escape tunnel. The roaring
crash of falling rock was a continuous, increasing avalanche of sound
in the cavern behind them.
</p>
<p>
They emerged from the tunnel on the face of the mountain, several
hundred yards to the east of the cavern entrance. The ground shook and
heaved beneath them.
</p>
<p>
"The whole side of the mountain's sliding," Crystal screamed.
</p>
<p>
"Run!" Brian shoved her and they plunged madly through the thick tangle
of jungle away from the slide.
</p>
<p>
Huge boulders leaped and smashed through the matted bush around them.
Crystal went down as the ground slipped from under her. Brian grabbed
her and a tree at the same time. The tree leaned and crashed down the
slope, the whole jungle muttered and groaned and came to life as it
joined the roaring rush of the slide. They were tumbled irresistibly
downward, riding the edge of the slide for terrifying minutes till
it stilled and left them bruised and shaken in a tangle of torn
vegetation.
</p>
<p>
The remains of two police ships, caught without warning in the rush as
they attempted to land, stuck up grotesquely out of the foot of the
slide. The dust was settling away. A flock of brilliant blue, gliding
lizards barking in raucous terror, fled down the valley. Then they were
gone and the primeval silence settled back into place.
</p>
<p>
Brian and Crystal struggled painfully to solid ground. Crystal gazed
with a feeling of awe at the devastated mountainside.
</p>
<p>
"How did you do it?"
</p>
<p>
"It's a matter of harmonics," Brian explained. "If you hit the right
vibratory combination, you can shake anything down. But now that we've
made a mess of the old homestead, what do we do?"
</p>
<p>
"Walk," Crystal said laconically. She led the way as they started
scrambling through the jungle up the mountainside.
</p>
<p>
"Where are we heading for?" Brian grunted as he struggled along.
</p>
<p>
"The headquarters of the Carlton family. They're the closest people we
can depend on. They've kept out of the rebellion, but they're on our
side. They've helped us before."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Pete believed in the rebel cause.\n(B) Pete felt bad since it was his fault Brian was in jail.\n(C) Pete would do anything to help his boss.\n(D) Brian told Pete that he wanted to get out of jail.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Adventure stories; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Revolutions -- Fiction; Science fiction"
} |
63919 | Was the ship on target, within maximum deviation from schedule?
Choices:
(A) Yes, they were within 5 degrees
(B) No, they were over by 8 degrees
(C) Yes, they were over by only 3 degrees.
(D) No, they were under by 2 degrees | [
"B",
"No, they were over by 8 degrees"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
CAPTAIN CHAOS
</h1>
<h2>
By D. ALLEN MORRISSEY
</h2>
<p>
<i>
Science equipped David Corbin with borrowed time;
<br/>
sent him winging out in a state of suspension to future
<br/>
centuries ... to a dark blue world whose only defense
<br/>
was to seal tight the prying minds of foolish interlopers.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories November 1952.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
I heard the voice as I opened my eyes. I was lying down, still not
aware of where I was, waiting for the voice.
</p>
<p>
"Your name is David Corbin. Do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
I looked in the direction of the sound. Above my feet a bulkhead
loomed. There were round dials set in a row above a speaker. Over the
mesh-covered speaker, two knobs glowed red. I ran the words over in
my sluggish mind, thinking about an answer. The muscles in my throat
tightened up in reflex as I tried to bring some unity into the jumble
of thoughts and ideas that kept forming. One word formed out of the
rush of anxiety.
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
I shouted a protest against the strangeness of the room. I looked to
the right, my eyes following the curving ceiling that started at the
cot. The curve met another straight bulkhead on the left. I was in a
small room, gray in color, like dull metal. Overhead a bright light
burned into my vision. I wondered where in the universe I was.
</p>
<p>
"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your
right."
</p>
<p>
I stared at the speaker in the wall. The mesh-covered hole and the two
lights looked like a caricature of a face, set in a panel of dials. I
twisted my head to look for the button. I pushed away from the close
wall but I couldn't move. I reached down to the tightness that held my
body, found the wide strap that held me and fumbled with the buckle.
I threw it off and pushed myself up from the hard cot. I heard myself
yell in surprise as I floated up towards the light overhead.
</p>
<p>
I was weightless.
</p>
<p>
How do you describe being weightless when you are born into a world
bound by gravity. I twisted and shut my eyes in terror. There was no
sensation of place, no feeling of up or down, no direction. My back
bumped against the ceiling and I opened my eyes to stare at the cot and
floor. I was concentrating too hard on remembering to be frightened for
long. I pushed away from the warm metal and the floor moved up to meet
me.
</p>
<p>
"If you understand, press button A on your right."
</p>
<p>
What should I understand? That I was floating in a room that had a
curved wall ... that nothing was right in this hostile room?
</p>
<p>
When I reached the cot I held it and drew myself down. I glanced at the
planes of the room, trying to place it with other rooms I could see in
my mind. Gray walls with a crazy curved ceiling ... a door to my left
that appeared to be air tight.
</p>
<p>
I stared at my familiar hands. I rubbed them across my face, feeling
the solidity of flesh and bone, afraid to think too hard about myself.
</p>
<p>
"My name ... my name is...."
</p>
<p>
"Your name is David Corbin."
</p>
<p>
I stared at the speaker. How long did this go on? The name meant
nothing to me, but I thought about it, watching the relentless lights
that shone below the dials. I stood up slowly and looked at myself. I
was naked except for heavy shorts, and there was no clue to my name in
the pockets. The room was warm and the air I had been breathing was
good but it seemed wrong to be dressed like this. I didn't know why. I
thought about insanity, and the room seemed to fit my thoughts. When
the voice repeated the message again I had to act. Walking was like
treading water that couldn't be seen or felt.
</p>
<p>
I floated against the door, twisting the handle in fear that it
wouldn't turn. The handle clanged as I pushed it down and I stared at
the opposite wall of a narrow gray passageway. I pushed out into it and
grasped the metal rail that ran along the wall. I reasoned it was there
to propel yourself through the passageway in this weightless atmosphere.
</p>
<p>
It was effortless to move. I turned on my side like a swimmer and went
hand over hand, shooting down the corridor. I braced against forward
motion and stopped against a door at the end. Behind me I could see the
opened door I had left, and the thought of that questioning voice made
me want to move. I swung the door open, catching a glimpse of a room
crowded with equipment and....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I will always remember the scream of terror, the paralyzing fright of
what I saw through the portholes in the wall of the room. I saw the
blackest night, pierced by brilliance that blinded me. There was no
depth to the searing brightness of countless stars. They seemed to
press against the glass, blobs of fire against a black curtain burning
into my eyes and brain.
</p>
<p>
It was space.
</p>
<p>
I looked out at deep space, star systems in clusters. I shut my eyes.
When I looked again I knew where I was. Why the little room had been
shaped like quarter round. Why I drifted weightlessly. Why I was....
</p>
<p>
David Corbin.
</p>
<p>
I knew more of the puzzle. Something was wrong. After the first shock
of looking out, I accepted the fact that I was in a space ship, yet I
couldn't read the maps that were fastened to a table, nor understand
the function or design of the compact machinery.
</p>
<p>
WHY, Why, Why? The thought kept pounding at me. I was afraid to touch
anything in the room. I pressed against the clear window, wondering if
the stars were familiar. I had a brief vivid picture of a night sky on
Earth. This was not the same sky.
</p>
<p>
Back in the room where I had awakened, I touched the panel with the
glowing eyes. It had asked me if I understood. Now it must tell me why
I didn't. It had to help me, that flat metallic voice that repeated the
same words. It must tell me....
</p>
<p>
"Your name is David Corbin. If you understand, press button A on your
right."
</p>
<p>
I pressed the button by the cot. The red lights blinked out as I stood
in patient attention, trying to outguess the voice. I recalled a
phrase ... some words about precaution.
</p>
<p>
Precaution against forgetting.
</p>
<p>
It was crazy, but I trusted the panel. It was the only thing I saw that
could help me, guard me against another shock like seeing outside of
the clear portholes.
</p>
<p>
"It is assumed the experiment is a success," the voice said.
</p>
<p>
What experiment?
</p>
<p>
"You have been removed from suspension. Assume manual control of this
ship."
</p>
<p>
Control of a ship? Going where?
</p>
<p>
"Do not begin operations until the others are removed from suspension."
</p>
<p>
What others? Tell me what to do.
</p>
<p>
"Rely on instructions for factoring when you check the coordinates.
Your maximum deviation from schedule cannot exceed two degrees. Adopt
emergency procedures as you see fit. Good luck."
</p>
<p>
The voice snapped off and I laughed hysterically. None of it had made
sense, and I cursed whatever madness had put me here.
</p>
<p>
"Tell me what to do," I shouted wildly. I hammered the hard metal until
the pain in my hands made me stop.
</p>
<p>
"I can't remember what to do."
</p>
<p>
I held my bruised hands to my mouth, and I knew that was all the
message there was. In blind panic I pushed away from the panel.
Something tripped me and I fell back in a graceless arc. I pushed away
from the floor, barely feeling the pain in my leg, and went into the
hall.
</p>
<p>
Pain burned along my leg but I couldn't stop. In the first panic of
waking up in strangeness I had missed the other doors in the passage.
The first swung back to reveal a deep closet holding five bulky suits.
The second room was like my own. A dark haired, deep chested man lay on
the cot. His muscular body was secured by a wide belt. He was as still
as death, motionless without warmth or breath as I hovered over him.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't remember his face.
</p>
<p>
The next room held another man. He was young and wiry, like an athlete
cast in marble, dark haired and big jawed. A glassy eye stared up when
I rolled back his eyelid. The eyelid remained open until I closed it
and went on. Another room ... another man ... another stranger. This
man was tall and raw boned, light of skin and hair, as dead as the
others.
</p>
<p>
A flat, illogical voice had instructed me to revive these men. I
shivered in spite of the warmth of the room, studying the black box
that squatted on a shelf by his head. My hand shook when I touched
the metal. I dared not try to operate anything. Revive the others ...
instructions without knowledge were useless to me. I stopped looking
into the doors in the passageway and went back to the room with the
portholes. Everything lay in readiness, fastened down star charts,
instruments, glittering equipment. There was no feeling of disorder or
use in the room. It waited for human hands to make it operate.
</p>
<p>
Not mine. Not now.
</p>
<p>
I went past the room into another, where the curves were more sharp. I
could visualize the tapering hull leading to the nose of the ship. This
room was filled with equipment that formed a room out of the bordered
area I stood in. I sat in the deep chair facing the panel of dials and
instruments, in easy reach. I ran my hands over the dials, the rows of
smooth colored buttons, wondering.
</p>
<p>
The ports on the side were shielded and I stared out at static energy,
hung motionless in a world of searing light. There was no distortion,
no movement outside and I glanced back at the dials. What speeds were
they recording? What speeds and perhaps, what distance? It was useless
to translate the markings. They stood for anything I might guess, and
something kept pricking my mind, telling me I had no time to guess. I
thought of time again. I was supposed to act according to ... plan. Did
that mean ... in time ... in time. I went back down the passageway.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The fourth small room was the same. Except for the woman. She lay on a
cot, young and beautiful, even in the death-like immobility I had come
to accept. Her beauty was graceful lines of face and her figure—smooth
tapering legs, soft curves that were carved out of flesh colored stone.
Yet not stone. I held her small hand, then put it back on the cot. Her
attire was brief like the rest of us, shorts and a man's shirt. Golden
hair curled up around her lovely face. I wondered if she would ever
smile or move that graceful head. I rolled back her eyelid and looked
at a deep blue eye that stared back in glassy surprise. Four people in
all, depending on a blind helpless fool who didn't know their names or
the reason for that dependence. I sat beside her on the cot until I
could stand it no longer.
</p>
<p>
Searching the ship made me forget my fear. I hoped I would find some
answers. I went from the nose to the last bulkhead in a frenzy of
floating motion, looking behind each door until I went as far as I
could. There were two levels to the ship. They both ended in the lead
shield that was set where the swell of the curve was biggest. It meant
the engine or engines took up half the ship, cut off from the forward
half by the instrument studded shield. I retraced my steps and took a
rough estimate of size. The ship, as I called it, was at least four
hundred feet long, fifty feet in diameter on the inside.
</p>
<p>
The silence was a force in itself, pressing down from the metal walls,
driving me back to the comforting smallness of the room where I had
been reborn. I laughed bitterly, thinking about the aptness of that. I
had literally been reborn in this room, equipped with half ideas, and
no point to start from, no premise to seek. I sensed the place to start
from was back in the room. I searched it carefully.
</p>
<p>
Minutes later I realized the apparatus by the cot was different. It
was the same type of black box, but out from it was a metal arm, bent
in a funny angle. At the tip of the arm, a needle gleamed dully and I
rubbed the deep gash on my leg. I bent the arm back until the angle
looked right. It was then I realized the needle came to a spot where it
could have hit my neck when I lay down. My shout of excitement rang out
in the room, as I pictured the action of the extended arm. I lost my
sudden elation in the cabin where the girl lay. The box behind her head
was completely closed, and it didn't yield to the pressure I applied.
It had a cover, but no other opening where an arm could extend. I ran
my fingers over the unbroken surface, prying over the thin crack at
the base helplessly. If some sort of antidote was to be administered
manually I was lost. I had no knowledge of what to inject or where to
look for it. The chamber of the needle that had awakened me was empty.
That meant a measured amount.
</p>
<p>
In the laboratory on the lower level I went over the rows of cans and
tubes fastened to the shelves. There were earths and minerals, seeds
and chemicals, testing equipment in compact drawers, but nothing marked
for me. I wondered if I was an engineer or a pilot, or perhaps a doctor
sent along to safeguard the others. Complete amnesia would have been
terrible enough but this half knowledge, part awareness and association
with the ship was a frightening force that seemed ready to break out of
me.
</p>
<p>
I went back to the cabin where the powerful man lay. I had to risk
failure with one of them. I didn't want it to be the girl. I fought
down the thought that he might be the key man, remembering the voice
that had given the message. It was up to me, and soon. The metal in the
box would have withstood a bullet. It couldn't be pried apart, and I
searched again and again for a release mechanism.
</p>
<p>
I found it.
</p>
<p>
I swung the massive cover off and set it down. The equipment waited for
the touch of a button and it went into operation. I stepped back as the
tubes glowed to life and the arm swung down with the gleaming needle.
The needle went into the corded neck of the man. The fluid chamber
drained under pressure and the arm moved back.
</p>
<p>
I stood by the man for long minutes. Finally it came. He stirred
restlessly, closing his hands into fists. The deep chest rose and fell
unevenly as he breathed. Finally the eyes opened and he looked at me.
I watched him adjust to the room. It was in his eyes, wide at first,
moving about the confines of the room back to me.
</p>
<p>
"It looks like we made it," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
He unfastened the belt and sat up. I pushed him back as he floated up
finding little humor in the comic expression on his face.
</p>
<p>
"No gravity," he grunted and sat back.
</p>
<p>
"You get used to it fast," I answered. I thought of what to say as he
watched me. "How do you feel?"
</p>
<p>
He shrugged at the question. "Fine, I guess. Funny, I can't remember."
</p>
<p>
He saw it in my face, making him stop. "I can't remember dropping off
to sleep," he finished.
</p>
<p>
I held his hard arm. "What else? How much do you remember?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm all right," he answered. "There aren't supposed to be any effects
from this."
</p>
<p>
"Who is in charge of this ship?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
He tensed suddenly. "You are, sir. Why?"
</p>
<p>
I moved away from the cot. "Listen, I can't remember. I don't know your
name or anything about this ship."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean? What can't you remember?" he asked. He stood up
slowly, edging around towards the door. I didn't want to fight him. I
wanted him to understand. "Look, I'm in trouble. Nothing fits, except
my name."
</p>
<p>
"You don't know me?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"Are you serious?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, yes. I don't know why but it's happened."
</p>
<p>
He let his breath out in a whistle. "For God's sake. Any bump on your
head?"
</p>
<p>
"I feel all right physically. I just can't place enough."
</p>
<p>
"The others. What about the others?" he blurted.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know. You're the first besides myself. I don't know how I
stumbled on the way to revive you."
</p>
<p>
He shook his head, watching me like I was a freak. "Let's check the
rest right away."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. I've got to know if they are like me. I'm afraid to think they
might be."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe it's temporary. We can figure something out."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
The second man, the dark haired one, opened his eyes and recognized us.
He asked questions in rapid fire excitement. The third man, the tall
Viking, was all right until he moved. The weightless sensation made him
violently sick. We put him back on the cot, securing him again with
the belt, but the sight of us floating made him shake. He was retching
without results when we drifted out. I followed him to the girl's
quarters.
</p>
<p>
"What about her. Why is she here?" I asked my companion.
</p>
<p>
He lifted the cover from the apparatus. "She's the chemist in the crew."
</p>
<p>
"A girl?"
</p>
<p>
"Dr. Thiesen is an expert, trained for this," he said.
</p>
<p>
I looked at her. She looked anything but like a chemist.
</p>
<p>
"There must be men who could have been sent. I've been wondering why a
girl."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know why, Captain. You tried to stop her before. Age and
experience were all that mattered to the brass."
</p>
<p>
"It's a bad thing to do."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose. The mission stated one chemist."
</p>
<p>
"What is the mission of this ship?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
He held up his hand. "We'd better wait, sir. Everything was supposed to
be all right on this end. First you, then Carl, sick to his stomach."
</p>
<p>
"Okay. I'll hold the questions until we see about her."
</p>
<p>
We were out of luck with the girl. She woke up and she was frightened.
We questioned her and she was coherent but she couldn't remember. I
tried to smile as I sat on the cot, wondering what she was thinking.
</p>
<p>
"How do you feel?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
Her face was a mask of wide-eyed fear as she shook her head.
</p>
<p>
"Can you remember?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know." Blue eyes stared at me in fear. Her voice was low.
</p>
<p>
"Do you know my name?"
</p>
<p>
The question frightened her. "Should I? I feel so strange. Give me a
minute to think."
</p>
<p>
I let her sit up slowly. "Do you know your name?"
</p>
<p>
She tightened up in my arms. "Yes. It's...." She looked at us for help,
frightened by the lack of clothing we wore, by the bleak room. Her eyes
circled the room. "I'm afraid," she cried. I held her and she shook
uncontrollably.
</p>
<p>
"What's happened to me?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
The dark haired man came into the room, silent and watchful. My
companion motioned to him. "Get Carl and meet us in Control."
</p>
<p>
The man looked at me and I nodded. "We'll be there in a moment. I'm
afraid we've got trouble."
</p>
<p>
He nodded and pushed away from us. The girl screamed and covered her
face with her hands. I turned to the other man. "What's your name?"
</p>
<p>
"Croft. John Croft."
</p>
<p>
"John, what are your duties if any?"
</p>
<p>
"Automatic control. I helped to install it."
</p>
<p>
"Can you run this ship? How about the other two?"
</p>
<p>
He hit his hands together. "You fly it, sir. Can't you think?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying. I know the ship is familiar, but I've looked it over.
Maybe I'm trying too hard."
</p>
<p>
"You flew her from earth until we went into suspension," he said.
</p>
<p>
"I can't remember when," I said. I held the trembling girl against me,
shaking my head.
</p>
<p>
He glanced at the girl. "If the calculations are right it was more than
a hundred years ago."
</p>
<p>
We assembled in the control room for a council. We were all a little
better for being together. John Croft named the others for me. I
searched each face without recognition. The blond man was Carl Herrick,
a metallurgist. His lean face was white from his spell but he was
better. Paul Sample was a biologist, John said. He was lithe and
restless, with dark eyes that studied the rest of us. I looked at the
girl. She was staring out of the ports, her hands pressed against the
transparent break in the smooth wall. Karen Thiesen was a chemist, now
frightened and trying to remember.
</p>
<p>
I wasn't in much better condition. "Look, if it comes too fast for me,
for any of us, we'll stop. John, you can lead off."
</p>
<p>
"You ask the questions," he said.
</p>
<p>
I indicated the ship. "Where in creation are we going?"
</p>
<p>
"We set out from Earth for a single star in the direction of the center
of our Galaxy."
</p>
<p>
"From Earth? How could we?"
</p>
<p>
"Let's move slowly, sir," he said. "We're moving fast. I don't know if
you can picture it, but we're going about one hundred thousand miles an
hour."
</p>
<p>
"Through space?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"What direction?"
</p>
<p>
Paul cut in. "It's a G type star, like our own sun in mass and
luminosity. We hope to find a planetary system capable of supporting
life."
</p>
<p>
"I can't grasp it. How can we go very far in a lifetime?"
</p>
<p>
"It can be done in two lifetimes," John said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"You said I had flown this ship. You meant before this suspension."
</p>
<p>
"Yes. That's why we can cross space to a near star."
</p>
<p>
"How long ago was it?"
</p>
<p>
"It was set at about a hundred years, sir. Doesn't that fit at all?"
</p>
<p>
"I can't believe it's possible."
</p>
<p>
Carl caught my eye. "Captain, we save this time without aging at all.
It puts us near a calculated destination."
</p>
<p>
"We've lost our lifetime." It was Karen. She had been crying silently
while we talked.
</p>
<p>
"Don't think about it," Paul said. "We can still pull this out all
right if you don't lose your nerve."
</p>
<p>
"What are we to do?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
John answered for me. "First we've got to find out where we are. I know
this ship but I can't fly it."
</p>
<p>
"Can I?" I asked.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
We set up a temporary plan of action. Paul took Karen to the laboratory
in an effort to help her remember her job. Carl went back to divide the
rations.
</p>
<p>
I was to study the charts and manuals. It was better than doing
nothing, and I went into the navigation room and sat down. Earth was
an infinitesimal point somewhere behind us on the galactic plane, and
no one else was trained to navigate. The ship thundered to life as I
sat there. The blast roared once ... twice, then settled into a muted
crescendo of sound that hummed through the walls. I went into the
control room and watched John at the panel.
</p>
<p>
"I wish I knew what you were doing," I said savagely.
</p>
<p>
"Give it time."
</p>
<p>
"We can't spare any, can we?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"I wish we knew. What about her—Dr. Thiesen?"
</p>
<p>
"She's in the lab. I don't think that will do much good. She's got to
be shocked out of a mental state like that."
</p>
<p>
"I guess you're right," he said slowly. "She's trained to administer
the suspension on the return trip."
</p>
<p>
I let my breath out slowly. "I didn't think about that."
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't even get part way back in a lifetime," he said.
</p>
<p>
"How old are you, John?"
</p>
<p>
"Twenty-eight."
</p>
<p>
"What about me?"
</p>
<p>
"Thirty." He stared at the panel in thought for a minutes. "What about
shock treatment? It sounds risky."
</p>
<p>
"I know. It's the only thing I could think of. Why didn't everyone
react the same?"
</p>
<p>
"That had me wondering for a while. I don't know. Anyway how could you
go about making her remember?"
</p>
<p>
"Throw a crisis, some situation at her, I guess."
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, letting his sure hands rest on the panel of dials. I
headed back towards the lab. If I could help her I might help myself.
I was past the rooms when the horn blasted through the corridor. I
turned automatically with the sound, pushing against the rail, towards
the control room. Deep in my mind I could see danger, and without
questioning why I knew I had to be at Control when the sound knifed
through the stillness. John was shouting as I thrust my way into the
room.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Turn the ship. There's something dead ahead."
</p>
<p>
I had a glimpse of his contorted face as I dove at the control board.
My hands hit buttons, thumbed a switch and then a sudden force threw me
to the right. I slammed into the panel on the right, as the pressure
of the change dimmed my vision. Reflex made me look up at the radar
control screen.
</p>
<p>
It wasn't operating.
</p>
<p>
John let go of the padded chair, grinning weakly. I was busy for a few
seconds, feeding compensation into the gyros. Relief flooded through me
like warm liquid. I hung on the intercom for support, drawing air into
my heaving lungs.
</p>
<p>
"What—made you—think of that," I asked weakly.
</p>
<p>
"Shock treatment."
</p>
<p>
"I must have acted on instinct."
</p>
<p>
"You did. Even for a sick man that was pretty fast," he laughed.
</p>
<p>
"I can think again, John. I know who I am," I shouted. I threw my arms
around his massive shoulders. "You did it."
</p>
<p>
"You gave me the idea, Mister, talking about Dr. Thiesen."
</p>
<p>
"It worked. I'm okay," I said in giddy relief.
</p>
<p>
"I don't have to tell you I was scared as hell. I wish you could have
seen your face, the look in your eyes when I woke up."
</p>
<p>
"I wouldn't want to wake up like that again."
</p>
<p>
"You're all right now?" he asked. I grinned and nodded an answer. I saw
John as he was at the base, big and competent, sweating in the blazing
sun.
</p>
<p>
I thought about the rest of the crew too. "We're heading right for a
star...."
</p>
<p>
"It's been dead ahead for hours," he grunted. I leaned over and threw
the intercom to open. "This is control. Listen ... everyone. I'm over
it. Disregard the warning siren ... we were testing the ship."
</p>
<p>
The lab light blinked on as Paul cut in. "What was it ... hey, you said
you're all right."
</p>
<p>
"John did it. He hit the alarm figuring I would react. Listen, Paul. Is
any one hurt?"
</p>
<p>
"No. Carl is here too. His stomach flopped again but he's okay. What
about food. We're supposed to be checked before we eat."
</p>
<p>
"We'll have to go ahead without it. Any change?"
</p>
<p>
"No, I put her to bed. Shall I bring food?"
</p>
<p>
I glanced at John. He rubbed his stomach. "Yes," I answered. "Bring it
when you can. I've got to find out where we are."
</p>
<p>
We had to get off course before we ran into the yellow-white star that
had been picked for us. Food was set down by me, grew cold and was
carried away and I was still rechecking the figures. We were on a line
ten degrees above the galactic plane. The parallactic baseline from
Earth to the single star could be in error several degrees, or we could
be right on the calculated position of the star. The radar confirmed
my findings ... and my worst fears. When we set it for direction and
distance, the screen glowed to life and recorded the star dead ahead.
</p>
<p>
In all the distant star clusters, only this G type star was thought to
have a planetary system like our own. We were out on a gamble to find
a planet capable of supporting life. The idea had intrigued scientists
before I had first looked up at the night sky. When I was sure the
electronically recorded course was accurate for time, I checked
direction and speed from the readings and plotted our position. If I
was right we were much closer than we wanted to be. The bright pips on
the screen gave us the distance and size of the star while we fed the
figures into the calculator for our rate of approach.
</p>
<p>
Spectroscopic tests were run on the sun and checked against the figures
that had been calculated on Earth. We analyzed temperature, magnetic
fields, radial motion, density and luminosity, checking against the
standards the scientists had constructed. It was a G type star like our
own. It had more density and temperature and suitable planets or not,
we had to change course in a hurry. Carl analyzed the findings while we
came to a decision. Somewhere along an orbit that might be two hundred
miles across, our hypothetical planet circled this star. That distance
was selected when the planets in Earth's solar system had proved to be
barren. If the observations on this star were correct, we could expect
to find a planet in a state of fertility ... if it existed ... if it
were suitable for colonization ... if we could find it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Yes, they were within 5 degrees\n(B) No, they were over by 8 degrees\n(C) Yes, they were over by only 3 degrees.\n(D) No, they were under by 2 degrees",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Amnesia -- Fiction; Outer space -- Exploration -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Interstellar travel -- Fiction"
} |
63640 | What was the stoolie's job?
Choices:
(A) To find out Casey's smuggling secrets
(B) To get information from Casey to give to the S.S.C.
(C) To become Casey's friend and confidante
(D) To convince Casey to change his mind | [
"D",
"To convince Casey to change his mind"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
JUPITER'S JOKE
</h1>
<h2>
By A. L. HALEY
</h2>
<p>
<i>
Casey Ritter, the guy who never turned
<br/>
down a dare, breathed a prayer to the gods
<br/>
of idiots and spacemen, and headed in toward
<br/>
the great red spot of terrible Jupiter.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1954.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Those methane and ammonia planets, take it from me, they're the
dead-end of creation, and why the Old Man ever thought them up I'll
never know. I never thought I'd mess around any of them, but things
can sure happen. A man can get himself backed into a corner in this
little old solar system. It just ain't big enough for a gent of scope
and talent; and the day the Solar System Customs caught me red-handed
smuggling Kooleen crystals in from Mars, I knew I was in that corner,
and sewed up tight.
</p>
<p>
Sure, the crystals are deadly, but I was smuggling them legitimately,
in a manner of speaking, for this doctor to experiment with. He wasn't
going to sell them for dope. But—and this was the 'but' that was
likely to deprive the System of my activities—even experimenting with
them was illegal even if it needed to be done; also, I had promised not
to rat on him before taking the job.
</p>
<p>
Well, Casey Ritter may be a lot of things we won't mention, but he
doesn't rat on his clients. So there I was, closeted with the ten
members of the S.S. Customs Court, getting set to hear the gavel
fall and the head man intone the sentence that would take me out of
circulation for a long, long time. And instead, blast me, if they
didn't foul me with this trip to good old Jupiter.
</p>
<p>
I didn't get it at first. I'd argued with 'em, but inside I'd been all
set for the sentence, and even sort of reconciled to it. I could even
hear the words in my mind. But they didn't match what the judge was
saying. I stood there gaping like a beached fish while I sorted it out.
Then I croaked, "Jupiter! What for? Are you running outa space in stir?
Want to choke me to death in chlorine instead?" Being civil to the
court didn't seem important just then. Jupiter was worse than the pen,
a lot worse. Jupiter was a death sentence.
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped sharply with his gavel. He frowned me down and
then nodded at the judge on his right. This bird, a little old hank of
dried-up straw, joined his fingertips carefully, cleared his scrawny
throat, and told me what for.
</p>
<p>
"You've no doubt heard tales of the strange population of Jupiter,"
he said. "Every spaceman has, I am sure. Insect-like creatures who
manifestly migrated there from some other system and who inhabit
the Red Spot of the planet, floating in some kind of artificial
anti-gravity field in the gaseous portion of the atmosphere—"
</p>
<p>
I snorted. "Aw, hell, judge, that's just one of those screwy fairy
tales! How could any—"
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped ferociously, and I skidded to a halt. Our
little story teller patiently cleared his skinny throat again.
"I assure you it is no fairy tale. We possess well-authenticated
photographs of these inhabitants, and if you are prepared to visit them
and in some way worm from them the secret of their anti-gravity field,
the government stands ready to issue you a full pardon as well as a
substantial monetary reward. Your talents, Mr. Ritter, seem, shall we
say, eminently suited to the task."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He beamed at me. I looked around. They were all beaming. At me!
Suddenly I smelled a rat as big as an elephant. That whole Kooleen
caper: Had it been just a trap to lead me straight to this? I hadn't
been able to figure how they'd cracked my setup....
</p>
<p>
At the thought my larynx froze up tight. This was worse than I'd
thought. Government men trapping me and then beaming at me. And a full
pardon. And a reward. Oh, no! I told myself, it wasn't possible. Not
when I already had more counts against me than a cur has fleas. Not
unless it was a straight suicide mission!
</p>
<p>
I feebly massaged my throat. "Pictures?" I whispered. "Show me 'em."
Crude, but it was all I could squeeze out.
</p>
<p>
I squeezed out more when I saw those pictures, though. Those
inhabitants were charming, just charming if you like scorpions. Well,
a cross between a scorpion and a grasshopper, to be accurate. Floating
among that red stuff, they showed up a kind of sickly purple turning to
gangrene around the edges.
</p>
<p>
The bleat of anguish that accompanied my first view of those beauties
had taken my voice again. "How big?" I whispered.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "About the size of a man, I
believe."
</p>
<p>
I raised my shrinking head. "Take me to jail!" I said firmly, and
collapsed onto my chair.
</p>
<p>
A crafty-eyed buzzard across the table leaned toward me. "So this is
the great Casey Ritter, daredevil of the Solar System!" he sneered.
"Never loses a bet, never turns down a dare!"
</p>
<p>
I shuddered. "You're telling that one! And besides, a man's got to draw
the line somewhere. And I'm drawing it right here. Take me to jail!"
</p>
<p>
They were really stumped. They hadn't expected me to take this attitude
at all. No doubt they had it figured that I'd gratefully throw myself
into a sea of ammonia among man-size scorpions just for the hell of
it. Nuts! After all, in the pen a man can eat and breathe, and a guard
won't reach in and nip off an arm or leg while he's got his back
turned. How stupid could they get?
</p>
<p>
When I finally wore them down and got to my little cell, I looked
around it with a feeling of real coziness. I even patted the walls
chummily and snapped a salute at the guard. It makes me grind my molars
now to think of it. The way that bunch of stuffed shirts in the S.S.C.
made a gold-barred chimpanzee out of me has broken my spirit and
turned me into an honest trader. Me, Casey Ritter, slickest slicker in
the Solar System, led like a precious infant right where I'd flatly
refused to go! In plain English, I underestimated the enemy. Feeling
safe and secure in the grip of the good old Iron College, I relaxed.
</p>
<p>
At this strategic point, the enemy planted a stoolie on me. Not in my
cell block. They were too smart for that. But we met at recreation, and
his mug seemed familiar, like a wisp of smoke where no smoke has got a
right to be; and after awhile I braced him.
</p>
<p>
I was right. I'd met the shrimp before when I was wound up in an
asteroid real estate racket. Pard Hoskins was his alias, and he had the
tag of being a real slick operator. We swapped yarns for about a week
when we met, and then I asked him what's his rap this trip.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, a pretty good jolt if they can keep hold of me," he says. "I just
made a pass at the Killicut Emeralds, that's all, and got nabbed."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no!" I moaned. "What were you trying to do, start a feud between
us and Mars?"
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, but his little black-currant eyes began to sparkle with
real passion, the high voltage kind that only a woman in a million, or
a million in a bank, can kindle in a guy. "Buddy," he said reverently,
"I'd start more than that just to get me mitts on them stones again!
Why, you ain't never seen jools till you've seen them! Big as hen's
eggs, an even dozen of 'em; and flawless, I'm a-shoutin', not a flaw!"
His eyes watered at the memory, yearning like a hound-dog's over a
fresh scent.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't believe it. Those emeralds were in the inner shrine of the
super-sacred, super-secret temple of the cavern-dwelling tribe of
Killicuts on Mars—the real aborigines. Bleachies, we call them, sort
of contemptuously; but those Bleachies are a rough lot when they're
mad, and if Pard had really got near those emeralds, he should be
nothing but a heap of cleaned bones by now. Either he was the world's
champion liar or its bravest son, and either way I took my hat off to
him.
</p>
<p>
"How'd you make the getaway?" I asked, taking him at his word.
</p>
<p>
He looked loftily past me. "Sorry. Gotta keep that a secret. Likewise
where I cached 'em."
</p>
<p>
"Cached what?"
</p>
<p>
"The rocks, stupe."
</p>
<p>
I hardly heard the cut. "You mean you really did get away with them?"
My jaw must've been hanging down a foot, because I'd just been playing
along with him, not really believing him, and now all of a sudden I
somehow knew that he'd really lifted those emeralds. But how? It was
impossible. I'd investigated once myself.
</p>
<p>
He nodded and then moved casually away. I looked up and saw a guard
coming.
</p>
<p>
That night I turned on my hard prison cot until my bones were so much
jelly, trying to figure that steal. The next morning I got up burning
with this fever for information, only to find that Pard had got himself
put in solitary for mugging a guard, and that really put the heat on
me. I chewed my fingernails down to the quick by the time he got out a
week later.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By that time he really had me hooked. I'd of sworn he was leveling
with me. But he wouldn't tell me how he'd worked the steal. Instead,
he opened up on the trade he'd booked for the string. He said, "When I
chisel me way outa this squirrel cage, I'm gonna hit fer good old Jupe
and sell 'em to Akroida. She's nuts about jools. What that old girl
won't give me fer 'em—" He whistled appreciatively, thinking about it.
</p>
<p>
"Jupiter!" I goggled at him. "Akroida! Who's she?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me as if I hadn't yet got out from under the rock where he
was sure I'd been born. "Don't you know nothin', butterhead?"
</p>
<p>
From him I took it. I even waited patiently till the master spoke
again. The memory still makes me fry.
</p>
<p>
"Akroida," he explained in his own sweet time, "is the queen-scorp
of them idiotic scorpions that lives on Jupiter. I sold her the
Halcyon Diamond that disappeared from the World Museum five years ago,
remember?" He winked broadly. "It come from Mars in the first place,
you know. Mars! What a place fer jools! Damn desert's lousy with 'em,
if it wasn't so much trouble to dig 'em out—" He went off into a dream
about the rocks on Mars but I jerked him back.
</p>
<p>
"You mean those scorpions have really got brains?"
</p>
<p>
"Brains!" he snorted. "Have they got brains! Why, they're smarter than
people! And not ferocious, neither, in spite of how they look, if you
just leave 'em alone. That's all they want, just to be left alone.
Peace an' quiet, and lots of methane and ammonia and arsenic, that's
fer them. Besides, the space suit rig you got to wear, they can't bite
you. Akroida's not a bad old girl. Partial to arsenic on her lettuce,
so I brought her a hundred pounds of the stuff, an' she went fer that
almost like it was diamonds, too. Did I rate around there fer awhile!"
He sighed regretfully. "But then I went and made her mad, an' I'm kinda
persona non grata there right now. By the time I gnaw outa this here
cheese trap, though, I figger she'll be all cooled off and ready fer
them emeralds."
</p>
<p>
I went back to my cot that night, and this time instead of biting my
nails, I bit myself. So I faced it. Casey Ritter lost his nerve, and
along with it, the chance of a lifetime. A better man than me had
already penetrated the Great Red Spot of old Jupiter and come out
alive. That thought ate me to the quick, and I began to wonder if it
was too late, after all. I could hardly wait for morning to come, so
that I could pry more information out of Pard Hoskins.
</p>
<p>
But I didn't see Pard for a few days. And then, a week later, a group
of lifers made a break that didn't jell, and the whole bunch was locked
up in the blockhouse, the special building reserved for escapees. Pard
Hoskins was in the bunch. He'd never get out of there, and he knew it.
So did I.
</p>
<p>
For three more days I worked down my knuckles, my nails being gone,
while I sat around all hunched up, wondering feverishly if Pard would
make a deal about those emeralds. Then I broke down and sent out a
letter to the S.S.C.
</p>
<p>
The Big Sneer of the conference table promptly dropped in on me,
friendly as a bottle of strychnine. But for a lad headed for Jupiter
that was good training, so I sneered right back at him, explained the
caper, and we both paid a visit to Pard. In two days the deal was made
and the caper set up. There were a few bits of info that Pard had to
shell out, like where the emeralds were, and how to communicate with
those scorpions, and how he'd made Akroida mad.
</p>
<p>
"I put on a yeller slicker," he confessed sadly. "That there ammonia
mist was eatin' into the finish on my spacesuit, so I draped this
here slicker around me to sorta fancy up the rig before goin' in to
an audience with the old rip." He shook his head slowly. "The kid
that took me in was colorblind, so I didn't have no warning at all.
I found out that them scorpions can't stand yeller. It just plain
drives them nuts! Thought they'd chaw me up and spit me out into the
chlorine before I could get outa the damn thing. If my colorblind pal
hadn't helped me, they'd of done it, too. And Akroida claimed I done it
a-purpose to upset her."
</p>
<p>
Then he winked at me. "But then I got off in a corner and cooked up
some perfume that drives them nuts the other way; sorta frantic with
ecstasy, like the book says. Didn't have a chance to try it on Akroida,
though. She wouldn't give me another audience. It's in the stuff they
cleaned outa me room: a poiple bottle with a bright green stopper."
</p>
<p>
He ruminated a few minutes. "Tell you what, chump. Make them shell out
with a green an' poiple spacesuit—them's the real Jupiter colors—an'
put just a touch o' that there perfume on the outside of it. Akroida'll
do anything fer you if she just gets a whiff. Just anything! But
remember, don't use but a drop. It's real powerful."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Real powerful, said the man. What an understatement! But the day I was
set adrift in that sea of frozen ammonia clouds mixed with nice cozy
methane gas I sure prayed for it to be powerful, and I clutched that
tiny bottle like that boy Aladdin clutching his little old lamp.
</p>
<p>
I'd had a lot of cooperation getting that far. An Earth patrol had
slipped down onto the Red Desert of Mars and picked up the Killicut
Emeralds from where Pard Hoskins had cached them; and safe out in space
again, we had pored over that string of green headlights practically
slobbering. But the Big Sneer of the S.S.C., the fellow that had got
me into this caper, was right there to take the joy out of it all and
to remind me that this was public service, strictly.
</p>
<p>
"These—" he had proclaimed with a disdainful flourish, like a placer
miner pointing to a batch of fool's gold—"These jewels are as nothing,
Ritter, compared with the value of the secret you are to buy with
them. And be assured that if you're man enough to effect the trade—"
He paused, his long nose twitching cynically—"IF you succeed, your
reward will be triple what you could get for them in any market. Added
to which, IF you succeed, you will be a free man."
</p>
<p>
That twitch of the nose riled me no little. "I ain't failed yet!" I
snarled at him. "Just you wait till I do, feller!" I slipped the string
of emeralds back into its little safe. "Instead of sniping at me, why
don't you get that brain busy and set our rendezvous?"
</p>
<p>
With that we got down to business and fixed a meeting point out on
Jupiter's farthest moon; then they took me in to the edge of Jupiter's
ice-cloud and turned me loose in a peanut of a space boat with old Jupe
looming ahead bigger than all outdoors and the Red Spot dead ahead. I
patted my pretty enameled suit, which was a study in paris green and
passionate purple.
</p>
<p>
I patted the three hundred pounds of arsenic crystals for Akroida and
anyone else I might have to bribe. I anxiously examined my suit's air
and water containers and the heating unit that would keep them in
their proper state. I had already gone over the space boat. Yeah, I
was as nervous as a cat with new kittens. Feeling again for my little
bottle of horrid stench, I breathed a prayer to the god of idiots and
spacemen, and headed in. The big ship was long gone, and I felt like a
mighty small and naked microbe diving into the Pacific Ocean.
</p>
<p>
That famous Red Spot was that big, too. It kept expanding until the
whole universe was a fierce, raw luminous red. Out beyond it at first
there had been fringes of snow-white frozen ammonia, but now it was all
dyed redder than Mars. Then I took the plunge right into it. Surprise!
The stuff was plants! Plants as big as meadows, bright red, floating
around in those clouds of frozen ammonia like seaweed! Then I noticed
that the ammonia around them wasn't frozen any more and peeked at the
outside thermometer I couldn't believe it. It was above zero. Then I
forgot about the temperature because it dawned on me that I was lost. I
couldn't see a thing but drifting ammonia fog and those tangles of red
floating plants like little islands all around. Cutting down the motor,
I eased along.
</p>
<p>
But my green boat must have showed up like a lighthouse in all that
red, because it wasn't long until I spotted a purple and green
hopper-scorp traveling straight toward me, sort of rowing along with
a pair of stubby wings. He didn't seem to be making much effort, even
though he was climbing vertically up from the planet. In fact, he
didn't seem to be climbing at all but just going along horizontally.
There just wasn't any up or down in that crazy place. It must be that
anti-grav field, I concluded. The air was getting different, too, now
that I was further in. I'm no chemist, and I couldn't have gotten out
there to experiment if I had been, but those plants were certainly
doing something to that ammonia and methane. The fog thinned, for one
thing, and the temperature rose to nearly forty.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile the hopper-scorp reached the ship. Hastily I squirted some of
my Scorpion-Come-Hither lure on the chest of my spacesuit, opened the
lock, and popped out, brave as could be. Face to face with that thing,
though, I nearly lost my grip on the handle. In fact, I'd have fainted
dead away right there if Pard Hoskins hadn't been there already and
lived. If that little shrimp could do it, I could, too.
</p>
<p>
I braced up and tapped out the greeting Pard had taught me. My
fiendish-looking opponent tapped right back, inquiring why the hell
I was back so soon when I knew that Akroida was all set to carve me
into steaks for just any meal. But the tone was friendly and even
intimate—or rather, the taps were. There was even a rather warm
expression discernible in the thing's eyes, so I took heart and decided
to ignore the ferocious features surrounding those eyes. After all, the
poor sinner's map was made of shell, and he wasn't responsible for its
expression.
</p>
<p>
I tapped back very politely that he must be mistaking me for someone
else. "I've never been here before, and so I've never met the charming
lady," I informed him. "However, I have something very special in the
way of jewels—not with me, naturally—and the rumor is that she might
be interested."
</p>
<p>
He reared back at that, and reaching up, plucked his right eye out of
the socket and reeled it out to the end of a two-foot tentacle, and
then he examined me with it just like an old-time earl with one of
those things they called monocles. Pard hadn't warned me about those
removable eyes, for reasons best known to himself. I still wake up
screaming....
</p>
<p>
Anyway, when that thing pulled out its eye and held it toward me, I
backed up against the side of the ship like I'd been half-electrocuted.
Then I gagged. But I could still remember that I had to live in that
suit for awhile, so I held on. Then that monstrosity reeled in the eye,
and I gagged again.
</p>
<p>
My actions didn't bother him a bit. "Jewels, did you say?" he tapped
out thoughtfully, just like an ordinary business man, and I managed to
tap out yes. He drifted closer; close enough to get a whiff....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A shudder of ecstasy stiffened him. His head and eyes rolled with it,
and he wafted closer still. Right there I began to harbor a premonition
that there might be such a thing as being too popular in Scorpdom, but
I thrust this sneak-thief idea back into limbo.
</p>
<p>
Taking advantage of his condition, I boldly tapped out, "How's about
taking me on a guided tour through this red spinach patch to Akroida,
old pal?" Or words to that effect.
</p>
<p>
He lolled his hideous cranium practically on my shoulder. "Anything!
Just anything you desire, my dearest friend."
</p>
<p>
I tried to back off from him a bit, but the ship stopped me. "I'm Casey
Ritter. What's your label, chum?"
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy," he ticked coyly.
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy?" Things blurred around me. It couldn't be. It was just plain
nuts. Then I got a glimmer through my paralyzed gray matter. "Who named
you that?"
</p>
<p>
He simpered. "My dear friend, Pard Hoskins."
</p>
<p>
I breathed again. How simple could I get? He'd already mistaken me for
Pard, hadn't he? Then I remembered something else. "How come you aren't
mad at him? Don't you hate yellow, too?"
</p>
<p>
He hung his silly head. "I fear I am colorblind," he confessed sadly.
</p>
<p>
Right there I forgave him for pulling that eye on me. He was the guide
I needed, the one who had got Pard out alive. I almost hugged him.
"Lead off, old pal," I sang out, and then had to tap it. "I'll follow
in my boat."
</p>
<p>
Well, I'd met the first of the brood and was still alive. Not only
alive but loved and cherished, thanks to Pard's inventiveness and to
a kindly fate which had sent Pard's old pal my way. A great man, Pard
Hoskins. How had he made friends with the brute in the first place?
</p>
<p>
Being once more inside my spaceboat, I raised my helmet, which was like
one of those head-pieces they used to put on suits of armor instead of
the usual plastic bubble. And it was rigged out with phony antennae and
mandibles and other embellishments calculated to interest my hosts.
Whether it interested them or not, it was plenty uncomfortable for me.
</p>
<p>
Peeking out the porthole I saw that my guide was fidgeting and looking
over his shoulder at my ship, so I eased in the controls and edge after
him. To my surprise a vapor shot out of a box that I had taken for a
natural lump on his back, and he darted away from me. I opened the
throttle and tore after him among the immense red blobs that were now
beginning to be patterned with dozens of green-and-purple scorpions,
all busy filling huge baskets with buds and tendrils, no doubt.
</p>
<p>
Other scorpions oared and floated about in twos and threes in a free
and peaceable manner that almost made me forget that I was scared to
death of them, and they stared at my boat with only a mild interest
that would have taught manners to most of my fellow citizens of Earth.
</p>
<p>
It wasn't until we had covered some two hundred miles of this that
something began to loom out of the mist, and I forgot the playboys and
the field workers. It loomed higher and higher. Then we burst out into
a clearing several miles in diameter, and I saw the structure clearly.
It was red, like everything else in this screwy place, and could only
have been built out of compressed blocks of the red plant.
</p>
<p>
In shape it was a perfect octagon. It hung poised in the center of the
cleared space, suspended on nothing. It had to be at least a mile in
diameter, and its sides were pierced with thousands of openings through
which its nightmare occupants appeared and disappeared, drifting in
and out like they had all the time in the world. I stared until my
eyeballs felt paralyzed.
</p>
<p>
Pard was right again. These critters had brains. And my S.S.C.
persecutor was right, too. That anti-grav secret was worth more than
any string of rocks in the system, including the Killicut Emeralds.
</p>
<p>
Then I swallowed hard. Attaboy was leading me straight across to a
window. Closing my helmet, my fingers fumbled badly. My brain was
fumbling, too. "Zero hour, chump!" it told me, and I shuddered. Picking
up the first hundred pounds of the arsenic, I wobbled over to the
airlock.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
III
</p>
<p>
That palace was like nothing on earth. Naturally, you'll say, it's
on Jupiter. But I mean it was even queerer than that. It was like no
building on any planet at all. And, in fact, it wasn't on a planet; it
was floating up there only two hundred miles in from the raw edge of
space.
</p>
<p>
In that building everything stayed right where it was put. If it was
put twelve or fifty feet up off the floor, it stayed there. Not that
there wasn't gravity. There was plenty of gravity to suit me—just
right, in fact—and still they had furniture sitting around in the air
as solid as if on a floor. Which was fine for flying hopper-scorps, but
what about Casey Ritter, who hadn't cultivated even a feather?
</p>
<p>
Attaboy, however, had the answers for everything. Towing me from the
airlock to the window ledge, he again sniffed that delectable odor on
my chest, caressed me with his front pair of legs while I manfully
endured, and then without warning tossed me onto his back above the
little box and flew off with me along a tunnel with luminous red walls.
</p>
<p>
We finally came to the central hall of the palace, and at the sight
of all that space dropping away, I clutched at his shell and nearly
dropped the arsenic. But he didn't have any brakes I could grab, so he
just flew out into mid-air in a room that could have swallowed a city
block, skyscrapers and all. It was like a mammoth red cavern, and it
glowed like the inside of a red light.
</p>
<p>
No wonder those scorpions like green and purple. What a relief from all
that red!
</p>
<p>
A patch in the middle of the hall became a floating platform holding up
a divan twenty feet square covered with stuff as green as new spring
grass, and in the center of this reclined Akroida. It had to be. Who
else could look like that? No one, believe me, boys and girls, no one!
</p>
<p>
Our little Akroida was a pure and peculiarly violent purple—not a
green edge anywhere. She was even more purple than my fancy enameled
space suit, and she was big enough to comfortably fill most of that
twenty-foot couch. To my shrinking eyes right then she looked as big as
a ten-ton cannon and twice as mean and dangerous. She was idly nipping
here and there as though she was just itching to take a hunk out of
somebody, and the way the servants were edging away out around her, I
could see they didn't want to get in range. I didn't blame them a bit.
Under the vicious sag of her Roman nose, her mandibles kept grinding,
shaking the jewels that were hung all over her repulsive carcass, and
making the Halcyon Diamond on her chest blaze like a bonfire.
</p>
<p>
Attaboy dumped me onto a floating cushion where I lay clutching and
shuddering away from her and from the void all around me, and went
across to her alone with the arsenic.
</p>
<p>
Akroida rose up sort of languidly on an elbow that was all stripped
bone and sharp as a needle. She pulled an eyeball out about a yard and
scanned Attaboy and the box. He closed in to the couch all hunched
over, ducked his head humbly half-a-dozen times, and pushed the box
over beside her. Akroida eased her eyeball back, opened the box and
sniffed, and then turned to Attaboy with a full-blown Satanic grin. I
could hear her question reverberate away over where I was.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" asked Akroida.
</p>
<p>
That conversation was telegraphed to me blow by blow by the actions of
those hopper-scorps. I didn't need their particular brand of Morse Code
at all.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" Attaboy cringed lower and blushed a purple all-over blush.
"Dear lady, it is from an interspace trader who possesses some truly
remarkable jewels," he confessed coyly.
</p>
<p>
Akroida toyed with the Halcyon Diamond and ignored the bait. "His
name?" she demanded. And when he told her, with a bad stutter in
his code, she reared up higher on her skinny elbow and glared in my
direction. "Casey Ritter? Never heard of him. Where's he from?"
</p>
<p>
Well, after all, she wasn't blind. He had to confess. "I—uh—the
stones were so amazing, Royal Akroida, that I didn't pay much attention
to the—uh—trader. He does seem to resemble an—ah—earthman." He
ducked his head and fearfully waited.
</p>
<p>
A sort of jerking quiver ran through Akroida. She reared up even
higher. Her mean Roman nose twitched. "An earthman? Like Pard Hoskins?"
</p>
<p>
Attaboy shrank smaller and smaller. He could only nod dumbly.
</p>
<p>
The storm broke, all right. That old dame let out a scream like a
maddened stallion and began to thrash around and flail her couch with
that dragon's tail of hers.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) To find out Casey's smuggling secrets\n(B) To get information from Casey to give to the S.S.C.\n(C) To become Casey's friend and confidante\n(D) To convince Casey to change his mind",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Jupiter (Planet) -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
63640 | What didn't surprise Casey about Jupiter?
Choices:
(A) the red coloring was plants
(B) items could float in mid-air
(C) the aliens could remove their eyeballs
(D) the aliens communicated by tapping | [
"D",
"the aliens communicated by tapping"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
JUPITER'S JOKE
</h1>
<h2>
By A. L. HALEY
</h2>
<p>
<i>
Casey Ritter, the guy who never turned
<br/>
down a dare, breathed a prayer to the gods
<br/>
of idiots and spacemen, and headed in toward
<br/>
the great red spot of terrible Jupiter.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1954.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Those methane and ammonia planets, take it from me, they're the
dead-end of creation, and why the Old Man ever thought them up I'll
never know. I never thought I'd mess around any of them, but things
can sure happen. A man can get himself backed into a corner in this
little old solar system. It just ain't big enough for a gent of scope
and talent; and the day the Solar System Customs caught me red-handed
smuggling Kooleen crystals in from Mars, I knew I was in that corner,
and sewed up tight.
</p>
<p>
Sure, the crystals are deadly, but I was smuggling them legitimately,
in a manner of speaking, for this doctor to experiment with. He wasn't
going to sell them for dope. But—and this was the 'but' that was
likely to deprive the System of my activities—even experimenting with
them was illegal even if it needed to be done; also, I had promised not
to rat on him before taking the job.
</p>
<p>
Well, Casey Ritter may be a lot of things we won't mention, but he
doesn't rat on his clients. So there I was, closeted with the ten
members of the S.S. Customs Court, getting set to hear the gavel
fall and the head man intone the sentence that would take me out of
circulation for a long, long time. And instead, blast me, if they
didn't foul me with this trip to good old Jupiter.
</p>
<p>
I didn't get it at first. I'd argued with 'em, but inside I'd been all
set for the sentence, and even sort of reconciled to it. I could even
hear the words in my mind. But they didn't match what the judge was
saying. I stood there gaping like a beached fish while I sorted it out.
Then I croaked, "Jupiter! What for? Are you running outa space in stir?
Want to choke me to death in chlorine instead?" Being civil to the
court didn't seem important just then. Jupiter was worse than the pen,
a lot worse. Jupiter was a death sentence.
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped sharply with his gavel. He frowned me down and
then nodded at the judge on his right. This bird, a little old hank of
dried-up straw, joined his fingertips carefully, cleared his scrawny
throat, and told me what for.
</p>
<p>
"You've no doubt heard tales of the strange population of Jupiter,"
he said. "Every spaceman has, I am sure. Insect-like creatures who
manifestly migrated there from some other system and who inhabit
the Red Spot of the planet, floating in some kind of artificial
anti-gravity field in the gaseous portion of the atmosphere—"
</p>
<p>
I snorted. "Aw, hell, judge, that's just one of those screwy fairy
tales! How could any—"
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped ferociously, and I skidded to a halt. Our
little story teller patiently cleared his skinny throat again.
"I assure you it is no fairy tale. We possess well-authenticated
photographs of these inhabitants, and if you are prepared to visit them
and in some way worm from them the secret of their anti-gravity field,
the government stands ready to issue you a full pardon as well as a
substantial monetary reward. Your talents, Mr. Ritter, seem, shall we
say, eminently suited to the task."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He beamed at me. I looked around. They were all beaming. At me!
Suddenly I smelled a rat as big as an elephant. That whole Kooleen
caper: Had it been just a trap to lead me straight to this? I hadn't
been able to figure how they'd cracked my setup....
</p>
<p>
At the thought my larynx froze up tight. This was worse than I'd
thought. Government men trapping me and then beaming at me. And a full
pardon. And a reward. Oh, no! I told myself, it wasn't possible. Not
when I already had more counts against me than a cur has fleas. Not
unless it was a straight suicide mission!
</p>
<p>
I feebly massaged my throat. "Pictures?" I whispered. "Show me 'em."
Crude, but it was all I could squeeze out.
</p>
<p>
I squeezed out more when I saw those pictures, though. Those
inhabitants were charming, just charming if you like scorpions. Well,
a cross between a scorpion and a grasshopper, to be accurate. Floating
among that red stuff, they showed up a kind of sickly purple turning to
gangrene around the edges.
</p>
<p>
The bleat of anguish that accompanied my first view of those beauties
had taken my voice again. "How big?" I whispered.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "About the size of a man, I
believe."
</p>
<p>
I raised my shrinking head. "Take me to jail!" I said firmly, and
collapsed onto my chair.
</p>
<p>
A crafty-eyed buzzard across the table leaned toward me. "So this is
the great Casey Ritter, daredevil of the Solar System!" he sneered.
"Never loses a bet, never turns down a dare!"
</p>
<p>
I shuddered. "You're telling that one! And besides, a man's got to draw
the line somewhere. And I'm drawing it right here. Take me to jail!"
</p>
<p>
They were really stumped. They hadn't expected me to take this attitude
at all. No doubt they had it figured that I'd gratefully throw myself
into a sea of ammonia among man-size scorpions just for the hell of
it. Nuts! After all, in the pen a man can eat and breathe, and a guard
won't reach in and nip off an arm or leg while he's got his back
turned. How stupid could they get?
</p>
<p>
When I finally wore them down and got to my little cell, I looked
around it with a feeling of real coziness. I even patted the walls
chummily and snapped a salute at the guard. It makes me grind my molars
now to think of it. The way that bunch of stuffed shirts in the S.S.C.
made a gold-barred chimpanzee out of me has broken my spirit and
turned me into an honest trader. Me, Casey Ritter, slickest slicker in
the Solar System, led like a precious infant right where I'd flatly
refused to go! In plain English, I underestimated the enemy. Feeling
safe and secure in the grip of the good old Iron College, I relaxed.
</p>
<p>
At this strategic point, the enemy planted a stoolie on me. Not in my
cell block. They were too smart for that. But we met at recreation, and
his mug seemed familiar, like a wisp of smoke where no smoke has got a
right to be; and after awhile I braced him.
</p>
<p>
I was right. I'd met the shrimp before when I was wound up in an
asteroid real estate racket. Pard Hoskins was his alias, and he had the
tag of being a real slick operator. We swapped yarns for about a week
when we met, and then I asked him what's his rap this trip.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, a pretty good jolt if they can keep hold of me," he says. "I just
made a pass at the Killicut Emeralds, that's all, and got nabbed."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no!" I moaned. "What were you trying to do, start a feud between
us and Mars?"
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, but his little black-currant eyes began to sparkle with
real passion, the high voltage kind that only a woman in a million, or
a million in a bank, can kindle in a guy. "Buddy," he said reverently,
"I'd start more than that just to get me mitts on them stones again!
Why, you ain't never seen jools till you've seen them! Big as hen's
eggs, an even dozen of 'em; and flawless, I'm a-shoutin', not a flaw!"
His eyes watered at the memory, yearning like a hound-dog's over a
fresh scent.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't believe it. Those emeralds were in the inner shrine of the
super-sacred, super-secret temple of the cavern-dwelling tribe of
Killicuts on Mars—the real aborigines. Bleachies, we call them, sort
of contemptuously; but those Bleachies are a rough lot when they're
mad, and if Pard had really got near those emeralds, he should be
nothing but a heap of cleaned bones by now. Either he was the world's
champion liar or its bravest son, and either way I took my hat off to
him.
</p>
<p>
"How'd you make the getaway?" I asked, taking him at his word.
</p>
<p>
He looked loftily past me. "Sorry. Gotta keep that a secret. Likewise
where I cached 'em."
</p>
<p>
"Cached what?"
</p>
<p>
"The rocks, stupe."
</p>
<p>
I hardly heard the cut. "You mean you really did get away with them?"
My jaw must've been hanging down a foot, because I'd just been playing
along with him, not really believing him, and now all of a sudden I
somehow knew that he'd really lifted those emeralds. But how? It was
impossible. I'd investigated once myself.
</p>
<p>
He nodded and then moved casually away. I looked up and saw a guard
coming.
</p>
<p>
That night I turned on my hard prison cot until my bones were so much
jelly, trying to figure that steal. The next morning I got up burning
with this fever for information, only to find that Pard had got himself
put in solitary for mugging a guard, and that really put the heat on
me. I chewed my fingernails down to the quick by the time he got out a
week later.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By that time he really had me hooked. I'd of sworn he was leveling
with me. But he wouldn't tell me how he'd worked the steal. Instead,
he opened up on the trade he'd booked for the string. He said, "When I
chisel me way outa this squirrel cage, I'm gonna hit fer good old Jupe
and sell 'em to Akroida. She's nuts about jools. What that old girl
won't give me fer 'em—" He whistled appreciatively, thinking about it.
</p>
<p>
"Jupiter!" I goggled at him. "Akroida! Who's she?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me as if I hadn't yet got out from under the rock where he
was sure I'd been born. "Don't you know nothin', butterhead?"
</p>
<p>
From him I took it. I even waited patiently till the master spoke
again. The memory still makes me fry.
</p>
<p>
"Akroida," he explained in his own sweet time, "is the queen-scorp
of them idiotic scorpions that lives on Jupiter. I sold her the
Halcyon Diamond that disappeared from the World Museum five years ago,
remember?" He winked broadly. "It come from Mars in the first place,
you know. Mars! What a place fer jools! Damn desert's lousy with 'em,
if it wasn't so much trouble to dig 'em out—" He went off into a dream
about the rocks on Mars but I jerked him back.
</p>
<p>
"You mean those scorpions have really got brains?"
</p>
<p>
"Brains!" he snorted. "Have they got brains! Why, they're smarter than
people! And not ferocious, neither, in spite of how they look, if you
just leave 'em alone. That's all they want, just to be left alone.
Peace an' quiet, and lots of methane and ammonia and arsenic, that's
fer them. Besides, the space suit rig you got to wear, they can't bite
you. Akroida's not a bad old girl. Partial to arsenic on her lettuce,
so I brought her a hundred pounds of the stuff, an' she went fer that
almost like it was diamonds, too. Did I rate around there fer awhile!"
He sighed regretfully. "But then I went and made her mad, an' I'm kinda
persona non grata there right now. By the time I gnaw outa this here
cheese trap, though, I figger she'll be all cooled off and ready fer
them emeralds."
</p>
<p>
I went back to my cot that night, and this time instead of biting my
nails, I bit myself. So I faced it. Casey Ritter lost his nerve, and
along with it, the chance of a lifetime. A better man than me had
already penetrated the Great Red Spot of old Jupiter and come out
alive. That thought ate me to the quick, and I began to wonder if it
was too late, after all. I could hardly wait for morning to come, so
that I could pry more information out of Pard Hoskins.
</p>
<p>
But I didn't see Pard for a few days. And then, a week later, a group
of lifers made a break that didn't jell, and the whole bunch was locked
up in the blockhouse, the special building reserved for escapees. Pard
Hoskins was in the bunch. He'd never get out of there, and he knew it.
So did I.
</p>
<p>
For three more days I worked down my knuckles, my nails being gone,
while I sat around all hunched up, wondering feverishly if Pard would
make a deal about those emeralds. Then I broke down and sent out a
letter to the S.S.C.
</p>
<p>
The Big Sneer of the conference table promptly dropped in on me,
friendly as a bottle of strychnine. But for a lad headed for Jupiter
that was good training, so I sneered right back at him, explained the
caper, and we both paid a visit to Pard. In two days the deal was made
and the caper set up. There were a few bits of info that Pard had to
shell out, like where the emeralds were, and how to communicate with
those scorpions, and how he'd made Akroida mad.
</p>
<p>
"I put on a yeller slicker," he confessed sadly. "That there ammonia
mist was eatin' into the finish on my spacesuit, so I draped this
here slicker around me to sorta fancy up the rig before goin' in to
an audience with the old rip." He shook his head slowly. "The kid
that took me in was colorblind, so I didn't have no warning at all.
I found out that them scorpions can't stand yeller. It just plain
drives them nuts! Thought they'd chaw me up and spit me out into the
chlorine before I could get outa the damn thing. If my colorblind pal
hadn't helped me, they'd of done it, too. And Akroida claimed I done it
a-purpose to upset her."
</p>
<p>
Then he winked at me. "But then I got off in a corner and cooked up
some perfume that drives them nuts the other way; sorta frantic with
ecstasy, like the book says. Didn't have a chance to try it on Akroida,
though. She wouldn't give me another audience. It's in the stuff they
cleaned outa me room: a poiple bottle with a bright green stopper."
</p>
<p>
He ruminated a few minutes. "Tell you what, chump. Make them shell out
with a green an' poiple spacesuit—them's the real Jupiter colors—an'
put just a touch o' that there perfume on the outside of it. Akroida'll
do anything fer you if she just gets a whiff. Just anything! But
remember, don't use but a drop. It's real powerful."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Real powerful, said the man. What an understatement! But the day I was
set adrift in that sea of frozen ammonia clouds mixed with nice cozy
methane gas I sure prayed for it to be powerful, and I clutched that
tiny bottle like that boy Aladdin clutching his little old lamp.
</p>
<p>
I'd had a lot of cooperation getting that far. An Earth patrol had
slipped down onto the Red Desert of Mars and picked up the Killicut
Emeralds from where Pard Hoskins had cached them; and safe out in space
again, we had pored over that string of green headlights practically
slobbering. But the Big Sneer of the S.S.C., the fellow that had got
me into this caper, was right there to take the joy out of it all and
to remind me that this was public service, strictly.
</p>
<p>
"These—" he had proclaimed with a disdainful flourish, like a placer
miner pointing to a batch of fool's gold—"These jewels are as nothing,
Ritter, compared with the value of the secret you are to buy with
them. And be assured that if you're man enough to effect the trade—"
He paused, his long nose twitching cynically—"IF you succeed, your
reward will be triple what you could get for them in any market. Added
to which, IF you succeed, you will be a free man."
</p>
<p>
That twitch of the nose riled me no little. "I ain't failed yet!" I
snarled at him. "Just you wait till I do, feller!" I slipped the string
of emeralds back into its little safe. "Instead of sniping at me, why
don't you get that brain busy and set our rendezvous?"
</p>
<p>
With that we got down to business and fixed a meeting point out on
Jupiter's farthest moon; then they took me in to the edge of Jupiter's
ice-cloud and turned me loose in a peanut of a space boat with old Jupe
looming ahead bigger than all outdoors and the Red Spot dead ahead. I
patted my pretty enameled suit, which was a study in paris green and
passionate purple.
</p>
<p>
I patted the three hundred pounds of arsenic crystals for Akroida and
anyone else I might have to bribe. I anxiously examined my suit's air
and water containers and the heating unit that would keep them in
their proper state. I had already gone over the space boat. Yeah, I
was as nervous as a cat with new kittens. Feeling again for my little
bottle of horrid stench, I breathed a prayer to the god of idiots and
spacemen, and headed in. The big ship was long gone, and I felt like a
mighty small and naked microbe diving into the Pacific Ocean.
</p>
<p>
That famous Red Spot was that big, too. It kept expanding until the
whole universe was a fierce, raw luminous red. Out beyond it at first
there had been fringes of snow-white frozen ammonia, but now it was all
dyed redder than Mars. Then I took the plunge right into it. Surprise!
The stuff was plants! Plants as big as meadows, bright red, floating
around in those clouds of frozen ammonia like seaweed! Then I noticed
that the ammonia around them wasn't frozen any more and peeked at the
outside thermometer I couldn't believe it. It was above zero. Then I
forgot about the temperature because it dawned on me that I was lost. I
couldn't see a thing but drifting ammonia fog and those tangles of red
floating plants like little islands all around. Cutting down the motor,
I eased along.
</p>
<p>
But my green boat must have showed up like a lighthouse in all that
red, because it wasn't long until I spotted a purple and green
hopper-scorp traveling straight toward me, sort of rowing along with
a pair of stubby wings. He didn't seem to be making much effort, even
though he was climbing vertically up from the planet. In fact, he
didn't seem to be climbing at all but just going along horizontally.
There just wasn't any up or down in that crazy place. It must be that
anti-grav field, I concluded. The air was getting different, too, now
that I was further in. I'm no chemist, and I couldn't have gotten out
there to experiment if I had been, but those plants were certainly
doing something to that ammonia and methane. The fog thinned, for one
thing, and the temperature rose to nearly forty.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile the hopper-scorp reached the ship. Hastily I squirted some of
my Scorpion-Come-Hither lure on the chest of my spacesuit, opened the
lock, and popped out, brave as could be. Face to face with that thing,
though, I nearly lost my grip on the handle. In fact, I'd have fainted
dead away right there if Pard Hoskins hadn't been there already and
lived. If that little shrimp could do it, I could, too.
</p>
<p>
I braced up and tapped out the greeting Pard had taught me. My
fiendish-looking opponent tapped right back, inquiring why the hell
I was back so soon when I knew that Akroida was all set to carve me
into steaks for just any meal. But the tone was friendly and even
intimate—or rather, the taps were. There was even a rather warm
expression discernible in the thing's eyes, so I took heart and decided
to ignore the ferocious features surrounding those eyes. After all, the
poor sinner's map was made of shell, and he wasn't responsible for its
expression.
</p>
<p>
I tapped back very politely that he must be mistaking me for someone
else. "I've never been here before, and so I've never met the charming
lady," I informed him. "However, I have something very special in the
way of jewels—not with me, naturally—and the rumor is that she might
be interested."
</p>
<p>
He reared back at that, and reaching up, plucked his right eye out of
the socket and reeled it out to the end of a two-foot tentacle, and
then he examined me with it just like an old-time earl with one of
those things they called monocles. Pard hadn't warned me about those
removable eyes, for reasons best known to himself. I still wake up
screaming....
</p>
<p>
Anyway, when that thing pulled out its eye and held it toward me, I
backed up against the side of the ship like I'd been half-electrocuted.
Then I gagged. But I could still remember that I had to live in that
suit for awhile, so I held on. Then that monstrosity reeled in the eye,
and I gagged again.
</p>
<p>
My actions didn't bother him a bit. "Jewels, did you say?" he tapped
out thoughtfully, just like an ordinary business man, and I managed to
tap out yes. He drifted closer; close enough to get a whiff....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A shudder of ecstasy stiffened him. His head and eyes rolled with it,
and he wafted closer still. Right there I began to harbor a premonition
that there might be such a thing as being too popular in Scorpdom, but
I thrust this sneak-thief idea back into limbo.
</p>
<p>
Taking advantage of his condition, I boldly tapped out, "How's about
taking me on a guided tour through this red spinach patch to Akroida,
old pal?" Or words to that effect.
</p>
<p>
He lolled his hideous cranium practically on my shoulder. "Anything!
Just anything you desire, my dearest friend."
</p>
<p>
I tried to back off from him a bit, but the ship stopped me. "I'm Casey
Ritter. What's your label, chum?"
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy," he ticked coyly.
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy?" Things blurred around me. It couldn't be. It was just plain
nuts. Then I got a glimmer through my paralyzed gray matter. "Who named
you that?"
</p>
<p>
He simpered. "My dear friend, Pard Hoskins."
</p>
<p>
I breathed again. How simple could I get? He'd already mistaken me for
Pard, hadn't he? Then I remembered something else. "How come you aren't
mad at him? Don't you hate yellow, too?"
</p>
<p>
He hung his silly head. "I fear I am colorblind," he confessed sadly.
</p>
<p>
Right there I forgave him for pulling that eye on me. He was the guide
I needed, the one who had got Pard out alive. I almost hugged him.
"Lead off, old pal," I sang out, and then had to tap it. "I'll follow
in my boat."
</p>
<p>
Well, I'd met the first of the brood and was still alive. Not only
alive but loved and cherished, thanks to Pard's inventiveness and to
a kindly fate which had sent Pard's old pal my way. A great man, Pard
Hoskins. How had he made friends with the brute in the first place?
</p>
<p>
Being once more inside my spaceboat, I raised my helmet, which was like
one of those head-pieces they used to put on suits of armor instead of
the usual plastic bubble. And it was rigged out with phony antennae and
mandibles and other embellishments calculated to interest my hosts.
Whether it interested them or not, it was plenty uncomfortable for me.
</p>
<p>
Peeking out the porthole I saw that my guide was fidgeting and looking
over his shoulder at my ship, so I eased in the controls and edge after
him. To my surprise a vapor shot out of a box that I had taken for a
natural lump on his back, and he darted away from me. I opened the
throttle and tore after him among the immense red blobs that were now
beginning to be patterned with dozens of green-and-purple scorpions,
all busy filling huge baskets with buds and tendrils, no doubt.
</p>
<p>
Other scorpions oared and floated about in twos and threes in a free
and peaceable manner that almost made me forget that I was scared to
death of them, and they stared at my boat with only a mild interest
that would have taught manners to most of my fellow citizens of Earth.
</p>
<p>
It wasn't until we had covered some two hundred miles of this that
something began to loom out of the mist, and I forgot the playboys and
the field workers. It loomed higher and higher. Then we burst out into
a clearing several miles in diameter, and I saw the structure clearly.
It was red, like everything else in this screwy place, and could only
have been built out of compressed blocks of the red plant.
</p>
<p>
In shape it was a perfect octagon. It hung poised in the center of the
cleared space, suspended on nothing. It had to be at least a mile in
diameter, and its sides were pierced with thousands of openings through
which its nightmare occupants appeared and disappeared, drifting in
and out like they had all the time in the world. I stared until my
eyeballs felt paralyzed.
</p>
<p>
Pard was right again. These critters had brains. And my S.S.C.
persecutor was right, too. That anti-grav secret was worth more than
any string of rocks in the system, including the Killicut Emeralds.
</p>
<p>
Then I swallowed hard. Attaboy was leading me straight across to a
window. Closing my helmet, my fingers fumbled badly. My brain was
fumbling, too. "Zero hour, chump!" it told me, and I shuddered. Picking
up the first hundred pounds of the arsenic, I wobbled over to the
airlock.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
III
</p>
<p>
That palace was like nothing on earth. Naturally, you'll say, it's
on Jupiter. But I mean it was even queerer than that. It was like no
building on any planet at all. And, in fact, it wasn't on a planet; it
was floating up there only two hundred miles in from the raw edge of
space.
</p>
<p>
In that building everything stayed right where it was put. If it was
put twelve or fifty feet up off the floor, it stayed there. Not that
there wasn't gravity. There was plenty of gravity to suit me—just
right, in fact—and still they had furniture sitting around in the air
as solid as if on a floor. Which was fine for flying hopper-scorps, but
what about Casey Ritter, who hadn't cultivated even a feather?
</p>
<p>
Attaboy, however, had the answers for everything. Towing me from the
airlock to the window ledge, he again sniffed that delectable odor on
my chest, caressed me with his front pair of legs while I manfully
endured, and then without warning tossed me onto his back above the
little box and flew off with me along a tunnel with luminous red walls.
</p>
<p>
We finally came to the central hall of the palace, and at the sight
of all that space dropping away, I clutched at his shell and nearly
dropped the arsenic. But he didn't have any brakes I could grab, so he
just flew out into mid-air in a room that could have swallowed a city
block, skyscrapers and all. It was like a mammoth red cavern, and it
glowed like the inside of a red light.
</p>
<p>
No wonder those scorpions like green and purple. What a relief from all
that red!
</p>
<p>
A patch in the middle of the hall became a floating platform holding up
a divan twenty feet square covered with stuff as green as new spring
grass, and in the center of this reclined Akroida. It had to be. Who
else could look like that? No one, believe me, boys and girls, no one!
</p>
<p>
Our little Akroida was a pure and peculiarly violent purple—not a
green edge anywhere. She was even more purple than my fancy enameled
space suit, and she was big enough to comfortably fill most of that
twenty-foot couch. To my shrinking eyes right then she looked as big as
a ten-ton cannon and twice as mean and dangerous. She was idly nipping
here and there as though she was just itching to take a hunk out of
somebody, and the way the servants were edging away out around her, I
could see they didn't want to get in range. I didn't blame them a bit.
Under the vicious sag of her Roman nose, her mandibles kept grinding,
shaking the jewels that were hung all over her repulsive carcass, and
making the Halcyon Diamond on her chest blaze like a bonfire.
</p>
<p>
Attaboy dumped me onto a floating cushion where I lay clutching and
shuddering away from her and from the void all around me, and went
across to her alone with the arsenic.
</p>
<p>
Akroida rose up sort of languidly on an elbow that was all stripped
bone and sharp as a needle. She pulled an eyeball out about a yard and
scanned Attaboy and the box. He closed in to the couch all hunched
over, ducked his head humbly half-a-dozen times, and pushed the box
over beside her. Akroida eased her eyeball back, opened the box and
sniffed, and then turned to Attaboy with a full-blown Satanic grin. I
could hear her question reverberate away over where I was.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" asked Akroida.
</p>
<p>
That conversation was telegraphed to me blow by blow by the actions of
those hopper-scorps. I didn't need their particular brand of Morse Code
at all.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" Attaboy cringed lower and blushed a purple all-over blush.
"Dear lady, it is from an interspace trader who possesses some truly
remarkable jewels," he confessed coyly.
</p>
<p>
Akroida toyed with the Halcyon Diamond and ignored the bait. "His
name?" she demanded. And when he told her, with a bad stutter in
his code, she reared up higher on her skinny elbow and glared in my
direction. "Casey Ritter? Never heard of him. Where's he from?"
</p>
<p>
Well, after all, she wasn't blind. He had to confess. "I—uh—the
stones were so amazing, Royal Akroida, that I didn't pay much attention
to the—uh—trader. He does seem to resemble an—ah—earthman." He
ducked his head and fearfully waited.
</p>
<p>
A sort of jerking quiver ran through Akroida. She reared up even
higher. Her mean Roman nose twitched. "An earthman? Like Pard Hoskins?"
</p>
<p>
Attaboy shrank smaller and smaller. He could only nod dumbly.
</p>
<p>
The storm broke, all right. That old dame let out a scream like a
maddened stallion and began to thrash around and flail her couch with
that dragon's tail of hers.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) the red coloring was plants\n(B) items could float in mid-air\n(C) the aliens could remove their eyeballs\n(D) the aliens communicated by tapping",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Jupiter (Planet) -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
63640 | Which true statement may have changed Casey's mind if he'd have known?
Choices:
(A) Attaboy was Pard's colorblind friend
(B) The perfume doesn't work
(C) Akroida really loves jewels
(D) Pard was working for the S.S.C. | [
"D",
"Pard was working for the S.S.C."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
JUPITER'S JOKE
</h1>
<h2>
By A. L. HALEY
</h2>
<p>
<i>
Casey Ritter, the guy who never turned
<br/>
down a dare, breathed a prayer to the gods
<br/>
of idiots and spacemen, and headed in toward
<br/>
the great red spot of terrible Jupiter.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1954.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Those methane and ammonia planets, take it from me, they're the
dead-end of creation, and why the Old Man ever thought them up I'll
never know. I never thought I'd mess around any of them, but things
can sure happen. A man can get himself backed into a corner in this
little old solar system. It just ain't big enough for a gent of scope
and talent; and the day the Solar System Customs caught me red-handed
smuggling Kooleen crystals in from Mars, I knew I was in that corner,
and sewed up tight.
</p>
<p>
Sure, the crystals are deadly, but I was smuggling them legitimately,
in a manner of speaking, for this doctor to experiment with. He wasn't
going to sell them for dope. But—and this was the 'but' that was
likely to deprive the System of my activities—even experimenting with
them was illegal even if it needed to be done; also, I had promised not
to rat on him before taking the job.
</p>
<p>
Well, Casey Ritter may be a lot of things we won't mention, but he
doesn't rat on his clients. So there I was, closeted with the ten
members of the S.S. Customs Court, getting set to hear the gavel
fall and the head man intone the sentence that would take me out of
circulation for a long, long time. And instead, blast me, if they
didn't foul me with this trip to good old Jupiter.
</p>
<p>
I didn't get it at first. I'd argued with 'em, but inside I'd been all
set for the sentence, and even sort of reconciled to it. I could even
hear the words in my mind. But they didn't match what the judge was
saying. I stood there gaping like a beached fish while I sorted it out.
Then I croaked, "Jupiter! What for? Are you running outa space in stir?
Want to choke me to death in chlorine instead?" Being civil to the
court didn't seem important just then. Jupiter was worse than the pen,
a lot worse. Jupiter was a death sentence.
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped sharply with his gavel. He frowned me down and
then nodded at the judge on his right. This bird, a little old hank of
dried-up straw, joined his fingertips carefully, cleared his scrawny
throat, and told me what for.
</p>
<p>
"You've no doubt heard tales of the strange population of Jupiter,"
he said. "Every spaceman has, I am sure. Insect-like creatures who
manifestly migrated there from some other system and who inhabit
the Red Spot of the planet, floating in some kind of artificial
anti-gravity field in the gaseous portion of the atmosphere—"
</p>
<p>
I snorted. "Aw, hell, judge, that's just one of those screwy fairy
tales! How could any—"
</p>
<p>
The senior judge rapped ferociously, and I skidded to a halt. Our
little story teller patiently cleared his skinny throat again.
"I assure you it is no fairy tale. We possess well-authenticated
photographs of these inhabitants, and if you are prepared to visit them
and in some way worm from them the secret of their anti-gravity field,
the government stands ready to issue you a full pardon as well as a
substantial monetary reward. Your talents, Mr. Ritter, seem, shall we
say, eminently suited to the task."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He beamed at me. I looked around. They were all beaming. At me!
Suddenly I smelled a rat as big as an elephant. That whole Kooleen
caper: Had it been just a trap to lead me straight to this? I hadn't
been able to figure how they'd cracked my setup....
</p>
<p>
At the thought my larynx froze up tight. This was worse than I'd
thought. Government men trapping me and then beaming at me. And a full
pardon. And a reward. Oh, no! I told myself, it wasn't possible. Not
when I already had more counts against me than a cur has fleas. Not
unless it was a straight suicide mission!
</p>
<p>
I feebly massaged my throat. "Pictures?" I whispered. "Show me 'em."
Crude, but it was all I could squeeze out.
</p>
<p>
I squeezed out more when I saw those pictures, though. Those
inhabitants were charming, just charming if you like scorpions. Well,
a cross between a scorpion and a grasshopper, to be accurate. Floating
among that red stuff, they showed up a kind of sickly purple turning to
gangrene around the edges.
</p>
<p>
The bleat of anguish that accompanied my first view of those beauties
had taken my voice again. "How big?" I whispered.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "About the size of a man, I
believe."
</p>
<p>
I raised my shrinking head. "Take me to jail!" I said firmly, and
collapsed onto my chair.
</p>
<p>
A crafty-eyed buzzard across the table leaned toward me. "So this is
the great Casey Ritter, daredevil of the Solar System!" he sneered.
"Never loses a bet, never turns down a dare!"
</p>
<p>
I shuddered. "You're telling that one! And besides, a man's got to draw
the line somewhere. And I'm drawing it right here. Take me to jail!"
</p>
<p>
They were really stumped. They hadn't expected me to take this attitude
at all. No doubt they had it figured that I'd gratefully throw myself
into a sea of ammonia among man-size scorpions just for the hell of
it. Nuts! After all, in the pen a man can eat and breathe, and a guard
won't reach in and nip off an arm or leg while he's got his back
turned. How stupid could they get?
</p>
<p>
When I finally wore them down and got to my little cell, I looked
around it with a feeling of real coziness. I even patted the walls
chummily and snapped a salute at the guard. It makes me grind my molars
now to think of it. The way that bunch of stuffed shirts in the S.S.C.
made a gold-barred chimpanzee out of me has broken my spirit and
turned me into an honest trader. Me, Casey Ritter, slickest slicker in
the Solar System, led like a precious infant right where I'd flatly
refused to go! In plain English, I underestimated the enemy. Feeling
safe and secure in the grip of the good old Iron College, I relaxed.
</p>
<p>
At this strategic point, the enemy planted a stoolie on me. Not in my
cell block. They were too smart for that. But we met at recreation, and
his mug seemed familiar, like a wisp of smoke where no smoke has got a
right to be; and after awhile I braced him.
</p>
<p>
I was right. I'd met the shrimp before when I was wound up in an
asteroid real estate racket. Pard Hoskins was his alias, and he had the
tag of being a real slick operator. We swapped yarns for about a week
when we met, and then I asked him what's his rap this trip.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, a pretty good jolt if they can keep hold of me," he says. "I just
made a pass at the Killicut Emeralds, that's all, and got nabbed."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no!" I moaned. "What were you trying to do, start a feud between
us and Mars?"
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, but his little black-currant eyes began to sparkle with
real passion, the high voltage kind that only a woman in a million, or
a million in a bank, can kindle in a guy. "Buddy," he said reverently,
"I'd start more than that just to get me mitts on them stones again!
Why, you ain't never seen jools till you've seen them! Big as hen's
eggs, an even dozen of 'em; and flawless, I'm a-shoutin', not a flaw!"
His eyes watered at the memory, yearning like a hound-dog's over a
fresh scent.
</p>
<p>
I couldn't believe it. Those emeralds were in the inner shrine of the
super-sacred, super-secret temple of the cavern-dwelling tribe of
Killicuts on Mars—the real aborigines. Bleachies, we call them, sort
of contemptuously; but those Bleachies are a rough lot when they're
mad, and if Pard had really got near those emeralds, he should be
nothing but a heap of cleaned bones by now. Either he was the world's
champion liar or its bravest son, and either way I took my hat off to
him.
</p>
<p>
"How'd you make the getaway?" I asked, taking him at his word.
</p>
<p>
He looked loftily past me. "Sorry. Gotta keep that a secret. Likewise
where I cached 'em."
</p>
<p>
"Cached what?"
</p>
<p>
"The rocks, stupe."
</p>
<p>
I hardly heard the cut. "You mean you really did get away with them?"
My jaw must've been hanging down a foot, because I'd just been playing
along with him, not really believing him, and now all of a sudden I
somehow knew that he'd really lifted those emeralds. But how? It was
impossible. I'd investigated once myself.
</p>
<p>
He nodded and then moved casually away. I looked up and saw a guard
coming.
</p>
<p>
That night I turned on my hard prison cot until my bones were so much
jelly, trying to figure that steal. The next morning I got up burning
with this fever for information, only to find that Pard had got himself
put in solitary for mugging a guard, and that really put the heat on
me. I chewed my fingernails down to the quick by the time he got out a
week later.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By that time he really had me hooked. I'd of sworn he was leveling
with me. But he wouldn't tell me how he'd worked the steal. Instead,
he opened up on the trade he'd booked for the string. He said, "When I
chisel me way outa this squirrel cage, I'm gonna hit fer good old Jupe
and sell 'em to Akroida. She's nuts about jools. What that old girl
won't give me fer 'em—" He whistled appreciatively, thinking about it.
</p>
<p>
"Jupiter!" I goggled at him. "Akroida! Who's she?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me as if I hadn't yet got out from under the rock where he
was sure I'd been born. "Don't you know nothin', butterhead?"
</p>
<p>
From him I took it. I even waited patiently till the master spoke
again. The memory still makes me fry.
</p>
<p>
"Akroida," he explained in his own sweet time, "is the queen-scorp
of them idiotic scorpions that lives on Jupiter. I sold her the
Halcyon Diamond that disappeared from the World Museum five years ago,
remember?" He winked broadly. "It come from Mars in the first place,
you know. Mars! What a place fer jools! Damn desert's lousy with 'em,
if it wasn't so much trouble to dig 'em out—" He went off into a dream
about the rocks on Mars but I jerked him back.
</p>
<p>
"You mean those scorpions have really got brains?"
</p>
<p>
"Brains!" he snorted. "Have they got brains! Why, they're smarter than
people! And not ferocious, neither, in spite of how they look, if you
just leave 'em alone. That's all they want, just to be left alone.
Peace an' quiet, and lots of methane and ammonia and arsenic, that's
fer them. Besides, the space suit rig you got to wear, they can't bite
you. Akroida's not a bad old girl. Partial to arsenic on her lettuce,
so I brought her a hundred pounds of the stuff, an' she went fer that
almost like it was diamonds, too. Did I rate around there fer awhile!"
He sighed regretfully. "But then I went and made her mad, an' I'm kinda
persona non grata there right now. By the time I gnaw outa this here
cheese trap, though, I figger she'll be all cooled off and ready fer
them emeralds."
</p>
<p>
I went back to my cot that night, and this time instead of biting my
nails, I bit myself. So I faced it. Casey Ritter lost his nerve, and
along with it, the chance of a lifetime. A better man than me had
already penetrated the Great Red Spot of old Jupiter and come out
alive. That thought ate me to the quick, and I began to wonder if it
was too late, after all. I could hardly wait for morning to come, so
that I could pry more information out of Pard Hoskins.
</p>
<p>
But I didn't see Pard for a few days. And then, a week later, a group
of lifers made a break that didn't jell, and the whole bunch was locked
up in the blockhouse, the special building reserved for escapees. Pard
Hoskins was in the bunch. He'd never get out of there, and he knew it.
So did I.
</p>
<p>
For three more days I worked down my knuckles, my nails being gone,
while I sat around all hunched up, wondering feverishly if Pard would
make a deal about those emeralds. Then I broke down and sent out a
letter to the S.S.C.
</p>
<p>
The Big Sneer of the conference table promptly dropped in on me,
friendly as a bottle of strychnine. But for a lad headed for Jupiter
that was good training, so I sneered right back at him, explained the
caper, and we both paid a visit to Pard. In two days the deal was made
and the caper set up. There were a few bits of info that Pard had to
shell out, like where the emeralds were, and how to communicate with
those scorpions, and how he'd made Akroida mad.
</p>
<p>
"I put on a yeller slicker," he confessed sadly. "That there ammonia
mist was eatin' into the finish on my spacesuit, so I draped this
here slicker around me to sorta fancy up the rig before goin' in to
an audience with the old rip." He shook his head slowly. "The kid
that took me in was colorblind, so I didn't have no warning at all.
I found out that them scorpions can't stand yeller. It just plain
drives them nuts! Thought they'd chaw me up and spit me out into the
chlorine before I could get outa the damn thing. If my colorblind pal
hadn't helped me, they'd of done it, too. And Akroida claimed I done it
a-purpose to upset her."
</p>
<p>
Then he winked at me. "But then I got off in a corner and cooked up
some perfume that drives them nuts the other way; sorta frantic with
ecstasy, like the book says. Didn't have a chance to try it on Akroida,
though. She wouldn't give me another audience. It's in the stuff they
cleaned outa me room: a poiple bottle with a bright green stopper."
</p>
<p>
He ruminated a few minutes. "Tell you what, chump. Make them shell out
with a green an' poiple spacesuit—them's the real Jupiter colors—an'
put just a touch o' that there perfume on the outside of it. Akroida'll
do anything fer you if she just gets a whiff. Just anything! But
remember, don't use but a drop. It's real powerful."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Real powerful, said the man. What an understatement! But the day I was
set adrift in that sea of frozen ammonia clouds mixed with nice cozy
methane gas I sure prayed for it to be powerful, and I clutched that
tiny bottle like that boy Aladdin clutching his little old lamp.
</p>
<p>
I'd had a lot of cooperation getting that far. An Earth patrol had
slipped down onto the Red Desert of Mars and picked up the Killicut
Emeralds from where Pard Hoskins had cached them; and safe out in space
again, we had pored over that string of green headlights practically
slobbering. But the Big Sneer of the S.S.C., the fellow that had got
me into this caper, was right there to take the joy out of it all and
to remind me that this was public service, strictly.
</p>
<p>
"These—" he had proclaimed with a disdainful flourish, like a placer
miner pointing to a batch of fool's gold—"These jewels are as nothing,
Ritter, compared with the value of the secret you are to buy with
them. And be assured that if you're man enough to effect the trade—"
He paused, his long nose twitching cynically—"IF you succeed, your
reward will be triple what you could get for them in any market. Added
to which, IF you succeed, you will be a free man."
</p>
<p>
That twitch of the nose riled me no little. "I ain't failed yet!" I
snarled at him. "Just you wait till I do, feller!" I slipped the string
of emeralds back into its little safe. "Instead of sniping at me, why
don't you get that brain busy and set our rendezvous?"
</p>
<p>
With that we got down to business and fixed a meeting point out on
Jupiter's farthest moon; then they took me in to the edge of Jupiter's
ice-cloud and turned me loose in a peanut of a space boat with old Jupe
looming ahead bigger than all outdoors and the Red Spot dead ahead. I
patted my pretty enameled suit, which was a study in paris green and
passionate purple.
</p>
<p>
I patted the three hundred pounds of arsenic crystals for Akroida and
anyone else I might have to bribe. I anxiously examined my suit's air
and water containers and the heating unit that would keep them in
their proper state. I had already gone over the space boat. Yeah, I
was as nervous as a cat with new kittens. Feeling again for my little
bottle of horrid stench, I breathed a prayer to the god of idiots and
spacemen, and headed in. The big ship was long gone, and I felt like a
mighty small and naked microbe diving into the Pacific Ocean.
</p>
<p>
That famous Red Spot was that big, too. It kept expanding until the
whole universe was a fierce, raw luminous red. Out beyond it at first
there had been fringes of snow-white frozen ammonia, but now it was all
dyed redder than Mars. Then I took the plunge right into it. Surprise!
The stuff was plants! Plants as big as meadows, bright red, floating
around in those clouds of frozen ammonia like seaweed! Then I noticed
that the ammonia around them wasn't frozen any more and peeked at the
outside thermometer I couldn't believe it. It was above zero. Then I
forgot about the temperature because it dawned on me that I was lost. I
couldn't see a thing but drifting ammonia fog and those tangles of red
floating plants like little islands all around. Cutting down the motor,
I eased along.
</p>
<p>
But my green boat must have showed up like a lighthouse in all that
red, because it wasn't long until I spotted a purple and green
hopper-scorp traveling straight toward me, sort of rowing along with
a pair of stubby wings. He didn't seem to be making much effort, even
though he was climbing vertically up from the planet. In fact, he
didn't seem to be climbing at all but just going along horizontally.
There just wasn't any up or down in that crazy place. It must be that
anti-grav field, I concluded. The air was getting different, too, now
that I was further in. I'm no chemist, and I couldn't have gotten out
there to experiment if I had been, but those plants were certainly
doing something to that ammonia and methane. The fog thinned, for one
thing, and the temperature rose to nearly forty.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile the hopper-scorp reached the ship. Hastily I squirted some of
my Scorpion-Come-Hither lure on the chest of my spacesuit, opened the
lock, and popped out, brave as could be. Face to face with that thing,
though, I nearly lost my grip on the handle. In fact, I'd have fainted
dead away right there if Pard Hoskins hadn't been there already and
lived. If that little shrimp could do it, I could, too.
</p>
<p>
I braced up and tapped out the greeting Pard had taught me. My
fiendish-looking opponent tapped right back, inquiring why the hell
I was back so soon when I knew that Akroida was all set to carve me
into steaks for just any meal. But the tone was friendly and even
intimate—or rather, the taps were. There was even a rather warm
expression discernible in the thing's eyes, so I took heart and decided
to ignore the ferocious features surrounding those eyes. After all, the
poor sinner's map was made of shell, and he wasn't responsible for its
expression.
</p>
<p>
I tapped back very politely that he must be mistaking me for someone
else. "I've never been here before, and so I've never met the charming
lady," I informed him. "However, I have something very special in the
way of jewels—not with me, naturally—and the rumor is that she might
be interested."
</p>
<p>
He reared back at that, and reaching up, plucked his right eye out of
the socket and reeled it out to the end of a two-foot tentacle, and
then he examined me with it just like an old-time earl with one of
those things they called monocles. Pard hadn't warned me about those
removable eyes, for reasons best known to himself. I still wake up
screaming....
</p>
<p>
Anyway, when that thing pulled out its eye and held it toward me, I
backed up against the side of the ship like I'd been half-electrocuted.
Then I gagged. But I could still remember that I had to live in that
suit for awhile, so I held on. Then that monstrosity reeled in the eye,
and I gagged again.
</p>
<p>
My actions didn't bother him a bit. "Jewels, did you say?" he tapped
out thoughtfully, just like an ordinary business man, and I managed to
tap out yes. He drifted closer; close enough to get a whiff....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A shudder of ecstasy stiffened him. His head and eyes rolled with it,
and he wafted closer still. Right there I began to harbor a premonition
that there might be such a thing as being too popular in Scorpdom, but
I thrust this sneak-thief idea back into limbo.
</p>
<p>
Taking advantage of his condition, I boldly tapped out, "How's about
taking me on a guided tour through this red spinach patch to Akroida,
old pal?" Or words to that effect.
</p>
<p>
He lolled his hideous cranium practically on my shoulder. "Anything!
Just anything you desire, my dearest friend."
</p>
<p>
I tried to back off from him a bit, but the ship stopped me. "I'm Casey
Ritter. What's your label, chum?"
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy," he ticked coyly.
</p>
<p>
"Attaboy?" Things blurred around me. It couldn't be. It was just plain
nuts. Then I got a glimmer through my paralyzed gray matter. "Who named
you that?"
</p>
<p>
He simpered. "My dear friend, Pard Hoskins."
</p>
<p>
I breathed again. How simple could I get? He'd already mistaken me for
Pard, hadn't he? Then I remembered something else. "How come you aren't
mad at him? Don't you hate yellow, too?"
</p>
<p>
He hung his silly head. "I fear I am colorblind," he confessed sadly.
</p>
<p>
Right there I forgave him for pulling that eye on me. He was the guide
I needed, the one who had got Pard out alive. I almost hugged him.
"Lead off, old pal," I sang out, and then had to tap it. "I'll follow
in my boat."
</p>
<p>
Well, I'd met the first of the brood and was still alive. Not only
alive but loved and cherished, thanks to Pard's inventiveness and to
a kindly fate which had sent Pard's old pal my way. A great man, Pard
Hoskins. How had he made friends with the brute in the first place?
</p>
<p>
Being once more inside my spaceboat, I raised my helmet, which was like
one of those head-pieces they used to put on suits of armor instead of
the usual plastic bubble. And it was rigged out with phony antennae and
mandibles and other embellishments calculated to interest my hosts.
Whether it interested them or not, it was plenty uncomfortable for me.
</p>
<p>
Peeking out the porthole I saw that my guide was fidgeting and looking
over his shoulder at my ship, so I eased in the controls and edge after
him. To my surprise a vapor shot out of a box that I had taken for a
natural lump on his back, and he darted away from me. I opened the
throttle and tore after him among the immense red blobs that were now
beginning to be patterned with dozens of green-and-purple scorpions,
all busy filling huge baskets with buds and tendrils, no doubt.
</p>
<p>
Other scorpions oared and floated about in twos and threes in a free
and peaceable manner that almost made me forget that I was scared to
death of them, and they stared at my boat with only a mild interest
that would have taught manners to most of my fellow citizens of Earth.
</p>
<p>
It wasn't until we had covered some two hundred miles of this that
something began to loom out of the mist, and I forgot the playboys and
the field workers. It loomed higher and higher. Then we burst out into
a clearing several miles in diameter, and I saw the structure clearly.
It was red, like everything else in this screwy place, and could only
have been built out of compressed blocks of the red plant.
</p>
<p>
In shape it was a perfect octagon. It hung poised in the center of the
cleared space, suspended on nothing. It had to be at least a mile in
diameter, and its sides were pierced with thousands of openings through
which its nightmare occupants appeared and disappeared, drifting in
and out like they had all the time in the world. I stared until my
eyeballs felt paralyzed.
</p>
<p>
Pard was right again. These critters had brains. And my S.S.C.
persecutor was right, too. That anti-grav secret was worth more than
any string of rocks in the system, including the Killicut Emeralds.
</p>
<p>
Then I swallowed hard. Attaboy was leading me straight across to a
window. Closing my helmet, my fingers fumbled badly. My brain was
fumbling, too. "Zero hour, chump!" it told me, and I shuddered. Picking
up the first hundred pounds of the arsenic, I wobbled over to the
airlock.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
III
</p>
<p>
That palace was like nothing on earth. Naturally, you'll say, it's
on Jupiter. But I mean it was even queerer than that. It was like no
building on any planet at all. And, in fact, it wasn't on a planet; it
was floating up there only two hundred miles in from the raw edge of
space.
</p>
<p>
In that building everything stayed right where it was put. If it was
put twelve or fifty feet up off the floor, it stayed there. Not that
there wasn't gravity. There was plenty of gravity to suit me—just
right, in fact—and still they had furniture sitting around in the air
as solid as if on a floor. Which was fine for flying hopper-scorps, but
what about Casey Ritter, who hadn't cultivated even a feather?
</p>
<p>
Attaboy, however, had the answers for everything. Towing me from the
airlock to the window ledge, he again sniffed that delectable odor on
my chest, caressed me with his front pair of legs while I manfully
endured, and then without warning tossed me onto his back above the
little box and flew off with me along a tunnel with luminous red walls.
</p>
<p>
We finally came to the central hall of the palace, and at the sight
of all that space dropping away, I clutched at his shell and nearly
dropped the arsenic. But he didn't have any brakes I could grab, so he
just flew out into mid-air in a room that could have swallowed a city
block, skyscrapers and all. It was like a mammoth red cavern, and it
glowed like the inside of a red light.
</p>
<p>
No wonder those scorpions like green and purple. What a relief from all
that red!
</p>
<p>
A patch in the middle of the hall became a floating platform holding up
a divan twenty feet square covered with stuff as green as new spring
grass, and in the center of this reclined Akroida. It had to be. Who
else could look like that? No one, believe me, boys and girls, no one!
</p>
<p>
Our little Akroida was a pure and peculiarly violent purple—not a
green edge anywhere. She was even more purple than my fancy enameled
space suit, and she was big enough to comfortably fill most of that
twenty-foot couch. To my shrinking eyes right then she looked as big as
a ten-ton cannon and twice as mean and dangerous. She was idly nipping
here and there as though she was just itching to take a hunk out of
somebody, and the way the servants were edging away out around her, I
could see they didn't want to get in range. I didn't blame them a bit.
Under the vicious sag of her Roman nose, her mandibles kept grinding,
shaking the jewels that were hung all over her repulsive carcass, and
making the Halcyon Diamond on her chest blaze like a bonfire.
</p>
<p>
Attaboy dumped me onto a floating cushion where I lay clutching and
shuddering away from her and from the void all around me, and went
across to her alone with the arsenic.
</p>
<p>
Akroida rose up sort of languidly on an elbow that was all stripped
bone and sharp as a needle. She pulled an eyeball out about a yard and
scanned Attaboy and the box. He closed in to the couch all hunched
over, ducked his head humbly half-a-dozen times, and pushed the box
over beside her. Akroida eased her eyeball back, opened the box and
sniffed, and then turned to Attaboy with a full-blown Satanic grin. I
could hear her question reverberate away over where I was.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" asked Akroida.
</p>
<p>
That conversation was telegraphed to me blow by blow by the actions of
those hopper-scorps. I didn't need their particular brand of Morse Code
at all.
</p>
<p>
"Who from?" Attaboy cringed lower and blushed a purple all-over blush.
"Dear lady, it is from an interspace trader who possesses some truly
remarkable jewels," he confessed coyly.
</p>
<p>
Akroida toyed with the Halcyon Diamond and ignored the bait. "His
name?" she demanded. And when he told her, with a bad stutter in
his code, she reared up higher on her skinny elbow and glared in my
direction. "Casey Ritter? Never heard of him. Where's he from?"
</p>
<p>
Well, after all, she wasn't blind. He had to confess. "I—uh—the
stones were so amazing, Royal Akroida, that I didn't pay much attention
to the—uh—trader. He does seem to resemble an—ah—earthman." He
ducked his head and fearfully waited.
</p>
<p>
A sort of jerking quiver ran through Akroida. She reared up even
higher. Her mean Roman nose twitched. "An earthman? Like Pard Hoskins?"
</p>
<p>
Attaboy shrank smaller and smaller. He could only nod dumbly.
</p>
<p>
The storm broke, all right. That old dame let out a scream like a
maddened stallion and began to thrash around and flail her couch with
that dragon's tail of hers.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Attaboy was Pard's colorblind friend\n(B) The perfume doesn't work\n(C) Akroida really loves jewels\n(D) Pard was working for the S.S.C.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Jupiter (Planet) -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction"
} |
61139 | What was on exhibit in the Groacian parade?
Choices:
(A) Groacian government officials
(B) people they had taken as prisoners
(C) animals from all over the galaxy
(D) people visiting from Earth | [
"B",
"people they had taken as prisoners"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE MADMAN FROM EARTH
</h1>
<h2>
BY KEITH LAUMER
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
You don't have to be crazy to be an earth
<br/>
diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
I
</p>
<p>
"The Consul for the Terrestrial States," Retief said, "presents his
compliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian
Autonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend a
recital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret that
he will be unable—"
</p>
<p>
"You can't turn this invitation down," Administrative Assistant Meuhl
said flatly. "I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'."
</p>
<p>
Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.
</p>
<p>
"Miss Meuhl," he said, "in the past couple of weeks I've sat through
six light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows how
many assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-duty
hour since I got here—"
</p>
<p>
"You can't offend the Groaci," Miss Meuhl said sharply. "Consul Whaffle
would never have been so rude."
</p>
<p>
"Whaffle left here three months ago," Retief said, "leaving me in
charge."
</p>
<p>
"Well," Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. "I'm sure I don't
know what excuse I can give the Minister."
</p>
<p>
"Never mind the excuses," Retief said. "Just tell him I won't be
there." He stood up.
</p>
<p>
"Are you leaving the office?" Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. "I have
some important letters here for your signature."
</p>
<p>
"I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl," Retief said,
pulling on a light cape.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted
them."
</p>
<p>
"Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?"
</p>
<p>
"Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man," Miss Meuhl said stiffly.
"He had complete confidence in me."
</p>
<p>
"Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on," Retief said, "I won't
be so busy."
</p>
<p>
"Well!" Miss Meuhl said. "May I ask where you'll be if something comes
up?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. "Whatever for?"
</p>
<p>
Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. "You've been here on Groac
for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that put
the present government in power?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure I haven't pried into—"
</p>
<p>
"What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out this
way about ten years back?"
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we
<i>
avoid
</i>
with the
Groaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—"
</p>
<p>
"Why?"
</p>
<p>
"The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders
raking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live down
the fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one
occasion."
</p>
<p>
"You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?"
</p>
<p>
"I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,
grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We try
never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief."
</p>
<p>
"They never found the cruiser, did they?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not on Groac."
</p>
<p>
Retief nodded. "Thanks, Miss Meuhl," he said. "I'll be back before
you close the office." Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grim
disapproval as he closed the door.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed
bleat.
</p>
<p>
"Not to enter the Archives," he said in his faint voice. "The denial of
permission. The deep regret of the Archivist."
</p>
<p>
"The importance of my task here," Retief said, enunciating the glottal
dialect with difficulty. "My interest in local history."
</p>
<p>
"The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly."
</p>
<p>
"The necessity that I enter."
</p>
<p>
"The specific instructions of the Archivist." The Groacian's voice rose
to a whisper. "To insist no longer. To give up this idea!"
</p>
<p>
"OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked," Retief said in Terran. "To keep
your nose clean."
</p>
<p>
Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved
windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the
direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians on
the street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsy
high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.
The air was clean and cool.
</p>
<p>
At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list of
complaints.
</p>
<p>
Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.
An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate the
Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
</p>
<p>
A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from
the bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze in
mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
</p>
<p>
"To enjoy a cooling drink," Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at
the edge of the pit. "To sample a true Groacian beverage."
</p>
<p>
"To not enjoy my poor offerings," the Groacian mumbled. "A pain in the
digestive sacs; to express regret."
</p>
<p>
"To not worry," Retief said, irritated. "To pour it out and let me
decide whether I like it."
</p>
<p>
"To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners." The
barkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,
eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.
</p>
<p>
"To get the lead out," Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the
dish provided. "To shake a tentacle."
</p>
<p>
"The procuring of a cage," a thin voice called from the sidelines. "The
displaying of a freak."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture
of contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent the
creature was drunk.
</p>
<p>
"To choke in your upper sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes
toward the drunk. "To keep silent, litter-mate of drones."
</p>
<p>
"To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness," the drunk
whispered. "To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece." He wavered
toward Retief. "To show this one in the streets, like all freaks."
</p>
<p>
"Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you?" Retief asked, interestedly.
</p>
<p>
"To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. The
barkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,
took his arms and helped him to the door.
</p>
<p>
"To get a cage!" the drunk shrilled. "To keep the animals in their own
stinking place."
</p>
<p>
"I've changed my mind," Retief said to the bartender. "To be grateful
as hell, but to have to hurry off now." He followed the drunk out the
door. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief looked
at the weaving alien.
</p>
<p>
"To begone, freak," the Groacian whispered.
</p>
<p>
"To be pals," Retief said. "To be kind to dumb animals."
</p>
<p>
"To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock."
</p>
<p>
"To not be angry, fragrant native," Retief said. "To permit me to chum
with you."
</p>
<p>
"To flee before I take a cane to you!"
</p>
<p>
"To have a drink together—"
</p>
<p>
"To not endure such insolence!" The Groacian advanced toward Retief.
Retief backed away.
</p>
<p>
"To hold hands," Retief said. "To be palsy-walsy—"
</p>
<p>
The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,
head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrow
crossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,
who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow
alley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the following
Groacian.
</p>
<p>
Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian
fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;
Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.
</p>
<p>
"To not be going anywhere for a few minutes," Retief said. "To stay
right here and have a nice long talk."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
II
</p>
<p>
"There you are!" Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. "There
are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen."
</p>
<p>
"Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast." Retief pulled off his
cape. "This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign
Ministry."
</p>
<p>
"What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind telling
you."
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder."
</p>
<p>
Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments
indicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a
courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.
</p>
<p>
"I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.
Consul," the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. "May I present
Shluh, of the Internal Police?"
</p>
<p>
"Sit down, gentlemen," Retief said. They resumed their seats. Miss
Meuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it's such a pleasure—" she began.
</p>
<p>
"Never mind that," Retief said. "These gentlemen didn't come here to
sip tea today."
</p>
<p>
"So true," Fith said. "Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,
Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it." He nodded to the police
chief.
</p>
<p>
"One hour ago," The Groacian said, "a Groacian national was brought
to hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of this
individual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by a
foreigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my department
indicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that of
the Terrestrial Consul."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever heard," Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, "of a
Terrestrial cruiser, the
<i>
ISV Terrific
</i>
, which dropped from sight in
this sector nine years ago?"
</p>
<p>
"Really!" Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. "I wash my hands—"
</p>
<p>
"Just keep that recorder going," Retief snapped.
</p>
<p>
"I'll not be a party—"
</p>
<p>
"You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl," Retief said quietly. "I'm
telling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl sat down.
</p>
<p>
Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. "You reopen an old wound,
Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrial
hands—"
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash," Retief said. "That tune went over with my predecessors, but
it hits a sour note with me."
</p>
<p>
"All our efforts," Miss Meuhl said, "to live down that terrible
episode! And you—"
</p>
<p>
"Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groac
and sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funny
answers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.
Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they were
innocent."
</p>
<p>
"IF!" Miss Meuhl burst out.
</p>
<p>
"If, indeed!" Fith said, his weak voice trembling. "I must protest
your—"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don't
think your story will be good enough."
</p>
<p>
"It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—"
</p>
<p>
"Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory."
</p>
<p>
"Then you admit—"
</p>
<p>
"It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind to
it."
</p>
<p>
Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.
</p>
<p>
"I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not for
your diplomatic immunity, I should do more—"
</p>
<p>
"Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task force
paid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrial
diplomatic mission."
</p>
<p>
"This is an internal matter!" Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.
"The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. It
has outdone itself—"
</p>
<p>
"—to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark," Retief
said. "And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you've
visaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside the
diplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, or
your satellite—"
</p>
<p>
"Enough!" Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. "I can talk no more of
this matter—"
</p>
<p>
"You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to do
the talking," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"You can't!" Miss Meuhl gasped.
</p>
<p>
Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. The
Groaci sat down.
</p>
<p>
"Answer me this one," Retief said, looking at Shluh. "A few years
back—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Some
curious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,
they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through the
streets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.
</p>
<p>
"Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed to
communicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.
</p>
<p>
"Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after the
parade was over?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluh
retracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened her
mouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.
</p>
<p>
"How did they die?" Retief snapped. "Did you murder them, cut their
throats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figure
out for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made them
yell...."
</p>
<p>
"No!" Fith gasped. "I must correct this terrible false impression at
once."
</p>
<p>
"False impression, hell," Retief said. "They were Terrans! A simple
narco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw the
parade."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Fith said weakly. "It is true, they were Terrestrials. But there
was no killing."
</p>
<p>
"They're alive?"
</p>
<p>
"Alas, no. They ... died."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.
</p>
<p>
"I see," Retief said. "They died."
</p>
<p>
"We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know what
foods—"
</p>
<p>
"Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?"
</p>
<p>
"They fell ill," Fith said. "One by one...."
</p>
<p>
"We'll deal with that question later," Retief said. "Right now, I want
more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?
What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before the
big parade?"
</p>
<p>
"There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!"
</p>
<p>
"Killed in the crash landing?"
</p>
<p>
"No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...
Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They were
strange to us. We had never before seen such beings."
</p>
<p>
"Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?"
</p>
<p>
"Guns? No, no guns—"
</p>
<p>
"They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;
helped them to death."
</p>
<p>
"How could we know?" Fith moaned.
</p>
<p>
"How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months looking
for them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had a
brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A close
call, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"We were afraid," Shluh said. "We are a simple people. We feared the
strange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but we
felt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warships
came, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged our
guilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered our
friendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We made
a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make
amends...."
</p>
<p>
"Where is the ship?"
</p>
<p>
"The ship?"
</p>
<p>
"What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.
Where is it?"
</p>
<p>
The two Groacians exchanged looks.
</p>
<p>
"We wish to show our contrition," Fith said. "We will show you the
ship."
</p>
<p>
"Miss Meuhl," Retief said. "If I don't come back in a reasonable length
of time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed." He
stood, looked at the Groaci.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go," he said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.
He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.
</p>
<p>
"Any lights in here?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.
</p>
<p>
Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty
emplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking was
visible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVS
Terrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.
</p>
<p>
"How did you get it in here?" Retief asked.
</p>
<p>
"It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,"
Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. "This is a natural crevasse.
The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over."
</p>
<p>
"How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?"
</p>
<p>
"All here is high-grade iron ore," Fith said, waving a member. "Great
veins of almost pure metal."
</p>
<p>
Retief grunted. "Let's go inside."
</p>
<p>
Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.
</p>
<p>
Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interior
of the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchions
where acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrument
panels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thin
frosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches had
sliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.
</p>
<p>
"The cargo compartment—" Shluh began.
</p>
<p>
"I've seen enough," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and
into the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to the
steam car, Fith came to Retief's side.
</p>
<p>
"Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,"
he said. "Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—"
</p>
<p>
"You can skip all that," Retief said. "You're nine years late. The
crew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killed
them—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting what
you'd done."
</p>
<p>
"We were at fault," Fith said abjectly. "Now we wish only friendship."
</p>
<p>
"The
<i>
Terrific
</i>
was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons."
Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. "Where is
she, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.
</p>
<p>
"I know nothing of ... of...." He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidly
as he struggled for calm.
</p>
<p>
"My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,"
he said at last. "I have been completely candid with you, I have
overlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere of
responsibility. My patience is at an end."
</p>
<p>
"Where is that ship?" Retief rapped out. "You never learn, do you?
You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'm
telling you you can't."
</p>
<p>
"We return to the city now," Fith said. "I can do no more."
</p>
<p>
"You can and you will, Fith," Retief said. "I intend to get to the
truth of this matter."
</p>
<p>
Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to his
four armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.
</p>
<p>
Retief eyed Fith. "Don't try it," he said. "You'll just get yourself in
deeper."
</p>
<p>
Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressively
toward the Terrestrial.
</p>
<p>
"Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shall
ignore your insulting remarks," Fith said in his reedy voice. "Let us
now return to the city."
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at the four policemen. "I see your point," he said.
</p>
<p>
Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.
</p>
<p>
"I advise you to remain very close to your consulate," Fith said. "I
advise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy the
cultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture out
of the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only to
the Groacian government."
</p>
<p>
In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprung
vehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened to
the rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
III
</p>
<p>
"Miss Meuhl," Retief said, "I want you to listen carefully to what I'm
going to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci off
guard."
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Miss Meuhl snapped,
her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.
</p>
<p>
"If you'll listen, you may find out," Retief said. "I have no time
to waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—I
hope—and that may give me the latitude I need."
</p>
<p>
"You're still determined to make an issue of that incident!" Miss
Meuhl snorted. "I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not a
sophisticated race; they had never before met aliens."
</p>
<p>
"You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not what
happened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.
I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.
Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have come
far. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to know
where!"
</p>
<p>
"The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You can
do irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—"
</p>
<p>
"That's my decision," Retief said. "I have a job to do and we're
wasting time." He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer and
took out a slim-barreled needler.
</p>
<p>
"This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know the
Groaci. I think I can get past them all right."
</p>
<p>
"Where are you going with ... that?" Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.
"What in the world—"
</p>
<p>
"The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in
their files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need before
it's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'll
find nothing but blank smiles."
</p>
<p>
"You're out of your mind!" Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering with
indignation. "You're like a ... a...."
</p>
<p>
"You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move for
the Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who know
what happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffed
him out—for the moment."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. "Your fantasies are getting the
better of you," she gasped. "In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I've
never heard anything so ridiculous."
</p>
<p>
"Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food and
water in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut the
supply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep in
touch with you via hand-phone."
</p>
<p>
"What are you planning to do?"
</p>
<p>
"If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of this
afternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.
Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you've
done and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy to
blast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.
A force can be here in a week."
</p>
<p>
"I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...
Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—"
</p>
<p>
"Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better," Retief said, "but
don't be fool enough to trust them." He pulled on a cape, opened the
door.
</p>
<p>
"I'll be back in a couple of hours," he said. Miss Meuhl stared after
him silently as he closed the door.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to the
safe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He looked
tired.
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked at
Retief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.
</p>
<p>
"What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to your
clothing?"
</p>
<p>
"I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it." Retief went to his desk,
opened a drawer and replaced the needler.
</p>
<p>
"Where have you been?" Miss Meuhl demanded. "I stayed here—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm glad you did," Retief said. "I hope you piled up a supply of food
and water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,
at least." He jotted figures on a pad. "Warm up the official sender. I
have a long transmission for Regional Headquarters."
</p>
<p>
"Are you going to tell me where you've been?"
</p>
<p>
"I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl," Retief said sharply.
"I've been to the Foreign Ministry," he added. "I'll tell you all about
it later."
</p>
<p>
"At this hour? There's no one there...."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly."
</p>
<p>
Miss Meuhl gasped. "You mean you broke in? You burgled the Foreign
Office?"
</p>
<p>
"That's right," Retief said calmly. "Now—"
</p>
<p>
"This is absolutely the end!" Miss Meuhl said. "Thank heaven I've
already—"
</p>
<p>
"Get that sender going, woman!" Retief snapped. "This is important."
</p>
<p>
"I've already done so, Mr. Retief!" Miss Meuhl said harshly. "I've been
waiting for you to come back here...." She turned to the communicator,
flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distance
image appeared.
</p>
<p>
"He's here now," Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retief
triumphantly.
</p>
<p>
"That's good," Retief said. "I don't think the Groaci can knock us off
the air, but—"
</p>
<p>
"I have done my duty, Mr. Retief," Miss Meuhl said. "I made a full
report to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left this
office. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decision
have been completely dispelled by what you've just told me."
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at her levelly. "You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Did
you mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?"
</p>
<p>
"That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,
in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality less
suited to diplomatic work."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.
"Mr. Retief," the face on the screen said, "I am Counsellor Pardy,
DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received a
report on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve you
administratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findings
of a Board of Inquiry, you will—"
</p>
<p>
Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphant
look faded from Miss Meuhl's face.
</p>
<p>
"Why, what is the meaning—"
</p>
<p>
"If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn't
ignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,"
Retief went on earnestly, "I've found the missing cruiser."
</p>
<p>
"You heard him relieve you!"
</p>
<p>
"I heard him say he was
<i>
going
</i>
to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heard
and acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'll
get my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassing
all around."
</p>
<p>
"You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now." Miss Meuhl
stepped to the local communicator.
</p>
<p>
"I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, and
offer my profound—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't touch that screen," Retief said. "You go sit in that corner
where I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape for
transmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed task
force. Then we'll settle down to wait."
</p>
<p>
Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.
</p>
<p>
The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.
</p>
<p>
"Go ahead," Retief said. "Answer it."
</p>
<p>
A Groacian official appeared on the screen.
</p>
<p>
"Yolanda Meuhl," he said without preamble, "for the Foreign Minister of
the Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consul
to Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my government
direct from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requested
to make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, in
connection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry into
the offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs."
</p>
<p>
"Why, why," Miss Meuhl stammered. "Yes, of course. And I do want to
express my deepest regrets—"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.
</p>
<p>
"Listen carefully, Fith," he said. "Your bluff has been called. You
don't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nine
years, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resist
the temptation to make matters worse than they are."
</p>
<p>
"Miss Meuhl," Fith said, "a peace squad waits outside your consulate.
It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, the
Groaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't bother," Retief said. "You know what was in those files I looked
over this morning."
</p>
<p>
Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,
reaching for the safe-lock release....
</p>
<p>
"Don't!" Retief jumped—too late.
</p>
<p>
The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,
pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police Chief
Shluh pushed forward.
</p>
<p>
"Attempt no violence, Terrestrial," he said. "I cannot promise to
restrain my men."
</p>
<p>
"You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh," Retief said steadily.
"I suggest you move back out the same way you came in."
</p>
<p>
"I invited them here," Miss Meuhl spoke up. "They are here at my
express wish."
</p>
<p>
"Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squad
of armed Groaci in the consulate?"
</p>
<p>
"You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl," Shluh said. "Would it not be
best if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?"
</p>
<p>
"You're making a serious mistake, Shluh," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Miss Meuhl said. "You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escort
Mr. Retief to his quarters in this building—"
</p>
<p>
"I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith," Retief
said.
</p>
<p>
"As chief of mission," Miss Meuhl said quickly, "I hereby waive
immunity in the case of Mr. Retief."
</p>
<p>
Shluh produced a hand recorder. "Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,
officially," he said. "I wish no question to arise later."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be a fool, woman," Retief said. "Don't you see what you're
letting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you to
figure out whose side you're on."
</p>
<p>
"I'm on the side of common decency!"
</p>
<p>
"You've been taken in. These people are concealing—"
</p>
<p>
"You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief?" She turned to
the police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.
</p>
<p>
"That's an illegal waiver," Retief said. "I'm consul here, whatever
rumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whatever
you do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacian
atrocities."
</p>
<p>
"Take the man," Shluh said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Groacian government officials\n(B) people they had taken as prisoners\n(C) animals from all over the galaxy\n(D) people visiting from Earth",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Diplomats -- Fiction; Detective and mystery stories; Science fiction; Retief (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; PS; Life on other planets -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
63304 | How did Svan feel about the Earthlings?
Choices:
(A) They're evil, and the Venusians should fight them.
(B) They need to be destroyed, no matter the cost.
(C) Some may have good intentions, but they shouldn't be allowed to come back.
(D) They can't be trusted, and they should continue to spy on them. | [
"B",
"They need to be destroyed, no matter the cost."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
DOUBLECROSS
</h1>
<h2>
by JAMES Mac CREIGH
</h2>
<p>
Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the
<br/>
descendant of the first Earthmen to
<br/>
land. Svan was the leader making the final
<br/>
plans—plotting them a bit too well.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.
There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioning
perfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all the
same. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the open
lock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. He
turned.
</p>
<p>
"Everything shipshape, I take it!" he commented.
</p>
<p>
The OD nodded. "I'll have a blank log if this keeps up," he said.
"Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, drivers
ready to lift as soon as they come back."
</p>
<p>
The Exec tossed away his cigarette. "
<i>
If
</i>
they come back."
</p>
<p>
"Is there any question?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged. "I don't know, Lowry," he said. "This is a funny
place. I don't trust the natives."
</p>
<p>
Lowry lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? But after all, they're human beings,
just like us—"
</p>
<p>
"Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don't
even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them."
</p>
<p>
"Acclimation," Lowry said scientifically. "They had to acclimate
themselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough."
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were the
outskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-present
Venusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from
the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned
proton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazing
wonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line of
guards.
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Lowry said suddenly, "there's a minority who are afraid
of us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.
They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we
know Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry underground
group that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the
native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that
is—right down into the mud. Well—" he laughed—"maybe they will.
After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—"
</p>
<p>
The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic
voice rasped: "Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments
reports a spy ray focused on the main lock!"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and
stared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure
enough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He
snatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.
"Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party!" But
even while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenly
and went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.
</p>
<p>
The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, "You see!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You see?"
</p>
<p>
Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five
others in the room looked apprehensive. "You see?" Svan repeated. "From
their own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right."
</p>
<p>
The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, in
spite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her
head. "Svan, I'm afraid," she said. "Who are we to decide if this
is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be
trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood."
</p>
<p>
Svan laughed harshly. "
<i>
They
</i>
don't think so. You heard them. We are
not human any more. The officer said it."
</p>
<p>
The other woman spoke unexpectedly. "The Council was right," she
agreed. "Svan, what must we do?"
</p>
<p>
Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. "One moment. Ingra, do you still
object?"
</p>
<p>
The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked
around at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly
convinced by Svan.
</p>
<p>
"No," she said slowly. "I do not object."
</p>
<p>
"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?"
</p>
<p>
Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of
assent.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan. "Then we must act. The Council has told us that we
alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the
Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not
return."
</p>
<p>
An old man shifted restlessly. "But they are strong, Svan," he
complained. "They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay."
</p>
<p>
Svan nodded. "No. They will leave. But they will never get back to
Earth."
</p>
<p>
"Never get back to Earth?" the old man gasped. "Has the Council
authorized—murder?"
</p>
<p>
Svan shrugged. "The Council did not know what we would face. The
Councilmen could not come to the city and see what strength the
Earth-ship has." He paused dangerously. "Toller," he said, "do you
object?"
</p>
<p>
Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was
dull. "What is your plan?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his
feet, held up a shiny metal globe. "One of us will plant this in the
ship. It will be set by means of this dial—" he touched a spot on the
surface of the globe with a pallid finger—"to do nothing for forty
hours. Then—it will explode. Atomite."
</p>
<p>
He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin
faded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,
irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves
off a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made a
mark on one of them, held it up.
</p>
<p>
"We will let chance decide who is to do the work," he said angrily. "Is
there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think...."
</p>
<p>
No answer. Svan jerked his head. "Good," he said. "Ingra, bring me that
bowl."
</p>
<p>
Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm
of her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a few
left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly
creasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred it
with his hand, offered it to the girl. "You first, Ingra," he said.
</p>
<p>
She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip
and held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan
himself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at their
slips.
</p>
<p>
Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.
"This is the plan," he said. "We will go, all six of us, in my ground
car, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city
has been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we can
find. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.
The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the
car—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. The
guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,
after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is to
it. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the side
of the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in the
dark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel away
from the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed."
</p>
<p>
There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that
uncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: "Look at the slips!"
</p>
<p>
Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.
Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,
striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....
</p>
<p>
And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second's
glance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.
Almost he was disappointed.
</p>
<p>
Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was looking
up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen
one to announce it—a second, ten seconds....
</p>
<p>
Then gray understanding came to him.
<i>
A traitor!
</i>
his subconscious
whispered.
<i>
A coward!
</i>
He stared at them in a new light, saw their
indecision magnified, became opposition.
</p>
<p>
Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a
coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might
be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting
every one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions
of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.
Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftly
beneath the table, marked his own slip.
</p>
<p>
In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in
secret. His voice was very tired as he said, "I will plant the bomb."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the
main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except
for deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before the
entrance to the town's Hall of Justice.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan, observing them. "The delegation is still here. We
have ample time."
</p>
<p>
He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching
the faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.
Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?
</p>
<p>
The right answer leaped up at him.
<i>
They all are
</i>
, he thought.
<i>
Not one
of them understands what this means. They're afraid.
</i>
</p>
<p>
He clamped his lips. "Go faster, Ingra," he ordered the girl who was
driving. "Let's get this done with."
</p>
<p>
She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her
eyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsy
car jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quite
dark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,
illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of the
jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The
present shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall off
again, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.
</p>
<p>
A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silence
that followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: "Halt!"
</p>
<p>
The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the
brakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them
from the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.
</p>
<p>
"Where are you going?" he growled.
</p>
<p>
Svan spoke up. "We want to look at the Earth-ship," he said. He opened
the door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. "We heard
it was leaving tonight," he continued, "and we have not seen it. Is
that not permitted?"
</p>
<p>
The guard shook his head sourly. "No one is allowed near the ship. The
order was just issued. It is thought there is danger."
</p>
<p>
Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. "It
is urgent," he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a
complicated gesture. "Do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced by
a sudden flare of understanding—and fear. "The Council!" he roared.
"By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—"
He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was
faster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.
He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over against
the splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svan
savagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-like
nails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strength
in his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initial
advantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guard
lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had
ruthlessly pounded it against the road.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the
petrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,
then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Over
the shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of the
jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be
no trace.
</p>
<p>
Svan strode back to the car. "Hurry up," he gasped to the girl. "Now
there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep
a watch for other guards."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.
Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bow
of the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.
</p>
<p>
"Can't see a thing," he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away
at the computer's table. "Look—are those lights over there?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. "Probably the guards. Of
course, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party."
</p>
<p>
Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found no
answer in his stolid face. "Don't joke about it," he said. "Suppose
something happens to the delegation?"
</p>
<p>
"Then we're in the soup," the Exec said philosophically. "I told you
the natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the
last three hundred years."
</p>
<p>
"It isn't all the natives," Lowry said. "Look how they've doubled the
guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they
know how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this
secret group they call the Council."
</p>
<p>
"And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?" the
Exec retorted. "They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone
out now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to be
coming from the town, anyhow...."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the
lights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartment
under the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to get
the atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.
Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been
<i>
two
</i>
bombs in
the compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.
</p>
<p>
He got out of the car, holding the sphere. "This will do for me," he
said. "They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we
were wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?"
</p>
<p>
Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. "We must circle back
again," she parroted. "We are to wait five minutes, then drive the car
into the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards."
</p>
<p>
Svan, listening, thought:
<i>
It's not much of a plan. The guards would
not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If
they must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve a
purpose.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Aloud, he said, "You understand. If I get through, I will return to the
city on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, because
the bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,
you are in no danger from the guards."
</p>
<p>
<i>
From the guards
</i>
, his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would
feel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite in
that bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in a
ground-shaking crash.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting
off the seconds. "Go ahead," he ordered. "I will wait here."
</p>
<p>
"Svan." The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached
for him, kissed him. "Good luck to you, Svan," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Good luck," repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor of
the car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,
sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a few
hundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.
</p>
<p>
Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?
Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?
</p>
<p>
There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was
driven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And
since he could not know which was the one who had received the marked
slip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.
</p>
<p>
He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and the
jungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmed
lights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made by
its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling
figures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.
They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with those
slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to the
side of the ship.
</p>
<p>
Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.
He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers went
absently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. He
turned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the first
cross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground car
was racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glare
of its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.
</p>
<p>
Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. "Svan! They're coming! They found
the guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,
with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and came
for you. We must flee!"
</p>
<p>
He stared unseeingly at the light. "Go away!" he croaked unbelievingly.
Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bomb
in the car—
</p>
<p>
"Go away!" he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched and
swinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps before
something immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself lifted
from the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating force
onto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear the
sound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began to
feel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....
</p>
<p>
The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. "He's still alive," he said
callously to Lowry, who had just come up. "It won't last long, though.
What've you got there?"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the two
halves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where a
connection had been broken. "He had a bomb," he said. "A magnetic-type,
delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,
and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us."
</p>
<p>
"Amazing," the surgeon said dryly. "Well, they won't do any bombing
now."
</p>
<p>
Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.
The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
"Better them than us," he said. "It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.
They had it coming...." He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece of
paper between his fingers. "This is the only part I don't get," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" Lowry craned his neck. "A piece of paper with a cross on
it? What about it?"
</p>
<p>
The surgeon shrugged. "He had it clenched in his hand," he said. "Had
the devil of a time getting it loose from him." He turned it over
slowly, displayed the other side. "Now what in the world would he be
doing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?"
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They're evil, and the Venusians should fight them.\n(B) They need to be destroyed, no matter the cost.\n(C) Some may have good intentions, but they shouldn't be allowed to come back.\n(D) They can't be trusted, and they should continue to spy on them.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Revolutionaries -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; PS"
} |
63304 | How did the other five people feel about Svan?
Choices:
(A) They don't want to upset him, but they won't tell him he's wrong.
(B) Scared of his dangerous plan, but willing to follow him.
(C) Unsure that what he's doing is best for Venus.
(D) They think he's gone too far and aren't willing to do the dangerous deed. | [
"B",
"Scared of his dangerous plan, but willing to follow him."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
DOUBLECROSS
</h1>
<h2>
by JAMES Mac CREIGH
</h2>
<p>
Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the
<br/>
descendant of the first Earthmen to
<br/>
land. Svan was the leader making the final
<br/>
plans—plotting them a bit too well.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.
There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioning
perfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all the
same. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the open
lock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. He
turned.
</p>
<p>
"Everything shipshape, I take it!" he commented.
</p>
<p>
The OD nodded. "I'll have a blank log if this keeps up," he said.
"Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, drivers
ready to lift as soon as they come back."
</p>
<p>
The Exec tossed away his cigarette. "
<i>
If
</i>
they come back."
</p>
<p>
"Is there any question?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged. "I don't know, Lowry," he said. "This is a funny
place. I don't trust the natives."
</p>
<p>
Lowry lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? But after all, they're human beings,
just like us—"
</p>
<p>
"Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don't
even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them."
</p>
<p>
"Acclimation," Lowry said scientifically. "They had to acclimate
themselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough."
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were the
outskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-present
Venusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from
the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned
proton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazing
wonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line of
guards.
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Lowry said suddenly, "there's a minority who are afraid
of us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.
They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we
know Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry underground
group that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the
native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that
is—right down into the mud. Well—" he laughed—"maybe they will.
After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—"
</p>
<p>
The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic
voice rasped: "Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments
reports a spy ray focused on the main lock!"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and
stared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure
enough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He
snatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.
"Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party!" But
even while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenly
and went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.
</p>
<p>
The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, "You see!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You see?"
</p>
<p>
Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five
others in the room looked apprehensive. "You see?" Svan repeated. "From
their own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right."
</p>
<p>
The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, in
spite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her
head. "Svan, I'm afraid," she said. "Who are we to decide if this
is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be
trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood."
</p>
<p>
Svan laughed harshly. "
<i>
They
</i>
don't think so. You heard them. We are
not human any more. The officer said it."
</p>
<p>
The other woman spoke unexpectedly. "The Council was right," she
agreed. "Svan, what must we do?"
</p>
<p>
Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. "One moment. Ingra, do you still
object?"
</p>
<p>
The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked
around at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly
convinced by Svan.
</p>
<p>
"No," she said slowly. "I do not object."
</p>
<p>
"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?"
</p>
<p>
Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of
assent.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan. "Then we must act. The Council has told us that we
alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the
Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not
return."
</p>
<p>
An old man shifted restlessly. "But they are strong, Svan," he
complained. "They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay."
</p>
<p>
Svan nodded. "No. They will leave. But they will never get back to
Earth."
</p>
<p>
"Never get back to Earth?" the old man gasped. "Has the Council
authorized—murder?"
</p>
<p>
Svan shrugged. "The Council did not know what we would face. The
Councilmen could not come to the city and see what strength the
Earth-ship has." He paused dangerously. "Toller," he said, "do you
object?"
</p>
<p>
Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was
dull. "What is your plan?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his
feet, held up a shiny metal globe. "One of us will plant this in the
ship. It will be set by means of this dial—" he touched a spot on the
surface of the globe with a pallid finger—"to do nothing for forty
hours. Then—it will explode. Atomite."
</p>
<p>
He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin
faded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,
irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves
off a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made a
mark on one of them, held it up.
</p>
<p>
"We will let chance decide who is to do the work," he said angrily. "Is
there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think...."
</p>
<p>
No answer. Svan jerked his head. "Good," he said. "Ingra, bring me that
bowl."
</p>
<p>
Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm
of her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a few
left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly
creasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred it
with his hand, offered it to the girl. "You first, Ingra," he said.
</p>
<p>
She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip
and held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan
himself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at their
slips.
</p>
<p>
Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.
"This is the plan," he said. "We will go, all six of us, in my ground
car, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city
has been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we can
find. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.
The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the
car—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. The
guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,
after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is to
it. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the side
of the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in the
dark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel away
from the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed."
</p>
<p>
There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that
uncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: "Look at the slips!"
</p>
<p>
Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.
Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,
striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....
</p>
<p>
And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second's
glance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.
Almost he was disappointed.
</p>
<p>
Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was looking
up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen
one to announce it—a second, ten seconds....
</p>
<p>
Then gray understanding came to him.
<i>
A traitor!
</i>
his subconscious
whispered.
<i>
A coward!
</i>
He stared at them in a new light, saw their
indecision magnified, became opposition.
</p>
<p>
Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a
coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might
be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting
every one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions
of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.
Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftly
beneath the table, marked his own slip.
</p>
<p>
In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in
secret. His voice was very tired as he said, "I will plant the bomb."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the
main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except
for deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before the
entrance to the town's Hall of Justice.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan, observing them. "The delegation is still here. We
have ample time."
</p>
<p>
He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching
the faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.
Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?
</p>
<p>
The right answer leaped up at him.
<i>
They all are
</i>
, he thought.
<i>
Not one
of them understands what this means. They're afraid.
</i>
</p>
<p>
He clamped his lips. "Go faster, Ingra," he ordered the girl who was
driving. "Let's get this done with."
</p>
<p>
She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her
eyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsy
car jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quite
dark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,
illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of the
jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The
present shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall off
again, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.
</p>
<p>
A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silence
that followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: "Halt!"
</p>
<p>
The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the
brakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them
from the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.
</p>
<p>
"Where are you going?" he growled.
</p>
<p>
Svan spoke up. "We want to look at the Earth-ship," he said. He opened
the door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. "We heard
it was leaving tonight," he continued, "and we have not seen it. Is
that not permitted?"
</p>
<p>
The guard shook his head sourly. "No one is allowed near the ship. The
order was just issued. It is thought there is danger."
</p>
<p>
Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. "It
is urgent," he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a
complicated gesture. "Do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced by
a sudden flare of understanding—and fear. "The Council!" he roared.
"By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—"
He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was
faster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.
He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over against
the splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svan
savagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-like
nails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strength
in his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initial
advantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guard
lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had
ruthlessly pounded it against the road.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the
petrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,
then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Over
the shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of the
jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be
no trace.
</p>
<p>
Svan strode back to the car. "Hurry up," he gasped to the girl. "Now
there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep
a watch for other guards."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.
Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bow
of the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.
</p>
<p>
"Can't see a thing," he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away
at the computer's table. "Look—are those lights over there?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. "Probably the guards. Of
course, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party."
</p>
<p>
Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found no
answer in his stolid face. "Don't joke about it," he said. "Suppose
something happens to the delegation?"
</p>
<p>
"Then we're in the soup," the Exec said philosophically. "I told you
the natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the
last three hundred years."
</p>
<p>
"It isn't all the natives," Lowry said. "Look how they've doubled the
guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they
know how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this
secret group they call the Council."
</p>
<p>
"And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?" the
Exec retorted. "They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone
out now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to be
coming from the town, anyhow...."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the
lights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartment
under the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to get
the atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.
Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been
<i>
two
</i>
bombs in
the compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.
</p>
<p>
He got out of the car, holding the sphere. "This will do for me," he
said. "They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we
were wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?"
</p>
<p>
Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. "We must circle back
again," she parroted. "We are to wait five minutes, then drive the car
into the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards."
</p>
<p>
Svan, listening, thought:
<i>
It's not much of a plan. The guards would
not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If
they must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve a
purpose.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Aloud, he said, "You understand. If I get through, I will return to the
city on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, because
the bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,
you are in no danger from the guards."
</p>
<p>
<i>
From the guards
</i>
, his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would
feel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite in
that bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in a
ground-shaking crash.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting
off the seconds. "Go ahead," he ordered. "I will wait here."
</p>
<p>
"Svan." The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached
for him, kissed him. "Good luck to you, Svan," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Good luck," repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor of
the car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,
sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a few
hundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.
</p>
<p>
Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?
Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?
</p>
<p>
There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was
driven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And
since he could not know which was the one who had received the marked
slip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.
</p>
<p>
He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and the
jungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmed
lights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made by
its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling
figures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.
They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with those
slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to the
side of the ship.
</p>
<p>
Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.
He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers went
absently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. He
turned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the first
cross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground car
was racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glare
of its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.
</p>
<p>
Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. "Svan! They're coming! They found
the guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,
with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and came
for you. We must flee!"
</p>
<p>
He stared unseeingly at the light. "Go away!" he croaked unbelievingly.
Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bomb
in the car—
</p>
<p>
"Go away!" he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched and
swinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps before
something immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself lifted
from the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating force
onto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear the
sound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began to
feel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....
</p>
<p>
The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. "He's still alive," he said
callously to Lowry, who had just come up. "It won't last long, though.
What've you got there?"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the two
halves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where a
connection had been broken. "He had a bomb," he said. "A magnetic-type,
delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,
and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us."
</p>
<p>
"Amazing," the surgeon said dryly. "Well, they won't do any bombing
now."
</p>
<p>
Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.
The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
"Better them than us," he said. "It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.
They had it coming...." He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece of
paper between his fingers. "This is the only part I don't get," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" Lowry craned his neck. "A piece of paper with a cross on
it? What about it?"
</p>
<p>
The surgeon shrugged. "He had it clenched in his hand," he said. "Had
the devil of a time getting it loose from him." He turned it over
slowly, displayed the other side. "Now what in the world would he be
doing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?"
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They don't want to upset him, but they won't tell him he's wrong.\n(B) Scared of his dangerous plan, but willing to follow him.\n(C) Unsure that what he's doing is best for Venus.\n(D) They think he's gone too far and aren't willing to do the dangerous deed.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Revolutionaries -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; PS"
} |
63304 | What were the lights Lowry saw in the dark?
Choices:
(A) Svan and his conspirators
(B) The guards
(C) The delegation
(D) Another spy-ray | [
"A",
"Svan and his conspirators"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
DOUBLECROSS
</h1>
<h2>
by JAMES Mac CREIGH
</h2>
<p>
Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the
<br/>
descendant of the first Earthmen to
<br/>
land. Svan was the leader making the final
<br/>
plans—plotting them a bit too well.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.
There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioning
perfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all the
same. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the open
lock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. He
turned.
</p>
<p>
"Everything shipshape, I take it!" he commented.
</p>
<p>
The OD nodded. "I'll have a blank log if this keeps up," he said.
"Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, drivers
ready to lift as soon as they come back."
</p>
<p>
The Exec tossed away his cigarette. "
<i>
If
</i>
they come back."
</p>
<p>
"Is there any question?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged. "I don't know, Lowry," he said. "This is a funny
place. I don't trust the natives."
</p>
<p>
Lowry lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? But after all, they're human beings,
just like us—"
</p>
<p>
"Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don't
even look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them."
</p>
<p>
"Acclimation," Lowry said scientifically. "They had to acclimate
themselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough."
</p>
<p>
The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were the
outskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-present
Venusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards from
the Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashioned
proton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazing
wonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line of
guards.
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Lowry said suddenly, "there's a minority who are afraid
of us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.
They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that we
know Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry underground
group that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive the
native Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, that
is—right down into the mud. Well—" he laughed—"maybe they will.
After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—"
</p>
<p>
The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallic
voice rasped: "Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instruments
reports a spy ray focused on the main lock!"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back and
stared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sure
enough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. He
snatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.
"Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party!" But
even while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenly
and went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.
</p>
<p>
The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, "You see!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You see?"
</p>
<p>
Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The five
others in the room looked apprehensive. "You see?" Svan repeated. "From
their own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right."
</p>
<p>
The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, in
spite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on her
head. "Svan, I'm afraid," she said. "Who are we to decide if this
is a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will be
trouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood."
</p>
<p>
Svan laughed harshly. "
<i>
They
</i>
don't think so. You heard them. We are
not human any more. The officer said it."
</p>
<p>
The other woman spoke unexpectedly. "The Council was right," she
agreed. "Svan, what must we do?"
</p>
<p>
Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. "One moment. Ingra, do you still
object?"
</p>
<p>
The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She looked
around at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visibly
convinced by Svan.
</p>
<p>
"No," she said slowly. "I do not object."
</p>
<p>
"And the rest of us? Does any of us object?"
</p>
<p>
Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture of
assent.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan. "Then we must act. The Council has told us that we
alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the
Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not
return."
</p>
<p>
An old man shifted restlessly. "But they are strong, Svan," he
complained. "They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay."
</p>
<p>
Svan nodded. "No. They will leave. But they will never get back to
Earth."
</p>
<p>
"Never get back to Earth?" the old man gasped. "Has the Council
authorized—murder?"
</p>
<p>
Svan shrugged. "The Council did not know what we would face. The
Councilmen could not come to the city and see what strength the
Earth-ship has." He paused dangerously. "Toller," he said, "do you
object?"
</p>
<p>
Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was
dull. "What is your plan?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his
feet, held up a shiny metal globe. "One of us will plant this in the
ship. It will be set by means of this dial—" he touched a spot on the
surface of the globe with a pallid finger—"to do nothing for forty
hours. Then—it will explode. Atomite."
</p>
<p>
He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin
faded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,
irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves
off a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made a
mark on one of them, held it up.
</p>
<p>
"We will let chance decide who is to do the work," he said angrily. "Is
there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think...."
</p>
<p>
No answer. Svan jerked his head. "Good," he said. "Ingra, bring me that
bowl."
</p>
<p>
Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad arm
of her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a few
left. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidly
creasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred it
with his hand, offered it to the girl. "You first, Ingra," he said.
</p>
<p>
She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slip
and held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svan
himself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at their
slips.
</p>
<p>
Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.
"This is the plan," he said. "We will go, all six of us, in my ground
car, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole city
has been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we can
find. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.
The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with the
car—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. The
guards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,
after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is to
it. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the side
of the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in the
dark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel away
from the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed."
</p>
<p>
There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still that
uncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: "Look at the slips!"
</p>
<p>
Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.
Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,
striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....
</p>
<p>
And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second's
glance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.
Almost he was disappointed.
</p>
<p>
Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was looking
up now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosen
one to announce it—a second, ten seconds....
</p>
<p>
Then gray understanding came to him.
<i>
A traitor!
</i>
his subconscious
whispered.
<i>
A coward!
</i>
He stared at them in a new light, saw their
indecision magnified, became opposition.
</p>
<p>
Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was a
coward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any might
be the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspecting
every one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractions
of a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.
Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftly
beneath the table, marked his own slip.
</p>
<p>
In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked in
secret. His voice was very tired as he said, "I will plant the bomb."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along the
main street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed except
for deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before the
entrance to the town's Hall of Justice.
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Svan, observing them. "The delegation is still here. We
have ample time."
</p>
<p>
He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searching
the faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.
Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?
</p>
<p>
The right answer leaped up at him.
<i>
They all are
</i>
, he thought.
<i>
Not one
of them understands what this means. They're afraid.
</i>
</p>
<p>
He clamped his lips. "Go faster, Ingra," he ordered the girl who was
driving. "Let's get this done with."
</p>
<p>
She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in her
eyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsy
car jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quite
dark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,
illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of the
jungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. The
present shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall off
again, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.
</p>
<p>
A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silence
that followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: "Halt!"
</p>
<p>
The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on the
brakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on them
from the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.
</p>
<p>
"Where are you going?" he growled.
</p>
<p>
Svan spoke up. "We want to look at the Earth-ship," he said. He opened
the door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. "We heard
it was leaving tonight," he continued, "and we have not seen it. Is
that not permitted?"
</p>
<p>
The guard shook his head sourly. "No one is allowed near the ship. The
order was just issued. It is thought there is danger."
</p>
<p>
Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. "It
is urgent," he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in a
complicated gesture. "Do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced by
a sudden flare of understanding—and fear. "The Council!" he roared.
"By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—"
He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan was
faster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.
He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over against
the splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svan
savagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-like
nails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strength
in his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initial
advantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guard
lay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan had
ruthlessly pounded it against the road.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save the
petrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,
then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Over
the shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of the
jungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would be
no trace.
</p>
<p>
Svan strode back to the car. "Hurry up," he gasped to the girl. "Now
there is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keep
a watch for other guards."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.
Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bow
of the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.
</p>
<p>
"Can't see a thing," he complained to the Exec, steadily writing away
at the computer's table. "Look—are those lights over there?"
</p>
<p>
The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. "Probably the guards. Of
course, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party."
</p>
<p>
Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found no
answer in his stolid face. "Don't joke about it," he said. "Suppose
something happens to the delegation?"
</p>
<p>
"Then we're in the soup," the Exec said philosophically. "I told you
the natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for the
last three hundred years."
</p>
<p>
"It isn't all the natives," Lowry said. "Look how they've doubled the
guard around us. The administration is co-operating every way they
know how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's this
secret group they call the Council."
</p>
<p>
"And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it?" the
Exec retorted. "They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's gone
out now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to be
coming from the town, anyhow...."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned the
lights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartment
under the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to get
the atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.
Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been
<i>
two
</i>
bombs in
the compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.
</p>
<p>
He got out of the car, holding the sphere. "This will do for me," he
said. "They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—we
were wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?"
</p>
<p>
Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. "We must circle back
again," she parroted. "We are to wait five minutes, then drive the car
into the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards."
</p>
<p>
Svan, listening, thought:
<i>
It's not much of a plan. The guards would
not be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. If
they must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve a
purpose.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Aloud, he said, "You understand. If I get through, I will return to the
city on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, because
the bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,
you are in no danger from the guards."
</p>
<p>
<i>
From the guards
</i>
, his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they would
feel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite in
that bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in a
ground-shaking crash.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently counting
off the seconds. "Go ahead," he ordered. "I will wait here."
</p>
<p>
"Svan." The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reached
for him, kissed him. "Good luck to you, Svan," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Good luck," repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor of
the car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,
sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a few
hundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.
</p>
<p>
Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?
Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?
</p>
<p>
There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it was
driven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. And
since he could not know which was the one who had received the marked
slip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.
</p>
<p>
He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and the
jungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmed
lights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made by
its own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circling
figures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.
They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with those
slim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to the
side of the ship.
</p>
<p>
Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.
He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers went
absently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. He
turned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the first
cross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground car
was racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glare
of its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.
</p>
<p>
Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. "Svan! They're coming! They found
the guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,
with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and came
for you. We must flee!"
</p>
<p>
He stared unseeingly at the light. "Go away!" he croaked unbelievingly.
Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bomb
in the car—
</p>
<p>
"Go away!" he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched and
swinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps before
something immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself lifted
from the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating force
onto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear the
sound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began to
feel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....
</p>
<p>
The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. "He's still alive," he said
callously to Lowry, who had just come up. "It won't last long, though.
What've you got there?"
</p>
<p>
Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the two
halves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where a
connection had been broken. "He had a bomb," he said. "A magnetic-type,
delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,
and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us."
</p>
<p>
"Amazing," the surgeon said dryly. "Well, they won't do any bombing
now."
</p>
<p>
Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.
The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
"Better them than us," he said. "It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.
They had it coming...." He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece of
paper between his fingers. "This is the only part I don't get," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What's that?" Lowry craned his neck. "A piece of paper with a cross on
it? What about it?"
</p>
<p>
The surgeon shrugged. "He had it clenched in his hand," he said. "Had
the devil of a time getting it loose from him." He turned it over
slowly, displayed the other side. "Now what in the world would he be
doing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?"
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Svan and his conspirators\n(B) The guards\n(C) The delegation\n(D) Another spy-ray",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; Revolutionaries -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; PS"
} |
61097 | Why does Chip seem to enjoy talking to Retief?
Choices:
(A) He thinks that Retief will be able to overthrow the captain.
(B) He’s the cook, and generally nice to those he serves.
(C) As he says, he likes to see a “feller” eat and enjoys cooking for him.
(D) He doesn’t like the captain and likes that Retief doesn’t like him either. | [
"D",
"He doesn’t like the captain and likes that Retief doesn’t like him either."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE FROZEN PLANET
</h1>
<h2>
By Keith Laumer
</h2>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
</p>
<p>
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
</p>
<p>
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
</p>
<p>
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
</p>
<p>
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
</p>
<p>
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
</p>
<p>
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
</p>
<p>
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
</p>
<p>
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
</p>
<p>
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
</p>
<p>
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
</p>
<p>
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
</p>
<p>
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
</p>
<p>
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
</p>
<p>
Magnan started to shake his head.
</p>
<p>
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
</p>
<p>
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
</p>
<p>
"When does this attack happen?"
</p>
<p>
"Less than four weeks."
</p>
<p>
"That doesn't leave me much time."
</p>
<p>
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
</p>
<p>
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
</p>
<p>
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
</p>
<p>
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
</p>
<p>
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
</p>
<p>
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
</p>
<p>
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
</p>
<p>
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
</p>
<p>
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
</p>
<p>
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
</p>
<p>
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
</p>
<p>
"Just a feeling I've got."
</p>
<p>
"Please yourself."
</p>
<p>
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
</p>
<p>
Retief glanced at him.
</p>
<p>
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Was there something?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
</p>
<p>
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
</p>
<p>
"What time does it leave?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't think—"
</p>
<p>
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
</p>
<p>
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
</p>
<p>
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
</p>
<p>
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at him.
</p>
<p>
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
</p>
<p>
"Which gate?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"For ... ah...?"
</p>
<p>
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
</p>
<p>
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
<i>
To Gates 16-30
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
</p>
<p>
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
</p>
<p>
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
</p>
<p>
The guard blinked at it.
</p>
<p>
"Whassat?"
</p>
<p>
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
</p>
<p>
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
</p>
<p>
"On your way, bub," he said.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
</p>
<p>
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
</p>
<p>
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
</p>
<p>
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
</p>
<p>
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
</p>
<p>
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
</p>
<p>
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
</p>
<p>
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
</p>
<p>
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
</p>
<p>
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
</p>
<p>
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
</p>
<p>
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
</p>
<p>
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
</p>
<p>
"Mister, you must be—"
</p>
<p>
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
</p>
<p>
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
</p>
<p>
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
</p>
<p>
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
</p>
<p>
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
</p>
<p>
"Don't try it," he said softly.
</p>
<p>
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
</p>
<p>
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
</p>
<p>
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
</p>
<p>
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
</p>
<p>
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
</p>
<p>
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
III
</p>
<p>
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
</p>
<p>
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
</p>
<p>
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
</p>
<p>
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
</p>
<p>
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
</p>
<p>
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
</p>
<p>
"I see your point."
</p>
<p>
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
</p>
<p>
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
</p>
<p>
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
</p>
<p>
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
</p>
<p>
"Chip, you're a genius."
</p>
<p>
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
</p>
<p>
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
</p>
<p>
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
</p>
<p>
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
</p>
<p>
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
</p>
<p>
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
</p>
<p>
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
</p>
<p>
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
</p>
<p>
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Tony found his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
</p>
<p>
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
</p>
<p>
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
</p>
<p>
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
</p>
<p>
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
</p>
<p>
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
</p>
<p>
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
</p>
<p>
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
</p>
<p>
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
</p>
<p>
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
</p>
<p>
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
</p>
<p>
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
</p>
<p>
The panel opened.
</p>
<p>
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
</p>
<p>
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
</p>
<p>
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
</p>
<p>
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
</p>
<p>
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
</p>
<p>
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
</p>
<p>
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
</p>
<p>
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
</p>
<p>
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
</p>
<p>
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
</p>
<p>
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
</p>
<p>
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
</p>
<p>
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
</p>
<p>
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at him questioningly.
</p>
<p>
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
</p>
<p>
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
</p>
<p>
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
</p>
<p>
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
</p>
<p>
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
</p>
<p>
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, damn you," he said.
</p>
<p>
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
</p>
<p>
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
</p>
<p>
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
</p>
<p>
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
</p>
<p>
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
</p>
<p>
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
</p>
<p>
"Quick, soft one."
</p>
<p>
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
</p>
<p>
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
</p>
<p>
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
</p>
<p>
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
</p>
<p>
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
</p>
<p>
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
</p>
<p>
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
</p>
<p>
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
</p>
<p>
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
</p>
<p>
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
</p>
<p>
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
</p>
<p>
"What secret? I—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
</p>
<p>
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
</p>
<p>
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
</p>
<p>
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
</p>
<p>
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
</p>
<p>
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
</p>
<p>
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
</p>
<p>
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
IV
</p>
<p>
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
</p>
<p>
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
</p>
<p>
"Come on in."
</p>
<p>
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
</p>
<p>
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
</p>
<p>
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
</p>
<p>
"That's right, Chip."
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
</p>
<p>
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
</p>
<p>
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
</p>
<p>
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
</p>
<p>
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
</p>
<p>
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
</p>
<p>
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
</p>
<p>
"You've got damn big ears."
</p>
<p>
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
</p>
<p>
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
</p>
<p>
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
</p>
<p>
"Not bloody likely."
</p>
<p>
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
</p>
<p>
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
</p>
<p>
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
</p>
<p>
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
</p>
<p>
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
</p>
<p>
"You busted it, you—"
</p>
<p>
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
</p>
<p>
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
</p>
<p>
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
</p>
<p>
"You can't put it over, hick."
</p>
<p>
"Tell him."
</p>
<p>
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
</p>
<p>
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
</p>
<p>
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
</p>
<p>
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
</p>
<p>
Retief settled himself in a chair.
</p>
<p>
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
</p>
<p>
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
</p>
<p>
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
</p>
<p>
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
</p>
<p>
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He thinks that Retief will be able to overthrow the captain. \n(B) He’s the cook, and generally nice to those he serves. \n\n(C) As he says, he likes to see a “feller” eat and enjoys cooking for him.\n\n(D) He doesn’t like the captain and likes that Retief doesn’t like him either.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Space ships -- Fiction; Science fiction; Retief (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; PS; Life on other planets -- Fiction; Diplomats -- Fiction"
} |
61097 | Why are the Soetti allowed to board the ship?
Choices:
(A) They need transport to Jorgenson’s Worlds as well.
(B) They need to check the papers of each passenger, so the caption allows them to do so.
(C) The Soetti aren’t - the captain fears them and they are illegally boarding.
(D) The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them. | [
"D",
"The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE FROZEN PLANET
</h1>
<h2>
By Keith Laumer
</h2>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is rather unusual," Magnan said, "to assign an officer of your rank
to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission."
</p>
<p>
Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew
awkward, Magnan went on.
</p>
<p>
"There are four planets in the group," he said. "Two double planets,
all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They're
called Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance
whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti
have been penetrating.
</p>
<p>
"Now—" Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—"we have learned
that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met no
opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they
intend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force."
</p>
<p>
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drew
carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
</p>
<p>
"This is open aggression, Retief," he said, "in case I haven't made
myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien
species. Obviously, we can't allow it."
</p>
<p>
Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.
</p>
<p>
"A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,
Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They're
farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in
their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war
potential, by conventional standards, is nil."
</p>
<p>
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
</p>
<p>
"I have here," he said solemnly, "information which will change that
picture completely." He leaned back and blinked at Retief.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"All right, Mr. Councillor," Retief said. "I'll play along; what's in
the folder?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.
</p>
<p>
"First," he said. "The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate
enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade
Terrestrials who've been advising the Soetti." He folded another
finger. "Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out by
the Theory group." He wrestled a third finger down. "Lastly; an Utter
Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration
field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been
holding in reserve for just such a situation."
</p>
<p>
"Is that all?" Retief said. "You've still got two fingers sticking up."
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.
</p>
<p>
"This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this
information could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leave
this building."
</p>
<p>
"I'll carry it, sealed," Retief said. "That way nobody can sweat it out
of me."
</p>
<p>
Magnan started to shake his head.
</p>
<p>
"Well," he said. "If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said. "I remember an
agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with
cards and dice. Never played for money, though."
</p>
<p>
"Umm," Magnan said. "Don't make the error of personalizing this
situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its
natural course, as always."
</p>
<p>
"When does this attack happen?"
</p>
<p>
"Less than four weeks."
</p>
<p>
"That doesn't leave me much time."
</p>
<p>
"I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as
Aldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way."
</p>
<p>
"That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked sour. "Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put
all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is
not misplaced."
</p>
<p>
"This antiac conversion; how long does it take?"
</p>
<p>
"A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The
Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of
some sort."
</p>
<p>
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets
inside.
</p>
<p>
"Less than four hours to departure time," he said. "I'd better not
start any long books."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination," Magnan
said.
</p>
<p>
Retief stood up. "If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon."
</p>
<p>
"The allusion escapes me," Magnan said coldly. "And one last word. The
Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don't
get yourself interned."
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you what," Retief said soberly. "In a pinch, I'll mention
your name."
</p>
<p>
"You'll be traveling with Class X credentials," Magnan snapped. "There
must be nothing to connect you with the Corps."
</p>
<p>
"They'll never guess," Retief said. "I'll pose as a gentleman."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better be getting started," Magnan said, shuffling papers.
</p>
<p>
"You're right," Retief said. "If I work at it, I might manage a
snootful by takeoff." He went to the door. "No objection to my checking
out a needler, is there?"
</p>
<p>
Magnan looked up. "I suppose not. What do you want with it?"
</p>
<p>
"Just a feeling I've got."
</p>
<p>
"Please yourself."
</p>
<p>
"Some day," Retief said, "I may take you up on that."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the
counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend
"ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY." A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching
Retief from the corner of his eye.
</p>
<p>
Retief glanced at him.
</p>
<p>
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and
spat it on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Was there something?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group," Retief said.
"Is it on schedule?"
</p>
<p>
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. "Filled
up. Try again in a couple of weeks."
</p>
<p>
"What time does it leave?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't think—"
</p>
<p>
"Let's stick to facts," Retief said. "Don't try to think. What time is
it due out?"
</p>
<p>
The clerk smiled pityingly. "It's my lunch hour," he said. "I'll be
open in an hour." He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
</p>
<p>
"If I have to come around this counter," Retief said, "I'll feed that
thumb to you the hard way."
</p>
<p>
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,
closed his mouth and swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"Like it says there," he said, jerking a thumb at the board. "Lifts in
an hour. But you won't be on it," he added.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at him.
</p>
<p>
"Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation," he said. He hooked
a finger inside the sequined collar. "All tourist reservations were
canceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship
next—"
</p>
<p>
"Which gate?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"For ... ah...?"
</p>
<p>
"For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Well," the clerk said. "Gate 19," he added quickly. "But—"
</p>
<p>
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign
reading
<i>
To Gates 16-30
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
"Another smart alec," the clerk said behind him.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a
covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled
gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
</p>
<p>
"Lessee your boarding pass," he muttered.
</p>
<p>
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
</p>
<p>
The guard blinked at it.
</p>
<p>
"Whassat?"
</p>
<p>
"A gram confirming my space," Retief said. "Your boy on the counter
says he's out to lunch."
</p>
<p>
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back
against the handrail.
</p>
<p>
"On your way, bub," he said.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a
right into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
went to his knees.
</p>
<p>
"You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneaked
past while you were resting your eyes." He picked up his bag, stepped
over the man and went up the gangway into the ship.
</p>
<p>
A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.
</p>
<p>
"Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son?" Retief asked.
</p>
<p>
"Up there." The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his way
along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.
The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of the
floor. It was expensive looking baggage.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in
the open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man
clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
"Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out." He rolled a cold eye at Retief as
he backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.
</p>
<p>
"What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room?" he barked. "Never mind! Clear
out of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting."
</p>
<p>
"Too bad," Retief said. "Finders keepers."
</p>
<p>
"You nuts?" The thick-necked man stared at Retief. "I said it's Mr.
Tony's room."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters."
</p>
<p>
"We'll see about you, mister." The man turned and went out. Retief
sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in
the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an
oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,
glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.
</p>
<p>
"All right, you. Out," he growled. "Or have I got to have you thrown
out?"
</p>
<p>
Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a
handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved
the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the
door.
</p>
<p>
"Catch," he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the
far wall of the corridor and burst.
</p>
<p>
Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The
face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
</p>
<p>
"Mister, you must be—"
</p>
<p>
"If you'll excuse me," Retief said, "I want to catch a nap." He flipped
the door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a
blue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye
stared at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"Is this the joker?" he grated.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,
"That's him, sure."
</p>
<p>
"I'm captain of this vessel," the first man said. "You've got two
minutes to haul your freight out of here, buster."
</p>
<p>
"When you can spare the time from your other duties," Retief said,
"take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.
That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in
interplanetary commerce."
</p>
<p>
"A space lawyer." The captain turned. "Throw him out, boys."
</p>
<p>
Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"Go on, pitch him out," the captain snapped.
</p>
<p>
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.
</p>
<p>
"Don't try it," he said softly.
</p>
<p>
One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and
stepped forward, then hesitated.
</p>
<p>
"Hey," he said. "This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?"
</p>
<p>
"That's him," the thick-necked man called. "Spilled Mr. Tony's
possessions right on the deck."
</p>
<p>
"Deal me out," the bouncer said. "He can stay put as long as he wants
to. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain," Retief said.
"We're due to lift in twenty minutes."
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. The
Captain's voice prevailed.
</p>
<p>
"—twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?"
</p>
<p>
"Close the door as you leave," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man paused at the door. "We'll see you when you come
out."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
III
</p>
<p>
Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leaned
against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.
</p>
<p>
At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniform
and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male
passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional
glances Retief's way.
</p>
<p>
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyes
peered out from under a white chef's cap.
</p>
<p>
"Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?"
</p>
<p>
"Looks like it, old-timer," Retief said. "Maybe I'd better go join the
skipper. His party seems to be having all the fun."
</p>
<p>
"Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there."
</p>
<p>
"I see your point."
</p>
<p>
"You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate."
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backed
up with mushrooms and garlic butter.
</p>
<p>
"I'm Chip," the chef said. "I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him I
said so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,
look at a man like he was a worm."
</p>
<p>
"You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got the
right idea on the Soetti, too," Retief said. He poured red wine into a
glass. "Here's to you."
</p>
<p>
"Dern right," Chip said. "Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.
Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.
You like brandy in yer coffee?"
</p>
<p>
"Chip, you're a genius."
</p>
<p>
"Like to see a feller eat," Chip said. "I gotta go now. If you need
anything, holler."
</p>
<p>
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to
Jorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,
there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a
temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It
would be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.
</p>
<p>
Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and
coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony
and his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.
</p>
<p>
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across
the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted
end in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.
</p>
<p>
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
</p>
<p>
"You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad," the thug said in a
grating voice. "What's your game, hick?"
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I want my coffee," he said. He looked at the thug. "You
drink it."
</p>
<p>
The thug squinted at Retief. "A wise hick," he began.
</p>
<p>
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug's
face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug
went down.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.
</p>
<p>
"You can take your playmates away now, Tony," he said. "And don't
bother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Tony found his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Take him, Marbles!" he growled.
</p>
<p>
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a
long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
</p>
<p>
Retief heard the panel open beside him.
</p>
<p>
"Here you go, Mister," Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed
french knife lay on the sill.
</p>
<p>
"Thanks, Chip," Retief said. "I won't need it for these punks."
</p>
<p>
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him
under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol
from his shoulder holster.
</p>
<p>
"Aim that at me, and I'll kill you," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Go on, burn him!" Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,
white-faced.
</p>
<p>
"Put that away, you!" he yelled. "What kind of—"
</p>
<p>
"Shut up," Mr. Tony said. "Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bum
later."
</p>
<p>
"Not on this vessel, you won't," the captain said shakily. "I got my
charter to consider."
</p>
<p>
"Ram your charter," Hoany said harshly. "You won't be needing it long."
</p>
<p>
"Button your floppy mouth, damn you!" Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at
the man on the floor. "Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the
slob."
</p>
<p>
He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came
up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.
</p>
<p>
The panel opened.
</p>
<p>
"I usta be about your size, when I was your age," Chip said. "You
handled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day."
</p>
<p>
"How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, Mister. Anything else?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll think of something," Retief said. "This is shaping up into one of
those long days."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin," Chip said.
"But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. They
won't mess with me."
</p>
<p>
"What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?" Retief asked.
</p>
<p>
"They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some more
smoked turkey?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?"
</p>
<p>
"Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I
sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age."
</p>
<p>
"I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen's
Worlds like?"
</p>
<p>
"One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' the
Jorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'
his own cookin' like he does somebody else's."
</p>
<p>
"That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain got
aboard for Jorgensen's?"
</p>
<p>
"Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever few
weeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.
Don't know what we even run in there for."
</p>
<p>
"Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?"
</p>
<p>
"To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. You
ain't got another one of them cigars, have you?"
</p>
<p>
"Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship."
</p>
<p>
"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed
the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
</p>
<p>
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at him questioningly.
</p>
<p>
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a
lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'
head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
</p>
<p>
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip
out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
</p>
<p>
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
</p>
<p>
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be
triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy
knock shook the door.
</p>
<p>
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."
</p>
<p>
"Unlock it, Chip." The chef opened the door.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, damn you," he said.
</p>
<p>
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like
feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.
Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
</p>
<p>
"Yo' papiss," the alien rasped.
</p>
<p>
"Who's your friend, Captain?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"Never mind; just do like he tells you."
</p>
<p>
"Yo' papiss," the alien said again.
</p>
<p>
"Okay," Retief said. "I've seen it. You can take it away now."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Don't horse around," the captain said. "This fellow can get mean."
</p>
<p>
The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,
clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.
</p>
<p>
"Quick, soft one."
</p>
<p>
"Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and
I'm tempted to test it."
</p>
<p>
"Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those
snappers."
</p>
<p>
"Last chance," Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch
from Retief's eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Show him your papers, you damned fool," the captain said hoarsely. "I
got no control over Skaw."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same
instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous
knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering
from the burst joint.
</p>
<p>
"I told you he was brittle," Retief said. "Next time you invite pirates
aboard, don't bother to call."
</p>
<p>
"Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us!" the captain gasped, staring
at the figure flopping on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat," Retief said. "Tell him to pass
the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space."
</p>
<p>
"Hey," Chip said. "He's quit kicking."
</p>
<p>
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close
and sniffed.
</p>
<p>
"He's dead." The captain stared at Retief. "We're all dead men," he
said. "These Soetti got no mercy."
</p>
<p>
"They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over."
</p>
<p>
"They got no more emotions than a blue crab—"
</p>
<p>
"You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.
We know their secret now."
</p>
<p>
"What secret? I—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n," Chip said. "Sweaties die
easy; that's the secret."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you got a point," the captain said, looking at Retief. "All they
got's a three-man scout. It could work."
</p>
<p>
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien
gingerly into the hall.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti," the captain said, looking back
from the door. "But I'll be back to see you later."
</p>
<p>
"You don't scare us, Cap'n," Chip said. "Him and Mr. Tony and all his
goons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' these
Sweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket."
</p>
<p>
"You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in your
getting involved in my problems."
</p>
<p>
"They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That's
where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts."
</p>
<p>
"They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers."
</p>
<p>
"They don't scare me none." Chip picked up the tray. "I'll scout around
a little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything
about that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't try
nothin' close to port."
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't do
anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now."
</p>
<p>
Chip looked at Retief. "You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.
You didn't come out here for fun, did you?"
</p>
<p>
"That," Retief said, "would be a hard one to answer."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
IV
</p>
<p>
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
</p>
<p>
"It's me, Mister. Chip."
</p>
<p>
"Come on in."
</p>
<p>
The chef entered the room, locking the door.
</p>
<p>
"You shoulda had that door locked." He stood by the door, listening,
then turned to Retief.
</p>
<p>
"You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?"
</p>
<p>
"That's right, Chip."
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The
Sweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call
Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin and
talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and give
some orders to the Mate."
</p>
<p>
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a
gun?"
</p>
<p>
"A 2mm needler. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We're
by-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute."
</p>
<p>
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a
short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain's
cabin?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"This is it," Chip said softly. "You want me to keep an eye on who
comes down the passage?"
</p>
<p>
Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captain
looked up from his desk, then jumped up.
</p>
<p>
"What do you think you're doing, busting in here?"
</p>
<p>
"I hear you're planning a course change, Captain."
</p>
<p>
"You've got damn big ears."
</p>
<p>
"I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's."
</p>
<p>
"You do, huh?" the captain sat down. "I'm in command of this vessel,"
he said. "I'm changing course for Alabaster."
</p>
<p>
"I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster," Retief said. "So
just hold your course for Jorgensen's."
</p>
<p>
"Not bloody likely."
</p>
<p>
"Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try to
change course."
</p>
<p>
The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.
</p>
<p>
"Power Section, this is the captain," he said. Retief reached across
the desk, gripped the captain's wrist.
</p>
<p>
"Tell the mate to hold his present course," he said softly.
</p>
<p>
"Let go my hand, buster," the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, he
eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the
drawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.
</p>
<p>
"You busted it, you—"
</p>
<p>
"And one to go," Retief said. "Tell him."
</p>
<p>
"I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!"
</p>
<p>
"You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley
hoods."
</p>
<p>
"You can't put it over, hick."
</p>
<p>
"Tell him."
</p>
<p>
The captain groaned and picked up the mike. "Captain to Power Section,"
he said. "Hold your present course until you hear from me." He dropped
the mike and looked up at Retief.
</p>
<p>
"It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going
to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?"
</p>
<p>
Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.
</p>
<p>
"Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what's
going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up with
a sick friend."
</p>
<p>
"Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" the captain demanded.
</p>
<p>
Retief settled himself in a chair.
</p>
<p>
"Instead of strangling you, as you deserve," he said, "I'm going to
stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds."
</p>
<p>
The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.
</p>
<p>
"Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel
like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me."
</p>
<p>
Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.
</p>
<p>
"If anything happens that I don't like," he said, "I'll wake you up.
With this."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They need transport to Jorgenson’s Worlds as well.\n(B) They need to check the papers of each passenger, so the caption allows them to do so.\n(C) The Soetti aren’t - the captain fears them and they are illegally boarding.\n(D) The captain and Mr. Tony are in business with them.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Space ships -- Fiction; Science fiction; Retief (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; PS; Life on other planets -- Fiction; Diplomats -- Fiction"
} |
63442 | What is so unique about the cockatoos on this planet?
Choices:
(A) They are able to copy speech.
(B) They live in abundance in the Baldric, despite it being a dangerous area.
(C) They are identical to Earth parrots, despite being on a different planet.
(D) They are able to physically mimic any picture. | [
"D",
"They are able to physically mimic any picture. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
DOUBLE TROUBLE
</h1>
<h2>
by CARL JACOBI
</h2>
<p>
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
<br/>
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
<br/>
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
<br/>
I was running in circles—especially since
<br/>
Grannie became twins every now and then.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Spring 1945.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
We had left the offices of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
</p>
<p>
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
</p>
<p>
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
</p>
<p>
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
</p>
<p>
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
</p>
<p>
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
</p>
<p>
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
<i>
Lady of the Green Flames
</i>
,
<i>
Lady of the Runaway Planet
</i>
,
<i>
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
</i>
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
</p>
<p>
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
</p>
<p>
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
</p>
<p>
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
</p>
<p>
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
</p>
<p>
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
</p>
<p>
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
</p>
<p>
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
and
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
</p>
<p>
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
</p>
<p>
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
</p>
<p>
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
</p>
<p>
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
</p>
<p>
"Look what I found," I yelled.
</p>
<p>
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
</p>
<p>
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
</p>
<p>
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
</p>
<p>
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
</p>
<p>
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
</p>
<p>
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
</p>
<p>
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
</p>
<p>
<i>
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
</i>
</p>
<p>
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
</p>
<p>
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
</p>
<p>
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
</p>
<p>
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
</p>
<p>
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
</p>
<p>
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
</p>
<p>
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
</p>
<p>
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
</p>
<p>
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
</p>
<p>
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
</p>
<p>
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
</p>
<p>
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
</p>
<p>
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
</p>
<p>
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
</p>
<p>
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
</p>
<p>
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
</p>
<p>
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
</p>
<p>
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
</p>
<p>
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
</p>
<p>
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
</p>
<p>
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
</p>
<p>
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
</p>
<p>
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
</p>
<p>
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
</p>
<p>
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
</p>
<p>
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
</p>
<p>
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
</p>
<p>
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
</p>
<p>
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
</p>
<p>
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
</p>
<p>
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
</p>
<p>
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
, our rival, in a year."
</p>
<p>
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
</p>
<p>
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
</p>
<p>
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
</p>
<p>
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
</p>
<p>
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
</p>
<p>
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
</p>
<p>
"Let's look around," I said.
</p>
<p>
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
</p>
<p>
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
</p>
<p>
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
</p>
<p>
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
</p>
<p>
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
</p>
<p>
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
</p>
<p>
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
</p>
<p>
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
</p>
<p>
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
</p>
<p>
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
</p>
<p>
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
</p>
<p>
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
</p>
<p>
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
</p>
<p>
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
</p>
<p>
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
</p>
<p>
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
<i>
Look at that damned nosy bird!
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
</p>
<p>
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
</p>
<p>
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
</p>
<p>
The
<i>
real
</i>
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
</p>
<p>
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
</p>
<p>
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
</p>
<p>
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
</p>
<p>
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
</p>
<p>
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
</p>
<p>
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
</p>
<p>
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
</p>
<p>
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
</p>
<p>
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
</p>
<p>
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
</p>
<p>
"Look here," he said.
</p>
<p>
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
</p>
<p>
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
</p>
<p>
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
</p>
<p>
"Turn it on!"
</p>
<p>
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
</p>
<p>
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
</p>
<p>
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
</p>
<p>
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
</p>
<p>
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
</p>
<p>
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
</p>
<p>
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
<i>
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
</i>
We've got to catch him."
</p>
<p>
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
</p>
<p>
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
</p>
<p>
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
</p>
<p>
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
</p>
<p>
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
</p>
<p>
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
</p>
<p>
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
</p>
<p>
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
</p>
<p>
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
</p>
<p>
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
</p>
<p>
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
</p>
<p>
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
</p>
<p>
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
</p>
<p>
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
</p>
<p>
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
</p>
<p>
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
</p>
<p>
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
</p>
<p>
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
</p>
<p>
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
</p>
<p>
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
</p>
<p>
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
</p>
<p>
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
</p>
<p>
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
</p>
<p>
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
<i>
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
</p>
<p>
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
</p>
<p>
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They are able to copy speech. \n(B) They live in abundance in the Baldric, despite it being a dangerous area. \n(C) They are identical to Earth parrots, despite being on a different planet. \n(D) They are able to physically mimic any picture. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Older women -- Fiction; Flowers, Annabella C. (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Science fiction; Authors -- Fiction; Short stories"
} |
50893 | What happens that completely confirms Schwartzberg's theory?
Choices:
(A) An earthquake begins, and the fault starts to settle on either side, putting everything into motion.
(B) A landslip began to form along the fault, and the land continued to sink.
(C) The tremors begin to increase in size.
(D) A new lake was beginning to settle around the Arkansas River. | [
"A",
"An earthquake begins, and the fault starts to settle on either side, putting everything into motion. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
</h1>
<p>
By ALLAN DANZIG
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine August 1963.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
<br/>
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
</p>
<p>
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
</p>
<p>
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
</p>
<p>
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
</p>
<p>
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
</p>
<p>
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
</p>
<p>
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
</p>
<p>
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
</p>
<p>
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
</p>
<p>
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
<i>
Times
</i>
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
</p>
<p>
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
</p>
<p>
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
</p>
<p>
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
</p>
<p>
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
</p>
<p>
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
</p>
<p>
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
</p>
<p>
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
</p>
<p>
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
</p>
<p>
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
</p>
<p>
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
</p>
<p>
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
</p>
<p>
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
<i>
scenes
</i>
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
</p>
<p>
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
</p>
<p>
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
</p>
<p>
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
</p>
<p>
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
</p>
<p>
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
</p>
<p>
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
<i>
south
</i>
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
</p>
<p>
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
</p>
<p>
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
</p>
<p>
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
</p>
<p>
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
</p>
<p>
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
</p>
<p>
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
</p>
<p>
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
</p>
<p>
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
</p>
<p>
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Salt spray.
</i>
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
</p>
<p>
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
</p>
<p>
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
</p>
<p>
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
</p>
<p>
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
</p>
<p>
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
</p>
<p>
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
</p>
<p>
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
</p>
<p>
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
</p>
<p>
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
</p>
<p>
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
</p>
<p>
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
</p>
<p>
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
</p>
<p>
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
</p>
<p>
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
</p>
<p>
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) An earthquake begins, and the fault starts to settle on either side, putting everything into motion. \n(B) A landslip began to form along the fault, and the land continued to sink. \n(C) The tremors begin to increase in size.\n(D) A new lake was beginning to settle around the Arkansas River. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; United States -- Fiction"
} |
50893 | About how long does the tragedy take place?
Choices:
(A) About three months total.
(B) Over the course of a month.
(C) It all took place between September and October.
(D) It's all over in a matter of hours. | [
"A",
"About three months total. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
</h1>
<p>
By ALLAN DANZIG
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine August 1963.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
<br/>
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
</p>
<p>
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
</p>
<p>
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
</p>
<p>
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
</p>
<p>
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
</p>
<p>
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
</p>
<p>
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
</p>
<p>
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
</p>
<p>
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
</p>
<p>
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
<i>
Times
</i>
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
</p>
<p>
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
</p>
<p>
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
</p>
<p>
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
</p>
<p>
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
</p>
<p>
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
</p>
<p>
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
</p>
<p>
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
</p>
<p>
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
</p>
<p>
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
</p>
<p>
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
</p>
<p>
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
</p>
<p>
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
<i>
scenes
</i>
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
</p>
<p>
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
</p>
<p>
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
</p>
<p>
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
</p>
<p>
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
</p>
<p>
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
</p>
<p>
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
<i>
south
</i>
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
</p>
<p>
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
</p>
<p>
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
</p>
<p>
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
</p>
<p>
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
</p>
<p>
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
</p>
<p>
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
</p>
<p>
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
</p>
<p>
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
</p>
<p>
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Salt spray.
</i>
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
</p>
<p>
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
</p>
<p>
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
</p>
<p>
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
</p>
<p>
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
</p>
<p>
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
</p>
<p>
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
</p>
<p>
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
</p>
<p>
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
</p>
<p>
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
</p>
<p>
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
</p>
<p>
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
</p>
<p>
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
</p>
<p>
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
</p>
<p>
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
</p>
<p>
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) About three months total. \n(B) Over the course of a month. \n(C) It all took place between September and October. \n(D) It's all over in a matter of hours. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; United States -- Fiction"
} |
50893 | How is this article written?
Choices:
(A) Like a factual retelling of events that have happened in America's history.
(B) As a scientific paper going over a tragedy that happened once in America.
(C) As a theory as to what could end up happening to America one day.
(D) As an obviously fictional scenario. | [
"A",
"Like a factual retelling of events that have happened in America's history."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
</h1>
<p>
By ALLAN DANZIG
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine August 1963.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
<br/>
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
</p>
<p>
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
</p>
<p>
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
</p>
<p>
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
</p>
<p>
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
</p>
<p>
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
</p>
<p>
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
</p>
<p>
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
</p>
<p>
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
</p>
<p>
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
<i>
Times
</i>
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
</p>
<p>
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
</p>
<p>
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
</p>
<p>
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
</p>
<p>
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
</p>
<p>
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
</p>
<p>
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
</p>
<p>
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
</p>
<p>
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
</p>
<p>
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
</p>
<p>
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
</p>
<p>
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
</p>
<p>
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
<i>
scenes
</i>
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
</p>
<p>
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
</p>
<p>
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
</p>
<p>
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
</p>
<p>
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
</p>
<p>
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
</p>
<p>
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
<i>
south
</i>
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
</p>
<p>
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
</p>
<p>
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
</p>
<p>
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
</p>
<p>
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
</p>
<p>
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
</p>
<p>
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
</p>
<p>
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
</p>
<p>
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
</p>
<p>
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Salt spray.
</i>
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
</p>
<p>
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
</p>
<p>
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
</p>
<p>
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
</p>
<p>
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
</p>
<p>
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
</p>
<p>
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
</p>
<p>
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
</p>
<p>
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
</p>
<p>
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
</p>
<p>
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
</p>
<p>
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
</p>
<p>
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
</p>
<p>
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
</p>
<p>
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
</p>
<p>
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Like a factual retelling of events that have happened in America's history.\n(B) As a scientific paper going over a tragedy that happened once in America. \n(C) As a theory as to what could end up happening to America one day. \n(D) As an obviously fictional scenario. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; United States -- Fiction"
} |
62619 | What is Peter's mission aboard The Avenger?
Choices:
(A) To seek a solution to the aliens out in space.
(B) To take the embryos with him and start a new life for humans.
(C) To mutate embryos until they come across someone who can fight the aliens.
(D) To seek out a "superman." Someone who can face the aliens for them. | [
"C",
"To mutate embryos until they come across someone who can fight the aliens. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE AVENGER
</h1>
<h2>
By STUART FLEMING
</h2>
<p>
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
<br/>
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
<br/>
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Spring 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
</p>
<p>
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
</p>
<p>
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
</p>
<p>
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
</p>
<p>
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
</p>
<p>
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
</p>
<p>
"Lord!" he said.
</p>
<p>
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
</p>
<p>
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
</p>
<p>
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
</p>
<p>
There were flaring red headlines.
</p>
<p>
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
</p>
<p class="ph1">
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
<br/>
200 DEAD
</p>
<p>
Then lines of type, and farther down:
</p>
<p class="ph1">
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
<br/>
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
</p>
<p>
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
</p>
<p class="ph1">
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
<br/>
IN TRANSIT
<br/>
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
<br/>
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
<br/>
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
<br/>
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
<br/>
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
</p>
<p>
The item below the last one said:
</p>
<p>
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
</p>
<p>
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
</p>
<p>
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
<i>
superior to ourselves in every way
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
</p>
<p>
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
</p>
<p>
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Will
</i>
we?" he asked himself softly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
</p>
<p>
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
</p>
<p>
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
</p>
<p>
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
</p>
<p>
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
</p>
<p>
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
</p>
<p>
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
</p>
<p>
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei caught her breath.
</p>
<p>
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
</p>
<p>
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
</p>
<p>
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
</p>
<p>
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
</p>
<p>
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
</p>
<p>
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
</p>
<p>
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
</p>
<p>
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
</p>
<p>
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
</p>
<p>
"Wait here," he mouthed.
</p>
<p>
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
<i>
Peter!
</i>
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
</p>
<p>
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
</p>
<p>
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
</p>
<p>
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
</p>
<p>
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
</p>
<p>
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
</p>
<p>
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
</p>
<p>
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
</p>
<p>
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
</p>
<p>
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
</p>
<p>
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
</p>
<p>
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
</p>
<p>
He tried again. "Doctor."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
</p>
<p>
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
</p>
<p>
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
</p>
<p>
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
</p>
<p>
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
</p>
<p>
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
</p>
<p>
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
</p>
<p>
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
</p>
<p>
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
</p>
<p>
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
<i>
more
</i>
—than three—months."
</p>
<p>
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
</p>
<p>
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
<i>
them
</i>
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
</p>
<p>
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
</p>
<p>
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
</p>
<p>
"But why?" Peter whispered.
</p>
<p>
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
</p>
<p>
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
</p>
<p>
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
</p>
<p>
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
</p>
<p>
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
</p>
<p>
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
</p>
<p>
"Our last hope?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. You're a scientist."
</p>
<p>
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
<i>
maybe
</i>
, he
thought,
<i>
there's a chance
</i>
....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
</p>
<p>
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
</p>
<p>
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
<i>
The Avenger
</i>
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
</p>
<p>
"Darling," he began wearily.
</p>
<p>
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
</p>
<p>
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
<i>
They
</i>
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
</p>
<p>
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
</p>
<p>
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
</p>
<p>
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
<i>
them
</i>
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
</p>
<p>
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
</p>
<p>
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
</p>
<p>
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
</p>
<p>
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
<i>
They'll
</i>
come
back—but not as
<i>
boys
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as men.
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
<i>
We'll come back....
</i>
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
</p>
<p>
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
</p>
<p>
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
</p>
<p>
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
</p>
<p>
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
<i>
The
Avenger
</i>
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
</p>
<p>
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
</p>
<p>
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
</p>
<p>
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
</p>
<p>
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
</p>
<p>
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
</p>
<p>
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
</p>
<p>
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
</p>
<p>
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
</p>
<p>
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
</p>
<p>
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
<i>
they
</i>
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
</p>
<p>
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
</p>
<p>
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
</p>
<p>
I repeated it patiently.
</p>
<p>
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
</p>
<p>
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
</p>
<p>
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
</p>
<p>
"To do so would be illogical."
</p>
<p>
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
</p>
<p>
"No, you don't understand that, either."
</p>
<p>
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
</p>
<p>
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
</p>
<p>
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
</p>
<p>
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) To seek a solution to the aliens out in space. \n(B) To take the embryos with him and start a new life for humans. \n(C) To mutate embryos until they come across someone who can fight the aliens. \n(D) To seek out a \"superman.\" Someone who can face the aliens for them.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Scientists -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories"
} |
62619 | By the end of the passage. what can we understand about the opening scene?
Choices:
(A) Without Peter, the ship won't be functional anymore.
(B) Despite being logical, Robert feels emotional about killing Peter. He is at odds with himself.
(C) Robert kills Peter without any thought behind it.
(D) Robert's cold logic has won him over completely. | [
"B",
"Despite being logical, Robert feels emotional about killing Peter. He is at odds with himself. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE AVENGER
</h1>
<h2>
By STUART FLEMING
</h2>
<p>
Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird
<br/>
super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was
<br/>
forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Spring 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, but
the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,
trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,
from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair at
a queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadow
where his eyes had been.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing the
blood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The great
banks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they would
never come to life again.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were as
before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had not
changed, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were cold
and alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like
the machinery, and like Peter.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what
Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,
either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by
eating or drinking.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwise
than they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for
reason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I could
not solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered within
me, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of my
cheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
A tear was trickling down my cheek.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with
satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
was complete, every
minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be
laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,
glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay
finished, a living thing.
</p>
<p>
Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining
ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.
In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a second
satellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into its
insatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level of
laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the
meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the
stern—all the children of his brain.
</p>
<p>
Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of
atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be
a laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled with
the sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctant
ether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
</p>
<p>
A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, conscious
of the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,
that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,
as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at his
back.
</p>
<p>
There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staring
impassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just a
face, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face was
blood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveled
body.
</p>
<p>
For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulging
eyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolved
slowly away and was gone.
</p>
<p>
"Lord!" he said.
</p>
<p>
He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the street
somewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after a
moment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everything
was normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But the
world had grown suddenly unreal.
</p>
<p>
One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hiding
from the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But the
other part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.
It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, and
decided that this was probable.
</p>
<p>
Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His hands
were shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to the
newsbox on his desk, and switched it on.
</p>
<p>
There were flaring red headlines.
</p>
<p>
Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,
of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only be
glad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even more
terrible illusion.
</p>
<p class="ph1">
INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.
<br/>
200 DEAD
</p>
<p>
Then lines of type, and farther down:
</p>
<p class="ph1">
50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM
<br/>
PARIS MATERNITY CENTER
</p>
<p>
He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.
</p>
<p class="ph1">
MOON SHIP DESTROYED
<br/>
IN TRANSIT
<br/>
NO COMMUNICATION FROM
<br/>
ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS
<br/>
STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS
<br/>
PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA
<br/>
WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING
</p>
<p>
The item below the last one said:
</p>
<p>
Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first time
in fifty years. The order was made public early this morning by
R. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:
</p>
<p>
"The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilized
peoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in their
depredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorized
London; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member state
and in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printed
reports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friends
have not seen them.
</p>
<p>
"The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know that
we face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy
<i>
superior to ourselves in every way
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
"Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hours
ago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, or
in any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. They
have treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, might
have treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have not
attacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,
nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, they
have done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,
driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this is
more intolerable than any normal invasion.
</p>
<p>
"I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet this
challenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual lives
are threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroy
the Invaders!"
</p>
<p>
Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for the
first time.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Will
</i>
we?" he asked himself softly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper's
laboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled to
a halt in front of the door marked "Radiation." She had set her door
mechanism to "Etaoin Shrdlu," principally because he hated double-talk.
He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accent
in the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it opened
far enough to admit him.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of grease
on her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. One
blonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.
</p>
<p>
"What makes, Peter my love?" she asked, and bent back to the ledger.
Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,
"Darling, what's wrong?"
</p>
<p>
He said, "Have you seen the news recently?"
</p>
<p>
She frowned. "Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-six
hours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?"
</p>
<p>
She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Pete,
you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whether
there's trouble or not. What—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry, I forgot," he said. "But you have a scanner?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. But really, Pete—"
</p>
<p>
"You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei."
</p>
<p>
She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and then
walked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain of
papers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to "News"
and pressed the stud.
</p>
<p>
A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, and
suddenly leapt into full brilliance.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei caught her breath.
</p>
<p>
It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded by
the warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past the
transport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should have
been dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,
yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. They
disappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in a
heartbeat they were gone.
</p>
<p>
There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehow
defiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle of
flesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, those
men and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossibly
joined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass of
helpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was more
horrible than any cry of agony.
</p>
<p>
"The Invaders are here, citizens," the commentator was saying in a
strangled voice. "Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off the
streets...." His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.
"Peter!" she said faintly. "Why do they broadcast such things?"
</p>
<p>
"They have to," he told her grimly. "There will be panics and suicides,
and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, where
the noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to be
any noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know about
them, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough."
</p>
<p>
The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soared
away from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reached
out to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his muscles
tense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floating
up the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated the
rest.
</p>
<p>
"That's the Atlas building," she said unbelievingly. "Us!"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...
forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.
Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gone
through the solid wall, or simply melted away.
</p>
<p>
The man and woman clung together, waiting.
</p>
<p>
There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings and
other faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a man
screamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throaty
gurgle and died, leaving silence again.
</p>
<p>
Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and arms
were jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl away
from him and started toward the inner room.
</p>
<p>
"Wait here," he mouthed.
</p>
<p>
She was after him, clinging to his arms. "No, Peter! Don't go in there!
<i>
Peter!
</i>
" But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.
</p>
<p>
There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had been
cleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked down
the narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animal
cages, and paused just short of it.
</p>
<p>
The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, the
distorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside his
range of vision.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,
Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by the
broad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. His
glazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingness
straight ahead of him.
</p>
<p>
The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.
In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,
paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.
</p>
<p>
The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he were
relaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spread
legs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skull
grew gradually flatter.
</p>
<p>
When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, boneless
puddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.
</p>
<p>
There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyond
fear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and said
in a terrible voice, "Why? Why?"
</p>
<p>
The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,
but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.
</p>
<p>
The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. The
ears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lips
seemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. There
were lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Only
the eyes were alive.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
"I can't understand," he cried wildly. "What do you want?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the first
time he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,
swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveled
slowly....
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
His voice was hoarse. "Don't look! Don't—Go back!" The horrible,
mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.
His insides writhed to thrust it out.
</p>
<p>
She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to the
floor.
</p>
<p>
The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could hold
it back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, his
fingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume in
the room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Somebody said, "Doctor!"
</p>
<p>
He wanted to say, "Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei—" but his mouth only
twitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.
</p>
<p>
He tried again. "Doctor."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?" A gentle, masculine voice.
</p>
<p>
He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;
in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrasted
oddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,
starched odor.
</p>
<p>
"Where am I?" he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm hand
pressed him back into the sheets.
</p>
<p>
"You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please."
</p>
<p>
He tried to get up again. "Where's Lorelei?"
</p>
<p>
"She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been a
very sick man."
</p>
<p>
Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He looked
around him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.
</p>
<p>
"Yes...." he said. "How long have I been here, Doctor?"
</p>
<p>
The man hesitated, looked at him intently. "Three months," he said. He
turned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.
</p>
<p>
Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metal
stand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full of
milky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Just
before he drifted off, he said sleepily, "You can't—fool me. It's been
<i>
more
</i>
—than three—months."
</p>
<p>
He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but he
kept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed it
out of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'd
been in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered much
sooner.
</p>
<p>
"She was only suffering from ordinary shock," Arnold explained.
"Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,
especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with
<i>
them
</i>
for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's a
miracle you're alive, and rational."
</p>
<p>
"But where is she?" Peter complained. "You still haven't explained why
I haven't been able to see her."
</p>
<p>
Arnold frowned. "All right," he said. "I guess you're strong enough to
take it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,
and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,
as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in six
months ago."
</p>
<p>
"But why?" Peter whispered.
</p>
<p>
Arnold's strong jaw knotted. "We're hiding," he said. "Everything else
has failed."
</p>
<p>
Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went on
after a moment, musingly. "We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.
It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn't
even take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That was
when a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together at
one time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. It
didn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'd
been annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's still
smoldering."
</p>
<p>
"And since then?" Peter asked huskily.
</p>
<p>
"Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would be
an impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populated
areas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavate
enough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the other
three-quarters will be dead, or worse."
</p>
<p>
"I wonder," Peter said shakily, "if I am strong enough to take it."
</p>
<p>
Arnold laughed harshly. "You are. You've got to be. You're part of our
last hope, you see."
</p>
<p>
"Our last hope?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. You're a scientist."
</p>
<p>
"I see," said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
. No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,
<i>
maybe
</i>
, he
thought,
<i>
there's a chance
</i>
....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It lay
there in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more than
five hundred meters in diameter, where the
<i>
Citadel
</i>
was to have been a
thousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving into
the hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled with
the latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,
there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough to
last a lifetime.
</p>
<p>
It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there was
one other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solid
meters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmic
rays, were gone.
</p>
<p>
A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, to
the left of the airlock—
<i>
The Avenger
</i>
. He stepped away now, and joined
the group a little distance away, silently waiting.
</p>
<p>
Lorelei said, "You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—"
</p>
<p>
"Darling," he began wearily.
</p>
<p>
"Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way."
</p>
<p>
"There's no other way," Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as if
he could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.
"Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,
but that's only delaying the end.
<i>
They
</i>
still come down here, only not
as many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birth
rate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:
we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.
</p>
<p>
"They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're a
million years too far back even to understand what they are or where
they came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer."
</p>
<p>
She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook her
slender body. But he went remorselessly on.
</p>
<p>
"Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. They
make tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,
or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions of
possible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. We
can't fight
<i>
them
</i>
, but a superman could. That's our only chance.
Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?"
</p>
<p>
She choked, "But why can't you take me along?"
</p>
<p>
He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. "You know why," he
said bitterly. "Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;
they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven of
staying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.
I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,
too. You'd be their murderer."
</p>
<p>
Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he no
longer had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was gone
out of her body. "All right," she said in a lifeless voice. "You'll
come back, Peter."
</p>
<p>
He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. A
line from an old film kept echoing through his head. "
<i>
They'll
</i>
come
back—but not as
<i>
boys
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as men.
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as elephants.
</p>
<p>
We'll come back, but not as octopi.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled into
the airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.
<i>
We'll come back....
</i>
He heard the massive disk sink home, closing him
off. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head in
shaking hands.
</p>
<p>
After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lock
behind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.
The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumped
down before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.
</p>
<p>
He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare walls
of the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators had
retired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poised
over the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.
</p>
<p>
Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, the
heavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.
The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closed
smoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped back
into place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.
</p>
<p>
He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.
The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,
<i>
The
Avenger
</i>
curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, and
the silence pressed in about him.
</p>
<p>
Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly through
his flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, working
its slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changes
were unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed all
the mirrors in the ship.
</p>
<p>
The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspended
animation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them to
mature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that came
from the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he was
hungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,
searching for the million-to-one chance.
</p>
<p>
He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that was
Earth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in its
worm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. But
after a time he ceased even to wonder.
</p>
<p>
And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to its
eager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawning
hope....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter closed the diary. "The rest you know, Robert," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I told him. "I was that child. I am the millionth mutation you
were searching for."
</p>
<p>
His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. "You are. Your
brain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solve
instinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hours
of work. You are a superman."
</p>
<p>
"I am without your imperfections," I said, flexing my arms.
</p>
<p>
He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as he
stood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed but
little in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggled
over his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences of
flesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He had
a tiny sixth finger on his left hand.
</p>
<p>
He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had once
accidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.
</p>
<p>
"And now," he said softly, "we will go home. I've waited so
long—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away from
you, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to be
sure. But now, the waiting is over.
</p>
<p>
"They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. You
can kill the Invaders, Robert."
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctive
knowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, "On Earth we
had a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be with
you. You are completely, coldly logical, just as
<i>
they
</i>
are. You can
understand them, and so you can conquer them."
</p>
<p>
I said, "That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth."
</p>
<p>
He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. "What—what did
you say?"
</p>
<p>
I repeated it patiently.
</p>
<p>
"But why?" he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In an
instant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand his
suffering, but I could recognize it.
</p>
<p>
"You yourself have said it," I told him. "I am a being of logic, just
as the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend the
things which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If I
went to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just as
the invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They are
more nearly kin to me than your people."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought that
the shock had deranged his mind.
</p>
<p>
His voice trembled when he said, "But if I ask you to kill them, and
not my people?"
</p>
<p>
"To do so would be illogical."
</p>
<p>
He waved his hands helplessly. "Gratitude?" he muttered.
</p>
<p>
"No, you don't understand that, either."
</p>
<p>
Then he cried suddenly, "But I am your friend, Robert!"
</p>
<p>
"I do not understand 'friend,'" I said.
</p>
<p>
I did understand "gratitude," a little. It was a reciprocal
arrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not actively
want to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,
then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he could
not comprehend it.
</p>
<p>
I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, with
an expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,
somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastened
to the end that I knew was inevitable.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Without Peter, the ship won't be functional anymore. \n(B) Despite being logical, Robert feels emotional about killing Peter. He is at odds with himself. \n(C) Robert kills Peter without any thought behind it. \n(D) Robert's cold logic has won him over completely. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Scientists -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories"
} |
62198 | What ultimately brings Torp down?
Choices:
(A) He went mad from the same disease that's afflicting Thip.
(B) Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened.
(C) His own madness. His overly trained mind can't handle the new circumstances.
(D) He was never trained for a situation like this. He's not able to keep up with Thip. | [
"B",
"Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
QUEST OF THIG
</h1>
<h2>
By BASIL WELLS
</h2>
<p>
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
<br/>
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
<br/>
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
<br/>
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1942.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
</p>
<p>
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
</p>
<p>
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
</p>
<p>
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
</p>
<p>
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
</p>
<p>
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
</p>
<p>
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
<i>
West
</i>
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
<i>
had
</i>
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
</p>
<p>
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
</p>
<p>
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
</p>
<p>
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
</p>
<p>
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
</p>
<p>
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
</p>
<p>
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
</p>
<p>
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
</p>
<p>
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
</p>
<p>
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
</p>
<p>
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
</p>
<p>
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
</p>
<p>
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
</p>
<p>
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
</p>
<p>
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
</p>
<p>
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
</p>
<p>
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
</p>
<p>
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
</p>
<p>
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
</p>
<p>
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
</p>
<p>
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
</p>
<p>
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
</p>
<p>
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
</p>
<p>
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
</p>
<p>
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
</p>
<p>
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
</p>
<p>
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
</p>
<p>
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
</p>
<p>
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
</p>
<p>
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
</p>
<p>
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
</p>
<p>
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
</p>
<p>
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
</p>
<p>
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
</p>
<p>
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
</p>
<p>
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
</p>
<p>
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
</p>
<p>
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
</p>
<p>
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
</p>
<p>
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
</p>
<p>
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
</p>
<p>
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
</p>
<p>
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
</p>
<p>
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
</p>
<p>
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
</p>
<p>
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
</p>
<p>
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
</p>
<p>
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
</p>
<p>
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
</p>
<p>
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
</p>
<p>
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
</p>
<p>
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
</p>
<p>
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
</p>
<p>
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
</p>
<p>
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
</p>
<p>
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
</p>
<p>
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
</p>
<p>
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
</p>
<p>
<i>
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
</i>
</p>
<p>
And there his writing ended abruptly.
</p>
<p>
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
</p>
<p>
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
</p>
<p>
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
</p>
<p>
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
</p>
<p>
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
</p>
<p>
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
</p>
<p>
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
</p>
<p>
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
</p>
<p>
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
</p>
<p>
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
</p>
<p>
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
</p>
<p>
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He went mad from the same disease that's afflicting Thip. \n(B) Thip shoots him with a blaster before he can comprehend what happened. \n(C) His own madness. His overly trained mind can't handle the new circumstances. \n(D) He was never trained for a situation like this. He's not able to keep up with Thip. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; PS; Science fiction; Long Island (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
62198 | Why is Thig's return to Earth bittersweet?
Choices:
(A) His Orthan background will always be at odds with his new life.
(B) It's grueling to remember what he did to Terry, and to always have to be him now.
(C) Though he wants it, he'll never truly belong. He'll always be an otherworlder.
(D) He misses his life as an Orthan, even though he's come to enjoy Earth. | [
"C",
"Though he wants it, he'll never truly belong. He'll always be an otherworlder. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
QUEST OF THIG
</h1>
<h2>
By BASIL WELLS
</h2>
<p>
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
<br/>
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
<br/>
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
<br/>
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1942.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
</p>
<p>
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
</p>
<p>
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
</p>
<p>
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
</p>
<p>
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
</p>
<p>
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
</p>
<p>
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
<i>
West
</i>
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
<i>
had
</i>
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
</p>
<p>
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
</p>
<p>
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
</p>
<p>
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
</p>
<p>
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
</p>
<p>
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
</p>
<p>
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
</p>
<p>
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
</p>
<p>
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
</p>
<p>
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
</p>
<p>
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
</p>
<p>
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
</p>
<p>
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
</p>
<p>
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
</p>
<p>
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
</p>
<p>
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
</p>
<p>
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
</p>
<p>
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
</p>
<p>
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
</p>
<p>
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
</p>
<p>
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
</p>
<p>
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
</p>
<p>
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
</p>
<p>
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
</p>
<p>
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
</p>
<p>
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
</p>
<p>
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
</p>
<p>
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
</p>
<p>
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
</p>
<p>
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
</p>
<p>
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
</p>
<p>
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
</p>
<p>
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
</p>
<p>
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
</p>
<p>
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
</p>
<p>
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
</p>
<p>
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
</p>
<p>
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
</p>
<p>
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
</p>
<p>
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
</p>
<p>
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
</p>
<p>
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
</p>
<p>
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
</p>
<p>
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
</p>
<p>
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
</p>
<p>
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
</p>
<p>
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
</p>
<p>
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
</p>
<p>
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
</p>
<p>
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
</p>
<p>
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
</p>
<p>
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
</p>
<p>
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
</p>
<p>
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
</p>
<p>
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
</p>
<p>
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
</p>
<p>
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
</p>
<p>
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
</p>
<p>
<i>
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
</i>
</p>
<p>
And there his writing ended abruptly.
</p>
<p>
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
</p>
<p>
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
</p>
<p>
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
</p>
<p>
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
</p>
<p>
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
</p>
<p>
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
</p>
<p>
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
</p>
<p>
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
</p>
<p>
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
</p>
<p>
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
</p>
<p>
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
</p>
<p>
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) His Orthan background will always be at odds with his new life. \n(B) It's grueling to remember what he did to Terry, and to always have to be him now. \n(C) Though he wants it, he'll never truly belong. He'll always be an otherworlder. \n(D) He misses his life as an Orthan, even though he's come to enjoy Earth. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; PS; Science fiction; Long Island (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
62198 | Why does Thig leave a note at Torp's desk?
Choices:
(A) He wants to make sure no one comes to invade Earth, and have reason to fear doing so.
(B) He wants to warn the other Orthans about the potential dangers of Earth.
(C) He wants someone to understand what had happened.
(D) He feels badly about killing Kam and Torp, and wants to leave a final message on their behalf. | [
"A",
"He wants to make sure no one comes to invade Earth, and have reason to fear doing so. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
QUEST OF THIG
</h1>
<h2>
By BASIL WELLS
</h2>
<p>
Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering
<br/>
"HORDE." He had blasted across trackless space
<br/>
to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on
<br/>
Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Fall 1942.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beach
over the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubby
ship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across the
heaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisingly
around at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; and
started toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefully
because of the lesser gravitation.
</p>
<p>
Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha he
was well above the average in height—but his body was thick and
powerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his features
were regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes were
a curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he wore
no garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support his
rod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to the
little-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down to
wait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was to
bring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried space
cruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature's
mentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether a
planet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.
</p>
<p>
Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of them
all only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,
however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in every
respect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelope
made of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.
</p>
<p>
The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of a
leafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was covered
with baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metal
and wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.
</p>
<p>
Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing's
stupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polished
metal at the reflection of himself!
</p>
<p>
The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precious
time. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across the
intervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clamped
across the mouth and neck of the stranger....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that had
ground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigid
desolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he was
going stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of that
shiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feebly
he had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn't
dared touch the machine since.
</p>
<p>
For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had never
been further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promised
his wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself on
a trailer tour of the
<i>
West
</i>
that very summer. Since that promise, he
could not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches and
be-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up out
of his subconscious. Yet he
<i>
had
</i>
to write at least three novelets and
a fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the great
adventure—or the trip was off.
</p>
<p>
So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headed
for his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out a
salable yarn....
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside the
road. "What's the trouble?"
</p>
<p>
Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of the
stranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speech
and his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The hand
clamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side of
his head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"There it is," announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the captured
Earthman to the metal deck-plates. "It is a male of the species that
must have built the cities we saw as we landed."
</p>
<p>
"He resembles Thig," announced Kam. "But for the strange covering he
wears he might be Thig."
</p>
<p>
"Thig will be this creature!" announced Torp. "With a psychic relay we
will transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge to
the brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world without
arousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore the
two inner planets."
</p>
<p>
"You are the commander," said Thig. "But I wish this beast did not wear
these clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the use
of our limbs so."
</p>
<p>
"Do not question the word of your commander," growled Torp, swelling
out his thick chest menacingly. "It is for the good of our people that
you disguise yourself as an Earthman."
</p>
<p>
"For the good of the Horde," Thig intoned almost piously as he lifted
Terry's body and headed for the laboratory.
</p>
<p>
Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefully
cultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, they
knew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirely
lacking in their early training and later life. They were trained
antlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Horde
were of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeeling
robots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,
their love-life, their everything!
</p>
<p>
So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strapped
on two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked to
one another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon their
heads.
</p>
<p>
For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's brain
dry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthman
proved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stopped
completely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to his
body and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his tortured
brain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.
</p>
<p>
"There is nothing more to learn," he informed his impassive comrades.
"Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My new
body must return to its barbaric household before undue attention is
aroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleaming
baubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly."
</p>
<p>
An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed and
painless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space ship
and set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path running
inland to his home.
</p>
<p>
Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhood
memories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the place
where Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure that
old 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance of
that episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in his
pocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!
</p>
<p>
He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot on
the sagging boards the screen door burst open and three little
Earth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that his
acquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward from
around his heart.
</p>
<p>
Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of the
dead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Men
had no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the other
primitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understanding
the emotions that swept through his acquired memory.
</p>
<p>
Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,
trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood choked
achingly up into his throat.
</p>
<p>
"Lew, dear," Ellen was asking, "where have you been all day? I called
up at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know that
Saddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for "Reversed Revolvers"
and three other editors asked for shorts soon."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn," grunted Thig, and gasped.
</p>
<p>
For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly had
he acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciously
adopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better this
way, he realized—more natural.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry I was late," he said, digging into his pocket for the
glittering baubles, "but I was poking around on the beach where we used
to hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothing
but a handful of these."
</p>
<p>
He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,
unbelieving, to his arm.
</p>
<p>
"Why, Lew," she gasped, "they're worth a fortune! We can buy that new
trailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west right
away.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!"
</p>
<p>
"Uh huh," agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savages
and gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely he
hoped that the west had reformed.
</p>
<p>
"I saved some kraut and weiners," Ellen said. "Get washed up while I'm
warming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some from
the Eskoes. Want coffee, too?"
</p>
<p>
"Mmmmmm," came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Home again," whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weeks
later and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She knelt
beside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.
</p>
<p>
"The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful," she went
on as they climbed the steps, "but nowhere was there any place as
beautiful as our own little strip of sky and water."
</p>
<p>
Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from the
exposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray car
and the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their living
quarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in the
chaos of his cool Orthan brain.
</p>
<p>
Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellows
and report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,
including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary force
to wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,
of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could be
landed. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,
imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for the
Hordes?
</p>
<p>
Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of the
dead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For three
months he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificed
for reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the heady
glory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He had
experienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue against
the wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abrupt
division of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborer
thought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertainty
added zest to every day's life.
</p>
<p>
The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual to
the Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,
would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add to
the progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthan
civilization had remained static, its energies directed into certain
well-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vast
mechanical hives.
</p>
<p>
There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen had
caught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneath
them. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in lurid
red the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush and
cactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,
who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the son
of Ellen and the man he had destroyed.
</p>
<p>
Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the better
of his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them to
blast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down the
road toward the beach.
</p>
<p>
The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshly
but they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to the
door and called after him.
</p>
<p>
"Hurry home, dear," she said. "I'll have a bite ready in about an hour."
</p>
<p>
He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and she
would have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort of
person when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of a
hand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.
</p>
<p>
Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through the
autumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west that
lived no longer. He mentally titled it: "Rustlers' Riot" and blocked
in the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of the
careless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to be
sapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would never
be written, but he toyed with the idea.
</p>
<p>
So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted from
the unquestioning worship of the Horde!
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"You have done well," announced Torp when Thig had completed his report
on the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. "We now
have located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return to
Ortha at once.
</p>
<p>
"I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and the
complete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrations
of the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if they
were permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine that
three circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficient
for the purposes of complete liquidation."
</p>
<p>
"But why," asked Thig slowly, "could we not disarm all the natives and
exile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica for
example or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was once
a race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our own
degree of knowledge and comfort?"
</p>
<p>
"Only the good of the Horde matters!" shouted Torp angrily. "Shall a
race of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the way
of a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. The
Law of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking."
</p>
<p>
"Let us get back to Ortha at once, then," gritted out Thig savagely.
"Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.
There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have long
forgotten."
</p>
<p>
"Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam," ordered Torp shortly. "His
words are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to this
world. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha."
</p>
<p>
Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside the
squat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instruments
and gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along the
walls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness of
a decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast of
the invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh or
vegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.
</p>
<p>
The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feeble
clutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig's
broad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenly
he knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the children
of the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing must
stand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, an
empty world—this planet was not for them.
</p>
<p>
"Turn back!" he cried wildly. "I must go back to Earth. There is a
woman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not need
this planet."
</p>
<p>
Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from its
case. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniac
of the finest members of the Horde.
</p>
<p>
"No human being is more important than the Horde," he stated baldly.
"This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions we
must eliminate for the good of the Horde."
</p>
<p>
Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thick
jaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlying
the Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep into
Kam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before it
could be uttered.
</p>
<p>
Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harness
and dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his and
for long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadly
struggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other hand
fought against that lone arm of Thig.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of his
weapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thig
suddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A sudden
reversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivelling
about full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed down
upon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of the
decomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.
</p>
<p>
Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foul
corruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicated
matter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his own
Horde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulled
for the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward the
control blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into the
narrowed icy eyes of his commander.
</p>
<p>
He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against his
skull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.
His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waited
stupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and all
the struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboy
yarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.
</p>
<p>
Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlessly
toward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torp
would ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weapon
upon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of a
hammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. He
was in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap of
bruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked upon
his skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killed
him with those savage blows upon the head.
</p>
<p>
Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of his
ancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he now
owed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficiently
used the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in his
unconscious body.
</p>
<p>
Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the control
room. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodies
through the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wondered
why he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take cultures
of his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsible
for his sudden madness.
</p>
<p>
The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Association
of memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rack
beneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of the
weapon. He tugged it free.
</p>
<p>
In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the deck
toward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,
the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torp
scuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalled
out into a senseless whinny.
</p>
<p>
Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black length
of the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and stared
full into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned there
watching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bitten
lips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face and
chest. He was a madman!
</p>
<p>
The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, and
now the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had all
served to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.
The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes of
the Orthan.
</p>
<p>
So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant mad
stare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped over
the skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength that
victory had given him to drive him along.
</p>
<p>
He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thought
sobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. After
all, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinking
of while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.
</p>
<p>
He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log and
read the last few nervously scrawled lines:
</p>
<p>
<i>
Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease that
strikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existent
there. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad and
destroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.
Already I feel the insidious virus of....
</i>
</p>
<p>
And there his writing ended abruptly.
</p>
<p>
Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for the
planet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship's
path she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of danger
on 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.
</p>
<p>
Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one of
a half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship's
hull, and cut free from the mother vessel.
</p>
<p>
He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets driving
him from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his new
body was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of the
emotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many months
before, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the
rockets driving him from the parent ship.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of the
great exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was no
regret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his first
existence.
</p>
<p>
He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of the
monotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heart
thrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting days
he had spent on his three month trip over Earth.
</p>
<p>
He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with a
tiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. The
rocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutching
the ship echoed through the hull-plates.
</p>
<p>
He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched the
roundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusion
that all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of his
rockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience that
crowded his mind.
</p>
<p>
He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first time
he had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleys
below. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,
despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outer
space.
</p>
<p>
He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slight
differences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingers
trembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He said
a brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt very
deeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memories
were hot, bitter pains.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, he
heaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde's
creation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of the
West. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry and
now, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.
</p>
<p>
The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would be
a knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Her
dreams and happiness must never be shattered.
</p>
<p>
The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlines
of Long Island in the growing twilight.
</p>
<p>
A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about a
cowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.
He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write about
them....
</p>
<p>
He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He wants to make sure no one comes to invade Earth, and have reason to fear doing so. \n(B) He wants to warn the other Orthans about the potential dangers of Earth. \n(C) He wants someone to understand what had happened. \n(D) He feels badly about killing Kam and Torp, and wants to leave a final message on their behalf. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; PS; Science fiction; Long Island (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
63398 | Why is Rolf's weapon so valuable in the fights with the Furry?
Choices:
(A) The Hairy people need all the extra weaponry against the Furry.
(B) He's able to catch the Furry off guard with his expoder.
(C) It's much more technologically advanced than theirs.
(D) He's a skilled marksman and able to hit many targets at once. | [
"C",
"It's much more technologically advanced than theirs."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
THE HAIRY ONES
</h1>
<h2>
by BASIL WELLS
</h2>
<p>
Marooned on a world within a world, aided
<br/>
by a slim girl and an old warrior, Patrolman
<br/>
Sisko Rolf was fighting his greatest
<br/>
battle—to bring life to dying Mars.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Winter 1944.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"The outlaw ships are attacking!" Old Garmon Nash's harsh voice snapped
like a thunderclap in the cramped rocket flyer's cabin. "Five or six of
them. Cut the searchlights!"
</p>
<p>
Sisko Rolf's stocky body was a blur of motion as he cut the rocket
jets, doused the twin searchlights, and switched over to the audio
beams that served so well on the surface when blind flying was in
order. But here in the cavern world, thirty-seventh in the linked
series of vast caves that underlie the waterless wastes of Mars, the
reflected waves of sound were of little value. Distances were far too
cramped—disaster might loom but a few hundred feet away.
</p>
<p>
"Trapped us neatly," Rolf said through clenched teeth. "Tolled into
their underground hideout by that water-runner we tried to capture. We
can't escape, that's certain. They know these caverns better than....
We'll down some of them, though."
</p>
<p>
"Right!" That was old Garmon Nash, his fellow patrolman aboard the
Planet Patrol ship as he swung the deadly slimness of his rocket
blast's barrel around to center on the fiery jets that betrayed the
approaching outlaw flyers.
</p>
<p>
Three times he fired the gun, the rocket projectiles blasting off with
their invisible preliminary jets of gas, and three times an enemy craft
flared up into an intolerable torch of flame before they realized the
patrol ship had fired upon them. Then a barrage of enemy rocket shells
exploded into life above and before them.
</p>
<p>
Rolf swung the lax controls over hard as the bursts of fire revealed a
looming barrier of stone dead ahead, and then he felt the tough skin
of the flyer crumple inward. The cabin seemed to telescope about him.
In a slow sort of wonder Rolf felt the scrape of rock against metal,
and then the screeching of air through the myriad rents in the cabin's
meralloy walls grew to a mad whining wail.
</p>
<p>
Down plunged the battered ship, downward ever downward. Somehow Rolf
found the strength to wrap his fingers around the control levers and
snap on a quick burst from the landing rockets. Their mad speed checked
momentarily, but the nose of the vertically plunging ship dissolved
into an inferno of flame.
</p>
<p>
The ship struck; split open like a rotten squash, and Rolf felt himself
being flung far outward through thick blackness. For an eternity it
seemed he hung in the darkness before something smashed the breath and
feeling from his nerveless body. With a last glimmer of sanity he knew
that he lay crushed against a rocky wall.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Much later Rolf groaned with the pain of bruised muscles and tried to
rise. To his amazement he could move all his limbs. Carefully he came
to his knees and so to his feet. Not a bone was broken, unless the
sharp breathlessness that strained at his chest meant cracked ribs.
</p>
<p>
There was light in the narrow pit in which he found himself, light and
heat from the yet-glowing debris of the rocket flyer. The outlaws had
blasted the crashed ship, his practiced eyes told him, and Garmon Nash
must have died in the wreckage. He was alone in the waterless trap of a
deep crevice.
</p>
<p>
In the fading glow of the super-heated metal the vertical walls above
mocked him. There could be no ascent from this natural prison-pit, and
even if there were he could never hope to reach the surface forty miles
and more overhead. The floors of the thirty-seven caves through which
they had so carefully jetted were a splintered, creviced series of
canyon-like wastes, and as he ascended the rarefied atmosphere of the
higher levels would spell death.
</p>
<p>
Rolf laughed. Without a pressure mask on the surface of Mars an
Earthman was licked. Without water and food certain death grinned in
his face, for beyond the sand-buried entrance to these lost equatorial
caves there were no pressure domes for hundreds of miles. Here at
least the air was thick enough to support life, and somewhere nearby
the outlaws who smuggled their precious contraband water into the
water-starved domes of North Mars lay hidden.
</p>
<p>
The young patrolman unzippered his jacket pocket and felt for the
emergency concentrate bars that were standard equipment. Half of the
oval bar he crushed between his teeth, and when the concentrated energy
flooded into his muscles he set off around the irregular wall of the
pit.
</p>
<p>
He found the opening less than ten paces from the starting point, an
empty cavity higher than a man and half as wide. The glow from the
gutted ship was failing and he felt for the solar torch that hugged
flatly against his hip. He uncapped the torch and the miniature sun
glowed redly from its lensed prison to reveal the rocky corridor
stretching out ahead.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Light! How many hours later it was when the first faint glow of white
light reached his eyes Rolf did not know—it had seemed an eternity of
endless plodding along that smooth-floored descending tunnel.
</p>
<p>
Rolf capped the solar torch. No use wasting the captive energy
needlessly he reasoned. And he loosened the expoder in its holster as
he moved carefully forward. The outlaw headquarters might be close
ahead, headquarters where renegade Frogs, Venusians from the southern
sunken marshes of Mars, and Earthmen from dusty North Mars, concealed
their precious hoard of water from the thirsty colonists of North Mars.
</p>
<p>
"They may have found the sunken seas of Mars," thought Rolf as he moved
alertly forward, "water that would give the mining domes new life." His
fists clenched dryly. "Water that should be free!"
</p>
<p>
Then the light brightened before him as he rounded a shouldering wall
of smoothly trimmed stone, and the floor fell away beneath his feet!
He found himself shooting downward into a vast void that glowed softly
with a mysterious all-pervading radiance.
</p>
<p>
His eyes went searching out, out into undreamed distance. For miles
below him there was nothing but emptiness, and for miles before him
there was that same glowing vacancy. Above the cavern's roof soared
majestically upward; he could see the narrow dark slit through which
his feet had betrayed him, and he realized that he had fallen through
the vaulted rocky dome of this fantastic abyss.
</p>
<p>
It was then, even as he snapped the release of his spinner and the
nested blades spun free overhead, that he saw the slowly turning bulk
of the cloud-swathed world, a tiny five mile green ball of a planet!
</p>
<p>
The weird globe was divided equally into hemispheres, and as the tiny
world turned between its confining columns a green, lake-dotted half
alternated with a blasted, splintered black waste of rocky desert. As
the spinner dropped him slowly down into the vast emptiness of the
great shining gulf, Rolf could see that a broad band of stone divided
the green fertile plains and forests from the desolate desert wastes of
the other half. Toward this barrier the spinner bore him, and Rolf was
content to let it move in that direction—from the heights of the wall
he could scout out the country beyond.
</p>
<p>
The wall expanded as he came nearer to the pygmy planet. The spinner
had slowed its speed; it seemed to Rolf that he must be falling free
in space for a time, but the feeble gravity of the tiny world tugged
at him more strongly as he neared the wall. And the barrier became a
jumbled mass of roughly-dressed stone slabs, from whose earth-filled
crevices sprouted green life.
</p>
<p>
So slowly was the spinner dropping that the blackened desolation of the
other hemisphere came sliding up beneath his boots. He looked down into
great gashes in the blackness of the desert and saw there the green of
sunken oases and watered canyons. He drifted slowly toward the opposite
loom of the mysterious wall with a swift wind off the desert behind him.
</p>
<p>
A hundred yards from the base of the rocky wall his feet scraped
through black dust, and he came to a stop. Deftly Rolf nested the
spinners again in their pack before he set out toward the heaped-up
mass of stone blocks that was the wall.
</p>
<p>
Ten steps he took before an excited voice called out shrilly from the
rocks ahead. Rolf's slitted gray eyes narrowed yet more and his hand
dropped to the compact expoder machine-gun holstered at his hip. There
was the movement of a dark shape behind the screen of vines and ragged
bushes.
</p>
<p>
"Down, Altha," a deeper voice rumbled from above, "it's one of the
Enemy."
</p>
<p>
The voice had spoken in English! Rolf took a step forward eagerly and
then doubt made his feet falter. There were Earthmen as well as Frogs
among the outlaws. This mysterious world that floated above the cavern
floor might be their headquarters.
</p>
<p>
"But, Mark," the voice that was now unmistakably feminine argued, "he
wears the uniform of a patrolman."
</p>
<p>
"May be a trick." The deep voice was doubtful. "You know their leader,
Cannon, wanted you. This may be a trick to join the Outcasts and
kidnap you."
</p>
<p>
The girl's voice was merry. "Come on Spider-legs," she said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Rolf found himself staring, open-mouthed, at the sleek-limbed vision
that parted the bushes and came toward him. A beautiful woman she was,
with the long burnished copper of her hair down around her waist, but
beneath the meager shortness of the skin tunic he saw that her firm
flesh was covered with a fine reddish coat of hair. Even her face was
sleek and gleaming with its coppery covering of down.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, patrol-a-man," she said shyly.
</p>
<p>
An elongated pencil-ray of a man bounced nervously out to her side.
"Altha," he scolded, scrubbing at his reddened bald skull with a
long-fingered hand, "why do you never listen to me? I promised your
father I'd look after you." He hitched at his tattered skin robe.
</p>
<p>
The girl laughed, a low liquid sound that made Rolf's heart pump
faster. "This Mark Tanner of mine," she explained to the patrolman,
"is always afraid for me. He does not remember that I can see into the
minds of others."
</p>
<p>
She smiled again as Rolf's face slowly reddened. "Do not be ashamed,"
she said. "I am not angry that you think I am—well, not too
unattractive."
</p>
<p>
Rolf threw up the mental block that was the inheritance from his
grueling years of training on Earth Base. His instructors there
had known that a few gifted mortals possess the power of a limited
telepathy, and the secrets of the Planet Patrol must be guarded.
</p>
<p>
"That is better, perhaps." The girl's face was demure. "And now perhaps
you will visit us in the safety of the vaults of ancient Aryk."
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," said the tall man as Rolf sprang easily from the ground to
their side. "I'm always forgetting the mind-reading abilities of the
Hairy People."
</p>
<p>
"She one of them?" Rolf's voice was low, but he saw Altha's lip twitch.
</p>
<p>
"Mother was." Mark Tanner's voice was louder. "Father was Wayne Stark.
Famous explorer you know. I was his assistant."
</p>
<p>
"Sure." Rolf nodded. "Lost in equatorial wastelands—uh, about twenty
years ago—2053, I believe."
</p>
<p>
"Only we were not lost on the surface," explained Tanner, his booming
voice much too powerful for his reedy body, "Wayne Stark was searching
for the lost seas of Mars. Traced them underground. Found them too." He
paused to look nervously out across the blasted wasteland.
</p>
<p>
"We ran out of fuel here on Lomihi," he finished, "with the vanished
surface waters of Mars less than four miles beneath us."
</p>
<p>
Rolf followed the direction of the other's pale blue eyes. Overhead now
hung the bottom of the cavern. An almost circular island of pale yellow
lifted above the restless dark waters of a vast sea. Rolf realized with
a wrench of sudden fear that they actually hung head downward like
flies walking across a ceiling.
</p>
<p>
"There," roared Tanner's voice, "is one of the seas of Mars."
</p>
<p>
"One," repeated Rolf slowly. "You mean there are more?"
</p>
<p>
"Dozens of them," the older man's voice throbbed with helpless rage.
"Enough to make the face of Mars green again. Cavern after cavern lies
beyond this first one, their floors flooded with water."
</p>
<p>
Rolf felt new strength pump into his tired bruised muscles. Here lay
the salvation of Earth's thirsting colonies almost within reach. Once
he could lead the scientists of North Mars to this treasure trove of
water....
</p>
<p>
"Mark!" The girl's voice was tense. Rolf felt her arm tug at his sleeve
and he dropped beside her in the shelter of a clump of coarse-leaved
gray bushes. "The Furry Women attack!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A hundred paces away Rolf made the dark shapes of armed warriors as
they filed downward from the Barrier into the blackened desolation of
the desert half of Lomihi.
</p>
<p>
"Enemies?" he whispered to Mark Tanner hoarsely.
</p>
<p>
"Right." The older man was slipping the stout bowstring into its
notched recess on the upper end of his long bow. "They cross the
Barrier from the fertile plains of Nyd to raid the Hairy People. They
take them for slaves."
</p>
<p>
"I must warn them." Altha's lips thinned and her brown-flecked eyes
flamed.
</p>
<p>
"The outlaws may capture," warned Tanner. "They have taken over the
canyons of Gur and Norpar, remember."
</p>
<p>
"I will take the glider." Altha was on her feet, her body crouched
over to take advantage of the sheltering shrubs. She threaded her way
swiftly back along a rocky corridor in the face of the Barrier toward
the ruins of ancient Aryk.
</p>
<p>
Tanner shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do? Altha has the blood
of the Hairy People in her veins. She will warn them even though the
outlaws have turned her people against her."
</p>
<p>
Rolf watched the column of barbarically clad warriors file out upon the
barren desert and swing to the right along the base of the Barrier.
Spear tips and bared swords glinted dully.
</p>
<p>
"They will pass within a few feet!" he hissed.
</p>
<p>
"Right." Tanner's fingers bit into Rolf's arm. "Pray that the wind does
not shift, their nostrils are sensitive as those of the weasels they
resemble."
</p>
<p>
Rolf's eyes slitted. There was something vaguely unhuman about those
gracefully marching figures. He wondered what Tanner had meant by
calling them weasels, wondered until they came closer.
</p>
<p>
Then he knew. Above half naked feminine bodies, sinuous and supple
as the undulating coils of a serpent, rose the snaky ditigrade head
of a weasel-brute! Their necks were long and wide, merging into
the gray-furred muscles of their narrow bodies until they seemed
utterly shoulderless, and beneath their furry pelts the ripples of
smooth-flowing muscles played rhythmically. There was a stench, a musky
penetrating scent that made the flesh of his body crawl.
</p>
<p>
"See!" Tanner's voice was muted. "Giffa, Queen of the Furry Ones!"
</p>
<p>
Borne on a carved and polished litter of ebon-hued wood and yellowed
bone lolled the hideous queen of that advancing horde. Gaunt of body
she was, her scarred gray-furred hide hanging loose upon her breastless
frame. One eye was gone but the other gleamed, black and beady, from
her narrow earless skull. And the skulls of rodents and men alike
linked together into ghastly festoons about her heavy, short-legged
litter.
</p>
<p>
Men bore the litter, eight broad-shouldered red-haired men whose arms
had been cut off at the shoulders and whose naked backs bore the weals
of countless lashes. Their bodies, like that of Altha, were covered
with a silky coat of reddish hair.
</p>
<p>
Rolf raised his expoder, red anger clouding his eyes as he saw these
maimed beasts of burden, but the hand of Mark Tanner pressed down
firmly across his arm. The older man shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"Not yet," he said. "When Altha has warned the Hairy People we can cut
off their retreat. After they have passed I will arouse the Outcasts
who live here upon the Barrier. Though their blood is that of the two
races mingled they hate the Furry Ones."
</p>
<p>
A shadow passed over their hiding place. The Furry Amazons too saw the
indistinct darkness and looked up. High overhead drifted the narrow
winged shape of a glider, and the warrior women shrieked their hatred.
Gone now was their chance for a surprise attack on the isolated canyons
of the Hairy People.
</p>
<p>
They halted, clustered about their leader. Giffa snarled quick orders
at them, her chisel-teeth clicking savagely. The column swung out into
the wasteland toward the nearest sunken valleys of the Hairy People.
Rolf and Mark Tanner came to their feet.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly, then, the wind veered. From behind the two Earthmen it came,
bearing the scent of their bodies out to the sensitive nostrils of the
beast-women. Again the column turned. They glimpsed the two men and a
hideous scrawling battle-cry burst from their throats.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Rolf's expoder rattled briefly like a high-speed sewing machine as he
flicked its muzzle back and forth along the ranks of attacking Furry
Ones. Dozens of the hideous weasel creatures fell as the needles of
explosive blasted them but hundreds more were swarming over their
fallen sisters. Mark Tanner's bow twanged again and again as he drove
arrows at the bloodthirsty warrior women. But the Furry Ones ran
fearlessly into that rain of death.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
The expoder hammered in Rolf's heavy fist.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Tanner smashed an elbow into Rolf's side. "Retreat!" he gasped.
</p>
<p>
The Furry Amazons swarmed up over the lower terraces of rocks, their
snaky heads thrust forward and their swords slashing. The two Earthmen
bounded up and backward to the next jumbled layer of giant blocks
behind them, their powerful earthly muscles negating Lomihi's feeble
gravity. Spears showered thick about them and then they dropped behind
the sheltering bulk of a rough square boulder.
</p>
<p>
"Now where?" Rolf snapped another burst of expoder needles at the furry
attackers as he asked.
</p>
<p>
"To the vaults beneath the Forbidden City," Mark Tanner cried. "None
but the Outcasts and we two have entered the streets of deserted Aryk."
</p>
<p>
The bald scientist slung his bow over his head and one shoulder and
went bounding away along a shadowy crevice that plunged raggedly into
the heart of the Barrier. Rolf blasted another spurt of explosive
needles at the Furry Ones and followed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Darkness thickened as they penetrated into the maze of the Barrier's
shattered heart. An unseen furry shape sprang upon Rolf's shoulders
and as he sank to his knees he felt hot saliva drip like acid upon his
neck. His fist sent the attacker's bulk smashing against the rocky
floor before fangs or claws could rip at his tender flesh, and he heard
a choked snarl that ended convulsively in silence.
</p>
<p>
Bat-winged blobs of life dragged wet leathery hide across his face, and
beneath his feet slimy wriggling things crushed into quivering pulp.
Then there was faint light again, and the high-vaulted roof of a rock
dungeon rose above him.
</p>
<p>
Mark Tanner was peering out a slitted embrasure that overlooked the
desolate land of the Hairy People.
</p>
<p>
Tanner's finger pointed. "Altha!" Rolf saw the graceful wings of the
glider riding the thermals back toward the Barrier. "She had warned the
Hairy People, and now she returns."
</p>
<p>
"The weasel heads won't follow us here?" asked Rolf.
</p>
<p>
Tanner laughed. "Hardly. They fear the spirits of the Ancients too much
for that. They believe the invisible powers will drink their souls."
</p>
<p>
"Then how about telling me about this hanging world?"
</p>
<p>
"Simply the whim of an ancient Martian ruler. As I have learned from
the inscriptions and metal tablets here in Aryk he could not conquer
all of Mars so he created a world that would be all his own."
</p>
<p>
Rolf laughed. "Like the pleasure globes of the wealthy on Earth."
</p>
<p>
"Right." Tanner kept his eyes on the enlarging winged shape of Altha's
flyer as he spoke. "Later, when the nations of Mars began draining off
the seas and hoarding them in their underground caverns, Lomihi became
a fortress for the few thousand aristocrats and slaves who escaped the
surface wars.
</p>
<p>
"The Hairy People were the rulers," he went on, "and the Furry Ones
were their slaves. In the revolt that eventually split Lomihi into two
warring races this city, Aryk, was destroyed by a strange vegetable
blight and the ancient knowledge was lost to both races."
</p>
<p>
"But," Rolf frowned thoughtfully, "what keeps Lomihi from crashing into
the island? Surely the two columns at either end cannot support it?"
</p>
<p>
"The island is the answer," said Tanner. "Somehow it blocks the force
of gravity—shields Lomihi from...." He caught his breath suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"The outlaws!" he cried. "They're after Altha."
</p>
<p>
Rolf caught a glimpse of a sleek rocket flyer diving upon Altha's frail
wing. He saw the girl go gliding steeply down toward a ragged jumble
of volcanic spurs and pits and disappear from view. He turned to see
the old man pushing another crudely constructed glider toward the outer
wall of the rock chamber.
</p>
<p>
Tanner tugged at a silvery metal bar inset into the stone wall. A
section of the wall swung slowly inward. Rolf sprang to his side.
</p>
<p>
"Let me follow," he said. "I can fly a glider, and I have my expoder."
</p>
<p>
The older man's eyes were hot. He jerked at Rolf's hands and then
suddenly thought better of it. "You're right," he agreed. "Help her if
you can. Your weapon is our only hope now."
</p>
<p>
Rolf pushed up and outward with all the strength of his weary muscles.
The glider knifed forward with that first swift impetus, and drove out
over the Barrier. The Furry Ones were struggling insect shapes below
him, and he saw with a thrill that larger bodied warriors, whose bodies
glinted with a dull bronze, were attacking them from the burnt-out
wastelands. The Hairy People had come to battle the invaders.
</p>
<p>
He guided the frail wing toward the shattered badlands where the girl
had taken shelter, noting as he did so that the rocket flyer had landed
near its center in a narrow strip of rocky gulch. A sudden thought made
him grin. He drove directly toward the grounded ship. With this rocket
flyer he could escape from Lomihi, return through the thirty-seven
caverns to the upper world, and give to thirsty Mars the gift of
limitless water again.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A man stood on guard just outside the flyer's oval door. Rolf lined up
his expoder and his jaw tensed. He guided the tiny soarer closer with
one hand. If he could crash the glider into the guard, well and good.
There would be no explosion of expoder needles to warn the fellow's
comrades. But if the outlaw saw him Rolf knew that he would be the
first to fire—his was the element of surprise.
</p>
<p>
A score of feet lay between them, and suddenly the outlaw whirled
about. Rolf pressed the firing button; the expoder clicked over once
and the trimmer key jammed, and the doughy-faced Venusian swung up his
own long-barreled expoder!
</p>
<p>
Rolf snapped his weapon overhand at the Frog's hairless skull. The
fish-bellied alien ducked but his expoder swung off the target
momentarily. In that instant Rolf launched himself from the open
framework of the slowly diving glider, full upon the Venusian.
</p>
<p>
They went down, Rolf swinging his fist like a hammer. He felt the Frog
go limp and he loosed a relieved whistle. Now with a rocket flyer and
the guard's rifle expoder in his grasp the problem of escape from
the inner caverns was solved. He would rescue the girl, stop at the
Forbidden City for Mark Tanner, and blast off for the upper crust forty
miles and more overhead.
</p>
<p>
He knelt over the prostrate Venusian, using his belt and a strip torn
from his greenish tunic to bind the unconscious man. The knots were
not too tight, the man could free himself in the course of a few hours.
He shrugged his shoulders wearily and started to get up.
</p>
<p>
A foot scraped on stone behind him. He spun on bent knees and flung
himself fifty feet to the further side of the narrow gulch with the
same movement. Expoder needles splintered the rocks about him as he
dropped behind a sheltering rocky ledge, and he caught a glimpse of two
green-clad men dragging the bronze-haired body of the girl he had come
to save into the shelter of the flyer.
</p>
<p>
A green bulge showed around the polished fuselage and Rolf pressed his
captured weapon's firing button. A roar of pain came from the wounded
man, and he saw an outflung arm upon the rocky ground that clenched
tightly twice and relaxed to move no more. The outlaw weapon must have
been loaded with a drum of poisoned needles, the expoder needles had
not blasted a vital spot in the man's body.
</p>
<p>
The odds were evening, he thought triumphantly. There might be another
outlaw somewhere out there in the badlands, but no more than that. The
flyer was built to accommodate no more than five passengers and four
was the usual number. He shifted his expoder to cover the opposite end
of the ship's squatty fuselage.
</p>
<p>
And something that felt like a mountain smashed into his back. He was
crushed downward, breathless, his eyes glimpsing briefly the soiled
greenish trousers of his attacker as they locked on either side of
his neck, and then blackness engulfed him as a mighty sledge battered
endlessly at his skull.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
This sledge was hammering relentlessly as Rolf sensed his first
glimmer of returning light. There were two sledges, one of them that
he identified as the hammering of blood in his throbbing temples, and
the other the measured blasting pulse of rocket jets. He opened his
eyes slowly to find himself staring at the fine-crusted metal plates
of a flyer's deck. His nose was grinding into the oily muck that only
undisciplined men would have permitted to accumulate.
</p>
<p>
Cautiously his head twisted until he could look forward toward the
controls. The bound body of Altha Stark faced him, and he saw her lips
twist into a brief smile of recognition. She shook her head and frowned
as he moved his arm. But Rolf had learned that his limbs were not
bound—apparently the outlaws had considered him out of the blasting
for the moment.
</p>
<p>
By degrees Rolf worked his arm down to his belt where his solar torch
was hooked. His fingers made careful adjustments within the inset base
of the torch, pushing a lever here and adjusting a tension screw there.
</p>
<p>
The ship bumped gently as it landed and the thrum of rockets ceased.
The cabin shifted with the weight of bodies moving from their seats.
Rolf heard voices from a distance and the answering triumphant bawling
of his two captors. The moment had come. He turned the cap of the solar
torch away from his body and freed it.
</p>
<p>
Heat blasted at his body as the stepped-up output of the torch made the
oily floor flame. He lay unmoving while the thick smoke rolled over him.
</p>
<p>
"Fire!" There was panic in the outlaw's voice. Rolf came to his knees
in the blanketing fog and looked forward.
</p>
<p>
One of the men flung himself out the door, but the other reached
for the extinguisher close at hand. His thoughts were on the oily
smoke; not on the prisoners, and so the impact of Rolf's horizontally
propelled body drove the breath from his lungs before his hand could
drop to his belted expoder.
</p>
<p>
The outlaw was game. His fists slammed back at Rolf, and his knees
jolted upward toward the patrolman's vulnerable middle. But Rolf
bored in, his own knotted hands pumping, and his trained body weaving
instinctively aside from the crippling blows aimed at his body. For a
moment they fought, coughing and choking from the thickening pall of
smoke, and then the fingers of the outlaw clamped around Rolf's throat
and squeezed hard.
</p>
<p>
The patrolman was weary; the wreck in the upper cavern and the long
trek afterward through the dark tunnels had sapped his strength, and
now he felt victory slipping from his grasp.
</p>
<p>
He felt something soft bump against his legs, legs so far below that he
could hardly realize that they were his, and then he was falling with
the relentless fingers still about his throat. As from a great distant
he heard a cry of pain and the blessed air gulped into his raw throat.
His eyes cleared.
</p>
<p>
He saw Altha's bound body and head. Her jaws were clamped upon the
arm of the outlaw and even as he fought for more of the reeking smoky
air of the cabin he saw the man's clenched fist batter at her face.
Rolf swung, all the weight of his stocky body behind the blow, and the
outlaw thudded limply against the opposite wall of the little cabin.
</p>
<p>
No time to ask the girl if she were injured. The patrolman flung
himself into the spongy control chair's cushions and sent the ship
rocketing skyward. Behind him the thin film of surface oil no longer
burned and the conditioning unit was clearing the air.
</p>
<p>
"Patrolman," the girl's voice was beside him. "We're safe!"
</p>
<p>
"Everything bongo?" Rolf wanted to know.
</p>
<p>
"Of course," she smiled crookedly.
</p>
<p>
"Glad of that." Rolf felt the warmth of her body so close beside him. A
sudden strange restlessness came with the near contact.
</p>
<p>
Altha smiled shyly and winced with pain. "Do you know," she said, "even
yet I do not know your name."
</p>
<p>
Rolf grinned up at her. "Need to?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
The girl's eyes widened. A responsive spark blazed in them. "Handier
than calling you
<i>
Shorty
</i>
all the time," she quipped.
</p>
<p>
Then they were over the Barrier and Rolf saw the last of the beaten
Furry Ones racing back across the great wall toward the Plains of
Nyd. He nosed the captured ship down toward the ruined plaza of
the Forbidden City. Once Mark Tanner was aboard they would blast
surfaceward with their thrilling news that all Mars could have water in
plenty again.
</p>
<p>
Rolf snorted. "Shorty," he said disgustedly as they landed, but his arm
went out toward the girl's red-haired slimness, and curved around it.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) The Hairy people need all the extra weaponry against the Furry. \n(B) He's able to catch the Furry off guard with his expoder. \n(C) It's much more technologically advanced than theirs.\n(D) He's a skilled marksman and able to hit many targets at once. ",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Adventure stories; Water -- Fiction; Science fiction; Mars (Planet) -- Fiction; PS; Short stories"
} |
20015 | Why is it suspected that William Shawn blushed at Green's remark?
Choices:
(A) He was known for disallowing sexual content from his publications and was put off by the comment.
(B) As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity.
(C) The phrasing took him by surprise. It's not the answer he thought he'd receive.
(D) He was prudish in nature, and he was embarrassed by it. | [
"B",
"As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity. "
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Goings On About Town<br/><br/> One of the funniest moments<br/>in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker ," comes<br/>during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill;<br/>William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker ; and the reclusive English<br/>writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving , has just received a very<br/>favorable review in The New Yorker . Shawn--"with his usual hushed<br/>delicacy of speech and manner"--inquires of the novelist whether he could<br/>possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green<br/>obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest<br/>times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday<br/>morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "<br/><br/> This was<br/>not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red<br/>begin to burn in his cheeks."<br/><br/> Was Shawn blushing out of prudishness, as we are meant to<br/>infer? This was, after all, a man renowned for his retiring propriety, a man<br/>who sedulously barred anything smacking of the salacious--from lingerie ads to<br/>four-letter words--from the magazine he stewarded from 1952 until 1987, five<br/>years before his death. But after reading these two new memoirs about Shawn, I<br/>wonder. "He longed for the earthiest and wildest kinds of sexual adventures,"<br/>Lillian Ross discloses in hers, adding that he lusted after Hannah Arendt,<br/>Evonne Goolagong, and Madonna. As for Ved Mehta, he reports that Shawn's<br/>favorite thing to watch on television was "people dancing uninhibitedly"<br/>( Soul Train , one guesses). I suspect Shawn did not blush at the "cunty<br/>fingers" remark out of prudery. He blushed because it had hit too close to<br/>home.<br/><br/> Both these<br/>memoirs must be read by everyone--everyone, that is, who takes seriously the<br/>important business of sorting out precisely how he or she feels about The<br/>New Yorker , then and now. Of the two, Mehta's is far and away the more<br/>entertaining. This may seem odd, for Mehta is reputed to be a very dull writer<br/>whereas Ross is a famously zippy one. Moreover, Mehta writes as Shawn's adoring<br/>acolyte, whereas Ross writes as his longtime adulterous lover. Just knowing<br/>that Mrs. Shawn is still alive adds a certain tension to reading much of what<br/>this Other Woman chooses to divulge. Evidently, "Bill" and Lillian loved each<br/>other with a fine, pure love, a love that was more than love, a love coveted by<br/>the winged seraphs of heaven. "We had indeed become one," she tells us, freely<br/>venting the inflations of her heart.<br/><br/> <br/>Shawn was managing editor of The New<br/>Yorker when he hired Ross in 1945 as the magazine's second woman reporter<br/>(the first was Andy Logan). He was short and balding but had pale blue eyes to<br/>die for. As for Ross, "I was aware of the fact that I was not unappealing."<br/>During a late-night editorial session, she says, Shawn blurted out his love. A<br/>few weeks later at the office, their eyes met. Without a word--even, it seems,<br/>to the cab driver--they hied uptown to the Plaza, where matters were<br/>consummated. Thereafter, the couple set up housekeeping together in an<br/>apartment 20 blocks downtown from the Shawn residence on upper Fifth Avenue and<br/>stoically endured the sufferings of Shawn's wife, who did not want a<br/>divorce.<br/><br/> Now, Ross<br/>seems like a nice lady, and I certainly have nothing against adultery, which I<br/>hear is being carried on in the best circles these days. But the public<br/>flaunting of adultery--especially when spouses and children are around--well,<br/>it brings out the bourgeois in me. It also made me feel funny about William<br/>Shawn, whom I have always regarded as a great man. I loved his New<br/>Yorker . The prose it contained--the gray stuff around the cartoons--was<br/>balm for the soul: unfailingly clear, precise, logical, and quietly stylish. So<br/>what if the articles were occasionally boring? It was a sweet sort of boredom,<br/>serene and restorative, not at all like the kind induced by magazines today,<br/>which is more akin to nervous exhaustion. Besides, the moral tone of the<br/>magazine was almost wholly admirable--it was ahead of the pack on Hiroshima,<br/>civil rights, Vietnam, Watergate, the environment--and this was very much<br/>Shawn's doing. I do not like to think of him in an illicit love nest, eating<br/>tea and toast with cunty fingers.<br/><br/> Happily, Ross has sprinkled her memoir with clues that it<br/>is not to be taken as entirely factual. To say that Shawn was "a man who<br/>grieved over all living creatures" is forgivable hyperbole; but later to add<br/>that he "mourned" for Si Newhouse when Newhouse unceremoniously fired him in<br/>1987 (a couple of years after buying the magazine)--well, that's a bit much.<br/>Even Jesus had his limits.<br/><br/> Elsewhere,<br/>Ross refers to her lover's "very powerful masculinity," only to note on the<br/>very next page that "if he suffered a paper cut on a finger and saw blood, he<br/>would come into my office, looking pale." She declares that "Bill was incapable<br/>of engendering a cliché, in deed as well as in word." But then she puts the<br/>most toe-curling clichés into his mouth: "Why am I more ghost than man?" Or:<br/>"We must arrest our love in midflight. And we fix it forever as of today, a<br/>point of pure light that will reach into eternity." (File that under Romantic<br/>Effusions We Doubt Ever Got Uttered.) Nor is Ross incapable of a melodramatic<br/>cliché herself. "Why can't we just live, just live ?" she cries in<br/>anguish when she and Shawn, walking hand in hand out of Central Park, chance to<br/>see Shawn's wife slowly making her way down the block with a burden of<br/>packages.<br/><br/> <br/>And what does she think of Mrs. Shawn? "I found<br/>her to be sensitive and likeable." Plus, she could "do a mean Charleston."<br/>There is nothing more poignant than the image of an openly cheated-upon and<br/>humiliated wife doing "a mean Charleston."<br/><br/> William<br/>Shawn's indispensability as an editor is amply manifest in Ross' memoir. Word<br/>repetition? "Whatever reporting Bill asked me to do turned out to be both<br/>challenging and fun. ... For me, reporting and writing for the magazine was<br/>fun, pure fun. ... It was never 'work' for me. It was fun." Even in praising<br/>his skill as an editor, she betrays the presence of its absence. "All writers,<br/>of course, have needed the one called the 'editor,' who singularly, almost<br/>mystically, embodies the many-faceted, unique life force infusing the entire<br/>enchilada." Nice touch, that enchilada.<br/><br/> When cocktail party malcontents mocked Shawn's New<br/>Yorker in the late '70s and early '80s, they would make fun of such things<br/>as E.J. Kahn's five-part series on "Grains of the World" or Elizabeth Drew's<br/>supposedly soporific reporting from Washington. But Ved Mehta was always the<br/>butt of the worst abuse. Shawn was allowing him to publish an autobiography in<br/>the pages of the magazine that was mounting up to millions of words over the<br/>years, and the very idea of it seemed to bore people silly. After the<br/>publication of two early installments, "Daddyji" and "Mamaji," each the length<br/>of a book, one critic cried: "Enoughji!"<br/><br/> But it<br/>kept coming. And I, for one, was grateful. Here was a boy growing up in Punjab<br/>during the fall of the Raj and the Partition, a boy who had been blinded by<br/>meningitis at the age of 3, roller-skating through the back streets of Lahore<br/>as Sikhs slaughtered Hindus and Hindus slaughtered Muslims and civilization was<br/>collapsing and then, decades later, having made his way from India to an<br/>Arkansas school for the blind to Balliol College, Oxford, to The New<br/>Yorker , re-creating the whole thing in Proustian detail and<br/>better-than-Proustian prose ... !<br/><br/> <br/>Mehta's multivolume autobiography, titled<br/>Continents of Exile , has loss as its overarching theme: loss of sight,<br/>of childhood, of home and country, and now--with this volume--loss of Mr.<br/>Shawn's New Yorker . The memoir takes us from the time the author was<br/>hired as a staff writer in the early '60s up to 1994, when he was "terminated"<br/>by the loathed Tina Brown in her vandalization of his cherished magazine. Mehta<br/>evidently loved William Shawn at least as much as Lillian Ross did, although<br/>his love was not requited in the same way. He likens the revered editor to the<br/>character Prince Myshkin in The Idiot : innocent and vulnerable, someone<br/>who must be protected. And long-suffering, one might infer: "He was so careful<br/>of not hurting anyone's feelings that he often listened to utterly fatuous<br/>arguments for hours on end."<br/><br/> Like<br/>Ross, Mehta struggles to express William Shawn's ineffable virtues. "It is as<br/>if, Mehta, he were beyond our human conception," Janet Flanner tells him once<br/>to calm him down. At times I wondered whether the author, in his ecstasies of<br/>devotion, had not inadvertently committed plagiarism. His words on Mr. Shawn<br/>sound suspiciously like those of Mr. Pooter on his boss Mr. Perkupp in The<br/>Diary of a Nobody . Compare. Mehta on Shawn: "His words were so generous<br/>that I could scarcely find my tongue, even to thank him." Pooter on Perkupp:<br/>"My heart was too full to thank him." Mehta: "I started saying to myself<br/>compulsively, 'I wish Mr. Shawn would ring,' at the oddest times of the day or<br/>night. ... How I longed for the parade of proofs, the excitement of rewriting<br/>and perfecting!" Pooter: "Mr. Perkupp, I will work night and day to serve<br/>you!"<br/><br/> I am not sure I have made it sound this way so far, but<br/>Mehta's book is completely engrossing--the most enjoyable book, I think, I have<br/>ever reviewed. It oozes affection and conviction, crackles with anger, and is<br/>stuffed with thumping good stories. Many are about Mehta's daft colleagues at<br/>The New Yorker , such as the guy in the next office:<br/><br/> His door was<br/>always shut, but I could hear him through the wall that separated his cubicle<br/>from mine typing without pause. ... Even the changing of the paper in the<br/>typewriter seemed somehow to be incorporated into the rhythmic<br/>rat-tat-tat ... year after year went by to the sound of his typing but<br/>without a word from his typewriter appearing in the magazine.<br/><br/> Or the great and eccentric<br/>Irish writer Maeve Breenan, who fetched up as a bag lady. Or the legendary St.<br/>Clair McKelway, whose decisive breakdown came when he hailed a cab and<br/>prevailed upon the driver to take him to the New Yorker office at 24<br/>West 43 rd St. "O.K., Mac, if that's what you want." He was in Boston<br/>at the time. (McKelway later told Mehta that if the cabby had not called him<br/>"Mac," his nickname, an alarm might have gone off in his head.)<br/><br/> Mehta's<br/>writerly persona, a disarming mixture of the feline and the naive, is perfect<br/>for relating the little scandals that worried The New Yorker in the late<br/>'70s (plagiarism, frozen turbot), the drama of finding a worthy candidate to<br/>succeed the aging Shawn as editor, the purchase of the magazine by the evil Si<br/>Newhouse ("We all took fright") and the resultant plague of Gottliebs and<br/>Florios visited upon it, and what he sees as the final debacle: Tinaji.<br/><br/> <br/>Lillian Ross, by contrast, takes a rather<br/>cheerful view of the Brown dispensation. Indeed, the new editor even coaxed<br/>Ross into re-joining the magazine, just as she was booting Mehta out. "I found<br/>that she possessed--under the usual disguises--her own share of Bill's kind of<br/>naivete, insight, and sensitivity," Ross says of Brown. "She, too, 'got it.' "<br/>A few months after Brown was appointed editor, Shawn died at the age of 85. He<br/>had long since stopped reading his beloved magazine, in sorrow and relief.<br/>That's if you believe Mehta. Ross assures us that Mr. Shawn was reading Tina<br/>Brown's New Yorker "with new interest" in the weeks prior to his<br/>death.<br/><br/> Has Tina Brown betrayed the<br/>legacy of William Shawn, as Mehta fiercely believes, or has she continued and<br/>built upon it, as Ross is evidently convinced? Have the changes she has wrought<br/>enlivened a stodgy magazine or vulgarized a dignified one--or both? These are<br/>weighty questions, and one is of course loath to compromise one's life chances<br/>by hazarding unripe opinions in a public forum such as this.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) He was known for disallowing sexual content from his publications and was put off by the comment.\n(B) As someone who looked into risque material himself, it piqued his curiosity. \n(C) The phrasing took him by surprise. It's not the answer he thought he'd receive. \n(D) He was prudish in nature, and he was embarrassed by it. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
63442 | What was the point in Grannie Annie and Billy-boy venturing into the desert?
Choices:
(A) They were there to find Baker
(B) They were trying to locate the strange birds
(C) They were looking for proof of the Red Spot Fever
(D) They were trying to locate the kites | [
"A",
"They were there to find Baker"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
DOUBLE TROUBLE
</h1>
<h2>
by CARL JACOBI
</h2>
<p>
Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction
<br/>
writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot
<br/>
fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,
<br/>
I was running in circles—especially since
<br/>
Grannie became twins every now and then.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Spring 1945.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
We had left the offices of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
three days ago, Earth
time, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,
entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in the
lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in
this desert as the trees.
</p>
<p>
Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, with
only a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form of
vegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful
wind that blew from all quarters.
</p>
<p>
As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.
</p>
<p>
"This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hit
it at its narrowest spot."
</p>
<p>
Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. "It looks like the
rest of this God-forsaken moon," he said, "'ceptin for them sticks."
</p>
<p>
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,
taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.
</p>
<p>
He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,
visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she
was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,
had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've
missed something. She's the author of
<i>
Lady of the Green Flames
</i>
,
<i>
Lady of the Runaway Planet
</i>
,
<i>
Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast
</i>
, and
other works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,
however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.
Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she
laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a
transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from
visiting her "stage" in person.
</p>
<p>
Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had another
novel in the state of embryo.
</p>
<p>
What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Grannie
had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed
her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated
to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in the
offices of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
. And then I was shaking hands with
Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to meet you," he said cordially. "I've just been trying to
persuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric."
</p>
<p>
"What's the Baldric?" I had asked.
</p>
<p>
Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"Will you believe me, sir," he said, "when I tell you I've been out
here on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?"
</p>
<p>
I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.
</p>
<p>
"However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activities
here at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.
It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'm
not up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the red
planet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.
The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'
transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrations
per second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reaches
middle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.
Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their sounding
apparatus, and the rush was on."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
Park leaned back. "The rush to find more of the ore," he explained.
"But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.
</p>
<p>
"There are two companies here," he continued, "
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
and
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
. Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.
However, the point is, between the properties of these two companies
stretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.
</p>
<p>
"There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole trees
and a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one has
crossed the Baldric without trouble."
</p>
<p>
"What sort of trouble?" Grannie Annie had demanded. And when Antlers
Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never
saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers
on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and
supplies.
</p>
<p>
I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. And
then abruptly I saw something else.
</p>
<p>
A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.
Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet it
didn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.
</p>
<p>
"Look what I found," I yelled.
</p>
<p>
"What I found," said the cockatoo in a very human voice.
</p>
<p>
"Thunder, it talks," I said amazed.
</p>
<p>
"Talks," repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.
</p>
<p>
The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its short
legs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,
the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was
sketching a likeness of the creature.
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silver
cockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiter
began to descend toward the horizon.
</p>
<p>
And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a
high ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we had
just crossed.
</p>
<p>
"Billy-boy," she said to me in a strange voice, "look down there and
tell me what you see."
</p>
<p>
I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me from
head to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced a
party of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a black
dress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,
another Earth man, and a Martian.
</p>
<p>
<i>
Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!
</i>
</p>
<p>
"A mirage!" said Ezra Karn.
</p>
<p>
But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see that
their lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened in
awe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of Grannie
Annie, and she was replying in the most natural way.
</p>
<p>
Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,
they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.
</p>
<p>
"What do you make of it?" I said in a hushed voice.
</p>
<p>
Grannie shook her head. "Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinduced
by some chemical radiations," she replied. "Whatever it is, we'd better
watch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead."
</p>
<p>
We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw no
repetition of the "mirage." The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, and
the sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.
</p>
<p>
For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposed
to be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across the
heavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.
</p>
<p>
"It's a kite," she nodded. "There should be a car attached to it
somewhere."
</p>
<p>
She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later as
we topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slanting
windscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire which
slanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.
</p>
<p>
A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes later
Grannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.
</p>
<p>
"This is Jimmy Baker," she said. "He manages
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
, and
he's the real reason we're here."
</p>
<p>
I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,
he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sand
goggles could not conceal.
</p>
<p>
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie," he said. "If
anybody can help me, you can."
</p>
<p>
Grannie's eyes glittered. "Trouble with the mine laborers?" she
questioned.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as we
headed back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on an
electric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently these
adjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for the
car's ability to move in any direction.
</p>
<p>
"If I weren't a realist, I'd say that
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
has been
bewitched," he began slowly. "We pay our men high wages and give them
excellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.
Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health and
spirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them."
</p>
<p>
"Red Spot Fever?" Grannie looked at him curiously.
</p>
<p>
Jimmy Baker nodded. "The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousness
on the part of the patient. Then they disappear."
</p>
<p>
He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.
</p>
<p>
"They walk out into the Baldric," he continued, "and nothing can stop
them. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon as
they realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyes
are turned, they give us the slip."
</p>
<p>
"But surely you must have some idea of where they go," Grannie said.
</p>
<p>
Baker lit a cigarette. "There's all kinds of rumors," he replied, "but
none of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrie
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended between
a rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation of
translucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos were
perched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, but
they didn't move.
</p>
<p>
After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
. As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,
a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face was
drawn.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Baker," he said breathlessly, "seventy-five workers at Shaft Four
have headed out into the Baldric."
</p>
<p>
Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.
</p>
<p>
"Shaft Four, eh?" he repeated. "That's our principal mine. If the fever
spreads there, I'm licked."
</p>
<p>
He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. Silent
Xartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got his
notebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remained
standing.
</p>
<p>
Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself to
the bottle of Martian whiskey there.
</p>
<p>
"There must be ways of stopping this," she said. "Have you called in
any physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send the
men away until the plague has died down?"
</p>
<p>
Baker shook his head. "Three doctors from Callisto were here last
month. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,
I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company is
chartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failure
to produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose all
rights."
</p>
<p>
A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. A
man's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said "Okay" and
threw off the switch.
</p>
<p>
"The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric," he said
slowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.
Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.
</p>
<p>
"Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where that
corridor is at its widest," she said.
</p>
<p>
Baker looked up. "That's right. We only began operations there a
comparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix that
runs deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
, our rival, in a year."
</p>
<p>
Grannie nodded. "I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run up
there," she said. "But first I want to see your laboratory."
</p>
<p>
There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lower
level where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the length
of the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and began
dropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or four
Wellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a small
dynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wire
and other items.
</p>
<p>
The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and the
Martian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began to
roll down the ramp.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense the
loneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense of
foreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, an
old woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anything
happened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself and
neither would her millions of readers.
</p>
<p>
Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.
</p>
<p>
"Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet."
</p>
<p>
A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a long
corridor which ended at a staircase.
</p>
<p>
"Let's look around," I said.
</p>
<p>
We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the second
floor. Here were the general offices of
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
, and
through glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines and
report tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore was
being packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end a
door to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back in
a swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.
</p>
<p>
"C'mon in," he said, seeing us. "If you want a look at your friends,
here they are."
</p>
<p>
He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent a
slow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, then
coalesced into a three-dimensional scene.
</p>
<p>
It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from the
rear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,
were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standing
directly behind them.
</p>
<p>
"It's Mr. Baker's own invention," the operator said. "An improvement on
the visiphone."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and its
passengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure." The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voice
entered the room. It stopped abruptly. "The machine uses a lot of
power," the operator said, "and as yet we haven't got much."
</p>
<p>
The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappeared
somewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myself
posted of Grannie's movements.
</p>
<p>
Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. When
we returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.
I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face of
Antlers Park flashed on the screen.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," he said in his friendly way. "I see you arrived all right. Is
Miss Flowers there?"
</p>
<p>
"Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four," I said. "There's
trouble up there. Red spot fever."
</p>
<p>
"Fever, eh?" repeated Park. "That's a shame. Is there anything I can
do?"
</p>
<p>
"Tell me," I said, "has your company had any trouble with this plague?"
</p>
<p>
"A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to the
other side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemists
gave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think of
it, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.
I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have any
trouble, I shouldn't either."
</p>
<p>
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactly
an hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.
</p>
<p>
Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on their
conversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular array
of flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.
</p>
<p>
"There's an eyrie over there," Jimmy Baker was saying. "We might as
well camp beside it."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across the
top of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got out
of the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He was
drawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there in
the visiscreen room, I watched him.
</p>
<p>
There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would make
a few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to get
the proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotation
likenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Park
took form.
</p>
<p>
Ezra spoke over my shoulder. "He's doing scenes for Grannie's new
book," he said. "The old lady figures on using the events here for a
plot.
<i>
Look at that damned nosy bird!
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveying
curiously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the bird
scanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of the
eyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its bird
companions.
</p>
<p>
And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. A
group of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking and
moving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
</p>
<p>
With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I saw
the image of Jimmy Baker.
</p>
<p>
The
<i>
real
</i>
Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at this
incredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. "I've got it!" she said.
"Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.
They're Xartal's drawings!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Don't you see," the lady continued. "Everything that Xartal put on
paper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoos
are like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the power
of copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mental
image of what they have seen. In other words their brains form a
powerful photographic impression of the object. That impression is
then transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to common
foci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brain
vibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the light
field to form what are apparently three-dimensional images."
</p>
<p>
The Larynx manager nodded slowly. "I see," he said. "But why don't the
birds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?"
</p>
<p>
"Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details and
made a greater impression on their brains," Grannie replied.
</p>
<p>
Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicate
of Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and the
image of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.
</p>
<p>
Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," the operator said. "I've used too much power already. Have to
give the generators a chance to build it up again."
</p>
<p>
Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.
</p>
<p>
"That explains something at any rate," the old prospector said. "But
how about that Red spot fever?"
</p>
<p>
On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I opened
it and found it contained the case histories of those men who had been
attacked by the strange malady.
</p>
<p>
Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient had
received the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but while
sleeping or lounging in the barracks.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp that
led to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a low
rectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.
</p>
<p>
Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In those
bunks some thirty men lay sleeping.
</p>
<p>
The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stood
there, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walk
toward that window.
</p>
<p>
"Look here," he said.
</p>
<p>
Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dull
metal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The central
part of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and as
I seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.
</p>
<p>
All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-red
rays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens to
concentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockwork
served a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lens
slowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.
</p>
<p>
I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.
Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:
</p>
<p>
"Turn it on!"
</p>
<p>
The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.
I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, nor
was Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at the
controls was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. "Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd be
getting sick of this blamed moon."
</p>
<p>
It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,
never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the clues
and facts to a logical conclusion.
</p>
<p>
"Ezra," I said, "we're going to drive out and meet them. There's
something screwy here."
</p>
<p>
Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clip
through the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we saw
another car approaching.
</p>
<p>
It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in her
prim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:
</p>
<p>
"We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me to
my offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin."
</p>
<p>
He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it sped
across the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.
Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.
</p>
<p>
"Ezra!" I yelled, swinging the car. "That wasn't Grannie!
<i>
That was one
of those damned cockatoo images.
</i>
We've got to catch him."
</p>
<p>
The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw us
following. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.
</p>
<p>
I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affair
with a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehicle
was drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with each
variance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.
</p>
<p>
The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glinted
in his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round hole
appeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.
</p>
<p>
"Heat gun!" Ezra yelled.
</p>
<p>
Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out between
the flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. Grannie
Annie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives of
hundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a hole
shattered our windscreen.
</p>
<p>
The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,
but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss of
speed, I raced alongside.
</p>
<p>
The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he could
use it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt and
sent it coiling across the intervening space.
</p>
<p>
The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the only
thing he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to a
halt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon free
from his grasp.
</p>
<p>
"What have you done with Miss Flowers?" I demanded.
</p>
<p>
The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on the
trigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.
</p>
<p>
"Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now the
country began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to group
themselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, as
if to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetrate
that wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.
</p>
<p>
Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert began
again. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard as
granite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distance
black bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm or
doorway between.
</p>
<p>
I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off power
with an exclamation of astonishment.
</p>
<p>
There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it was
Grannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.
</p>
<p>
"Grannie!" I yelled. "What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?"
</p>
<p>
She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.
</p>
<p>
"Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
"I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot of
trouble." She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.
"Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you."
</p>
<p>
She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deep
gorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressing
close. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.
</p>
<p>
Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line of
Larynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving down
the center of the gorge toward the entrance.
</p>
<p>
But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreen
had been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-like
contrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft of
bluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forth
upon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.
</p>
<p>
"Ultra violet," Grannie Annie explained. "The opposite end of the
vibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red rays
that cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they've
reached Shaft Four."
</p>
<p>
Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.
We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners always
ahead of us.
</p>
<p>
Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which if
worked successfully would see
<i>
Larynx Incorporated
</i>
become a far more
powerful exporting concern than
<i>
Interstellar Voice
</i>
. Antlers Park
didn't want that.
</p>
<p>
It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynx
barracks.
<i>
For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot was
responsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman on
this Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,
capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park strove
to head her off before she reached Shaft Four.
</p>
<p>
He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal into
the Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from the
lens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.
</p>
<p>
Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in Jimmy
Baker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They were there to find Baker\n(B) They were trying to locate the strange birds\n(C) They were looking for proof of the Red Spot Fever\n(D) They were trying to locate the kites",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Older women -- Fiction; Flowers, Annabella C. (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Science fiction; Authors -- Fiction; Short stories"
} |
50893 | How can we interpret Mr. Schwartzberg was feeling from his theory not being taken seriously?
Choices:
(A) Frustrated because his evidentiary support showed it was logical
(B) Happy that he might be incorrect and it was only dust
(C) Disappointed that he had missed his opportunity for scientific acknowledgement.
(D) Excited that it could likely be something more exciting | [
"A",
"Frustrated because his evidentiary support showed it was logical"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE GREAT NEBRASKA SEA
</h1>
<p>
By ALLAN DANZIG
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine August 1963.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It has happened a hundred times in the long history
<br/>
of Earth—and, sooner or later, will happen again!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Everyone—all the geologists, at any rate—had known about the Kiowa
Fault for years. That was before there was anything very interesting
to know about it. The first survey of Colorado traced its course north
and south in the narrow valley of Kiowa Creek about twenty miles east
of Denver; it extended south to the Arkansas River. And that was about
all even the professionals were interested in knowing. There was never
so much as a landslide to bring the Fault to the attention of the
general public.
</p>
<p>
It was still a matter of academic interest when in the late '40s
geologists speculated on the relationship between the Kiowa Fault and
the Conchas Fault farther south, in New Mexico, and which followed the
Pecos as far south as Texas.
</p>
<p>
Nor was there much in the papers a few years later when it was
suggested that the Niobrara Fault (just inside and roughly parallel to
the eastern border of Wyoming) was a northerly extension of the Kiowa.
By the mid sixties it was definitely established that the three Faults
were in fact a single line of fissure in the essential rock, stretching
almost from the Canadian border well south of the New Mexico-Texas line.
</p>
<p>
It is not really surprising that it took so long to figure out the
connection. The population of the states affected was in places as
low as five people per square mile! The land was so dry it seemed
impossible that it could ever be used except for sheep-farming.
</p>
<p>
It strikes us today as ironic that from the late '50s there was grave
concern about the level of the water table throughout the entire area.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The even more ironic solution to the problem began in the summer of
1973. It had been a particularly hot and dry August, and the Forestry
Service was keeping an anxious eye out for the fires it knew it could
expect. Dense smoke was reported rising above a virtually uninhabited
area along Black Squirrel Creek, and a plane was sent out for a report.
</p>
<p>
The report was—no fire at all. The rising cloud was not smoke, but
dust. Thousands of cubic feet of dry earth rising lazily on the summer
air. Rock slides, they guessed; certainly no fire. The Forestry Service
had other worries at the moment, and filed the report.
</p>
<p>
But after a week had gone by, the town of Edison, a good twenty miles
away from the slides, was still complaining of the dust. Springs was
going dry, too, apparently from underground disturbances. Not even in
the Rockies could anyone remember a series of rock slides as bad as
this.
</p>
<p>
Newspapers in the mountain states gave it a few inches on the front
page; anything is news in late August. And the geologists became
interested. Seismologists were reporting unusual activity in the area,
tremors too severe to be rock slides. Volcanic activity? Specifically,
a dust volcano? Unusual, they knew, but right on the Kiowa Fault—could
be.
</p>
<p>
Labor Day crowds read the scientific conjectures with late summer
lassitude. Sunday supplements ran four-color artists' conceptions of
the possible volcano. "Only Active Volcano in U. S.?" demanded the
headlines, and some papers even left off the question mark.
</p>
<p>
It may seem odd that the simplest explanation was practically not
mentioned. Only Joseph Schwartzberg, head geographer of the Department
of the Interior, wondered if the disturbance might not be a settling
of the Kiowa Fault. His suggestion was mentioned on page nine or ten
of the Monday newspapers (page 27 of the New York
<i>
Times
</i>
). The idea
was not nearly so exciting as a volcano, even a lava-less one, and you
couldn't draw a very dramatic picture of it.
</p>
<p>
To excuse the other geologists, it must be said that the Kiowa Fault
had never acted up before. It never sidestepped, never jiggled,
never, never produced the regular shows of its little sister out in
California, which almost daily bounced San Francisco or Los Angeles, or
some place in between. The dust volcano was on the face of it a more
plausible theory.
</p>
<p>
Still, it was only a theory. It had to be proved. As the tremors grew
bigger, along with the affected area, as several towns including
Edison were shaken to pieces by incredible earthquakes, whole bus- and
plane-loads of geologists set out for Colorado, without even waiting
for their university and government department to approve budgets.
</p>
<p>
They found, of course, that Schwartzberg had been perfectly correct.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They found themselves on the scene of what was fast becoming the
most violent and widespread earthquake North America—probably the
world—has ever seen in historic times. To describe it in the simplest
terms, land east of the Fault was settling, and at a precipitous rate.
</p>
<p>
Rock scraped rock with a whining roar. Shuddery as a squeaky piece of
chalk raked across a blackboard, the noise was deafening. The surfaces
of the land east and west of the Fault seemed no longer to have any
relation to each other. To the west, tortured rock reared into cliffs.
East, where sharp reports and muffled wheezes told of continued
buckling and dropping, the earth trembled downward. Atop the new
cliffs, which seemed to grow by sudden inches from heaving rubble, dry
earth fissured and trembled, sliding acres at a time to fall, smoking,
into the bucking, heaving bottom of the depression.
</p>
<p>
There the devastation was even more thorough, if less spectacular.
Dry earth churned like mud, and rock shards weighing tons bumped and
rolled about like pebbles as they shivered and cracked into pebbles
themselves. "It looks like sand dancing in a child's sieve," said the
normally impassive Schwartzberg in a nationwide broadcast from the
scene of disaster. "No one here has ever seen anything like it." And
the landslip was growing, north and south along the Fault.
</p>
<p>
"Get out while you can," Schwartzberg urged the population of the
affected area. "When it's over you can come back and pick up the
pieces." But the band of scientists who had rallied to his leadership
privately wondered if there would be any pieces.
</p>
<p>
The Arkansas River, at Avondale and North Avondale, was sluggishly
backing north into the deepening trough. At the rate things were going,
there might be a new lake the entire length of El Paso and Pueblo
Counties. And, warned Schwartzberg, this might only be the beginning.
</p>
<p>
By 16 September the landslip had crept down the Huerfano River past
Cedarwood. Avondale, North Avondale and Boone had totally disappeared.
Land west of the Fault was holding firm, though Denver had recorded
several small tremors; everywhere east of the Fault, to almost twenty
miles away, the now-familiar lurch and steady fall had already sent
several thousand Coloradans scurrying for safety.
</p>
<p>
All mountain climbing was prohibited on the Eastern Slope because of
the danger of rock slides from minor quakes. The geologists went home
to wait.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much to wait for. The news got worse and worse. The Platte
River, now, was creating a vast mud puddle where the town of Orchard
had been. Just below Masters, Colorado, the river leaped 70-foot cliffs
to add to the heaving chaos below. And the cliffs were higher every day
as the land beneath them groaned downward in mile-square gulps.
</p>
<p>
As the Fault moved north and south, new areas quivered into unwelcome
life. Fields and whole mountainsides moved with deceptive sloth down,
down. They danced "like sand in a sieve"; dry, they boiled into rubble.
Telephone lines, railroad tracks, roads snapped and simply disappeared.
Virtually all east-west land communication was suspended and the
President declared a national emergency.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By 23 September the Fault was active well into Wyoming on the north,
and rapidly approaching the border of New Mexico to the south.
Trinchera and Branson were totally evacuated, but even so the over-all
death toll had risen above 1,000.
</p>
<p>
Away to the east the situation was quiet but even more ominous.
Tremendous fissures opened up perpendicular to the Fault, and a general
subsidence of the land was noticeable well into Kansas and Nebraska.
The western borders of these states, and soon of the Dakotas and
Oklahoma as well, were slowly sinking.
</p>
<p>
On the actual scene of the disaster (or the
<i>
scenes
</i>
; it is impossible
to speak of anything this size in the singular) there was a horrifying
confusion. Prairie and hill cracked open under intolerable strains as
the land shuddered downward in gasps and leaps. Springs burst to the
surface in hot geysers and explosions of steam.
</p>
<p>
The downtown section of North Platte, Nebraska, dropped eight feet,
just like that, on the afternoon of 4 October. "We must remain calm,"
declared the Governor of Nebraska. "We must sit this thing out. Be
assured that everything possible is being done." But what could be
done, with his state dropping straight down at a mean rate of a foot a
day?
</p>
<p>
The Fault nicked off the south-east corner of Montana. It worked its
way north along the Little Missouri. South, it ripped past Roswell, New
Mexico, and tore down the Pecos toward Texas. All the upper reaches of
the Missouri were standing puddles by now, and the Red River west of
Paris, Texas, had begun to run backward.
</p>
<p>
Soon the Missouri began slowly slipping away westward over the slowly
churning land. Abandoning its bed, the river spread uncertainly across
farmland and prairie, becoming a sea of mud beneath the sharp new
cliffs which rose in rending line, ever taller as the land continued to
sink, almost from Canada to the Mexican border. There were virtually no
floods, in the usual sense. The water moved too slowly, spread itself
with no real direction or force. But the vast sheets of sluggish water
and jelly-like mud formed death-traps for the countless refugees now
streaming east.
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the North Platte disaster had been more than anyone could take.
193 people had died in that one cave-in. Certainly by 7 October it had
to be officially admitted that there was an exodus of epic proportion.
Nearly two million people were on the move, and the U. S. was faced
with a gigantic wave of refugees. Rails, roads and air-lanes were
jammed with terrified hordes who had left everything behind to crowd
eastward.
</p>
<p>
All through October hollow-eyed motorists flocked into Tulsa, Topeka,
Omaha, Sioux Falls and Fargo. St. Louis was made distributing center
for emergency squads which flew everywhere with milk for babies and
dog food for evacuating pets. Gasoline trucks boomed west to meet the
demand for gas, but once inside the "zone of terror," as the newspapers
now called it, they found their route blocked by eastbound cars on the
wrong side of the road. Shops left by their fleeing owners were looted
by refugees from further west; an American Airlines plane was wrecked
by a mob of would-be passengers in Bismarck, North Dakota. Federal and
State troops were called out, but moving two million people was not to
be done in an orderly way.
</p>
<p>
And still the landslip grew larger. The new cliffs gleamed in the
autumn sunshine, growing higher as the land beneath them continued its
inexorable descent.
</p>
<p>
On 21 October, at Lubbock, Texas, there was a noise variously described
as a hollow roar, a shriek and a deep musical vibration like a church
bell. It was simply the tortured rock of the substrata giving way. The
second phase of the national disaster was beginning.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise traveled due east at better than 85 miles per hour. In its
wake the earth to the north "just seemed to collapse on itself like
a punctured balloon," read one newspaper report. "Like a cake that's
failed," said a Texarkana housewife who fortunately lived a block
<i>
south
</i>
of Thayer Street, where the fissure raced through. There
was a sigh and a great cloud of dust, and Oklahoma subsided at the
astounding rate of about six feet per hour.
</p>
<p>
At Biloxi, on the Gulf, there had been uneasy shufflings under foot all
day. "Not tremors, exactly," said the captain of a fishing boat which
was somehow to ride out the coming flood, "but like as if the land
wanted to be somewhere else."
</p>
<p>
Everyone in doomed Biloxi would have done well to have been somewhere
else that evening. At approximately 8:30 p.m. the town shuddered,
seemed to rise a little like the edge of a hall carpet caught in a
draft, and sank. So did the entire Mississippi and Alabama coast, at
about the same moment. The tidal wave which was to gouge the center
from the U. S. marched on the land.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
From the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain to the Appalachicola River
in Florida, the Gulf coast simply disappeared. Gulfport, Biloxi,
Mobile, Pensacola, Panama City: 200 miles of shoreline vanished, with
over two and a half million people. An hour later a wall of water
had swept over every town from Dothan, Alabama, to Bogalusa on the
Louisiana-Mississippi border.
</p>
<p>
"We must keep panic from our minds," said the Governor of Alabama in a
radio message delivered from a hastily arranged all-station hookup. "We
of the gallant southland have faced and withstood invasion before."
Then, as ominous creakings and groanings of the earth announced the
approach of the tidal wave, he flew out of Montgomery half an hour
before the town disappeared forever.
</p>
<p>
One head of the wave plunged north, eventually to spend itself in
the hills south of Birmingham. The main sweep followed the lowest
land. Reaching west, it swallowed Vicksburg and nicked the corner of
Louisiana. The whole of East Carroll Parish was scoured from the map.
</p>
<p>
The Mississippi River now ended at about Eudora, Arkansas, and minute
by minute the advancing flood bit away miles of river bed, swelling
north. Chicot, Jennie, Lake Village, Arkansas City, Snow Lake, Elaine,
Helena and Memphis felt the tremors. The tormented city shuddered
through the night. The earth continued its descent, eventually tipping
2-1/2 degrees down to the west. The "Memphis Tilt" is today one of
the unique and charming characteristics of the gracious Old Town, but
during the night of panic Memphis residents were sure they were doomed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
South and west the waters carved deeply into Arkansas and Oklahoma.
By morning it was plain that all of Arkansas was going under. Waves
advanced on Little Rock at almost 100 miles an hour, new crests
forming, overtopping the wave's leading edge as towns, hills and the
thirst of the soil temporarily broke the furious charge.
</p>
<p>
Washington announced the official hope that the Ozarks would stop the
wild gallop of the unleashed Gulf, for in northwest Arkansas the land
rose to over 2,000 feet. But nothing could save Oklahoma. By noon the
water reached clutching fingers around Mt. Scott and Elk Mountain,
deluging Hobart and almost all of Greer County.
</p>
<p>
Despite hopeful announcements that the wave was slowing, had virtually
stopped after inundating Oklahoma City, was being swallowed up in the
desert near Amarillo, the wall of water continued its advance. For the
land was still sinking, and the floods were constantly replenished from
the Gulf. Schwartzberg and his geologists advised the utmost haste in
evacuating the entire area between Colorado and Missouri, from Texas to
North Dakota.
</p>
<p>
Lubbock, Texas, went under. On a curling reflex the tidal wave blotted
out Sweetwater and Big Spring. The Texas panhandle disappeared in one
great swirl.
</p>
<p>
Whirlpools opened. A great welter of smashed wood and human debris was
sucked under, vomited up and pounded to pieces. Gulf-water crashed on
the cliffs of New Mexico and fell back on itself in foam. Would-be
rescuers on the cliffs along what had been the west bank of the Pecos
River afterwards recalled the hiss and scream like tearing silk as
the water broke furiously on the newly exposed rock. It was the most
terrible sound they had ever heard.
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't hear any shouts, of course, not that far away and with all
the noise," said Dan Weaver, Mayor of Carlsbad. "But we knew there
were people down there. When the water hit the cliffs, it was like a
collision between two solid bodies. We couldn't see for over an hour,
because of the spray."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Salt spray.
</i>
The ocean had come to New Mexico.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The cliffs proved to be the only effective barrier against the westward
march of the water, which turned north, gouging out lumps of rock and
tumbling down blocks of earth onto its own back. In places scoops of
granite came out like ice cream. The present fishing town of Rockport,
Colorado, is built on a harbor created in such a way.
</p>
<p>
The water had found its farthest westering. But still it poured north
along the line of the original Fault. Irresistible fingers closed on
Sterling, Colorado, on Sidney, Nebraska, on Hot Springs, South Dakota.
The entire tier of states settled, from south to north, down to its
eventual place of stability one thousand feet below the level of the
new sea.
</p>
<p>
Memphis was by now a seaport. The Ozarks, islands in a mad sea, formed
precarious havens for half-drowned humanity. Waves bit off a corner of
Missouri, flung themselves on Wichita. Topeka, Lawrence and Belleville
were the last Kansas towns to disappear. The Governor of Kansas went
down with his State.
</p>
<p>
Daniel Bernd of Lincoln, Nebraska, was washed up half-drowned in a cove
of the Wyoming cliffs, having been sucked from one end of vanished
Nebraska to the other. Similar hair-breadth escapes were recounted on
radio and television.
</p>
<p>
Virtually the only people saved out of the entire population of Pierre,
South Dakota were the six members of the Creeth family. Plucky Timothy
Creeth carried and dragged his aged parents to the loft of their barn
on the outskirts of town. His brother Geoffrey brought along the
younger children and what provisions they could find—"Mostly a ham
and about half a ton of vanilla cookies," he explained to his eventual
rescuers. The barn, luckily collapsing in the vibrations as the waves
bore down on them, became an ark in which they rode out the disaster.
</p>
<p>
"We must of played cards for four days straight," recalled genial
Mrs. Creeth when she afterwards appeared on a popular television
spectacular. Her rural good-humor undamaged by an ordeal few women can
ever have been called on to face, she added, "We sure wondered why
flushes never came out right. Jimanettly, we'd left the king of hearts
behind, in the rush!"
</p>
<p>
But such lightheartedness and such happy endings were by no means
typical. The world could only watch aghast as the water raced north
under the shadow of the cliffs which occasionally crumbled, roaring,
into the roaring waves. Day by day the relentless rush swallowed what
had been dusty farmland, cities and towns.
</p>
<p>
Some people were saved by the helicopters which flew mercy missions
just ahead of the advancing waters. Some found safety in the peaks of
western Nebraska and the Dakotas. But when the waters came to rest
along what is roughly the present shoreline of our inland sea, it was
estimated that over fourteen million people had lost their lives.
</p>
<p>
No one could even estimate the damage to property; almost the entirety
of eight states, and portions of twelve others, had simply vanished
from the heart of the North American continent forever.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was in such a cataclysmic birth that the now-peaceful Nebraska Sea
came to America.
</p>
<p>
Today, nearly one hundred years after the unprecedented—and happily
unrepeated—disaster, it is hard to remember the terror and despair of
those weeks in October and November, 1973. It is inconceivable to think
of the United States without its beautiful and economically essential
curve of interior ocean. Two-thirds as long as the Mediterranean,
it graduates from the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico through the
equally blue waves of the Mississippi Bight, becoming cooler and
greener north and west of the pleasant fishing isles of the Ozark
Archipelago, finally shading into the gray-green chop of the Gulf of
Dakota.
</p>
<p>
What would the United States have become without the 5600-mile
coastline of our inland sea? It is only within the last twenty years
that any but the topmost layer of water has cleared sufficiently
to permit a really extensive fishing industry. Mud still held in
suspension by the restless waves will not precipitate fully even in our
lifetimes. Even so, the commercial fisheries of Missouri and Wyoming
contribute no small part to the nation's economy.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who can imagine what the middle west must have been like before the
amelioration of climate brought about by the proximity of a warm sea?
The now-temperate state of Minnesota (to say nothing of the submerged
Dakotas) must have been Siberian. From contemporary accounts Missouri,
our second California, was unbelievably muggy, almost uninhabitable
during the summer months. Our climate today, from Ohio and North
Carolina to the rich fields of New Mexico and the orchards of Montana,
is directly ameliorated by the marine heart of the continent.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Who today could imagine the United States without the majestic
sea-cliffs in stately parade from New Mexico to Montana? The beaches
of Wyoming, the American Riviera, where fruit trees grow almost to the
water's edge? Or incredible Colorado, where the morning skier is the
afternoon bather, thanks to the monorail connecting the highest peaks
with the glistening white beaches?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Of course there have been losses to balance slightly these strong
gains. The Mississippi was, before 1973, one of the great rivers of
the world. Taken together with its main tributary, the Missouri, it
vied favorably with such giant systems as the Amazon and the Ganges.
Now, ending as it does at Memphis and drawing its water chiefly from
the Appalachian Mountains, it is only a slight remnant of what it was.
And though the Nebraska Sea today carries many times the tonnage of
shipping in its ceaseless traffic, we have lost the old romance of
river shipping. We may only guess what it was like when we look upon
the Ohio and the truncated Mississippi.
</p>
<p>
And transcontinental shipping is somewhat more difficult, with trucks
and the freight-railroads obliged to take the sea-ferries across the
Nebraska Sea. We shall never know what the United States was like with
its numerous coast-to-coast highways busy with trucks and private
cars. Still, the ferry ride is certainly a welcome break after days of
driving, and for those who wish a glimpse of what it must have been
like, there is always the Cross-Canada Throughway and the magnificent
U. S. Highway 73 looping north through Minnesota and passing through
the giant port of Alexis, North Dakota, shipping center for the wheat
of Manitoba and crossroad of a nation.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The political situation has long been a thorny problem. Only tattered
remnants of the eight submerged states remained after the flood, but
none of them wanted to surrender its autonomy. The tiny fringe of
Kansas seemed, for a time, ready to merge with contiguous Missouri,
but following the lead of the Arkansas Forever faction, the remaining
population decided to retain political integrity. This has resulted
in the continuing anomaly of the seven "fringe States" represented
in Congress by the usual two Senators each, though the largest of
them is barely the size of Connecticut and all are economically
indistinguishable from their neighboring states.
</p>
<p>
Fortunately it was decided some years ago that Oklahoma, only one of
the eight to have completely disappeared, could not in any sense be
considered to have a continuing political existence. So, though there
are still families who proudly call themselves Oklahomans, and the
Oklahoma Oil Company continues to pump oil from its submerged real
estate, the state has in fact disappeared from the American political
scene.
</p>
<p>
But this is by now no more than a petty annoyance, to raise a smile
when the talk gets around to the question of State's Rights. Not even
the tremendous price the country paid for its new sea—fourteen million
dead, untold property destroyed—really offsets the asset we enjoy
today. The heart of the continent, now open to the shipping of the
world, was once dry and land-locked, cut off from the bustle of trade
and the ferment of world culture.
</p>
<p>
It would indeed seem odd to an American of the '50s or '60s of the last
century to imagine sailors from the merchant fleets of every nation
walking the streets of Denver, fresh ashore at Newport, only fifteen
miles away. Or to imagine Lincoln, Fargo, Kansas City and Dallas as
world ports and great manufacturing centers. Utterly beyond their ken
would be Roswell, New Mexico; Benton, Wyoming; Westport, Missouri,
and the other new ports of over a million inhabitants each which have
developed on the new harbors of the inland sea.
</p>
<p>
Unimaginable too would have been the general growth of population
in the states surrounding the new sea. As the water tables rose and
manufacturing and trade moved in to take advantage of the just-created
axis of world communication, a population explosion was touched off of
which we are only now seeing the diminution. This new westering is to
be ranked with the first surge of pioneers which created the American
west. But what a difference! Vacation paradises bloom, a new fishing
industry thrives; her water road is America's main artery of trade, and
fleets of all the world sail ... where once the prairie schooner made
its laborious and dusty way west!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Frustrated because his evidentiary support showed it was logical\n(B) Happy that he might be incorrect and it was only dust\n(C) Disappointed that he had missed his opportunity for scientific acknowledgement. \n(D) Excited that it could likely be something more exciting",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; United States -- Fiction"
} |
61242 | What was the problem with the tubes of calking compound that the crew was trying to use?
Choices:
(A) They were hardening too fast when connected with air
(B) They took too long to harden and dry
(C) They were expired and unusable
(D) They were too small to fill what they needed | [
"A",
"They were hardening too fast when connected with air"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
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<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
The Winning of the Moon
</h1>
<h2>
BY KRIS NEVILLE
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
The enemy was friendly enough.
<br/>
Trouble was—their friendship
<br/>
was as dangerous as their hate!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast was
scheduled for the following morning.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions with
the three other Americans.
</p>
<p>
Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donned
their space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sun
rose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows
lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with Base
Gagarin. "Will you please request the general to keep us informed on
the progress of the countdown?"
</p>
<p>
"Is Pinov," came the reply. "Help?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Nyet
</i>
," said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. "Count down.
Progress. When—boom?"
</p>
<p>
"Is Pinov," came the reply.
</p>
<p>
"Boom! Boom!" said Major Winship in exasperation.
</p>
<p>
"Boom!" said Pinov happily.
</p>
<p>
"When?"
</p>
<p>
"Boom—boom!" said Pinov.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, nuts." Major Winship cut out the circuit. "They've got Pinov on
emergency watch this morning," he explained to the other Americans.
"The one that doesn't speak English."
</p>
<p>
"He's done it deliberately," said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four
Americans. "How are we going to know when it's over?"
</p>
<p>
No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while the
shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.
</p>
<p>
Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, "This is a little ridiculous. I'm going
to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed
for several minutes. "Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can't
tell a thing that's going on."
</p>
<p>
In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A
moth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:
no more.
</p>
<p>
"Static?"
</p>
<p>
"Nope."
</p>
<p>
"We'll get static on these things."
</p>
<p>
A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship shifted restlessly. "My reefer's gone on the fritz."
Perspiration was trickling down his face.
</p>
<p>
"Let's all go in," said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. "It's
probably over by now."
</p>
<p>
"I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency
channel. "Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?"
</p>
<p>
"Is Pinov. Help?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Nyet.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
"Pinov's still there," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, "so he'll get somebody we can
talk to."
</p>
<p>
"I'll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. "This
is it," he said. "I'm going in."
</p>
<p>
"Let's all—"
</p>
<p>
"No. I've got to cool off."
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said.
"The shot probably went off an hour ago."
</p>
<p>
"The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, "it's buried too deep."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe so," Major Winship said. "But we can't have the dome fall down
around all our ears." He stood. "Whew! You guys stay put."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,
closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and
the temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper moment
of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into
the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step
when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,
off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated beside
the radio equipment. The ground moved again.
</p>
<p>
"Charlie! Charlie!"
</p>
<p>
"I'm okay," Major Winship answered. "Okay! Okay!"
</p>
<p>
"It's—"
</p>
<p>
There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, Les, how's it look?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
</p>
<p>
"Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?"
</p>
<p>
"Okay," Major Winship said. "We told them this might happen," he added
bitterly.
</p>
<p>
There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their
breath.
</p>
<p>
"I guess it's over," said Major Winship, getting to his feet. "Wait a
bit more, there may be an after-shock." He switched once again to the
emergency channel.
</p>
<p>
"Is Pinov," came the supremely relaxed voice. "Help?"
</p>
<p>
Major Winship whinnied in disgust. "
<i>
Nyet!
</i>
" he snarled. To the other
Americans: "Our comrades seem unconcerned."
</p>
<p>
"Tough."
</p>
<p>
They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and
snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each
other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communications
completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.
</p>
<p>
"Well," Lt. Chandler commented, "even though we didn't build this thing
to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right."
</p>
<p>
"I guess I was just—" Major Winship began. "Oh, hell! We're losing
pressure. Where's the markers?"
</p>
<p>
"By the lug cabinet."
</p>
<p>
"Got 'em," Major Winship said a moment later.
</p>
<p>
He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away
and plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as
though it were breathing and then it ruptured.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply which
had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. "You guys wait. It's
on your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it."
</p>
<p>
He moved for the plastic sheeting.
</p>
<p>
"We've lost about three feet of calk out here," Capt. Lawler said. "I
can see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate."
</p>
<p>
Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. "How's that?"
</p>
<p>
"Not yet."
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It's
sprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads."
</p>
<p>
There was a splatter of static.
</p>
<p>
"Damn!" Major Winship said, "they should have made these things more
flexible."
</p>
<p>
"Still coming out."
</p>
<p>
"Best I can do." Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly
to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the
floor.
</p>
<p>
"Come on in," he said dryly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the
five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cables
trailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,
radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living
space was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting
out from the walls about six feet from the floor.
</p>
<p>
Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. "Well,"
he said wryly, "it doesn't smell as bad now."
</p>
<p>
"Oops," said Major Winship. "Just a second. They're coming in." He
switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.
</p>
<p>
"Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?"
</p>
<p>
"This is Major Winship."
</p>
<p>
"Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?"
</p>
<p>
"Little leak. You?"
</p>
<p>
"Came through without damage." General Finogenov paused a moment. When
no comment was forthcoming, he continued: "Perhaps we built a bit more
strongly, Major."
</p>
<p>
"You did this deliberately," Major Winship said testily.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I very
much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After
repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then to
have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.
Is there anything at all we can do?"
</p>
<p>
"Just leave us alone, thank you," Major Winship said and cut off the
communication.
</p>
<p>
"What'd they say?" Capt. Wilkins asked.
</p>
<p>
"Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this."
</p>
<p>
"That's nice," Lt. Chandler said.
</p>
<p>
"I'll be damned surprised," Major Winship said, "if they got any
seismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's get
this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?"
</p>
<p>
"Larry, where's the inventory?"
</p>
<p>
"Les has got it."
</p>
<p>
Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.
</p>
<p>
"Larry," Major Winship said, "why don't you get Earth?"
</p>
<p>
"Okay."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.
</p>
<p>
"Got the inventory sheet, Les?"
</p>
<p>
"Right here."
</p>
<p>
Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had
energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned
his helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. "We can't
hear anything without any air."
</p>
<p>
Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I'll just report and—"
He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes," he said.
"That's right, isn't it."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don't mine at
all," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Les, have you found it?"
</p>
<p>
"It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here."
</p>
<p>
"Well,
<i>
find
</i>
it."
</p>
<p>
Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it—"
</p>
<p>
"Skip, help look."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We
haven't got all day."
</p>
<p>
A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. "Here it
is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff."
</p>
<p>
Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.
</p>
<p>
"Marker showed it over here," Major Winship said, inching over to the
wall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.
</p>
<p>
"How does this stuff work?" Capt. Lawler asked.
</p>
<p>
They huddled over the instruction sheet.
</p>
<p>
"Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle
ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before
service."
</p>
<p>
Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact
with air."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now
that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"How do they possibly think—?"
</p>
<p>
"Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference," Lt. Chandler said. "Some
air must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. A
gorilla couldn't extrude it."
</p>
<p>
"How're the other ones?" asked Major Winship.
</p>
<p>
Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they're all
hard, too."
</p>
<p>
"Who was supposed to check?" demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.
</p>
<p>
"The only way you can check is to extrude it," Lt. Chandler said, "and
if it does extrude, you've ruined it."
</p>
<p>
"That's that," Major Winship said. "There's nothing for it but to yell
help."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
II
</p>
<p>
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The
Soviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of
a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the
tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angled
left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip
of approximately thirty exhausting minutes.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.
Wilkins stayed for company.
</p>
<p>
"I want a cigarette in the worst way," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
"So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unless
something else goes wrong."
</p>
<p>
"As long as they'll loan us the calking compound," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, yeah," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"Let's eat."
</p>
<p>
"You got any concentrate? I'm empty."
</p>
<p>
"I'll load you," Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.
</p>
<p>
It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkins
cursed twice during the operation. "I'd hate to live in this thing for
any period."
</p>
<p>
"I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians," Major
Winship said. "I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces
of junk around."
</p>
<p>
They ate.
</p>
<p>
"Really horrible stuff."
</p>
<p>
"Nutritious."
</p>
<p>
After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, "Now I'd like a cup of
hot tea. I'm cooled off."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. "What brought this on?"
</p>
<p>
"I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've got
better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than
twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there's
only seven of them right now. That's living."
</p>
<p>
"They've been here six years longer, after all."
</p>
<p>
"Finogenov had a
<i>
clay
</i>
samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,
by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own
office is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And
a wooden desk. A
<i>
wooden
</i>
desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everything
big and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—"
</p>
<p>
"They've got the power-plants for it."
</p>
<p>
"Do you think he did that deliberately?" Major Winship asked. "I think
he's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin's
built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don't
suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure got
the jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?"
</p>
<p>
"You told me," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, "To hell with the Russian
engineer."
</p>
<p>
"If you've got all that power...."
</p>
<p>
"That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?
It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.
Like a little kid."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe they don't make aluminum desks."
</p>
<p>
"They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet is
aluminum. You know they're just showing off."
</p>
<p>
"Let me wire you up," Capt. Wilkins said. "We ought to report."
</p>
<p>
"That's going to take awhile."
</p>
<p>
"It's something to do while we wait."
</p>
<p>
"I guess we ought to." Major Winship came down from the bunk and
sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the
equipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. He
unearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exterior
plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.
Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.
"Okay?"
</p>
<p>
"Okay," Major Winship gestured.
</p>
<p>
They roused Earth.
</p>
<p>
"This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, the
American moonbase."
</p>
<p>
At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he was
now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his
air bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. He
reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.
</p>
<p>
"This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship."
</p>
<p>
"Just a moment."
</p>
<p>
"Is everything all right?"
</p>
<p>
Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.
</p>
<p>
"A-Okay," he said. "Just a moment."
</p>
<p>
"What's wrong?" came the worried question. In the background, he heard
someone say, "I think there's something wrong."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in a
savage grimace.
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face
through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrously
large to the other.
</p>
<p>
Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One
arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship
could no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effort
was not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry in
involuntary realism.
</p>
<p>
This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word "Leak?"
</p>
<p>
Air, Major Winship said silently.
</p>
<p>
Leak?
</p>
<p>
Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.
Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.
</p>
<p>
Oh.
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged the
speaker in again.
</p>
<p>
"... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!"
</p>
<p>
"We're here," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"All right? Are you all right?"
</p>
<p>
"We're all right. A-Okay." Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his
potential audience, took a deep breath. "Earlier this morning, the
Soviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the
<i>
ostensible
</i>
purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of
seismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spite
of American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulated
stresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face of
vigorous American protests."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.
The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restraining
cables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.
</p>
<p>
"These protests have proved well founded," Major Winship continued.
"Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on to
withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No
personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was
being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship
flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.
</p>
<p>
"However," he continued, "we did experience a minor leak in the dome,
which is presently being repaired."
</p>
<p>
"The Soviet Union," came the reply, "has reported the disturbance and
has tendered their official apology. You want it?"
</p>
<p>
"It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has
destroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately three
weeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so
that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the
necessary replacement."
</p>
<p>
The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gave
the conversation a tone of deliberation.
</p>
<p>
A new voice came on. "We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will
be able to deliver replacements in about ten days."
</p>
<p>
"I will forward a coded report on the occurrence," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leak
repaired?"
</p>
<p>
"The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out."
</p>
<p>
He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.
</p>
<p>
Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from the
transmitter.
</p>
<p>
"Wow!" said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. "For
a moment there, I thought...."
</p>
<p>
"What?" Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.
</p>
<p>
"I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov
to get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.
I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a
minute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,
and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the
world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the
nickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,
that was rough."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
III
</p>
<p>
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It
occupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It
was a fifty-five gallon drum.
</p>
<p>
The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. "What is
<i>
that
</i>
?" asked Major
Winship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.
</p>
<p>
"That," said Capt. Lawler, "is the calking compound."
</p>
<p>
"You're kidding," said Capt. Wilkins.
</p>
<p>
"I am not kidding."
</p>
<p>
Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.
</p>
<p>
"Why didn't you just borrow a cupful?" Major Winship said sarcastically.
</p>
<p>
"It's this way," Lt. Chandler said. "They didn't have anything but
55-gallon drums of it."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, my," said Capt. Wilkins. "I suppose it's a steel drum. Those
things must weigh...."
</p>
<p>
"Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong," Capt. Lawler
said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite
upset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad."
</p>
<p>
"He's too damned suspicious," Major Winship said. "You know and I know
why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me
like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in trying
to prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will be
published in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!"
</p>
<p>
"About this drum," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
"Well, like I said, it's this way," Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him
we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mix
up. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have to
combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little
scale—"
</p>
<p>
"A little scale?" asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.
</p>
<p>
"That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," said Captain Lawler, "and he looked at us with that mute,
surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of little
scales."
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyway," Lt. Chandler continued, "he told us just to mix up the
whole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff that
goes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don't
need."
</p>
<p>
"Somehow, that sounds like him," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"He had five or six of them."
</p>
<p>
"Jesus!" said Capt. Wilkins. "That must be
<i>
three thousand pounds
</i>
of
calking compound. Those people are insane."
</p>
<p>
"The question is," Capt. Lawler said, "'How are we going to mix it?'
It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly."
</p>
<p>
They thought over the problem for a while.
</p>
<p>
"That will be a man-sized job," Major Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad," said Capt. Wilkins. "If I took
the compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... if
we could...."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.
</p>
<p>
Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.
</p>
<p>
"Now," Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take
the mixer out there."
</p>
<p>
"We're going to have to bring the drum in," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
"Well," said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy."
</p>
<p>
It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and
forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was
interposing itself.
</p>
<p>
Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. "Damn these suits," he said.
</p>
<p>
"You've got it stuck between the bunk post."
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
know
</i>
that."
</p>
<p>
"I don't think this is the way to do it," Major Winship said. "Let's
back the drum out."
</p>
<p>
Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of
Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over
to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkins
carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It
rested uneasily on the uneven surface.
</p>
<p>
"Now, let's go," said Major Winship.
</p>
<p>
Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum between
the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.
"It's not the weight, it's the mass," said Capt. Wilkins brightly.
</p>
<p>
"The hell it isn't the weight," said Lt. Chandler. "That's heavy."
</p>
<p>
"With my reefer out," said Major Winship, "I'm the one it's rough on."
He shook perspiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get
a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you've
forgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes."
</p>
<p>
"It's the salt."
</p>
<p>
"Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets," Major Winship said.
"I've never sweat so much since basic."
</p>
<p>
"Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?"
</p>
<p>
"No!" Major Winship snapped.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.
Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing
attachment. "I feel crowded," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Cozy's the word."
</p>
<p>
"Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry."
</p>
<p>
At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.
</p>
<p>
"Works perfectly," said Capt. Wilkins proudly.
</p>
<p>
"Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English."
</p>
<p>
"You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area
thoroughly around the leak."
</p>
<p>
"With what?" asked Major Winship.
</p>
<p>
"Sandpaper, I guess."
</p>
<p>
"With sandpaper?" Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into
the drum. "We don't have any sandpaper."
</p>
<p>
"It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
"Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. "I guess that means let it mix
for about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service in
just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe."
</p>
<p>
"I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air."
</p>
<p>
"No," Capt. Lawler said. "It sets by some kind of chemical action.
General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind of
plastic."
</p>
<p>
"Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak," Major
Winship said.
</p>
<p>
"Say, I—" interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern
in his voice. "This is a hell of a time for this to occur to
me. I just wasn't thinking, before.
<i>
You don't suppose it's a
room-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
"Larry," said Major Winship, "I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curing
epoxy resin from—"
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. "The mixer's stopped." He bent forward
and touched the drum. He jerked back. "Ye Gods! that's hot! And it's
harder than a rock! It
<i>
is
</i>
an epoxy! Let's get out of here."
</p>
<p>
"Huh?"
</p>
<p>
"Out! Out!"
</p>
<p>
Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense of
urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go!" Capt. Wilkins said.
</p>
<p>
He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became
temporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainly
in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the
necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them
from behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms
and legs.
</p>
<p>
At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.
The table remained untouched.
</p>
<p>
When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, "Get to one side, it may go off
like shrapnel." They obeyed.
</p>
<p>
"What—what—what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered.
</p>
<p>
They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on the
other.
</p>
<p>
"I'm going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. "Let me go." He
lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen
feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the
table, on a line of sight with the airlock.
</p>
<p>
"I can see it," he said. "It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...
melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's falling
over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting
red, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh."
</p>
<p>
"What?" said Capt. Lawler.
</p>
<p>
"Watch out! There.
<i>
There!
</i>
" Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.
He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incredibly
bright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flame
lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The
table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"There went the air," Capt. Lawler commented.
</p>
<p>
"We got T-Trouble," said Lt. Chandler.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They were hardening too fast when connected with air\n(B) They took too long to harden and dry\n(C) They were expired and unusable\n(D) They were too small to fill what they needed",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Short stories; Moon -- Fiction; Cold War -- Fiction; PS; Survival -- Fiction; Science fiction"
} |
61081 | How was Orison treated by her female co-workers?
Choices:
(A) Welcoming
(B) Indifferent
(C) Friendly
(D) Guarded | [
"D",
"Guarded"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
CINDERELLA STORY
</h1>
<h2>
By ALLEN KIM LANG
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
<i>
What a bank! The First Vice-President
<br/>
was a cool cat—the elevator and the
<br/>
money operators all wore earmuffs—was
<br/>
just as phony as a three-dollar bill!
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
I
</p>
<p>
The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank and
Trust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applying
for a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit of
hound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of his
jacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curious
bank indeed. "I gotta say, chick, these references of yours really
swing," said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. "Your last boss says you
come on real cool in the secretary-bit."
</p>
<p>
"He was a very kind employer," Orison said. She tried to keep from
staring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair of
furry green earmuffs. It was not cold.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. "What color
bread you got eyes for taking down, baby?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"What kinda salary you bucking for?" he translated, bouncing up and
down on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.
</p>
<p>
"I was making one-twenty a week in my last position," Miss McCall said.
</p>
<p>
"You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor," Mr. Wanji said.
"What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay?" He caught
Orison's look of bewilderment. "One each, a Franklin and a Grant," he
explained further. She still looked blank. "Sister, you gonna work
in a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's a
hunnerd-fifty a week, doll."
</p>
<p>
"That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji," Orison said. It was indeed.
</p>
<p>
"Crazy!" Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it with
athletic vigor. "You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tell
you, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery around
this tomb, girlwise." He took her arm and led her toward the bank of
elevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightly
to Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formal
than Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. "Lift us to five, Mac,"
Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,
"You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floor
and floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is Iron
Curtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,
now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.
</p>
<p>
The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough to
hold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone and
a microphone. Beside them was a double-decked "In" and "Out" basket.
"Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey," Mr. Wanji said.
</p>
<p>
"What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the "In" basket.
"Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it," he said. "When you
get done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new to
read. Okay?"
</p>
<p>
"It seems a rather peculiar job," Orison said. "After all, I'm a
secretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize me
with the Bank's operation?"
</p>
<p>
"Don't bug me, kid," Mr. Wanji said. "All you gotta do is read that
there paper into this here microphone. Can do?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. "While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like to
ask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,
coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we take
care of these details now? Or would you—"
</p>
<p>
"You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seems
best to you, kid," Mr. Wanji said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank's
might explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department's
secretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,
girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the "In" basket,
unfolded it to discover the day's
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
, and began at
the top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,
nodding his head as he listened. "You blowing real good, kid," he said.
"The boss is gonna dig you the most."
</p>
<p>
Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read the
one into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, then
took off upstairs in the elevator.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By lunchtime Orison had finished the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
and had
begun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was a
fantastic novel of some sort, named
<i>
The Hobbit
</i>
. Reading this peculiar
fare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain than
ever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,
the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for a
Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a
microphone for an invisible audience.
</p>
<p>
Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in the
book and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator was
a new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, coming
down from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen with
briefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, these
gentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison stepped
aboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to his
heart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgment
of their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a penny
into this curiousest of banks.
</p>
<p>
Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.
Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,
eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, and
favored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,
finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to her
lonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,
reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga of
Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on her
light coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,
silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.
</p>
<p>
What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is a
double Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William Howard
Taft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces of
the U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.
Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-President
with the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in those
upper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartment
house—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Her
boss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on Taft
Bank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.
She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.
</p>
<p>
Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's
observations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight for
her initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,
several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:
Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemed
to be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she was
being employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint and
nonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, she
thought.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleven
o'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the results
of her first day's spying.
</p>
<p>
No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clock
was set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?
Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffs
had her phone tapped.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," a baritone voice muttered.
</p>
<p>
Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. "Beg pardon?" she
said.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," the male voice repeated. "One, two, three; three, two, one.
Do you read me? Over."
</p>
<p>
Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,
she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.
</p>
<p>
The room was empty.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," the voice repeated.
</p>
<p>
"What you're testing," Orison said in a firm voice, "is my patience.
Who are you?"
</p>
<p>
"Department of Treasury Monitor J-12," the male voice said. "Do you
have anything to report, Miss McCall?"
</p>
<p>
"Where are you, Monitor?" she demanded.
</p>
<p>
"That's classified information," the voice said. "Please speak directly
to your pillow, Miss McCall."
</p>
<p>
Orison lay down cautiously. "All right," she whispered to her pillow.
</p>
<p>
"Over here," the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillow
beside her.
</p>
<p>
Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. "A radio?" she
asked.
</p>
<p>
"Of a sort," Monitor J-12 agreed. "We have to maintain communications
security. Have you anything to report?"
</p>
<p>
"I got the job," Orison said. "Are you ... in that pillow ... all the
time?"
</p>
<p>
"No, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Only at report times. Shall we
establish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,
every day?"
</p>
<p>
"You make it sound so improper," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall," the monitor said.
"Now, tell me what happened at the bank today."
</p>
<p>
Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a
microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft
National Bank and Trust Company. "That's about it, so far," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Good report," J-12 said from the pillow. "Sounds like you've dropped
into a real snakepit, beautiful."
</p>
<p>
"How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
"Native optimism," the voice said. "Good night." J-12 signed off with
a peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then she
placed the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.
</p>
<p>
Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved
to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by
registered mail.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
II
</p>
<p>
At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
, Orison was interrupted by the click of a pair
of leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed together
was bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was not
wearing earmuffs. "My name," the stranger said, "is Dink Gerding. I am
President of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to our
little family."
</p>
<p>
"I'm Orison McCall," she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?
So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?
Maybe higher heels?
</p>
<p>
"We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall," Dink Gerding said. He took
the chair to the right of her desk.
</p>
<p>
"It's nothing," Orison said, switching off the microphone.
</p>
<p>
"On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing any
reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be reading silently before long," Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,
as though this explained everything. "By the way, your official
designation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you're
to keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down here
and dictate it?"
</p>
<p>
"Please do," Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace and
presence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall?" Mr. Gerding
asked, as though following her train of thought.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir," she said. "Though I've been associated with a rather large
financial organization."
</p>
<p>
"You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get used
to them," he said. "Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispense
with calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoy
your using it."
</p>
<p>
"Dink?" she asked. "And I suppose you're to call me Orison?"
</p>
<p>
"That's the drill," he said. "One more question, Orison. Dinner this
evening?"
</p>
<p>
Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, and
still so young. "We've hardly met," she said.
</p>
<p>
"But we're on a first-name basis already," he pointed out. "Dance?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd love to," Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,
playing, from the elevator.
</p>
<p>
"Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember your
personnel form correctly." He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,
and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.
Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with a
curtsy? Orison wondered.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," she said.
</p>
<p>
He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shoulders
stayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,
to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,
saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (but
not their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.
Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Orison finished the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
by early afternoon. A
page came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy of
yesterday's
<i>
Congressional Record
</i>
. She launched into the
<i>
Record
</i>
,
thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsome
madman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. "You read
so
<i>
well
</i>
, darling," someone said across the desk.
</p>
<p>
Orison looked up. "Oh, hello," she said. "I didn't hear you come up."
</p>
<p>
"I walk ever so lightly," the woman said, standing hip-shot in front
of the desk, "and pounce ever so hard." She smiled. Opulent, Orison
thought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't like
her. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.
</p>
<p>
"I'm Orison McCall," she said, and tried to smile back without showing
teeth.
</p>
<p>
"Delighted," the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. "I'm
Auga Vingt. Auga, to my friends."
</p>
<p>
"Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?"
</p>
<p>
"So kind of you, darling," Auga Vingt said, "but I shan't have time to
visit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.
One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"Common courtesy," Miss Vingt explained. "Also, darling, I'd like to
draw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, the
shoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Should
you throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your little
eyes scratched out. Word to the wise,
<i>
n'est-ce pas
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry you have to leave so suddenly," Orison said, rolling her
<i>
Wall
Street Journal
</i>
into a club and standing. "Darling."
</p>
<p>
"So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.
You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts of
annoyance. Understand me, darling?"
</p>
<p>
"You make it very clear," Orison said. "Now you'd best hurry back to
your stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone."
</p>
<p>
"Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding right
off?" Auga asked. "Well, ta-ta." She turned and walked to the elevator,
displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumba
motion.
</p>
<p>
The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,
stepped off. "Good morning, Mr. Gerding," Miss Vingt said, bowing.
</p>
<p>
"Carry on, Colonel," the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,
he stepped up to Orison's desk. "Good morning. Miss McCall," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What is this?" Orison demanded. "Visiting-day at the zoo?" She paused
and shook her head. "Excuse me, sir," she said. "It's just that ...
Vingt thing...."
</p>
<p>
"Auga is rather intense," the new Mr. Gerding said.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, intense," Orison said. "Like a kidney-stone."
</p>
<p>
"I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bank
and Trust Company family, Miss McCall," he said. "I'm Kraft Gerding,
Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was cropped
even closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patch
of frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. The
head, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill's
spike-topped
<i>
Pickelhauben
</i>
; but the ears were in evidence, and seemed
normal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankers
had!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-up
paper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache and
said, "I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,
Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixing
business with pleasure."
</p>
<p>
Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. "I quit!" she
shouted. "You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all I
care. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot in
finance, and listen to another word."
</p>
<p>
"Dearest lady, my humblest pardon," Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,
a bit lower. "Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's most
charming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,
dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word to
the wise...."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
N'est-ce pas?
</i>
" Orison said. "Well, Buster, here's a word to the
foolish. Get lost."
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. "Until we meet again?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll hold my breath," Orison promised. "The elevator is just behind
you. Push a button, will you? And
<i>
bon voyage
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison with
a cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights above
fifth floor.
</p>
<p>
First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.
Surely, Orison thought, recovering the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
from her
wastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwestern
bank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behavior
of the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, she
thought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banks
and all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If she
finished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limits
upper floors.
</p>
<p>
Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by the
sudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. "
<i>
Wanji e-Kal, Datto.
Dink ger-Dink d'summa.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before
replying, "I'm a local girl. Try me in English."
</p>
<p>
"Oh. Hi, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Guess I goofed. I'm in kinda
clutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you see
him, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding." Orison clicked the phone down.
What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious language
Mr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington by
tonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzle
it out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,
she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs could
only fire her.
</p>
<p>
Orison folded the paper and put it in the "Out" basket. Someone would
be here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.
The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep her
off the upstairs floors.
</p>
<p>
But the building had a stairway.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
III
</p>
<p>
The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs to
seven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, and
the landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. There
was a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within the
fringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.
</p>
<p>
She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.
</p>
<p>
Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The room
extended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,
its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor were
galvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.
Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundred
and eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together by
strands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating with
pink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was half
full of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a moment
Orison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from the
liquid. Then she screamed.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light from
the spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millions
upon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,
leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orison
put her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward the
stairway door.
</p>
<p>
Into a pair of arms.
</p>
<p>
"I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall," Kraft Gerding said.
Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to have
her wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elder
Gerding. "It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders," he
said. "Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Were
we to toss you into one of these tanks...." Orison struggled against
her two
<i>
sumo
</i>
-sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers by
some quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from the
floor. "... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and darted
all around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Of
course, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton of
calcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted within
minutes."
</p>
<p>
"Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire," one of
the earmuffed
<i>
sumo
</i>
-wrestlers protested.
</p>
<p>
"Elder Compassion has no rank," Kraft Gerding said. "Miss McCall, you
must tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders."
</p>
<p>
"Dink ... Dink!" Orison shouted.
</p>
<p>
"My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue of
damsels in distress," Kraft said. "Someone, after all, has to mind the
bank."
</p>
<p>
"I came to bring a message to Dink," Orison said. "Let me go, you
acromegalic apes!"
</p>
<p>
"The message?" Kraft Gerding demanded.
</p>
<p>
"Something about escudo green. Put me down!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor as
though struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, their
faces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly lowering
himself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Without
questions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his arms
around Orison.
</p>
<p>
"They can't harm you," he said. She turned to press her face against
his chest. "You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turn
your brain back on. All right, now?"
</p>
<p>
"All right," she said, still trembling. "They were going to throw me to
the spiders."
</p>
<p>
"Kraft told you that?" Dink Gerding released her and turned to the
kneeling man. "Stand up, Elder Brother."
</p>
<p>
"I...."
</p>
<p>
Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft's
jaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt to
recover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank."
Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dink
through half-closed eyes. "No? Then get out of here, all of you.
<i>
Samma!
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, with
the merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison," Dink said. "Why did you do
it?"
</p>
<p>
"Have you read the story of Bluebeard?" Orison asked. She stood close
to Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. "I had to see
what it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I was
forbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking for
you, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell you
that the escudo green is pale."
</p>
<p>
"You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless," Dink said. "Now, what
is this thing you have about spiders?"
</p>
<p>
"I've always been terrified of them," Orison said. "When I was a little
girl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was a
spider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad came
home and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetite
for supper."
</p>
<p>
"Strange," Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and plucked
one of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. "This is no spider,
Orison," he said.
</p>
<p>
She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cupped
in the palm of his hand. "These are Microfabridae, more nearly related
to shellfish than to spiders," he said. "They're stone-and-metal
eaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison." He
extended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,
flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling around
the bowl of his hand. "Pretty little fellow, isn't he?" Dink asked.
"Here. You hold him."
</p>
<p>
"I'd rather not," she protested.
</p>
<p>
"I'd be happier if you did," Dink said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed the
Microfabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, like
a legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket and
unfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.
</p>
<p>
"He's like a baby crawdad," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"A sort of crustacean," Dink agreed. "We use them in a commercial
process we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off and
secret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see."
</p>
<p>
"What do they do?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
"That's still a secret," Dink said, smiling. "I can't tell even you
that, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary."
</p>
<p>
"What's he doing now?" Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,
perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratching
against her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.
</p>
<p>
"They like gold," Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,
comfortably close. "They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, as
children are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.
We'd better get you down where you belong."
</p>
<p>
Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearest
tank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.
It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. "Strange,
using crawdads in a bank," she said. She stood silent for a moment. "I
thought I heard music," she said. "I heard it when I came in. Something
like the sighing of wind in winter trees."
</p>
<p>
"That's the hymn of the Microfabridae," Dink said. "They all sing
together while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices." He
took her arm. "If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song these
little workers sing the most beautiful music in the world."
</p>
<p>
Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening to
the music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,
storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peace
and harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crash
of breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, the
quiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.
"It's an ancient song," Dink said. "The Microfabridae have been
singing it for a million years." He released her, and opened a
wood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.
"Hold out your hands," he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.
"Throw our singers some supper for their song," he said.
</p>
<p>
Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the
mineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from the
liquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.
"They're so very strange," Orison said. At the bottom of the tank she
thought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubbling
life. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Welcoming\n(B) Indifferent\n(C) Friendly\n(D) Guarded",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Banks and banking -- Fiction"
} |
61052 | Why were the cadets outside alone?
Choices:
(A) They were lost.
(B) They were young and untrained.
(C) They were on a mission.
(D) They were insubordinate. | [
"B",
"They were young and untrained."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Spawning Ground
</h1>
<h2>
By LESTER DEL REY
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
They weren't human. They were something
<br/>
more—and something less—they were,
<br/>
in short, humanity's hopes for survival!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Starship
<i>
Pandora
</i>
creaked and groaned as her landing pads settled
unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to
be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from
the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed
through her hallways.
</p>
<p>
Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was
a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility
had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his
reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies
were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the
control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.
</p>
<p>
Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he
moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. "Morning, Bob. You
need a shave."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah." He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a
hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. "Anything new
during the night?"
</p>
<p>
"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways
north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the
clouds." The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody
knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have
an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. "And
our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them
in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen
in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training
as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and
Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.
</p>
<p>
Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't
seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous
and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of
their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each
on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.
</p>
<p>
But
<i>
something
</i>
had happened to the exploration party fifteen years
back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check
up.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun
must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that
wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,
it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of
fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest
glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding
animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the
deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was
completely hidden by the fog.
</p>
<p>
There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals
now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,
trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....
</p>
<p>
But there was no time.
</p>
<p>
Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of
deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign
of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed
already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened
to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to
report back.
</p>
<p>
He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough
of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by
luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors
originally.
</p>
<p>
"Bob!" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. "Bob, there are
the kids!"
</p>
<p>
Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught
his eye.
</p>
<p>
The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic
speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that
moved there.
</p>
<p>
He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just
beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.
</p>
<p>
Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.
Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but
Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.
</p>
<p>
They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.
Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.
</p>
<p>
Then the mists cleared.
</p>
<p>
Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.
Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost
eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited
cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a
momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the
others forward.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Get the jeeps out!" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of
the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was
agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door
back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in
confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The
jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and
Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.
</p>
<p>
There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was
irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to
the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the
jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked
up speed. The other two followed.
</p>
<p>
There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;
surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked
horrible in a travesty of manhood.
</p>
<p>
The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were
racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung
about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty
miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in
spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived
downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.
</p>
<p>
"Follow the blobs," Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to
leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the
kids. But it was too late to go back.
</p>
<p>
The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into
a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he
had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.
</p>
<p>
Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own
trail to confuse the pursuers.
</p>
<p>
There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a
glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse
faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the
windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the
steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.
</p>
<p>
The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The
other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late
to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or
the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.
</p>
<p>
A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.
</p>
<p>
He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature
seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward
against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot
leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each
shoulder.
</p>
<p>
The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature
leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving
for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted
shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his
hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his
nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after
the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy
sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no
further move, though it was still breathing.
</p>
<p>
Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli
was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to
kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded
onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster
on another before heading back.
</p>
<p>
"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!" Barker shook
his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.
</p>
<p>
"I hope so," Gwayne told him. "I want that thing to live—and you're
detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign
language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy
and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the
answer."
</p>
<p>
Barker nodded grimly. "I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien
metabolism." He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat
sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. "Bob, it still
makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was
no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some."
</p>
<p>
"Troglodytes, maybe," Gwayne guessed. "Anyhow, send for me when you get
anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying
our time here already."
</p>
<p>
The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been
picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were
busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon
as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less
informative with retelling.
</p>
<p>
If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save
time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That
was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed
to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had
been overcome by the aliens.
</p>
<p>
It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the
primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its
fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told
these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a
little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship
cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.
</p>
<p>
Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find
something—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could make
remotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weapons
into a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed to
prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found
a drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent life
there to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.
</p>
<p>
But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System had
finally proved that the sun was going to go nova.
</p>
<p>
It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it would
render the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,
man had to colonize.
</p>
<p>
And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The
explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the
terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships
began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve
space.
</p>
<p>
Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and
four more months back.
</p>
<p>
In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the
footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some
of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none
would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was
precious as a haven for the race.
</p>
<p>
If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as
it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.
</p>
<p>
Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to
strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.
</p>
<p>
But how could primitives do what these must have done?
</p>
<p>
He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of
cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully
laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human
hand had been able to do for centuries.
</p>
<p>
"Beautiful primitive work," he muttered.
</p>
<p>
Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. "You can
see a lot more of it out there," she suggested.
</p>
<p>
He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were
squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.
They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?
For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the
ship to them?
</p>
<p>
Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. "How's the captive coming?"
</p>
<p>
Barker's voice sounded odd.
</p>
<p>
"Physically fine. You can see him. But—"
</p>
<p>
Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore
at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not
checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.
</p>
<p>
There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling
sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker
seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.
</p>
<p>
The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The
thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make
some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up
unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.
</p>
<p>
"Haarroo, Cabbaan!" the thing said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?"
Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was
taut with strain.
</p>
<p>
The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on
its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.
</p>
<p>
"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them," Barker cut in
quickly. "I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very
well. Says they've had to change the language around to make the sounds
fit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But it
gets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize
on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little
English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.
</p>
<p>
"How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldest
kid's dog have? How many were brown?"
</p>
<p>
The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and the
curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment
spread out.
</p>
<p>
Three. Seven. Zero.
</p>
<p>
The answers were right.
</p>
<p>
By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the
twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a
long time telling.
</p>
<p>
When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in
silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. "Is it
possible, Doc?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. "No. Not
by what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues under
the microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe about
their kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't be
a hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change the
germ plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybe
the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped
down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of
monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as
tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.
</p>
<p>
The kids of the exploring party....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,
set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle
as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the
ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the
ship again.
</p>
<p>
He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had
time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,
however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off
giving the gist of it to Jane.
</p>
<p>
"It was the blobs," he summarized it. "They seem to be amused by men.
They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy
doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,
all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.
</p>
<p>
"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the
hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth
food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper
this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony
where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never
know."
</p>
<p>
Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight
years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth
tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.
Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new
eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.
</p>
<p>
She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must
now be her home. Then she sighed. "You'll need practice, but the others
don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll
believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been
changed yet, have we?"
</p>
<p>
"No," he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. "No.
They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back."
</p>
<p>
She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only
puzzlement in her face. "Why?"
</p>
<p>
And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the
same answer he had found for himself. "The spawning ground!"
</p>
<p>
It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her
seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve
that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were
becoming uncertain.
</p>
<p>
Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of
men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange
children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back
to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps
some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next
rise to culture a better one.
</p>
<p>
"We're needed here," he told her, his voice pleading for the
understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. "These people need
as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.
The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with
a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or
accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here."
</p>
<p>
She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. "Be
fruitful," she whispered. "Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an
earth."
</p>
<p>
"No," he told her. "Replenish the stars."
</p>
<p>
But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.
</p>
<p>
Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanes
again, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, they
could adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead them
through all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyond
numbering.
</p>
<p>
Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for the
children of men!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They were lost.\n(B) They were young and untrained.\n(C) They were on a mission.\n(D) They were insubordinate.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Space colonies -- Fiction; Short stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Outer space -- Exploration -- Fiction"
} |
20010 | Murray and Herrstein believe that _____ is not important to an individual’s success.
Choices:
(A) Education
(B) IQ
(C) Parents' status
(D) Ability | [
"A",
"Education"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> The Bell Curve Flattened<br/><br/> Charles Murray is a<br/>publicity genius, and the publication of his and Richard Herrnstein's book,<br/>The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life , in<br/>the fall of 1994 was his masterpiece.<br/><br/> Virtually<br/>all ambitious trade hardcover books are preceded by an edition of 100 to 200<br/>flimsy "galley proofs." These are sent out to people who might generate buzz<br/>for the book: blurbists, bookers for television talk shows, editors, and--most<br/>important--book critics. There is an ethos of letting the chips fall where they<br/>may about the sending out of galleys: Now the book will begin to receive<br/>uncontrolled reaction. (For example, back in 1991, Murray somehow got hold of<br/>the galleys of my own last book, and wrote me heatedly denying that he was<br/>working on a book about black genetic intellectual inferiority, as I had<br/>asserted. I left the passage in, but softened it.)<br/><br/> The Bell Curve was not circulated in galleys before<br/>publication. The effect was, first, to increase the allure of the book (There<br/>must be something really hot in there!), and second, to ensure that no one<br/>inclined to be skeptical would be able to weigh in at the moment of<br/>publication. The people who had galley proofs were handpicked by Murray and his<br/>publisher. The ordinary routine of neutral reviewers having a month or two to<br/>go over the book with care did not occur. Another handpicked group was flown to<br/>Washington at the expense of the American Enterprise Institute and given a<br/>weekend-long personal briefing on the book's contents by Murray himself<br/>(Herrnstein had died very recently), just before publication. The result was<br/>what you'd expect: The first wave of publicity was either credulous or angry,<br/>but short on evidence, because nobody had had time to digest and evaluate the<br/>book carefully.<br/><br/> <br/> The Bell Curve isn't a<br/>typical work of trade nonfiction. It is gotten up as a work of original<br/>scholarly research. Most works containing fresh regression analysis and<br/>historical argument from primary sources would be published in academic<br/>quarterlies that send manuscripts out for elaborate, lengthy evaluation before<br/>deciding whether to publish them. Herrnstein and Murray didn't do this, so it<br/>wasn't until a full year or more after The Bell Curve was published that<br/>the leading experts on its subject had a chance to go through the underlying<br/>data with care. Therefore, as time went on, the knowledgeability of the Bell<br/>Curve discussion grew, but the attention paid to that discussion inevitably<br/>shrank.<br/><br/> The debate<br/>on publication day was conducted in the mass media by people with no<br/>independent ability to assess the book. Over the next few months, intellectuals<br/>took some pretty good shots at it in smaller publications like the New<br/>Republic and the New York Review of Books . It wasn't until late 1995<br/>that the most damaging criticism of The Bell Curve began to appear, in<br/>tiny academic journals. What follows is a brief summary of that last body of<br/>work. The Bell Curve , it turns out, is full of mistakes ranging from<br/>sloppy reasoning to mis-citations of sources to outright mathematical errors.<br/>Unsurprisingly, all the mistakes are in the direction of supporting the<br/>authors' thesis.<br/><br/> <br/>First, a quick précis of The Bell Curve .<br/>IQ tests, according to Murray and Herrnstein, measure an essential human<br/>quality, general intelligence. During the second half of the 20 th<br/>century, this quality has risen to supreme importance, because society has<br/>become increasingly complex. The intelligent have therefore gone through an<br/>"invisible migration," from points of origin all over the class system to a<br/>concentration at the top of business, government, and the professions. They are<br/>likely to become ever more dominant and prosperous. The unintelligent are<br/>falling further and further behind. Because intelligence is substantially<br/>inherited, nothing is likely to reverse this process. Blacks are<br/>overrepresented among the unintelligent. Any efforts government might make to<br/>improve the economic opportunities of poor people, especially poor black<br/>people, are likely to fail, because their poverty is so much the result of<br/>inherited low intelligence. About the best that can be done for these people is<br/>an effort to create a world of simple, decent, honorable toil for them.<br/><br/> <br/>Herrnstein and Murray begin by telling us that the liberal position on<br/>IQ--namely, "Intelligence is a bankrupt concept"--has been discredited, and<br/>that "a scholarly consensus has been reached" around their position. This<br/>consensus is "beyond significant technical dispute." Thus, by the end of their<br/>introduction, they have arranged matters so that if intelligence has any<br/>meaning at all, the idiotic liberals stand discredited; and meanwhile,<br/>extremely broad claims for intelligence have the cover of "consensus."<br/><br/> The notion that IQ tests are completely useless never<br/>prevailed in liberal academia to nearly the extent that Herrnstein and Murray<br/>say. A more accurate rendering of the liberal position would be that rather<br/>than a single "general intelligence," there are a handful of crucial--and<br/>separate--mental abilities; that none of these abilities is important enough to<br/>obviate the role of family background and education; and that native ability<br/>(and economic success independent of native ability) can be enhanced by<br/>improving education, training, and public health. The Bell Curve refers<br/>in passing to some of these points, but on the whole it sets up a cartoon-left<br/>position as its (easy) target. Meanwhile, the psychometricians who dominate the<br/>footnotes of The Bell Curve are John Hunter, Arthur Jensen, Malcolm Ree,<br/>and Frank Schmidt. These men are well known within the field as representing<br/>its right wing, not a mainstream consensus.<br/><br/> The next<br/>problem with The Bell Curve 's thesis is in the idea of the rise to<br/>dominance of the cognitive elite. To the book's initial audience of Ivy<br/>Leaguers, this idea seemed valid on its face. Everybody knows that the best<br/>universities, law firms, hospitals, investment banks, and the State Department<br/>used to be run by preppies whose main virtue was fortunate birth, and are now<br/>open to one and all on the basis of merit.<br/><br/> <br/>But the larger premise--that intelligent people<br/>used to be scattered throughout the class structure, and are now concentrated<br/>at the top--is almost impossible to prove, simply because the mass<br/>administration of mental tests is such a recent phenomenon. High scorers on<br/>mental tests do "bunch up" (as Herrnstein and Murray put it) in<br/>elite-university student bodies. But this is tautological: Any group selected<br/>on the basis of scores on mental tests will be composed disproportionately of<br/>people who score high on mental tests. Proving The Bell Curve 's thesis<br/>would require proving that success increasingly correlates with IQ in areas of<br/>life where mental tests are not the explicit gatekeepers. To see how<br/>The Bell Curve tries and fails to get around these inherent problems,<br/>see and .<br/><br/> Having<br/>conditioned its audience to view IQ as all-important, The Bell Curve<br/>then manipulates statistics in a way that makes IQ look bigger, and everything<br/>else smaller, in determining Americans' life-chances.<br/><br/> The basic tool of statistical social science in general,<br/>and of The Bell Curve in particular, is regression analysis, a technique<br/>used to assign weights to various factors (called "independent variables") in<br/>determining a final outcome (called the "dependent variable"). The original<br/>statistical work in The Bell Curve consists of regression analyses on a<br/>database called the National Longitudinal Study of Youth. The authors claim to<br/>demonstrate that high IQ is more predictive of economic success than any other<br/>factor, and that low IQ is more predictive of poverty and social breakdown.<br/>Virtually all the early commentators on The Bell Curve were unable to<br/>assess the merits of the regression analysis. "I am not a scientist. I know<br/>nothing about psychometrics," wrote Leon Wieseltier (who was otherwise quite<br/>critical) in a typical disclaimer.<br/><br/> But by now the statistics<br/>have been gone over by professionals, who have come up with different results.<br/>The key points of their critique of The Bell Curve are as follows:<br/><br/> What Herrnstein and Murray<br/>used to measure IQ is actually a measure of education as well as intelligence.<br/>All the people tracked in the National Longitudinal Study of Youth took the<br/>Armed Forces Qualifying Test, which Herrnstein and Murray treat as a good<br/>measure of intelligence. Because the material covered in the test includes<br/>subjects like trigonometry, many academic critics of The Bell Curve have<br/>objected to its use as a measure only of IQ and not at all of academic<br/>achievement. Herrnstein and Murray concede in the footnotes that scores tend to<br/>rise with the subjects' education--but they seriously underestimate the<br/>magnitude of this rise, as shows. And they resist the obvious inference that<br/>the test scores are measuring something other than intelligence.<br/><br/> Most of The Bell<br/>Curve 's analysis is devoted to proving that IQ has more predictive power<br/>than parental "socio-economic status." But Herrnstein and Murray's method of<br/>figuring socioeconomic status seems designed to low-ball its influence, as<br/>explains.<br/><br/> Herrnstein and Murray begin<br/>their discussion of the National Longitudinal Study of Youth data by announcing<br/>that they aren't going to analyze the effect of education, because education is<br/>too much a result of IQ. It's not an independent variable. (Of course,<br/>according to their theory, socioeconomic status is also a result of IQ, but<br/>somehow, that doesn't stop them.) Therefore, what you'd most want to know from<br/>a policy standpoint--how much education can increase opportunity--isn't dealt<br/>with in the book, except in two obscure footnotes. Both would seem to support<br/>the liberal, pro-education position that Herrnstein and Murray say is futile.<br/>One footnote shows education increasing IQ year by year. The other shows a<br/>higher correlation between college degree and family income than between IQ and<br/>family income.<br/><br/> One of The Bell<br/>Curve 's theoretical linchpins is the high heritability of IQ. Herrnstein<br/>and Murray, sounding like the souls of caution, write that "half a century of<br/>work, now amounting to hundreds of empirical and theoretical studies, permits a<br/>broad conclusion that the genetic component of IQ is unlikely to be smaller<br/>than 40 per cent or higher than 80 per cent. ... For purposes of this<br/>discussion, we will adopt a middling estimate of 60 per cent heritability."<br/>This now looks seriously overstated. Michael Daniels, Bernie Devlin, and<br/>Kathryn Roeder of Carnegie Mellon University took the same studies on which<br/>Herrnstein and Murray based their estimate, and subjected them to a computer<br/>meta-analysis ("a powerful method of statistical analysis"-- The Bell<br/>Curve ). Their paper, which has not yet been published, says: "In brief,<br/>studies of IQ, and our reanalyses of them, suggest a narrow-sense heritability<br/>of 34 per cent and a broad-sense heritability of 46 per cent. [The difference<br/>between broad and narrow is too technical to explain in this limited space.]<br/>This is a far cry from Herrnstein and Murray's maximum value of 80 per cent or<br/>their middling value of 60 per cent. Consequently, Herrnstein and Murray give<br/>the impression that IQ is highly 'heritable,' but it is not."<br/><br/> If the purpose of the whole<br/>exercise is to figure out what our social policies should be, then, "Which is<br/>more predictive, IQ or socioeconomic status?" isn't the essential question<br/>anyway. Making it the essential question avoids the issue of whether IQ is<br/>really so massively predictive that it drowns out everything else. (Herrnstein<br/>and Murray mostly leave the evidence for this, their central contention, to<br/>footnotes. The figures they offer are far from dispositive.)<br/><br/> The<br/>chapter of The Bell Curve on policies that might be able to overcome the<br/>fate of a low IQ focuses mainly on whether early-childhood programs like Head<br/>Start (most of which aren't run with raising IQ as their primary goal) can<br/>raise IQ significantly over the long term, and sorrowfully concludes that they<br/>can't. What the book doesn't discuss is whether public schools--by far the<br/>biggest government social program--can raise IQ, or earnings after you control<br/>for IQ. As James Heckman of the University of Chicago wrote in the Journal<br/>of Political Economy , " Evidence of a genetic component to skills has no<br/>bearing on the efficacy of any social policy. ... The relevant issue is the<br/>cost effectiveness of the intervention." (As an example of where the kind of<br/>analysis Herrnstein and Murray didn't do can lead, a new study by Jay Girotto<br/>and Paul Peterson of Harvard shows that students who raise their grades and<br/>take harder courses can increase their IQ scores by an average of eight points<br/>during the first three years of high school.)<br/><br/> <br/>At the beginning of The Bell Curve ,<br/>Herrnstein and Murray declare that "the concept of intelligence has taken on a<br/>much higher place in the pantheon of human virtues than it deserves." And they<br/>claim that their view of IQ tests is "squarely in the middle of the scientific<br/>road." They end by expressing the hope that we can "be a society that makes<br/>good on the fundamental promise of the American tradition: the opportunity for<br/>everyone, not just the lucky ones, to live a satisfying life." Throughout,<br/>Herrnstein and Murray consistently present themselves as fair- (or even<br/>liberal-) minded technicians who have, with great caution, followed the<br/>evidence where it leads--which, unfortunately, is to a few unassailable if<br/>unpleasant scientific truths that it is their reluctant duty to report.<br/><br/> In fact, The Bell<br/>Curve is a relentless brief for the conservative position in psychometrics<br/>and social policy. For all its talk of reflecting a consensus, the sources it<br/>draws upon are heavily skewed to the right. Herrnstein and Murray used<br/>quasi-nutty studies that support their position (as Charles Lane demonstrated<br/>in the New York Review of Books ), and ignore mainstream studies that<br/>contradict it (as Richard Nisbett showed in the New Republic ). The data<br/>in The Bell Curve are consistently massaged to produce conservative<br/>conclusions; not once is a finding that contradicts the main thesis reported in<br/>the text. ( shows how Herrnstein and Murray have made the convergence in<br/>black-white IQ scores, which they claim to find "encouraging," look smaller<br/>than it actually is.) The Bell Curve 's air of strict scientism doesn't<br/>preclude the use of lightly sourced or unsourced assertions, such as the<br/>statement that the median IQ of all black Africans is 75, or that<br/>"intermarriage among people in the top few percentiles of intelligence may be<br/>increasing far more rapidly than suspected" (no footnote). Though they piously<br/>claim not to be doing so, Herrnstein and Murray leave readers with the distinct<br/>impression that IQ is the cause of economic success and failure, and that<br/>genetic difference explains the black-white IQ gap.<br/><br/> In the<br/>most famous passage in The Republic , Plato describes an underground cave<br/>where people are held prisoner in chains, unable to see anything but the<br/>shadows cast by figures passing outside; they mistake the shadows for reality.<br/>The Republic is probably the first place in history where an idea like<br/>that of Murray and Herrnstein's cognitive elite appears. Plato believed that<br/>through education, people could leave the cave and be able to see the truth<br/>instead of the shadows, thus fitting themselves to become the wise rulers of<br/>society. But he was quick to insert a cautionary note: Those who have left the<br/>cave might be tempted to think they can see perfectly clearly, while actually<br/>they would be "dazzled by excess of light." The image applies to The Bell<br/>Curve : Presented as an exact representation of reality, in opposition to<br/>the shadows of political correctness, it actually reflects the blinkered vision<br/>of one part of the American elite. It constantly tells these people that they<br/>are naturally superior, and offers lurid descriptions of aspects of national<br/>life that they know about only by rumor. Readers who accept The Bell<br/>Curve as tough-minded and realistic, and who assume that all criticism of<br/>it is ignorant and ideologically motivated, are not as far removed from Plato's<br/>cave as they might think.<br/><br/> : Dumb<br/>College Students<br/><br/> : Smart<br/>Rich People<br/><br/> : Education<br/>and IQ<br/><br/> :<br/>Socioeconomic Status<br/><br/> : Black-White<br/>Convergence<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) Education\n(B) IQ\n(C) Parents' status\n(D) Ability",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
60507 | What didn't Feetch get at the end of the story?
Choices:
(A) Money to pay for his wife's medical bills
(B) Credit for his discoveries
(C) The job he wanted
(D) Piltdon's job | [
"D",
"Piltdon's job"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE SUPER OPENER
</h1>
<h2>
BY MICHAEL ZUROY
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
<i>
Here's why you should ask for
<br/>
a "Feetch M-D" next time
<br/>
you get a can opener!
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1958.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Feetch!" grated Ogden Piltdon, president of the Piltdon Opener
Company, slamming the drafting board with his hairy fist, "I want
results!"
</p>
<p>
Heads lifted over boards. Kalvin Feetch shrunk visibly.
</p>
<p>
"As chief engineer you're not carrying the ball," Piltdon went on
savagely. "The Piltdon Can-Opener is trailing the competition.
Advertising and Sales are breaking their necks. It's Engineering
that's missing the boat!"
</p>
<p>
"But Mr. Piltdon," remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's
glare, "don't you remember? I tried to...."
</p>
<p>
"For two years there hasn't been one lousy improvement in the Piltdon
Can-Opener!" roared Mr. Piltdon. "Look at our competitors. The
International rips apart cans in three and three-tenths seconds.
Universal does it in four."
</p>
<p>
"But Mr. Piltdon—"
</p>
<p>
"The Minerva Mighty Midget does it in four point two two and plays Home
Sweet Home in chimes. Our own Piltdon opener barely manages to open a
can in eight point nine without chimes. Is this what I'm paying you
for?"
</p>
<p>
Feetch adjusted his spectacles with shaking hands. "But Mr. Piltdon,
our opener still has stability, solidity. It is built to last. It has
dignity...."
</p>
<p>
"Dignity," pronounced Piltdon, "is for museums. Four months, Feetch!
In four months I want a new can-opener that will be faster, lighter,
stronger, flashier and more musical than any other on the market. I
want it completely developed, engineered and tooled-up, ready for
production. Otherwise, Feetch—"
</p>
<p>
Feetch's body twitched. "But Mr. Piltdon, four months is hardly time
enough for development, even with an adequate staff. I've been trying
to tell you for years that we're bound to fall behind because we don't
have enough personnel to conduct research. Our men can barely keep
up with production and maintenance. If you would let me put on a few
draftsmen and...."
</p>
<p>
"Excuses," sneered Mr. Piltdon. "Your staff is more than adequate.
I will not allow you to throw out my money. Four months, Feetch,
no more!" Piltdon trudged out of the room, leaving behind him an
oppressive silence.
</p>
<p>
How could you set a time limit on research and development? A designer
had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare,
discard. He had always wanted to devote all his time to research, but
Piltdon Opener had not given him that opportunity. Twenty-five years!
thought Feetch. Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines,
production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance. What had
happened, to the proud dream he once had, the dream of exploring
uncharted engineering regions, of unlimited time to investigate and
develop?
</p>
<p>
Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had
managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five
years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
What now? He had to hang on to his job. Technical work was scarce.
Since the early 1980's the schools had been turning out more
technicians than industry could absorb. He was too old to compete in
the employment market. He couldn't afford to lose any money. Jenny
wasn't well.
</p>
<p>
How to meet this four month dead-line? He would get right on it
himself, of course; Hanson—good man—could work with him. He shook his
head despairingly. Something would be sure to blow up. Well, he had to
start—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Chief," said Hanson a few weeks later as they entered the lab, "I'm
beginning to wonder if the answer is in the hand mechanical type at
all."
</p>
<p>
"Got to be," answered Feetch tiredly. "We must work along classical
can-opener lines. Departures, such as the thermal or motor-driven
types, would be too expensive for mass production."
</p>
<p>
Three new models and a group of cans were waiting for them on the
bench. They began testing, Hanson operating the openers and Feetch
clocking. "Four point four," announced Feetch after the last test.
"Good, but not good enough. Too bulky. Appearance unsatisfactory.
Chimes tinny. We've made progress, but we've a long way to go."
</p>
<p>
The problem was tricky. It might seem that use of the proper gear
ratios would give the required velocity, but there were too many
other factors that negated this direct approach. The mechanism had to
be compact and streamlined. Gear sizes had to be kept down. Can-top
resistance, internal resistance, cutting tooth performance, handle
size and moment, the minimum strength of a woman's hand were some of
the variables that had to be balanced within rigid limits. Sector
type cutters, traversing several arcs at the same time, had seemed to
offer the answer for a while, but the adjusting mechanism necessary to
compensate for variable can sizes had been too complex to be practical.
There was the ever-present limit to production cost.
</p>
<p>
Hanson's eyes were upon him. "Chief," he said, "it's a rotten shame.
Twenty-five years of your life you put in with Piltdon, and he'd fire
you just like that if you don't do the impossible. The Piltdon Company
is built upon your designs and you get handed this deal!"
</p>
<p>
"Well, well," said Feetch. "I drew my pay every week so I suppose I
have no complaints. Although," a wistful note crept into his voice "I
would have liked a little recognition. Piltdon is a household word,
but who has heard of Feetch? Well,"—Feetch blew his nose—"how do we
stand, Hanson?"
</p>
<p>
Hanson's bull-dog features drew into a scowl. "Piltdon ought to
be rayed," he growled. "O.K., Chief. Eleven experimental models
designed to date. Two more on the boards. Nine completed and tested,
two in work. Best performance, four point four, but model otherwise
unsatisfactory."
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a
glistening mechanism. "Here's another model. Let's try it." The
machinist departed and Hanson locked the opener on a can. "I hope——"
he turned the handle, and stopped abruptly, staring down open-mouthed.
</p>
<p>
A cylinder of close-packed beans rested on the bench under the opener.
</p>
<p>
The can itself had disappeared.
</p>
<p>
"Chief," said Hanson. "Chief."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Feetch. "I see it too. Try another can."
</p>
<p>
"Vegetable soup or spinach?" inquired Hanson dreamily.
</p>
<p>
"Spinach, I think," said Feetch. "Where did the can go, do you suppose?"
</p>
<p>
The spinach can disappeared. Likewise several corn cans, sweet potato
cans and corned-beef hash cans, leaving their contents intact. It was
rather disconcerting.
</p>
<p>
"Dear, dear," said Feetch, regarding the piles of food on the bench.
"There must be some explanation. I designed this opener with sixteen
degree, twenty-two minute pressure angle modified involute gear
teeth, seven degree, nineteen minute front clearance cutter angle and
thirty-six degree, twelve minute back rake angle. I expected that such
departures from the norm might achieve unconventional performance, but
this—Dear, dear. Where do the cans go, I wonder?"
</p>
<p>
"What's the difference? Don't you see what you've got here? It's the
answer! It's more than the answer! We can put this right into work and
beat the dead-line."
</p>
<p>
Feetch shook his head. "No, Hanson. We're producing something we don't
understand. What forces have we uncovered here? Where do the cans go?
What makes them disappear? Are we dealing with a kinetic or a kinematic
effect? What motions can we plot in the area of disappearance and what
are their analytical mathematical formulae? What masses may be critical
here? What transformations of energy are involved? No, Hanson, we must
learn a lot more."
</p>
<p>
"But Chief, your job."
</p>
<p>
"I'll risk that. Not a word to Piltdon."
</p>
<p>
Several days later, however, Piltdon himself charged into the drawing
room and slapped Feetch heartily on the back, causing him to break a
pencil point. "Feetch!" roared Piltdon. "Is this talk that's going
around the plant true? Why didn't you tell me? Let's see it."
</p>
<p>
After Piltdon had seen it his eyes took on a feverish glint. "This,"
he exulted, "will make can-opener history. Instantaneous opening!
Automatic disposal! Wait until Advertising and Sales get hold of this!
We'll throttle our competitors! The Piltdon Super-Opener we'll call it."
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Piltdon—" said Feetch shakily.
</p>
<p>
Piltdon stared at his chief engineer sharply. "What's the matter,
Feetch? The thing can be duplicated, can't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. I've just finished checking that. But I'm in the midst of
further investigation of the effect. There's more here than just a new
type can-opener, sir. A whole new field of physics. New principles.
This is big, Mr. Piltdon. I recommend that we delay production until
further research can be completed. Hire a few top scientists and
engineers. Find out where the cans go. Put out a scientific paper on
the effect."
</p>
<p>
"Feetch," bit out Piltdon, his face growing hard. "Stow this hooey. I
don't give a damn where the cans go. May I remind you that under our
standard patent agreement, all rights to your invention belong to the
company? As well as anything you may produce in the field within a year
after leaving our employ? We have a good thing here, and I don't want
you holding it back. We're going into production immediately."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Close, thought Feetch, wearily. It had been a man-killing job, and it
had been close, but he'd made it. Beat the time limit by a half-day.
The first tentative shipments of Piltdon Super-Openers had gone to
distributors along the Eastern seaboard. The first advertisements
blazed in selected media. The first reorders came back, and then: "It's
a sell-out!" crowed Piltdon, waving a sheaf of telegrams. "Step up
production! Let 'er rip!"
</p>
<p>
The Super-Openers rolled over the country. In a remarkably short time
they appeared in millions of kitchens from coast-to-coast. Sales
climbed to hundreds of thousands per day. Piltdon Opener went into
peak production in three shifts, but was still unable to keep up with
the demand. Construction was begun on a new plant, and additional
plants were planned. Long lines waited in front of houseware stores.
Department stores, lucky enough to have Super-Openers on hand, limited
sales to one to a customer. Piltdon cancelled his advertising program.
Newspapers, magazines, radio, television and word-of-mouth spread the
fame of the opener so that advertising was unnecessary.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, of course, government scientists, research foundations,
universities and independent investigators began to look into this new
phenomonen. Receiving no satisfactory explanation from Piltdon, they
set up their own research.
</p>
<p>
Far into the night burned the lights of countless laboratories. Noted
physicists probed, measured, weighed, traced, X-rayed, dissolved,
spun, peered at, photographed, magnetized, exploded, shattered and
analyzed Super-Openers without achieving the glimmer of a satisfactory
explanation. Competitors found the patent impossible to circumvent, for
any departure from its exact specifications nullified the effect.
</p>
<p>
Piltdon, genial these days with success and acclaim, roared at Feetch:
"I'm putting you in for a raise. Yes sir! To reward you for assisting
me with my invention I'm raising your pay two hundred dollars a year.
That's almost four dollars a week, man."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, Mr. Piltdon." And still, thought Feetch wryly, he received
no recognition. His name did not even appear on the patent. Well,
well, that was the way it went. He must find his satisfaction in his
work. And it had been interesting lately, the work he had been doing
nights at home investigating what had been named the Piltdon Effect.
It had been difficult, working alone and buying his own equipment. The
oscillator and ultra microwave tracking unit had been particularly
expensive. He was a fool, he supposed, to try independent research when
so many huge scientific organizations were working on it. But he could
no more keep away from it than he could stop eating.
</p>
<p>
He still didn't know where the cans went, but somehow he felt that he
was close to the answer.
</p>
<p>
When he finally found the answer, it was too late. The Borenchuck
incident was only hours away.
</p>
<p>
As soon as he could get hold of Piltdon, Feetch said trembling, "Sir, I
think I know where those cans are going. I recommend—"
</p>
<p>
"Are you still worrying about that?" Piltdon roared jovially. "Leave
that to the long-hairs. We're making money, that's all that counts, eh
Feetch?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That night, at six-ten p.m., the Borenchuck family of Selby, South
Dakota, sat down to their evening meal. Just as they started in on the
soup, a rain of empty tin cans clattered down, splashed into the soup,
raised a welt on the forehead of Borenchuck senior, settled down to a
gentle, steady klunk! klunk! klunk! and inexorably began to pile up on
the dining-room floor. They seemed to materialize from a plane just
below the ceiling. The police called the fire department and the fire
department stared helplessly and recommended the sanitation department.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The incident made headlines in the local papers.
</p>
<p>
The next day other local papers in widely scattered locations reported
similar incidents.
</p>
<p>
The following day, cans began falling on Chicago. St. Louis was next,
and then over the entire nation the cans began to rain down. They fell
outdoors and indoors, usually materializing at heights that were not
dangerous. The deluge followed no pattern. Sometimes it would slacken,
sometimes it would stop, sometimes begin heavily again. It fell in
homes, on the streets, in theatres, trains, ships, universities and
dog-food factories. No place was immune.
</p>
<p>
People took to wearing hats indoors and out, and the sale of helmets
boomed.
</p>
<p>
All activity was seriously curtailed.
</p>
<p>
A state of national emergency was declared.
</p>
<p>
Government investigators went to work and soon confirmed what was
generally suspected: these were the same cans that had been opened by
the Piltdon Super-Opener.
</p>
<p>
Statisticians and mathematicians calculated the mean rate of can
precipitation and estimated that if all the cans opened by Piltdon
openers were to come back, the deluge should be over in fifteen point
twenty-nine days.
</p>
<p>
Super-Opener sales of course immediately plummeted to zero and stayed
there. Anti-Piltdon editorials appeared in the papers. Commentators
accused Piltdon of deliberately hoaxing the public for his own gain. A
Congressional investigation was demanded. Piltdon received threats of
bodily injury. Lawsuits were filed against him. He barricaded himself
in the plant, surrounded by bodyguards.
</p>
<p>
Livid with fury and apprehension, he screamed at Feetch, "This is your
doing, you vandal! I'm a ruined man!" A falling can caught him neatly
on the tip of his nose.
</p>
<p>
"But sir," trembled Feetch, dodging three spaghetti cans, "I tried to
warn you."
</p>
<p>
"You're through, Feetch!" raved Piltdon. "Fired! Get out! But before
you go, I want you to know that I've directed the blame where it
belongs. I've just released to the press the truth about who created
the Super-Opener. Now, get out!"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," said Feetch paling. "Then you don't want to hear about my
discovery of a way to prevent the cans from coming back?"
</p>
<p>
Klunk! A barrage of cans hit the floor, and both men took refuge under
Piltdon's huge desk. "No!" yelled Piltdon at Feetch's face which was
inches away. "No, I——What did you say?"
</p>
<p>
"A small design improvement sir, and the cans would disappear forever."
</p>
<p>
Klunk!
</p>
<p>
"Forever, Feetch?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes sir." Klunk! Klunk!
</p>
<p>
"You're positive, Feetch?" Piltdon's eyes glared into Feetch's.
</p>
<p>
"Sir, I never make careless claims."
</p>
<p>
"That's true," said Piltdon. His eyes grew dreamy. "It can be done,"
he mused. "The New Type Super-Opener. Free exchanges for the old.
Cash guarantee that empty cans will never bother you. Take a licking
at first, but then monopolize the market. All right, Feetch, I'll
give you another chance. You'll turn over all the details to me. The
patent on the improvement will naturally be mine. I'll get the credit
for rectifying your blunder. Fine, fine. We'll work it out. Hop on
production, at once, Feetch."
</p>
<p>
Feetch felt himself sag inwardly. "Mr. Piltdon," he said. "I'm asking
only one favor. Let me work full time on research and development,
especially on the Piltdon effect. Hire a couple of extra men to help
with production. I assure you the company will benefit in the end."
</p>
<p>
"Damn it, no!" roared Piltdon. "How many times must I tell you? You got
your job back, didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
The prospect of long years of heavy production schedules, restricted
engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel
very tired. Research, he thought. Development. What he had always
wanted. Over the years he had waited, thinking that there would be
opportunities later. But now he was growing older, and he felt that
there might not be a later. Somehow he would manage to get along.
Perhaps someone would give him a job working in the new field he had
pioneered. With a sense of relief he realized that he had made his
decision.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Piltdon," Feetch said. "I—" klunk!—"resign."
</p>
<p>
Piltdon started, extreme astonishment crossing his face.
</p>
<p>
"No use," said Feetch. "Nothing you can say—" klunk! klunk!
klunk!—"will make any difference now."
</p>
<p>
"But see here, the New Type Super-Opener...!"
</p>
<p>
"Will remain my secret. Good day."
</p>
<p>
"Feetch!" howled Piltdon. "I order you to remain!"
</p>
<p>
Feetch almost submitted from force of habit. He hesitated for a moment,
then turned abruptly.
</p>
<p>
"Good-day," said Feetch firmly, sprinting through the falling cans to
the door.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Money, Feetch decided after a while, was a good thing to have. His
supply was running pretty low. He was not having any luck finding
another job. Although the cans had stopped falling on the fifteenth
day, as predicted by the statisticians, industry would not soon forget
the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge. It was not anxious
to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing.
"Feetch," the personnel man would read. "Kalvin Feetch." Then, looking
up, "Not the Kalvin Feetch who—"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Feetch would admit miserably.
</p>
<p>
"I am sorry, but—"
</p>
<p>
He did no better with research organizations. Typical was a letter
from the Van Terrel Foundation: "—cannot accept your application
inasmuch as we feel your premature application of your discovery to
profit-making denotes a lack of scientific responsibility and ethics
not desirable in a member of our organization—former employer states
the decision was yours entirely. Unfavorable reference—"
</p>
<p>
Piltdon, Feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his
chest that he had not the experience to recognize as the beginning of a
slow anger, Piltdon was hitting low and getting away with it.
</p>
<p>
Of course, if he were to agree to reveal his latest discoveries to a
research organization, he would undoubtedly get an appointment. But how
could he? Everything patentable in his work would automatically revert
to Piltdon under the one year clause in the company patent agreement.
No, Feetch told himself, he was revealing nothing that Piltdon might
grab. The anger began to mount.
</p>
<p>
But he was beginning to need money desperately. Jenny wasn't getting
any better and medical bills were running high.
</p>
<p>
The phone rang. Feetch seized it and said to the image: "Absolutely
not."
</p>
<p>
"I'll go up another ten dollars," grated the little Piltdon image.
"Do you realize, man, this is the fourteenth raise I've offered you?
A total increase of one hundred and twenty-six dollars? Be sensible,
Feetch. I know you can't find work anywhere else."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks to you. Mr. Piltdon, I wouldn't work for you if—"
</p>
<p>
A barrage of rocks crashed against the heavy steel screening of the
window. "What's going on!" yelled Piltdon. "Oh, I see. People throwing
rocks at your house again? Oh, I know all about that, Feetch. I know
that you're probably the most unpopular man alive to-day. I know about
the rocks, the tomatoes, the rotten eggs, the sneaking out at night,
the disguises you've had to use. Why don't you come back to us and
change all that, Feetch? We'll put out the New Type Super-Opener and
the world will soon forget about the old one."
</p>
<p>
"No," said Feetch. "People will forget anyway—I hope."
</p>
<p>
"If you won't think of yourself, at least think of your fellow
workmen," begged Piltdon, his voice going blurry. "Do you realize that
Piltdon Opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your
former associates out of work? Think of Hanson, Sanchez, Forbes. They
have families too. Think of the men in the shop, the girls in the
office, the salesmen on the road. All, all unemployed because of you.
Think of that, Feetch."
</p>
<p>
Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him.
</p>
<p>
Piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. "Think it
over, Feetch."
</p>
<p>
Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose
their jobs? Frowning, he dialed Hanson's number.
</p>
<p>
"Chief," said Hanson, "Forget it. The boys are behind you one hundred
per cent. We'll make out."
</p>
<p>
"But that's the trouble. I thought you'd feel like this, and I can't
let you."
</p>
<p>
"You're beginning to weaken. Don't. Think, chief, think. The brain that
figured the Super-Opener can solve this."
</p>
<p>
Feetch hung up. A glow of anger that had been building up in his chest
grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think,
Hanson had said. But he had. He's considered every angle, and there was
no solution.
</p>
<p>
Feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of
water. He drank the water slowly and placed the glass on the washstand
with a tiny click. It was the tiny click that did it. Something about
it touched off the growing rage. If Piltdon were there he would have
punched him in the nose. The twenty-five years. The tricks. The threats.
</p>
<p>
Think? He'd figured the solution long ago, only he hadn't allowed
himself to see it. Not lack of brains, lack of guts. Well, he thought
grimly, dialing Piltdon's number, he was going through with it now.
"Piltdon!" he barked. "Three p.m. tomorrow. My place. Be here. That's
all." He hung up.
</p>
<p>
In the same grim mood the following morning, he placed a few more calls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In the same mood that afternoon he stood in the middle of his
living-room and looked at his visitors: Piltdon, Williams, the
Government man; Billings from the Van Terrel Foundation; Steiner of
Westchester University; the members of the press.
</p>
<p>
"Gentlemen," he said. "I'll make it brief." He waved the papers in his
hand. "Here is everything I know about what I call the Feetch Effect,
including plans and specifications for the New Type Super-Opener.
All of you have special reasons for being keenly interested in this
information. I am now going to give a copy to each of you, providing
one condition is met by Mr. Piltdon." He stared at Piltdon. "In short,
I want fifty-one per cent of the stock of Piltdon Opener."
</p>
<p>
Piltdon leaped from his chair. "Outrageous!" He roared. "Ridiculous!"
</p>
<p>
"Fifty-one percent," said Feetch firmly. "Don't bother with any
counterproposals or the interview is at an end."
</p>
<p>
"Gentlemen!" squawked Piltdon, "I appeal to you—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop bluffing," said Feetch coldly. "There's no other way out for
you. Otherwise you're ruined. Here, sign this agreement."
</p>
<p>
Piltdon threw the paper to the floor and screamed: "Gentlemen, will you
be a party to this?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," murmured the Government man, "I never did think Feetch got a
fair shake."
</p>
<p>
"This information is important to science," said the Van Terrel man.
</p>
<p>
After Piltdon had signed, the papers were distributed.
</p>
<p>
Published in the newspapers the following day, Feetch's statement read,
in part: "The motion in space and time of the singular curvilinear
proportions of the original Super-Opener combined with the capacitor
effect built up as it increased its frictional electro-static charge
in inverse proportion to the cube root of the tolerance between the
involute teeth caused an instantaneous disruption of what I call the
Alpha multi-dimensional screen. The can, being metallic, dropped
through, leaving its non-metallic contents behind. The disruption was
instantly repaired by the stable nature of the screen.
</p>
<p>
"Beyond the screen is what I call Alpha space, a space apparently quite
as extensive as our own universe. Unfortunately, as my investigations
indicated, Alpha space seems to be thickly inhabited. These
inhabitants, the nature of whom I have not yet ascertained, obviously
resented the intrusion of the cans, developed a method of disrupting
the screen from their side, and hurled the cans back at us.
</p>
<p>
"However, I have established the existence of other spaces up to Mu
space, and suspect that others exist beyond that. Beta space, which is
also adjacent to our own space, is devoid of any form of life. The New
Type Super-Opener is designed to pass cans through the Beta screen.
Beta space will safely absorb an infinite number of cans.
</p>
<p>
"I sincerely and humbly venture the opinion that we are on the
threshold of tremendous and mighty discoveries. It is my belief that
possibly an infinite number of universes exist in a type of laminated
block separated by screens.
</p>
<p>
"Therefore, might it not be that an infinite number of laminated blocks
exist—?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Mr Feetch—" said Piltdon.
</p>
<p>
Feetch looked up from his desk in the newly constructed Feetch
Multi-Dimensional Development Division of the Piltdon Opener Company.
"Piltdon, don't bother me about production. Production is your problem."
</p>
<p>
"But Mr. Feetch—"
</p>
<p>
"Get out," said Feetch.
</p>
<p>
Piltdon blanched and left.
</p>
<p>
"As I was saying, Hanson—" continued Feetch.
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Money to pay for his wife's medical bills\n(B) Credit for his discoveries\n(C) The job he wanted\n(D) Piltdon's job",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Business enterprises -- Fiction; Inventions -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction"
} |
63875 | Which isn't true about the Mercurians?
Choices:
(A) they're peaceful people
(B) most want a revolution
(C) they can handle extreme heat
(D) they can see well in the day | [
"B",
"most want a revolution"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Red Witch of Mercury
</h1>
<h2>
By EMMETT McDOWELL
</h2>
<p>
Death was Jaro Moynahan's stock in trade, and
<br/>
every planet had known his touch. But now, on
<br/>
Mercury, he was selling his guns into the
<br/>
weirdest of all his exploits—gambling his life
<br/>
against the soft touch of a woman's lips.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
On the stage of
<i>
Mercury Sam's Garden
</i>
, a tight-frocked, limber-hipped,
red-head was singing "
<i>
The Lady from Mars
</i>
." The song was a rollicking,
ribald ditty, a favorite of the planters and miners, the space pilots
and army officers who frequented the garden. The girl rendered it with
such gusto that the audience burst into a roar of applause.
</p>
<p>
She bent her head in acknowledgment so that her bronze red hair fell
down about her face. There was perspiration on her upper lip and
temples. Her crimson mouth wore a fixed smile. Her eyes were frightened.
</p>
<p>
The man, who had accompanied the singer on the piano, sat at the foot
of the stage, his back to the crowded tables. He did not look up at
the singer but kept his pale, immature face bent over the keys, while
his fingers lightly, automatically picked out the tune. Sweat trickled
down the back of his neck, plastered his white coat to his back.
Without looking up, he said: "Have you spotted him?" His voice was
pitched to reach the singer alone.
</p>
<p>
The girl, with an almost imperceptible gesture, shook her head.
</p>
<p>
The night was very hot; but then it is always hot on Mercury, the
newest, the wildest, the hottest of Earth's frontiers. Fans spaced
about the garden's walls sluggishly stirred the night air, while the
men and women sitting at the tables drank heavily of Latonka, the
pale green wine of Mercury. Only the native waiters, the enigmatic,
yellow-eyed Mercurians, seemed unaffected by the heat. They didn't
sweat at all.
</p>
<p>
Up on the stage the singer was about to begin another number when she
stiffened.
</p>
<p>
"Here he is," she said to the pianist without moving her lips.
</p>
<p>
The pianist swung around on his stool, lifted his black eyes to the
gate leading to the street.
</p>
<p>
Just within the entrance, a tall, thin man was standing. He looked like
a gaunt gray wolf loitering in the doorway. His white duraloes suit
hung faultlessly. His black hair was close-cropped, his nose thin and
aquiline. For a moment he studied the crowded garden before making his
way to a vacant table.
</p>
<p>
"Go on," said the pianist in a flat voice.
</p>
<p>
The red-head shivered. Stepping from the stage she picked her way
through the tables until she came to the one occupied by the newcomer.
</p>
<p>
"May I join you?" she asked in a low voice.
</p>
<p>
The man arose. "Of course. I was expecting you. Here, sit down." He
pulled out a chair, motioned for the waiter. The Mercurian, his yellow
incurious eyes like two round topazes, sidled up. "Bring us a bottle
of Latonka from the Veederman region, well iced." The waiter slipped
away.
</p>
<p>
"So," said the red-head; "you have come. I did not think you would be
in time." Her hands were clenched in her lap. The knuckles were white.
</p>
<p>
The man said nothing.
</p>
<p>
"I did not want to call you in, Jaro Moynahan." It was the first time
she had used his name. "You have the reputation of being unpredictable.
I don't trust you, but since...."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She stopped as the waiter placed glasses on the table and deftly poured
the pale green wine. The man, Jaro Moynahan, raised his glass.
</p>
<p>
"Here's to the revolution," he said. His low voice carried an odd,
compelling note. His eyes, light blue and amused, were pale against his
brown face.
</p>
<p>
The girl drew in her breath.
</p>
<p>
"No! Mercury is not ready for freedom. Only a handful of fanatics are
engineering the revolution. The real Mercurian patriots are against
it, but they are afraid to protest. You've got to believe me. The
revolution is scheduled to break during the Festival of the Rains. If
it does, the Terrestrials here will be massacred. The Mercurians hate
them. We haven't but a handful of troops."
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a fine duraweb
handkerchief. "I had forgotten how abominably hot it can be here."
</p>
<p>
The girl ignored the interruption. "There is one man; he is the leader,
the very soul of the revolution. The Mercurians worship him. They will
do whatever he says. Without him they would be lost. He is the rebel,
Karfial Hodes. I am to offer you ten thousand Earth notes to kill
Karfial Hodes."
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan refilled their empty glasses. He was a big man, handsome
in a gaunt fashion. Only his eyes were different. They were flat and
a trifle oblique with straight brows. The pupils were a pale and
penetrating blue that could probe like a surgeon's knife. Now he caught
the girl's eyes and held them with his own as a man spears a fish.
</p>
<p>
"Why call me all the way from Mars for that? Why not have that gunman
at the piano rub Hodes out?"
</p>
<p>
The girl started, glanced at the pianist, said with a shiver: "We can't
locate Karfial Hodes. Don't look at me that way, Jaro. You frighten me.
I'm telling the truth. We can't find him. That's why we called you.
You've got to find him, Jaro. He's stirring up all Mercury."
</p>
<p>
"Who's putting up the money?"
</p>
<p>
"I can't tell you."
</p>
<p>
"Ah," said Jaro Moynahan; "so that's the way it is."
</p>
<p>
"That's the way it is."
</p>
<p>
"There isn't much time," he said after a moment. "The Rains are due any
day now."
</p>
<p>
"No," the girl replied. "But we think he's here in the city."
</p>
<p>
"Why? What makes you think that?"
</p>
<p>
"He was seen," she began, then stopped with a gasp.
</p>
<p>
The lights had gone out.
</p>
<p>
It was as unexpected as a shot in the back. One moment the garden was
glowing in light, the next the hot black night swooped down on the
revelers, pressing against their eyes like dark wool. The fans about
the walls slowed audibly and stopped. It grew hotter, closer.
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan slipped sideways from the table. He felt something brush
his sleeve. Somewhere a girl giggled.
</p>
<p>
"What's coming off here?" growled a petulant male voice. Other voices
took up the plaint.
</p>
<p>
Across the table from Jaro there was the feel of movement; he could
sense it. An exclamation was suddenly choked off as if a hand had been
clamped over the girl's mouth.
</p>
<p>
"Red!" said Jaro in a low voice.
</p>
<p>
There was no answer.
</p>
<p>
"Red!" he repeated, louder.
</p>
<p>
Unexpectedly, the deep, ringing voice of Mercury Sam boomed out from
the stage.
</p>
<p>
"It's all right. The master fuse blew out. The lights will be on in a
moment."
</p>
<p>
On the heels of his speech the lights flashed on, driving the night
upward. The fans recommenced their monotonous whirring.
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan glanced at the table. The red-headed singer was gone. So
was the pianist.
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan sat quietly back down and poured himself another glass of
Latonka. The pale green wine had a delicate yet exhilarating taste.
It made him think of cool green grapes beaded with dew. On the hot,
teeming planet of Mercury it was as refreshing as a cold plunge.
</p>
<p>
He wondered who was putting up the ten thousand Earth notes? Who stood
to lose most in case of a revolution? The answer seemed obvious enough.
Who, but Albert Peet. Peet controlled the Latonka trade for which there
was a tremendous demand throughout the Universe.
</p>
<p>
And what had happened to the girl. Had the rebels abducted her. If
so, he suspected that they had caught a tartar. The Red Witch had the
reputation of being able to take care of herself.
</p>
<p>
He beckoned a waiter, paid his bill. As the Mercurian started to leave,
a thought struck Jaro. These yellow-eyed Mercurians could see as well
in the dark as any alley-prowling cat. For centuries they had lived
most their lives beneath ground to escape the terrible rays of the
sun. Only at night did they emerge to work their fields and ply their
trades. He peeled off a bill, put it in the waiter's hands.
</p>
<p>
"What became of the red-headed singer?"
</p>
<p>
The Mercurian glanced at the bill, then back at the Earthman. There was
no expression in his yellow eyes.
</p>
<p>
"She and the man, the queer white one who plays the piano, slipped out
the gate to the street."
</p>
<p>
Jaro shrugged, dismissed the waiter. He had not expected to get much
information from the waiter, but he was not a man to overlook any
possibility. If the girl had been abducted, only Mercurians could have
engineered it in the dark; and the Mercurians were a clannish lot.
</p>
<p>
Back on the narrow alley-like street Jaro Moynahan headed for his
hostelry. By stretching out his arms he could touch the buildings on
either side: buildings with walls four feet thick to keep out the
heat of the sun. Beneath his feet, he knew, stretched a labyrinth of
rooms and passages. Somewhere in those rat-runs was Karfial Hodes, the
revolutionist, and the girl.
</p>
<p>
At infrequent intervals green globes cut a hole in the night, casting a
faint illumination. He had just passed one of these futile street lamps
when he thought he detected a footfall behind him. It was only the
whisper of a sound, but as he passed beyond the circle of radiation, he
flattened himself in a doorway. Nothing stirred. There was no further
sound. Again he started forward, but now he was conscious of shadows
following him. They were never visible, but to his trained ears there
came stealthy, revealing noises: the brush of cloth against the baked
earth walls, the sly shuffle of a step. He ducked down a bisecting
alley, faded into a doorway. Immediately all sounds of pursuit stopped.
But as soon as he emerged he was conscious again of the followers. In
the dense, humid night, he was like a blind man trying to elude the
cat-eyed Mercurians.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Jaro Moynahan
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
In the East a sullen red glow stained the heavens like the reflection
of a fire. The Mercurian dawn was about to break. With an oath, he set
out again for his hostelry. He made no further effort to elude the
followers.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Once back in his room, Jaro Moynahan stripped off his clothes,
unbuckled a shoulder holster containing a compressed air slug gun,
stepped under the shower. His body was lean and brown as his face
and marked with innumerable scars. There were small round puckered
scars and long thin ones, and his left shoulder bore the unmistakable
brownish patch of a ray burn. Stepping out of the shower, he dried,
rebuckled on the shoulder holster, slipped into pajamas. The pajamas
were blue with wide gaudy stripes. Next he lit a cigarette and
stretching out on the bed began to contemplate his toes with singular
interest.
</p>
<p>
He had, he supposed, killed rather a lot of men. He had fought in
the deadly little wars of the Moons of Jupiter for years, then the
Universal Debacle of 3368, after that the Martian Revolution as well as
dozens of skirmishes between the Federated Venusian States. No, there
was little doubt but that he had killed quite a number of men. But this
business of hunting a man through the rat-runs beneath the city was out
of his line.
</p>
<p>
Furthermore, there was something phony about the entire set up.
The Mercurians, he knew, had been agitating for freedom for years.
Why, at this time when the Earth Congress was about to grant them
self-government, should they stage a revolution?
</p>
<p>
A loud, authoritative rapping at the door interrupted further
speculation. He swung his bare feet over the edge of the bed, stood
up and ground out his cigarette. Before he could reach the door the
rapping came again.
</p>
<p>
Throwing off the latch, he stepped back, balancing on the balls of his
feet.
</p>
<p>
"Come in," he called.
</p>
<p>
The door swung open. A heavy set man entered, shut and locked the door,
then glanced around casually. His eyes fastened on Jaro. He licked his
lips.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Moynahan, the—ah—professional soldier, I believe." His voice was
high, almost feminine. "I'm Albert Peet." He held out a fat pink hand.
</p>
<p>
Jaro said nothing. He ignored the hand, waited, poised like a cat.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet licked his lips again. "I have come, Mr. Moynahan, on a matter
of business, urgent business. I had not intended to appear in this
matter. I preferred to remain behind the scenes, but the disappearance
of Miss Mikail has—ah—forced my hand." He paused.
</p>
<p>
Jaro still said nothing. Miss Mikail must be the red-headed singer,
whom at different times he had known under a dozen different aliases.
He doubted that even she remembered her right name.
</p>
<p>
"Miss Mikail made you a proposition?" Albert Peet's voice was tight.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Jaro.
</p>
<p>
"You accepted?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, no. As it happened she was abducted before I had the chance."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet licked his lips. "But you will, surely you will. Unless
Karfial Hodes is stopped immediately there will be a bloody uprising
all over the planet during the Festival of the Rains. Earth doesn't
realize the seriousness of the situation."
</p>
<p>
"Then I was right; it is you who are putting up the ten thousand Earth
notes."
</p>
<p>
"Not entirely," said Peet uncomfortably. "There are many of us
here, Mercurians as well as Earthmen, who recognize the danger. We
have—ah—pooled our resources."
</p>
<p>
"But you stand to lose most in case of a successful revolution?"
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps. I have a large interest in the Latonka trade. It
is—ah—lucrative."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan lit a cigarette, sat down on the edge of the bed. "Why
beat about the bush," he asked with a sudden grin. "Mr. Peet, you've
gained control of the Latonka trade. Other Earthmen are in control
of the mines and the northern plantations. Together you form perhaps
the strongest combine the Universe has ever seen. You actually run
Mercury, and you've squeezed out every possible penny. Every time
self-government has come before the Earth Congress you've succeeded in
blocking it. You are, perhaps, the most cordially-hated group anywhere.
I don't wonder that you are afraid of a revolution."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Fifteen
thousand Earth notes I can offer you. But no more. That is as high as I
can go."
</p>
<p>
Jaro laughed. "How did you know Red had been kidnapped?"
</p>
<p>
"We have a very efficient information system. I had the report of Miss
Mikail's abduction fifteen minutes after the fact."
</p>
<p>
Jaro raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps then you know where she is?"
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet shook his head. "No. Karfial Hodes' men abducted her."
</p>
<p>
A second rapping at the door caused them to exchange glances. Jaro went
to the door, opened it. The pianist at the gardens was framed in the
entrance. His black eyes burned holes in his pale boyish face. His
white suit was blotched with sweat and dirt.
</p>
<p>
"They told me Mr. Peet was here," he said.
</p>
<p>
"It's for you," said Jaro over his shoulder.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet came to the door. "Hello, Stanley. I thought Hodes had you?
Where's Miss Mikail?"
</p>
<p>
"I got away. Look, Mr. Peet, I got to see you alone."
</p>
<p>
Albert Peet said, "Would you excuse me, Mr. Moynahan?" He licked his
lips. "I'll just step out into the hall a moment." He went out, drawing
the door shut after him.
</p>
<p>
Jaro lit a cigarette. He padded nervously back and forth across the
room, his bare feet making no noise. He sat down on the edge of the
bed. He got up and ground out the cigarette. He went to the door, but
did not open it. Instead, he took another turn about the room. Again he
came to a halt before the door, pressed his ear against the panel. For
a long time he listened but could distinguish no murmur of voices. With
an oath he threw open the door. The hall was empty.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph1">
II
</p>
<p>
Jaro returned to his room, stripped off his pajamas, climbed back into
his suit. He tested the slug gun. It was a flat, ugly weapon which
hurled a slug the size of a quarter. He preferred it because, though he
seldom shot to kill, it stopped a man like a well placed mule's hoof.
He adjusted the gun lightly in its holster in order that it wouldn't
stick if he were called upon to use it in a hurry. Then he went out
into the hall.
</p>
<p>
At the desk he inquired if any messages had come for him. There were
none, but the clerk had seen Mr. Peet with a young fellow take the
incline to the underground. Above the clerk's head a newsograph was
reeling off the current events almost as soon as they happened. Jaro
read:
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Earth Congress suspends negotiations on Mercurian freedom pending
investigation of rumored rebellion. Terrestrials advised to return to
Earth. Karfial Hodes, Mercurian patriot, being sought.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Jaro descended the incline to the network of burrows which served
as streets during the flaming days. Here in the basements and
sub-basements were located the shops and dram houses where the
Mercurians sat around little tables drinking silently of the pale green
Latonka. The burrows were but poorly lit, the natives preferring the
cool gloom, and Jaro had to feel his way, rubbing shoulders with the
strange, silent populace. But when he reached the Terrestrial quarter
of the city, bright radoxide lights took the place of the green globes,
and there was a sprinkling of Colonial guards among the throng.
</p>
<p>
Jaro halted before a door bearing a placard which read:
</p>
<p>
"LATONKA TRUST"
</p>
<p>
He pushed through the door into a rich carpeted reception room. At the
far end was a second door beside which sat a desk, door and desk being
railed off from the rest of the office. The door into Albert Peet's
inner sanctum was ajar. Jaro could distinguish voices; then quite
clearly he heard Albert Peet say in a high girlish tone:
</p>
<p>
"Stanley, I thought I left you in the native quarter. Why did you
follow me? How many times have I told you never to come here?"
</p>
<p>
The reply was unintelligible. Then the pale-faced young man came
through the door shutting it after himself. At the sight of Jaro
Moynahan he froze.
</p>
<p>
"What're you sneaking around here for?"
</p>
<p>
Jaro settled himself warily, his light blue eyes flicking over the
youth.
</p>
<p>
"Let's get this straight," he said mildly. "I've known your kind
before. Frankly, ever since I saw you I've had to repress a desire to
step on you as I might a spider."
</p>
<p>
The youth's black eyes were hot as coals, his fingers twitching. His
hands began to creep upward.
</p>
<p>
"You dirty ..." he began, but he got no further. Jaro Moynahan shot him
in the shoulder.
</p>
<p>
The compressed air slug gun had seemed to leap into Jaro's hand. The
big slug, smacked the gunman's shoulder with a resounding thwack,
hurled him against the wall. Jaro vaulted the rail, deftly relieved him
of two poisoned needle guns.
</p>
<p>
"I'll get you for this," said Stanley, his mouth twisted in pain.
"You've broken my shoulder. I'll kill you."
</p>
<p>
The door to the inner sanctum swung open.
</p>
<p>
"What's happened?" cried Albert Peet in distress. "What's wrong with
you, Stanley?"
</p>
<p>
"This dirty slob shot me in the shoulder."
</p>
<p>
"But how badly?" Peet was wringing his hands.
</p>
<p>
"Nothing serious," said Jaro. "He'll have his arm in a sling for a
while. That's all."
</p>
<p>
"Stanley," said Mr. Peet. "You're bleeding all over my carpet. Why
can't you go in the washroom. There's a tile floor in there. If you
hadn't disobeyed this wouldn't have happened. You and your fights. Has
anyone called a doctor? Where's Miss Webb? Miss Webb! Oh, Miss Webb!
That girl. Miss Webb!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Stanley climbed to his feet, swayed a moment drunkenly, then wobbled
out a door on the left just as a tall brunette hurried in from the
right. She had straight black hair which hung not quite to her
shoulders, and dark brown eyes, and enough of everything else to absorb
Jaro's attention.
</p>
<p>
"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Webb as she caught sight of the blood staining the
carpet.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
<i>
Joan Webb
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"There's been an—ah—accident," said Mr. Peet, and he licked his lips.
"Call a doctor, Miss Webb."
</p>
<p>
Miss Webb raised an eyebrow, went to the visoscreen. In a moment she
had tuned in the prim starched figure of a nurse seated at a desk.
</p>
<p>
"Could Dr. Baer rush right over here? There's been an accident."
</p>
<p>
"Rush over where?" said the girl in the visoscreen. "These gadgets
aren't telepathic, honey."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," said Miss Webb, "the offices of the Latonka Trust."
</p>
<p>
The girl in the visoscreen thawed like ice cream in the sun. "I'm sure
Dr. Baer can come. He'll be there in a moment."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," said Miss Webb. She flicked the machine off, then added:
"You trollop."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet regarded Jaro Moynahan with distress.
</p>
<p>
"Really, Mr. Moynahan, was it necessary to shoot Stanley? Isn't
that—ah—a little extreme? I'm afraid it might incapacitate him, and I
had a job for him."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," cried Miss Webb, her brown eyes crackling. "Did you shoot that
poor boy? Aren't you the big brave man?"
</p>
<p>
"Poor boy?" said Jaro mildly. "Venomous little rattlesnake. I took
these toys away from him." He held out the poisoned dart guns. "You
take them, Mr. Peet. Frankly, they give me the creeps. They might go
off. A scratch from one of those needles would be enough."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet accepted the guns gingerly. He held them as if they might
explode any minute. He started to put them in his pocket, thought
better of it, glanced around helplessly.
</p>
<p>
"Here, Miss Webb," he said, "do something with these. Put them in my
desk."
</p>
<p>
Miss Webb's eyes grew round as marbles. "I wouldn't touch one of those
nasty little contraptions for all the Latonka on Mercury."
</p>
<p>
"Here, I'll take them," said Stanley coming back into the room. He had
staunched the flow of blood. His face was even whiter, if possible.
Jaro eyed him coldly as with his good hand the youth dropped the dart
guns back into their holsters.
</p>
<p>
"Act like you want to use those and I'll put a slug in your head next
time."
</p>
<p>
"Now, Mr. Moynahan." Mr. Peet licked his lips nervously. "Stanley, go
into my office. The doctor will be here in a moment. Miss Webb, you may
go home. I'll have no more work for you today."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Albert Peet led Stanley through the door. Jaro and Miss Webb were
alone. With his eye on the door, Jaro said:
</p>
<p>
"When you go out, turn left toward the native quarter. Wait for me in
the first grog shop you come to."
</p>
<p>
Miss Webb raised her eyebrows. "What's this? A new technique?"
</p>
<p>
"Look," began Jaro annoyed.
</p>
<p>
"My eyes are practically popping out of my head now," she interrupted.
"Another morning like this and I take the first space liner back to
Earth." She jammed her hat on backward, snatched her bag from the desk
drawer.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not trying to pick you up. This is...."
</p>
<p>
"How disappointing."
</p>
<p>
Jaro began again patiently. "Wait for me in the first grog shop.
There's something I must know. It's important." He cleared his throat.
"Don't you find the heat rather uncomfortable, Miss Webb. But perhaps
you've become accustomed to it."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet came back into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Why, no, I mean yes," replied Miss Webb, a blank expression in her
eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Goodbye, Miss Webb," said Mr. Peet firmly.
</p>
<p>
Jaro grinned and winked at her. Miss Webb tottered out of the room.
</p>
<p>
As the door closed behind the girl, Albert Peet licked his lips, said:
"Mr. Moynahan, I suppose my disappearance back at your room requires
some explanation. But the fact is that Stanley brought an important bit
of news." He paused.
</p>
<p>
Jaro said nothing.
</p>
<p>
"You might be interested to know that Miss Mikail is quite safe.
Karfial Hodes has her, but Stanley assures me she will be quite safe."
Again he paused. As Jaro remained silent, his neck mottled up pinkly.
</p>
<p>
"The fact is, Mr. Moynahan, that we won't need you after all. I realize
that we've put you to considerable trouble and we're prepared to pay
you whatever you believe your time is worth. Say five hundred Earth
notes?"
</p>
<p>
"That's fair enough," replied Jaro.
</p>
<p>
Albert Peet sighed. "I have the check made out."
</p>
<p>
"Only," continued Jaro coldly, "I'm not ready to be bought off. I think
I'll deal myself a hand in this game."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Peet's face fell. "You won't reconsider?"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," said Jaro; "but I've got a date. I'm late now." He started to
leave.
</p>
<p>
"Stanley!" called Albert Peet.
</p>
<p>
The pale-faced young man appeared in the doorway, the dart gun in his
good hand. Jaro Moynahan dropped on his face, jerking out his slug gun
as he fell. There was a tiny plop like a cap exploding. He heard the
whisper of the poisoned dart as it passed overhead. Then he fired from
the floor. The pale-faced young man crumpled like an empty sack.
</p>
<p>
Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees.
</p>
<p>
"You've killed him," said Peet. "If I were you, Mr. Moynahan, I would
be on the next liner back to Earth."
</p>
<p>
Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Once Jaro Moynahan had regained the street, he mopped his forehead with
his handkerchief. Whatever was going on, these boys played for keeps.
Warily he started down the passage toward the native quarter. At the
first basement grog shop he turned in. His eyes swept the chamber, then
he grinned.
</p>
<p>
At a corner table, a tall glass of Latonka before her, sat Miss Webb.
Her hat was still on backwards, and she was perched on the edge of her
chair as if ready to spring up and away like a startled faun.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Bang!
</i>
" said Jaro coming up behind her and poking a long brown finger
in the small of her back.
</p>
<p>
Miss Webb uttered a shriek, jerked so violently that her hat tilted
over one eye. She regarded him balefully from beneath the brim.
</p>
<p>
"Never a dull moment," she gritted.
</p>
<p>
Still grinning, Jaro sat down. "I'm Jaro Moynahan, Miss Webb. I think
Albert Peet forgot to introduce us. There's some skullduggery going on
here that I'm particularly anxious to get to the bottom of. I thought
you might be able to help me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," replied Miss Webb sweetly.
</p>
<p>
A native waiter, attracted no doubt by her scream, came over and took
Jaro's order.
</p>
<p>
"All right," Jaro smiled, but his pale blue eyes probed the girl
thoughtfully. "I'll have to confide certain facts which might be
dangerous for you to know. Are you game, Miss Webb?"
</p>
<p>
"Since we're going to be so chummy," she replied; "you might begin by
calling me Joan. You make me feel downright ancient."
</p>
<p>
"Well then," he said. "In the first place, I just killed that
baby-faced gunman your boss had in his office."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Awk!
</i>
" said Joan, choking on the Latonka.
</p>
<p>
"It was self-defense," he hastened to assure her. "He took a pot shot
at me with that poisoned dart gun."
</p>
<p>
"But the police!" she cried, as she caught her breath.
</p>
<p>
"There'll never be an investigation. Albert Peet will see to that. I
was called here on what I supposed was a legitimate revolution. Instead
I was offered ten thousand Earth notes to assassinate the leader of the
revolution."
</p>
<p>
"What revolution? I'm going around in circles."
</p>
<p>
"The Mercurians, of course."
</p>
<p>
"I don't believe it," said the girl. "The Mercurians are the most
peaceable people in the Universe. They've been agitating for freedom,
yes. But they believe in passive resistance. I don't believe you could
induce a Mercurian to kill, even in self-protection. That's why Albert
Peet and the rest of the combine had such an easy time gaining control
of the Latonka trade."
</p>
<p>
"Score one," breathed Jaro, "I begin to see light. Miss Webb—ah,
Joan—I've a notion that we're going to be a great team. How do you
happen to be Albert Peet's private secretary?"
</p>
<p>
"A gal's gotta eat. But the truth is, I was quitting. The Latonka Trust
is almost on the rocks. Their stock has been dropping like a meteor."
</p>
<p>
Jaro Moynahan raised his oblique brows but did not interrupt.
</p>
<p>
"Albert Peet," she continued, "has been trying to sell out but nobody
will touch the stock, not since it looks as if the Earth Congress is
going to grant the Mercurians their freedom. Everybody knows that the
first thing the Mercurians will do, will be to boot out the Latonka
Trust."
</p>
<p>
"What about this Karfial Hodes?" said Jaro. "I've heard that he's
inciting the Mercurians to rebellion. The newscaster had a line about
the revolution too. The government has advised all Terrestrials to
return to Earth."
</p>
<p>
"It's not true," Joan flared. "It's all a pack of lies invented by the
Latonka Trust. I know."
</p>
<p>
"But I should think rumors like that would run down the Latonka stock."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) they're peaceful people\n(B) most want a revolution\n(C) they can handle extreme heat \n(D) they can see well in the day",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Revolutions -- Fiction; Mercury (Planet) -- Fiction; Adventure stories"
} |
61081 | Would Orison be able to go out until midnight?
Choices:
(A) No - she needed to be in her bed before then
(B) No - she works too early in the morning to be out so late
(C) Yes - she has no curfew
(D) Yes - Mr. Gerding will probably take her dancing far later | [
"A",
"No - she needed to be in her bed before then"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
CINDERELLA STORY
</h1>
<h2>
By ALLEN KIM LANG
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
<i>
What a bank! The First Vice-President
<br/>
was a cool cat—the elevator and the
<br/>
money operators all wore earmuffs—was
<br/>
just as phony as a three-dollar bill!
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
I
</p>
<p>
The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank and
Trust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applying
for a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit of
hound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of his
jacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curious
bank indeed. "I gotta say, chick, these references of yours really
swing," said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. "Your last boss says you
come on real cool in the secretary-bit."
</p>
<p>
"He was a very kind employer," Orison said. She tried to keep from
staring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair of
furry green earmuffs. It was not cold.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. "What color
bread you got eyes for taking down, baby?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"What kinda salary you bucking for?" he translated, bouncing up and
down on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.
</p>
<p>
"I was making one-twenty a week in my last position," Miss McCall said.
</p>
<p>
"You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor," Mr. Wanji said.
"What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay?" He caught
Orison's look of bewilderment. "One each, a Franklin and a Grant," he
explained further. She still looked blank. "Sister, you gonna work
in a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's a
hunnerd-fifty a week, doll."
</p>
<p>
"That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji," Orison said. It was indeed.
</p>
<p>
"Crazy!" Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it with
athletic vigor. "You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tell
you, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery around
this tomb, girlwise." He took her arm and led her toward the bank of
elevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightly
to Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formal
than Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. "Lift us to five, Mac,"
Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,
"You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floor
and floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is Iron
Curtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,
now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.
</p>
<p>
The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough to
hold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone and
a microphone. Beside them was a double-decked "In" and "Out" basket.
"Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey," Mr. Wanji said.
</p>
<p>
"What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the "In" basket.
"Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it," he said. "When you
get done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new to
read. Okay?"
</p>
<p>
"It seems a rather peculiar job," Orison said. "After all, I'm a
secretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize me
with the Bank's operation?"
</p>
<p>
"Don't bug me, kid," Mr. Wanji said. "All you gotta do is read that
there paper into this here microphone. Can do?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. "While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like to
ask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,
coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we take
care of these details now? Or would you—"
</p>
<p>
"You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seems
best to you, kid," Mr. Wanji said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank's
might explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department's
secretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,
girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the "In" basket,
unfolded it to discover the day's
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
, and began at
the top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,
nodding his head as he listened. "You blowing real good, kid," he said.
"The boss is gonna dig you the most."
</p>
<p>
Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read the
one into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, then
took off upstairs in the elevator.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By lunchtime Orison had finished the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
and had
begun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was a
fantastic novel of some sort, named
<i>
The Hobbit
</i>
. Reading this peculiar
fare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain than
ever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,
the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for a
Federal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into a
microphone for an invisible audience.
</p>
<p>
Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in the
book and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator was
a new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, coming
down from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen with
briefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, these
gentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison stepped
aboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to his
heart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgment
of their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a penny
into this curiousest of banks.
</p>
<p>
Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.
Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,
eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, and
favored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,
finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to her
lonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,
reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga of
Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on her
light coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,
silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.
</p>
<p>
What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is a
double Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William Howard
Taft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces of
the U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.
Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-President
with the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in those
upper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartment
house—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Her
boss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on Taft
Bank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.
She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.
</p>
<p>
Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day's
observations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight for
her initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,
several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:
Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemed
to be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she was
being employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint and
nonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, she
thought.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleven
o'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the results
of her first day's spying.
</p>
<p>
No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clock
was set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?
Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffs
had her phone tapped.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," a baritone voice muttered.
</p>
<p>
Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. "Beg pardon?" she
said.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," the male voice repeated. "One, two, three; three, two, one.
Do you read me? Over."
</p>
<p>
Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,
she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.
</p>
<p>
The room was empty.
</p>
<p>
"Testing," the voice repeated.
</p>
<p>
"What you're testing," Orison said in a firm voice, "is my patience.
Who are you?"
</p>
<p>
"Department of Treasury Monitor J-12," the male voice said. "Do you
have anything to report, Miss McCall?"
</p>
<p>
"Where are you, Monitor?" she demanded.
</p>
<p>
"That's classified information," the voice said. "Please speak directly
to your pillow, Miss McCall."
</p>
<p>
Orison lay down cautiously. "All right," she whispered to her pillow.
</p>
<p>
"Over here," the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillow
beside her.
</p>
<p>
Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. "A radio?" she
asked.
</p>
<p>
"Of a sort," Monitor J-12 agreed. "We have to maintain communications
security. Have you anything to report?"
</p>
<p>
"I got the job," Orison said. "Are you ... in that pillow ... all the
time?"
</p>
<p>
"No, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Only at report times. Shall we
establish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,
every day?"
</p>
<p>
"You make it sound so improper," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall," the monitor said.
"Now, tell me what happened at the bank today."
</p>
<p>
Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to a
microphone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard Taft
National Bank and Trust Company. "That's about it, so far," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Good report," J-12 said from the pillow. "Sounds like you've dropped
into a real snakepit, beautiful."
</p>
<p>
"How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
"Native optimism," the voice said. "Good night." J-12 signed off with
a peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then she
placed the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.
</p>
<p>
Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolved
to write Washington for permission to make her future reports by
registered mail.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
II
</p>
<p>
At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
, Orison was interrupted by the click of a pair
of leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed together
was bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was not
wearing earmuffs. "My name," the stranger said, "is Dink Gerding. I am
President of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to our
little family."
</p>
<p>
"I'm Orison McCall," she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?
So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?
Maybe higher heels?
</p>
<p>
"We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall," Dink Gerding said. He took
the chair to the right of her desk.
</p>
<p>
"It's nothing," Orison said, switching off the microphone.
</p>
<p>
"On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing any
reasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be reading silently before long," Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,
as though this explained everything. "By the way, your official
designation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you're
to keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down here
and dictate it?"
</p>
<p>
"Please do," Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace and
presence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall?" Mr. Gerding
asked, as though following her train of thought.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir," she said. "Though I've been associated with a rather large
financial organization."
</p>
<p>
"You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get used
to them," he said. "Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispense
with calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoy
your using it."
</p>
<p>
"Dink?" she asked. "And I suppose you're to call me Orison?"
</p>
<p>
"That's the drill," he said. "One more question, Orison. Dinner this
evening?"
</p>
<p>
Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, and
still so young. "We've hardly met," she said.
</p>
<p>
"But we're on a first-name basis already," he pointed out. "Dance?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd love to," Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,
playing, from the elevator.
</p>
<p>
"Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember your
personnel form correctly." He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,
and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.
Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with a
curtsy? Orison wondered.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," she said.
</p>
<p>
He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shoulders
stayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,
to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,
saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (but
not their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.
Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Orison finished the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
by early afternoon. A
page came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy of
yesterday's
<i>
Congressional Record
</i>
. She launched into the
<i>
Record
</i>
,
thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsome
madman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. "You read
so
<i>
well
</i>
, darling," someone said across the desk.
</p>
<p>
Orison looked up. "Oh, hello," she said. "I didn't hear you come up."
</p>
<p>
"I walk ever so lightly," the woman said, standing hip-shot in front
of the desk, "and pounce ever so hard." She smiled. Opulent, Orison
thought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't like
her. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.
</p>
<p>
"I'm Orison McCall," she said, and tried to smile back without showing
teeth.
</p>
<p>
"Delighted," the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. "I'm
Auga Vingt. Auga, to my friends."
</p>
<p>
"Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?"
</p>
<p>
"So kind of you, darling," Auga Vingt said, "but I shan't have time to
visit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.
One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"Common courtesy," Miss Vingt explained. "Also, darling, I'd like to
draw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, the
shoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Should
you throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your little
eyes scratched out. Word to the wise,
<i>
n'est-ce pas
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry you have to leave so suddenly," Orison said, rolling her
<i>
Wall
Street Journal
</i>
into a club and standing. "Darling."
</p>
<p>
"So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.
You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts of
annoyance. Understand me, darling?"
</p>
<p>
"You make it very clear," Orison said. "Now you'd best hurry back to
your stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone."
</p>
<p>
"Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding right
off?" Auga asked. "Well, ta-ta." She turned and walked to the elevator,
displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumba
motion.
</p>
<p>
The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,
stepped off. "Good morning, Mr. Gerding," Miss Vingt said, bowing.
</p>
<p>
"Carry on, Colonel," the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,
he stepped up to Orison's desk. "Good morning. Miss McCall," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What is this?" Orison demanded. "Visiting-day at the zoo?" She paused
and shook her head. "Excuse me, sir," she said. "It's just that ...
Vingt thing...."
</p>
<p>
"Auga is rather intense," the new Mr. Gerding said.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, intense," Orison said. "Like a kidney-stone."
</p>
<p>
"I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bank
and Trust Company family, Miss McCall," he said. "I'm Kraft Gerding,
Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was cropped
even closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patch
of frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. The
head, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill's
spike-topped
<i>
Pickelhauben
</i>
; but the ears were in evidence, and seemed
normal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankers
had!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-up
paper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache and
said, "I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,
Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixing
business with pleasure."
</p>
<p>
Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. "I quit!" she
shouted. "You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all I
care. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot in
finance, and listen to another word."
</p>
<p>
"Dearest lady, my humblest pardon," Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,
a bit lower. "Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's most
charming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,
dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word to
the wise...."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
N'est-ce pas?
</i>
" Orison said. "Well, Buster, here's a word to the
foolish. Get lost."
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. "Until we meet again?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll hold my breath," Orison promised. "The elevator is just behind
you. Push a button, will you? And
<i>
bon voyage
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison with
a cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights above
fifth floor.
</p>
<p>
First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.
Surely, Orison thought, recovering the
<i>
Wall Street Journal
</i>
from her
wastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwestern
bank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behavior
of the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, she
thought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banks
and all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If she
finished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limits
upper floors.
</p>
<p>
Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by the
sudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. "
<i>
Wanji e-Kal, Datto.
Dink ger-Dink d'summa.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg before
replying, "I'm a local girl. Try me in English."
</p>
<p>
"Oh. Hi, Miss McCall," the voice said. "Guess I goofed. I'm in kinda
clutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you see
him, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding." Orison clicked the phone down.
What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious language
Mr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington by
tonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzle
it out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,
she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs could
only fire her.
</p>
<p>
Orison folded the paper and put it in the "Out" basket. Someone would
be here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.
The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep her
off the upstairs floors.
</p>
<p>
But the building had a stairway.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
III
</p>
<p>
The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs to
seven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, and
the landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. There
was a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within the
fringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.
</p>
<p>
She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.
</p>
<p>
Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The room
extended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,
its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor were
galvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.
Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundred
and eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together by
strands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating with
pink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was half
full of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a moment
Orison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from the
liquid. Then she screamed.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light from
the spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millions
upon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,
leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orison
put her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward the
stairway door.
</p>
<p>
Into a pair of arms.
</p>
<p>
"I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall," Kraft Gerding said.
Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to have
her wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elder
Gerding. "It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders," he
said. "Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Were
we to toss you into one of these tanks...." Orison struggled against
her two
<i>
sumo
</i>
-sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers by
some quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from the
floor. "... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and darted
all around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Of
course, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton of
calcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted within
minutes."
</p>
<p>
"Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire," one of
the earmuffed
<i>
sumo
</i>
-wrestlers protested.
</p>
<p>
"Elder Compassion has no rank," Kraft Gerding said. "Miss McCall, you
must tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders."
</p>
<p>
"Dink ... Dink!" Orison shouted.
</p>
<p>
"My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue of
damsels in distress," Kraft said. "Someone, after all, has to mind the
bank."
</p>
<p>
"I came to bring a message to Dink," Orison said. "Let me go, you
acromegalic apes!"
</p>
<p>
"The message?" Kraft Gerding demanded.
</p>
<p>
"Something about escudo green. Put me down!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor as
though struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, their
faces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly lowering
himself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Without
questions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his arms
around Orison.
</p>
<p>
"They can't harm you," he said. She turned to press her face against
his chest. "You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turn
your brain back on. All right, now?"
</p>
<p>
"All right," she said, still trembling. "They were going to throw me to
the spiders."
</p>
<p>
"Kraft told you that?" Dink Gerding released her and turned to the
kneeling man. "Stand up, Elder Brother."
</p>
<p>
"I...."
</p>
<p>
Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft's
jaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt to
recover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank."
Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dink
through half-closed eyes. "No? Then get out of here, all of you.
<i>
Samma!
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, with
the merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison," Dink said. "Why did you do
it?"
</p>
<p>
"Have you read the story of Bluebeard?" Orison asked. She stood close
to Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. "I had to see
what it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I was
forbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking for
you, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell you
that the escudo green is pale."
</p>
<p>
"You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless," Dink said. "Now, what
is this thing you have about spiders?"
</p>
<p>
"I've always been terrified of them," Orison said. "When I was a little
girl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was a
spider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad came
home and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetite
for supper."
</p>
<p>
"Strange," Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and plucked
one of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. "This is no spider,
Orison," he said.
</p>
<p>
She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cupped
in the palm of his hand. "These are Microfabridae, more nearly related
to shellfish than to spiders," he said. "They're stone-and-metal
eaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison." He
extended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,
flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling around
the bowl of his hand. "Pretty little fellow, isn't he?" Dink asked.
"Here. You hold him."
</p>
<p>
"I'd rather not," she protested.
</p>
<p>
"I'd be happier if you did," Dink said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed the
Microfabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, like
a legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket and
unfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.
</p>
<p>
"He's like a baby crawdad," Orison said.
</p>
<p>
"A sort of crustacean," Dink agreed. "We use them in a commercial
process we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off and
secret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see."
</p>
<p>
"What do they do?" Orison asked.
</p>
<p>
"That's still a secret," Dink said, smiling. "I can't tell even you
that, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary."
</p>
<p>
"What's he doing now?" Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,
perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratching
against her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.
</p>
<p>
"They like gold," Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,
comfortably close. "They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, as
children are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.
We'd better get you down where you belong."
</p>
<p>
Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearest
tank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.
It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. "Strange,
using crawdads in a bank," she said. She stood silent for a moment. "I
thought I heard music," she said. "I heard it when I came in. Something
like the sighing of wind in winter trees."
</p>
<p>
"That's the hymn of the Microfabridae," Dink said. "They all sing
together while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices." He
took her arm. "If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song these
little workers sing the most beautiful music in the world."
</p>
<p>
Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening to
the music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,
storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peace
and harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crash
of breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, the
quiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.
"It's an ancient song," Dink said. "The Microfabridae have been
singing it for a million years." He released her, and opened a
wood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.
"Hold out your hands," he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.
"Throw our singers some supper for their song," he said.
</p>
<p>
Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the
mineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from the
liquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.
"They're so very strange," Orison said. At the bottom of the tank she
thought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubbling
life. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) No - she needed to be in her bed before then\n(B) No - she works too early in the morning to be out so late\n(C) Yes - she has no curfew\n(D) Yes - Mr. Gerding will probably take her dancing far later",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Banks and banking -- Fiction"
} |
61052 | In the beginning, how does the author try to make you feel about this world?
Choices:
(A) skeptical but optimistic
(B) curious and interested
(C) like it's uninhabited and scary
(D) like it's a place unworthy of going to | [
"D",
"like it's a place unworthy of going to"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Spawning Ground
</h1>
<h2>
By LESTER DEL REY
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
They weren't human. They were something
<br/>
more—and something less—they were,
<br/>
in short, humanity's hopes for survival!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Starship
<i>
Pandora
</i>
creaked and groaned as her landing pads settled
unevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed to
be restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years from
the waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoed
through her hallways.
</p>
<p>
Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He was
a big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibility
had pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under his
reddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonies
were rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward the
control room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.
</p>
<p>
Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as he
moved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. "Morning, Bob. You
need a shave."
</p>
<p>
"Yeah." He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran a
hand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. "Anything new
during the night?"
</p>
<p>
"About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little ways
north of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into the
clouds." The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobody
knew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to have
an almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. "And
our two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost them
in the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmen
in the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for training
as cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman and
Pinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.
</p>
<p>
Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn't
seemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorous
and harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite of
their internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs each
on their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.
</p>
<p>
But
<i>
something
</i>
had happened to the exploration party fifteen years
back, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to check
up.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sun
must be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds that
wrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,
it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls of
fog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forest
glowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feeding
animals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even the
deep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship was
completely hidden by the fog.
</p>
<p>
There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animals
now, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,
trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....
</p>
<p>
But there was no time.
</p>
<p>
Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load of
deep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any sign
of Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayed
already. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happened
to the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have to
report back.
</p>
<p>
He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enough
of the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air by
luck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectors
originally.
</p>
<p>
"Bob!" Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. "Bob, there are
the kids!"
</p>
<p>
Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caught
his eye.
</p>
<p>
The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantastic
speed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something that
moved there.
</p>
<p>
He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, just
beyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.
</p>
<p>
Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.
Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, but
Gwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.
</p>
<p>
They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.
Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.
</p>
<p>
Then the mists cleared.
</p>
<p>
Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.
Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almost
eight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuited
cadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was a
momentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning the
others forward.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Get the jeeps out!" Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door of
the little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It was
agonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the door
back at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around in
confusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. The
jeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, and
Gwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.
</p>
<p>
There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet was
irritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped to
the seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, the
jeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it picked
up speed. The other two followed.
</p>
<p>
There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;
surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things looked
horrible in a travesty of manhood.
</p>
<p>
The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that were
racing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swung
about, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twenty
miles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, in
spite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures dived
downward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.
</p>
<p>
"Follow the blobs," Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool to
leave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with the
kids. But it was too late to go back.
</p>
<p>
The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward into
a gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but he
had to slow as the fog thickened lower down.
</p>
<p>
Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their own
trail to confuse the pursuers.
</p>
<p>
There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had a
glimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarse
faces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against the
windshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul the
steering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.
</p>
<p>
The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. The
other jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too late
to help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry or
the horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.
</p>
<p>
A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.
</p>
<p>
He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creature
seemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.
</p>
<p>
Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forward
against the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-foot
leader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on each
shoulder.
</p>
<p>
The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creature
leaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, diving
for the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distorted
shoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as his
hands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in his
nose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds after
the captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavy
sound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made no
further move, though it was still breathing.
</p>
<p>
Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelli
was either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free to
kick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loaded
onto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monster
on another before heading back.
</p>
<p>
"No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute!" Barker shook
his own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.
</p>
<p>
"I hope so," Gwayne told him. "I want that thing to live—and you're
detailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make sign
language or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessy
and why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be the
answer."
</p>
<p>
Barker nodded grimly. "I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alien
metabolism." He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spat
sickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. "Bob, it still
makes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there was
no sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some."
</p>
<p>
"Troglodytes, maybe," Gwayne guessed. "Anyhow, send for me when you get
anything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstaying
our time here already."
</p>
<p>
The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd been
picked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they were
busy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soon
as he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and less
informative with retelling.
</p>
<p>
If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might save
time and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. That
was almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemed
to be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group had
been overcome by the aliens.
</p>
<p>
It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could the
primitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was its
fuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who told
these creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by a
little more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the ship
cunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.
</p>
<p>
Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to find
something—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could make
remotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weapons
into a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed to
prevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had found
a drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent life
there to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.
</p>
<p>
But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System had
finally proved that the sun was going to go nova.
</p>
<p>
It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it would
render the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,
man had to colonize.
</p>
<p>
And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. The
explorers went out in desperation to find what they could; the
terraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starships
began filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conserve
space.
</p>
<p>
Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth and
four more months back.
</p>
<p>
In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on the
footholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe some
of the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe none
would be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each was
precious as a haven for the race.
</p>
<p>
If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as
it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.
</p>
<p>
Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to
strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.
</p>
<p>
But how could primitives do what these must have done?
</p>
<p>
He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of
cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully
laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human
hand had been able to do for centuries.
</p>
<p>
"Beautiful primitive work," he muttered.
</p>
<p>
Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. "You can
see a lot more of it out there," she suggested.
</p>
<p>
He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were
squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.
They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?
For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the
ship to them?
</p>
<p>
Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. "How's the captive coming?"
</p>
<p>
Barker's voice sounded odd.
</p>
<p>
"Physically fine. You can see him. But—"
</p>
<p>
Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He swore
at Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for not
checking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.
</p>
<p>
There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growling
sound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barker
seemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.
</p>
<p>
The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. The
thick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to make
some kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned up
unerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.
</p>
<p>
"Haarroo, Cabbaan!" the thing said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?"
Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face was
taut with strain.
</p>
<p>
The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair on
its head. It was the golden comet of a captain.
</p>
<p>
"He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them," Barker cut in
quickly. "I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk very
well. Says they've had to change the language around to make the sounds
fit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But it
gets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seize
on the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a little
English, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.
</p>
<p>
"How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldest
kid's dog have? How many were brown?"
</p>
<p>
The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and the
curiously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipment
spread out.
</p>
<p>
Three. Seven. Zero.
</p>
<p>
The answers were right.
</p>
<p>
By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand the
twisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took a
long time telling.
</p>
<p>
When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes in
silence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. "Is it
possible, Doc?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. "No. Not
by what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues under
the microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe about
their kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't be
a hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change the
germ plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybe
the fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims."
</p>
<p>
Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs dropped
down to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd of
monsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost as
tall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.
</p>
<p>
The kids of the exploring party....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,
set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgle
as the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto the
ground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to the
ship again.
</p>
<p>
He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd had
time to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,
however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting off
giving the gist of it to Jane.
</p>
<p>
"It was the blobs," he summarized it. "They seem to be amused by men.
They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessy
doesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,
all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.
</p>
<p>
"And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside the
hull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earth
food would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeper
this time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colony
where three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll never
know."
</p>
<p>
Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eight
years—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earth
tools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.
Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the new
eyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.
</p>
<p>
She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what must
now be her home. Then she sighed. "You'll need practice, but the others
don't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'll
believe it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really been
changed yet, have we?"
</p>
<p>
"No," he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. "No.
They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back."
</p>
<p>
She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was only
puzzlement in her face. "Why?"
</p>
<p>
And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her the
same answer he had found for himself. "The spawning ground!"
</p>
<p>
It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant her
seed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preserve
that seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already were
becoming uncertain.
</p>
<p>
Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead of
men having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strange
children of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek back
to civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhaps
some of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the next
rise to culture a better one.
</p>
<p>
"We're needed here," he told her, his voice pleading for the
understanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. "These people need
as rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.
The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them with
a decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe or
accept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here."
</p>
<p>
She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. "Be
fruitful," she whispered. "Be fruitful and spawn and replenish an
earth."
</p>
<p>
"No," he told her. "Replenish the stars."
</p>
<p>
But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.
</p>
<p>
Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanes
again, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, they
could adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead them
through all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyond
numbering.
</p>
<p>
Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for the
children of men!
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) skeptical but optimistic\n(B) curious and interested\n(C) like it's uninhabited and scary\n(D) like it's a place unworthy of going to",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Space colonies -- Fiction; Short stories; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Outer space -- Exploration -- Fiction"
} |
63890 | Which “Joe” faces the brunt of Colonel Walsh’s racism?
Choices:
(A) Bartender Joe
(B) Trader Joe
(C) Military Joe
(D) Jungle Guide Joe
| [
"D",
"Jungle Guide Joe\n"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
A PLANET NAMED JOE
</h1>
<h2>
By S. A. LOMBINO
</h2>
<p>
<i>
There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake
<br/>
a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel
<br/>
Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major
<br/>
Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories
<br/>
November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
<br/>
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since
we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.
</p>
<p>
For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.
He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as
I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At
least, that's what he told me.
</p>
<p>
I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were
somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in
Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of
it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and
then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get
by with gravy.
</p>
<p>
"It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over
his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," I said.
</p>
<p>
"It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native."
</p>
<p>
I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on
the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his
fingers.
</p>
<p>
"The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then
added, "For a native, that is."
</p>
<p>
I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the
way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.
Which brought to mind an important point.
</p>
<p>
"I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. I
thought our activities were confined to Mars."
</p>
<p>
He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his desk
as if he were waiting for me to cut.
</p>
<p>
"Mmmm," he said, "yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It so
happens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand just
what's happening on Mars."
</p>
<p>
I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get very
far.
</p>
<p>
"He's had many dealings with the natives there," Walsh explained. "If
anyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can."
</p>
<p>
If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could give
them to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he called
it "revolt." It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost at
least a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.
</p>
<p>
"And this man is on Venus now?" I asked for confirmation. I'd never
been to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. It
was just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Major," he said. "This man is on Venus."
</p>
<p>
At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reported
him for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uranium
that could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.
He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing by
reporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists in
any military organization, he outranked me.
</p>
<p>
"And the man's name, sir?"
</p>
<p>
"Joe." A tight smile played on his face.
</p>
<p>
"Joe what?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Just Joe."
</p>
<p>
"Just Joe?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Walsh said. "A native, you know. They rarely go in for more than
first names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name
like Joe. Among the natives, I mean."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know, sir."
</p>
<p>
"A relatively simple assignment," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
"Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?
Personal habits? Anything?"
</p>
<p>
Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. "Well, physically he's like
any of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. He
does have a peculiar habit, though."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
I sighed. "Well, it's not very much to go on."
</p>
<p>
"You'll find him," Walsh said, grinning. "I'm sure of it."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking on
that trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thought
about Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling that
revolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd started
pushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as if
the whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he took
over. Swell guy, Walsh.
</p>
<p>
Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunic
I was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Like
a mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhere
I looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'd
never seen before, and some as bare as cactus.
</p>
<p>
I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told me
about. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything about
him was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to have
been stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back to
normal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.
</p>
<p>
I wondered if he spoke English. "Hey, boy," I called.
</p>
<p>
He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distance
between us in seconds.
</p>
<p>
"Call me Joe," he said.
</p>
<p>
I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this
<i>
was
</i>
going to be a
simple assignment after all. "I sure am glad to see you, Joe," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Same here, Toots," he answered.
</p>
<p>
"The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you," I told
him.
</p>
<p>
"You've got the wrong number," he said, and I was a little surprised at
his use of Terran idiom.
</p>
<p>
"You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm Joe, all right," he said. "Only thing I ever traded, though, was a
pocketknife. Got a set of keys for it."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and began
wondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was looking
for. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediately
upon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked him
anyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for a
drink first.
</p>
<p>
"Where's the Officer's Club?" I asked the Venusian.
</p>
<p>
"Are you buying information or are you just curious?"
</p>
<p>
"Can you take me there?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Sure thing, Toots." He picked up my bags and started walking up a
heavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes when
he dropped my bags and said, "There it is."
</p>
<p>
The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields that
protected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortable
but I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slipped
the native thirty solars.
</p>
<p>
He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. "Oh
well, you're new here. We'll let it go."
</p>
<p>
He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'd
meant. Had I tipped him too little?
</p>
<p>
I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside it
looked as hot as hell.
</p>
<p>
On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began to
curse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart game
and a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.
</p>
<p>
I walked over and asked, "What are you serving, pal?"
</p>
<p>
"Call me Joe," he answered.
</p>
<p>
He caught me off balance. "What?"
</p>
<p>
"Joe," he said again.
</p>
<p>
A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.
"You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all about
Mars, would you?"
</p>
<p>
"I never left home," he said simply. "What are you drinking?"
</p>
<p>
That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....
</p>
<p>
<i>
But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like
</i>
Joe.
<i>
Among the natives, I mean.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, most
contemptible....
</p>
<p>
"What are you drinking, pal?" the Venusian asked again.
</p>
<p>
"Skip it," I said. "How do I get to the captain's shack?"
</p>
<p>
"Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it."
</p>
<p>
I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved at
the bartender.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, Joe," he said. "How's it going?"
</p>
<p>
"Not so hot, Joe," the bartender replied.
</p>
<p>
I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of a
great gag. Very funny. Very....
</p>
<p>
"You Major Polk, sweetheart?" the Venusian who'd just come in asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.
</p>
<p>
"You better get your butt over to the captain's shack," he said. "He's
about ready to post you as overdue."
</p>
<p>
"Sure," I said wearily. "Will you take my bags, please?"
</p>
<p>
"Roger," he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.
</p>
<p>
"So long, Joe," he said to the bartender.
</p>
<p>
"See you, Joe," the bartender called back.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearing
a tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he did
an officer.
</p>
<p>
"Have a seat, Major," he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on the
desk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw it
was empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door popped
open. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" the Venusian asked.
</p>
<p>
"We're out of cigarettes, Joe," the Captain said. "Will you get us
some, please?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure thing," the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed the
door behind him.
</p>
<p>
<i>
Another Joe
</i>
, I thought.
<i>
Another damned Joe.
</i>
</p>
<p>
"They steal them," Captain Bransten said abruptly.
</p>
<p>
"Steal what?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few things
they like about Terran culture."
</p>
<p>
So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.
<i>
He does have a peculiar
habit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.
</i>
Cigarettes
was the tip I should have given; not solars.
</p>
<p>
"All right," I said, "suppose we start at the beginning."
</p>
<p>
Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. "Sir?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name but
I think its popularity here is a little outstanding."
</p>
<p>
Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think it
was so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze and
waited for his explanation.
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Is there a local hero named Joe?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No, no, nothing like that," he assured me. "It's a simple culture, you
know. Not nearly as developed as Mars."
</p>
<p>
"I can see that," I said bitingly.
</p>
<p>
"And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.
Lots of enlisted men, you know."
</p>
<p>
I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtful
ancestry more keenly.
</p>
<p>
"It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,"
Bransten was saying.
</p>
<p>
I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walsh
sitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.
</p>
<p>
"Get to the point, Captain!" I barked.
</p>
<p>
"Easy, sir," Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captain
wasn't used to entertaining Majors. "The enlisted men. You know how
they are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call him
Joe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd you
like to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?"
</p>
<p>
"I follow, all right," I said bitterly.
</p>
<p>
"Well," Bransten went on, "that sort of thing mushrooms. The natives
are a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joe
business, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and the
cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he were
personally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as if
he were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the first
place.
</p>
<p>
"Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all."
</p>
<p>
Just a case of extended
<i>
idiot
</i>
, I thought. An idiot on a wild goose
chase a hell of a long way from home.
</p>
<p>
"I understand perfectly," I snapped. "Where are my quarters?"
</p>
<p>
Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, reminding
me that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the first
Venusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.
</p>
<p>
I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a carton
stuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropical
tunic.
</p>
<p>
I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sort
of thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when I
twinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.
</p>
<p>
Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fat
pussy cat.
</p>
<p>
"What is it, Major?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"This man Joe," I said. "Can you give me any more on him?"
</p>
<p>
Walsh's grin grew wider. "Why, Major," he said, "you're not having any
difficulties, are you?"
</p>
<p>
"None at all," I snapped back. "I just thought I'd be able to find him
a lot sooner if...."
</p>
<p>
"Take your time, Major," Walsh beamed. "There's no rush at all."
</p>
<p>
"I thought...."
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure you can do the job," Walsh cut in. "I wouldn't have sent you
otherwise."
</p>
<p>
Hell, I was through kidding around. "Look...."
</p>
<p>
"He's somewhere in the jungle, you know," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against those
big white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched the
surprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of miles
away.
</p>
<p>
He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up on
him.
</p>
<p>
"Polk!" he shouted, "can you hear me?"
</p>
<p>
I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screen
on my end went blank, too.
</p>
<p>
<i>
He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.
</i>
</p>
<p>
I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to my
quarters.
</p>
<p>
As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.
</p>
<p>
One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hopping
the next ship back to Earth.
</p>
<p>
It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.
It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of the
Service altogether.
</p>
<p>
Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in that
jungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, a
trader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, of
course, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I might
really find a guy who was trader Joe.
</p>
<p>
I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, and
besides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in his
life. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If there
was I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.
</p>
<p>
I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.
</p>
<p>
A tall Venusian stepped into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Joe?" I asked, just to be sure.
</p>
<p>
"Who else, boss?" he answered.
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying to locate someone," I said. "I'll need a guide to take me
into the jungle. Can you get me one?"
</p>
<p>
"It'll cost you, boss," the Venusian said.
</p>
<p>
"How much?"
</p>
<p>
"Two cartons of cigarettes at least."
</p>
<p>
"Who's the guide?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"How's the price sound?"
</p>
<p>
"Fine, fine," I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they were
almost a childish people!
</p>
<p>
"His name is Joe," the Venusian told me. "Best damn guide on the
planet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.
Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to...."
</p>
<p>
"Skip it," I said, cutting the promotion short. "Tell him to show up
around fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need."
</p>
<p>
The Venusian started to leave.
</p>
<p>
"And Joe," I said, stopping him at the door, "I hope you're not
overlooking your commission on the deal."
</p>
<p>
His face broke into a wide grin. "No danger of that, boss," he said.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'd
just have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe on
a planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but the
Captain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid of
me. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemed
like a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for something
that had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd be
back again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all set
for me.
</p>
<p>
Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.
</p>
<p>
The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to consider
it seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failing
at the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that a
few more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career with
Space II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsaken
place like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.
But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next in
command. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and I
could understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.
</p>
<p>
I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his good
points against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. A
guy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton of
uranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,
would deliberately do just about anything.
</p>
<p>
Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe may
have been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than a
gag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.
</p>
<p>
The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,
elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.
</p>
<p>
"I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Are you familiar with the jungle?" I asked him.
</p>
<p>
"Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand."
</p>
<p>
"Has Joe told you what the payment will be?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.
</p>
<p>
"When can we leave?"
</p>
<p>
"Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list of
supplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wear
light clothing, boots, and a hat."
</p>
<p>
"Will I need a weapon?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. "Why, what for, sir?"
</p>
<p>
"Never mind," I said. "What's your name, by the way?"
</p>
<p>
He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He was
definitely surprised.
</p>
<p>
"Joe," he said. "Didn't you know?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested the
boots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and it
would have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by the
high boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.
</p>
<p>
Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to be
enjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secret
pleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn't
see three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,
his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.
Then he'd say, "This way," and take off into what looked like more
impenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directly
to another village.
</p>
<p>
Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of their
huts, tall and blue, shouting, "Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes?" It took
me a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.
</p>
<p>
Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round of
stinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor had
I any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty low
about the whole affair.
</p>
<p>
Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In each
village he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swapped
gossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbye
to all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.
</p>
<p>
His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thing
that would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. He
would talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.
</p>
<p>
"I like Venus," he said once. "I would never leave it."
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever been to Earth?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No," Joe replied. "I like Terrans too, you understand. They are good
for Venus. And they are fun."
</p>
<p>
"Fun?" I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: species
Leonard Walsh.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, yes," he said wholeheartedly. "They joke and they laugh and ...
well, you know."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose so," I admitted.
</p>
<p>
Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,
that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had been
just my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer and
employee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmosphere
began to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, about
the people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigid
tests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, nodding
sympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.
</p>
<p>
And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitely
friendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up our
grinding pace to find what we were looking for.
</p>
<p>
Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the matted
greenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knife
gleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangled
vines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicing
through them like strips of silk.
</p>
<p>
"How far are we from the Station?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Three or four Earth weeks," he replied.
</p>
<p>
I sighed wearily. "Where do we go from here?"
</p>
<p>
"There are more villages," he said.
</p>
<p>
"We'll never find him."
</p>
<p>
"Possibly," Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.
</p>
<p>
"A wild goose chase. A fool's errand."
</p>
<p>
"We'd better get started," Joe said simply.
</p>
<p>
I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, a
brilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the same
feeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of my
friends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at my
own house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joe
reminded me of that friend.
</p>
<p>
"There's a village ahead," he said, and the grin on his face was large
now, his eyes shining.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing out
to greet us. No cries of "Cigarettes? Cigarettes?" I caught up with Joe.
</p>
<p>
"What's the story?" I whispered.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.
</p>
<p>
And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays of
the sun like a great silver bullet.
</p>
<p>
"What...?" I started.
</p>
<p>
"It's all right," Joe said, smiling.
</p>
<p>
The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II near
the nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walsh
standing near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, Major," he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't look
cheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.
</p>
<p>
"Fancy meeting you here, Colonel," I said, trying to match his
joviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.
</p>
<p>
Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over with
happiness.
</p>
<p>
"I see you found your man," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me he
was getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.
</p>
<p>
I faced Walsh again. "Okay, what's it all about, pal?"
</p>
<p>
"Colonel," Walsh corrected me. "You mustn't forget to say Colonel,
<i>
Major
</i>
." He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthless
finality.
</p>
<p>
I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'd
been. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walsh
pointing the stun gun at my middle.
</p>
<p>
"We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?"
</p>
<p>
"If you mean in miles," I said, looking around at the plants, "we sure
have."
</p>
<p>
Walsh grinned a little. "Always the wit," he said drily. And then the
smile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. "I'm
going to kill you, you know." He said it as if he were saying, "I think
it'll rain tomorrow."
</p>
<p>
Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoying
this. Another of those funny Terran games.
</p>
<p>
"You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome," Walsh said. "I suppose I
should thank you, really."
</p>
<p>
"You're welcome," I said.
</p>
<p>
"It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me."
</p>
<p>
"It was your own damn fault," I said. "You knew what you were doing
when you decided to cork off."
</p>
<p>
Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.
</p>
<p>
"You didn't have to report me," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
"No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should have
nudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it again
sometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!"
</p>
<p>
Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barely
audible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on this
little spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,
unimportant drama.
</p>
<p>
I could hear Joe breathing beside me.
</p>
<p>
"I'm on my way out," Walsh rasped. "Finished, do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
"Good," I said. And I meant it.
</p>
<p>
"This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible."
</p>
<p>
Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn't
understand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to the
game, the fun?
</p>
<p>
"You brought the Mars business on yourself," I told Walsh. "There was
never any trouble before you took command."
</p>
<p>
"The natives," he practically shouted. "They ... they...."
</p>
<p>
Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going to
say about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.
Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.
</p>
<p>
"What about the natives?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Nothing," Walsh said. "Nothing." He was silent for a while.
</p>
<p>
"A man of my calibre," he said then, his face grim. "Dealing with
savages." He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.
The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at the
colonel in puzzlement.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Bartender Joe \n\n(B) Trader Joe \n\n(C) Military Joe\n\n(D) Jungle Guide Joe\n",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; PS; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction"
} |
60515 | How does the meaning of the engraved ring change throughout the story?
Choices:
(A) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists
past death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love can bleed into death.
(B) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists
past death, becoming a haunting symbol what can happen when love isn’t returned home.
(C) At first it is a declaration of everlasting marriage, but soon shows that its pledge even exists in war, becoming a symbol of how love can survive death and overcome all trials.
(D) At first it is a declaration of commitment, but soon shows that its pledge exists in death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love doesn’t last forever.
| [
"D",
"At first it is a declaration of commitment, but soon shows that its pledge exists in death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love doesn’t last forever. \n\n"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
HOMECOMING
</h1>
<h2>
BY MIGUEL HIDALGO
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
<i>
What lasts forever? Does love?
<br/>
Does death?... Nothing lasts
<br/>
forever.... Not even forever
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1958.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The large horse plodded slowly over the shifting sand.
</p>
<p>
The rider was of medium size, with huge, strong hands and seemingly
hollow eyes. Strange eyes, alive and aflame. They had no place in
the dust-caked, tired body, yet there they were, seeking, always
seeking—searching the clear horizon, and never seeming to find what
they sought.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The horse moved faster now. They were nearing a river; the water would
be welcome on tired bodies and dry throats. He spurred his horse,
and when they reached the water's edge, he dismounted and unsaddled
the horse. Then both man and horse plunged headlong into the waiting
torrent, deep into the cool embrace of the clear liquid. They soaked it
into their pores and drank deeply of it, feeling life going once more
through their veins. Satisfied, they lifted themselves from the water,
and the man lay down on the yellow sand of the river bank to sleep.
</p>
<p>
When he awoke, the sun was almost setting. The bright shafts of red
light spilled across the sky, making the mountains silent scarlet
shadows on the face of the rippling water. Quickly he gathered
driftwood, and built a small fire. From his pack he removed some of
the coffee he had found in one of the ruined cities. He brought water
from the river in the battered coffee-pot he had salvaged, and while he
waited for it to boil, he went to his horse, Conqueror, stroking his
mane and whispering in his ear. Then he led him silently to a grassy
slope where he hobbled him and left him for the night.
</p>
<p>
In the fading light, he ate the hard beef jerky and drank the scalding
coffee. Refreshed and momentarily content, he sat staring into the
dying fire, seeing the bright glowing coals as living fingers clutching
at the wood in consuming embrace, taking all and returning nothing but
ashes.
</p>
<p>
Slowly his eyelids yielded. His body sagged, and blood seemed to fill
his brain, bathing it in a gentle, warm flood.
</p>
<p>
He slept. His brain slept.
</p>
<p>
But the portion of his brain called memory stirred. It was all alone;
all else was at rest. Images began to appear, drawn from inexhaustible
files, wherein are kept all thoughts, past, present, and future....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was the night before he was to go overseas. World War III had been
declared, and he had enlisted, receiving his old rank of captain. He
was with his wife in the living room of their home. They had put the
children to bed—their sons—and now sat on the couch, watching the
blazing fire. It was then that he had showed it to her.
</p>
<p>
"I've got something to tell you, and something to show you."
</p>
<p>
He had removed the box from his pocket and opened it. And heard her cry
of surprised joy.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, a ring, and it's a diamond, too!" she cried in her rich, happy
voice which always seemed to send a thrill through his body.
</p>
<p>
"It's for you; so long as you wear it, I'll come back, even from the
dead, if need be. Read the inscription."
</p>
<p>
She held the ring up to the light and read aloud, "It is forever."
</p>
<p>
Then she had slipped the ring on her finger and her arms around him.
He held her very close, feeling the warmth from her body flowing into
his and making him oblivious to everything except that she was there in
his arms and that he was sinking deep, deep into a familiar sea, where
he had been many times before but each time found something new and
unexplored, some vastly different emotion he could never quite explain.
</p>
<p>
"Wait!" she cried. "I've something for you, too."
</p>
<p>
She took off the locket she wore about her neck and held it up to the
shimmering light, letting it spin at the end of its chain. It caught
the shadows of the fire and reflected them, greatly magnified, over the
room. It was in the shape of a star, encrusted with emeralds, with one
large ruby in the center. When he opened it, he found a picture of her
in one side, and in the other a picture of the children. He took her in
his arms again, and loosened her long, black hair, burying his face in
it for a moment. Then he kissed her, and instantly was drawn down into
the abyss which seemed to have no beginning or any end.
</p>
<p>
The next morning had been bleak and gray. The mist clung to the wet,
sodden ground, and the air was heavy in his lungs. He had driven off
in the jeep the army had sent for him, watching her there on the porch
until the mist swirled around her feet and she ran back into the house
and slammed the door. His cold fingers found the locket, making a
little bulge under his uniform, and the touch of it seemed to warm the
blood in his veins.
</p>
<p>
Three days later they had landed in Spain, merged with another
division, then crossed the Pyrenees into France, and finally to Paris
where the fighting had begun. Already the city was a silent graveyard,
littered with the rubble of towers and cathedrals which had once been
great.
</p>
<p>
Three years later they were on the road to Moscow. Over a thousand
miles lay behind, a dead man on every foot of those miles. Yet victory
was near. The Russians had not yet used the H-bomb; the threat of
annihilation by the retaliation forces had been too great.
</p>
<p>
He had done well in the war, and had been decorated many times for
bravery in action. Now he felt the victory that seemed to be in the
air, and he had wished it would come quickly, so that he might return
to her. Home. The very feel of the word was everything a battle-weary
soldier needed to make him fight harder and live longer.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly he had become aware of a droning, wooshing sound above him. It
grew louder and louder until he knew what it was.
</p>
<p>
"Heavy bombers!" The alarm had sounded, and the men had headed for
their foxholes.
</p>
<p>
But the planes had passed over, the sun glinting on their bellies,
reflecting a blinding light. They were bound for bigger, more important
targets. When the all-clear had sounded, the men clambered from their
shelters. An icy wind swept the field, bringing with it clouds which
covered the sun. A strange fear had gripped him then....
</p>
<p>
Across the Atlantic, over the pole, via Alaska, the great bombers
flew. In cities, great and small, the air raid sirens sounded, high
screaming noises which had jarred the people from sleep in time to die.
The defending planes roared into the sky to intercept the on-rushing
bombers. The horrendous battle split the universe. Many bombers fell,
victims of fanatical suicide planes, or of missiles that streaked
across the sky which none could escape.
</p>
<p>
But too many bombers got through, dropping their deadly cargo upon the
helpless cities. And not all the prayers or entreaties to any God had
stopped their carnage. First there had been the red flashes that melted
buildings into molten streams, and then the great triple-mushroom cloud
filled with the poisonous gases that the wind swept away to other
cities, where men had not died quickly and mercifully, but had rotted
away, leaving shreds of putrid flesh behind to mark the places where
they had crawled.
</p>
<p>
The retaliatory forces had roared away to bomb the Russian cities. Few,
if any, had returned. Too much blood and life were on their hands.
Those who had remained alive had found a resting place on the crown
of some distant mountain. Others had preferred the silent peaceful
sea, where flesh stayed not long on bones, and only darting fishes and
merciful beams of filtered light found their aluminum coffins.
</p>
<p>
The war had ended.
</p>
<p>
To no avail. Neither side had won. Most of the cities and the majority
of the population of both countries had been destroyed. Even their
governments had vanished, leaving a silent nothingness. The armies that
remained were without leaders, without sources of supplies, save what
they could forage and beg from an unfriendly people.
</p>
<p>
They were alone now, a group of tired, battered men, for whom life held
nothing. Their families had long since died, their bodies turned to
dust, their spirits fled on the winds to a new world.
</p>
<p>
Yet these remnants of an army must return—or at least try. Their
exodus was just beginning. Somehow he had managed to hold together the
few men left from his force. He had always nourished the hope that
she might still be alive. And now that the war was over he had to
return—had to know whether she was still waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
They had started the long trek. Throughout Europe anarchy reigned. He
and his men were alone. All they could do now was fight. Finally they
reached the seaport city of Calais. With what few men he had left, he
had commandeered a small yacht, and they had taken to the sea.
</p>
<p>
After months of storms and bad luck, they had been shipwrecked
somewhere off the coast of Mexico. He had managed to swim ashore,
and had been found by a fisherman's family. Many months he had spent
swimming and fishing, recovering his strength, inquiring about the
United States. The Mexicans had spoken with fear of the land across the
Rio Grande. All its great cities had been destroyed, and those that had
been only partially destroyed were devoid of people. The land across
the Rio Grande had become a land of shadows. The winds were poisoned,
and the few people who might have survived, were crazed and maimed by
the blasts. Few men had dared cross the Rio Grande into "El Mundo gris
de Noviembre"—the November world. Those who had, had never returned.
</p>
<p>
In time he had traveled north until he reached the Rio Grande. He had
waded into the muddy waters and somehow landed on the American side. In
the November world.
</p>
<p>
It was rightly called. The deserts were long. All plant life had died,
leaving to those once great fertile stretches, nothing but the sad,
temporal beauty that comes with death. No people had he seen. Only the
ruins of what had once been their cities. He had walked through them,
and all that he had seen were the small mutant rodents, and all that he
had heard was the occasional swish of the wind as it whisked along what
might have been dead leaves, but wasn't.
</p>
<p>
He had been on the trail for a long time. His food was nearly
exhausted. The mountains were just beginning, and he hoped to find food
there. He had not found food, but his luck had been with him. He had
found a horse. Not a normal horse, but a mutation. It was almost twice
as large as a regular horse. Its skin seemed to shimmer and was like
glassy steel to the touch. From the center of its forehead grew a horn,
straight out, as the horn of a unicorn. But most startling of all were
the animal's eyes which seemed to speak—a silent mental speech, which
he could understand. The horse had looked up as he approached it and
seemed to say: "Follow me."
</p>
<p>
And he had followed. Over a mountain, until they came to a pass, and
finally to a narrow path which led to an old cabin. He had found it
empty, but there were cans of food and a rifle and many shells. He had
remained there a long time—how long he could not tell, for he could
only measure time by the cycles of the sun and the moon. Finally he
had taken the horse, the rifle and what food was left, and once again
started the long journey home.
</p>
<p>
The farther north he went, the more life seemed to have survived. He
had seen great herds of horses like his own, stampeding across the
plains, and strange birds which he could not identify. Yet he had seen
no human beings.
</p>
<p>
But he knew he was closer now. Closer to home. He recognized the land.
How, he did not know, for it was much changed. A sensing, perhaps, of
what it had once been. He could not be more than two days' ride away.
Once he was through this desert, he would find her, he would be with
her once again; all would be well, and his long journey would be over.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The images faded. Even memory slept in a flow of warm blood. Body and
mind slept into the shadows of the dawn.
</p>
<p>
He awoke and stretched the cramped muscles of his body. At the edge of
the water he removed his clothes and stared at himself in the rippling
mirror. His muscles were lean and hard, evenly placed throughout the
length of his frame. A deep ridge ran down the length of his torso,
separating the muscles, making the chest broad. Well satisfied with his
body, he plunged into the cold water, deep down, until he thought his
lungs would burst; then swiftly returned to the clean air, tingling in
every pore. He dried himself and dressed. Conqueror was eating the long
grass near the stream. Quickly he saddled him. No time for breakfast.
He would ride all day and the next night. And he would be home.
</p>
<p>
Still northward. The hours crawled slower than a dying man. The sun
was a torch that pierced his skin, seeming to melt his bones into a
burning stream within his body. But day at last gave way to night, and
the sun to the moon. The torch became a white pock-marked goddess, with
streaming hair called stars.
</p>
<p>
In the moonlight he had not seen the crater until he was at its
very edge. Even then he might not have seen it had not the horse
stopped suddenly. The wind swirled through its vast emptiness,
slapping his face with dusty hands. For a moment he thought he heard
voices—mournful, murmuring voices, echoing up from the misty depths.
He turned quickly away and did not look back.
</p>
<p>
Night paled into day; day burned into night.
</p>
<p>
There were clouds in the sky now, and a gentle wind caressed the sweat
from his tired body. He stopped. There it was! Barely discernible
through the moonlight, he saw it. Home.
</p>
<p>
Quickly he dismounted and ran. Now he could see a small light in the
window, and he knew they were there. His breath came in hard ragged
gulps. At the window he peered in, and as his eyes became accustomed
to the inner gloom, he saw how bare the room was. No matter. Now that
he was home he would build new furniture, and the house would be even
better than it had been before.
</p>
<p>
Then he saw her.
</p>
<p>
She was sitting motionless in a straight wooden chair beside the
fireplace, the feeble light cast by the embers veiling her in mauve
shadows. He waited, wondering if she were.... Presently she stirred
like a restless child in sleep, then moved from the chair to the pile
of wood near the hearth, and replenished the fire. The wood caught
quickly, sending up long tongues of flame, and forming a bright pool of
light around her.
</p>
<p>
His blood froze. The creature illuminated by the firelight was a
monster. Large greasy scales covered its face and arms, and there was
no hair on its head. Its gums were toothless cavities in a sunken,
mumbling mouth. The eyes, turned momentarily toward the window, were
empty of life.
</p>
<p>
"No, no!" he cried soundlessly.
</p>
<p>
This was not his house. In his delirium he had only imagined he had
found it. He had been searching so long. He would go on searching.
He was turning wearily away from the window when the movement of the
creature beside the fire held his attention. It had taken a ring from
one skeleton-like finger and stood, turning the ring slowly as if
trying to decipher some inscription inside it.
</p>
<p>
He knew then. He had come home.
</p>
<p>
Slowly he moved toward the door. A great weakness was upon him. His
feet were stones, reluctant to leave the earth. His body was a weed,
shriveled by thirst. He grasped the doorknob and clung to it, looking
up at the night sky and trying to draw strength from the wind that
passed over him. It was no use. There was no strength. Only fear—a
kind of fear he had never known.
</p>
<p>
He fumbled at his throat, his fingers crawling like cold worms around
his neck until he found the locket and the clasp which had held it
safely through endless nightmare days and nights. He slipped the clasp
and the locket fell into his waiting hand. As one in a dream, he opened
it, and stared at the pictures, now in the dim moonlight no longer
faces of those he loved, but grey ghosts from the past. Even the ruby
had lost its glow. What had once been living fire was now a dull glob
of darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Nothing is forever!" He thought he had shouted the words, but only a
thin sound, the sound of leaves ruffled by the wind, came back to him.
</p>
<p>
He closed the locket and fastened the clasp, and hung it on the
doorknob. It moved slowly in the wind, back and forth, like a pendulum.
"Forever—forever. Only death is forever." He could have sworn he heard
the words.
</p>
<p>
He ran. Away from the house. To the large horse with a horn in the
center of its forehead, like a unicorn. Once in the saddle, the spurt
of strength left him. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped onto his
chest.
</p>
<p>
Conqueror trotted away, the sound of his hooves echoing hollowly in the
vast emptiness.
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists\npast death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love can bleed into death. \n\n(B) At first it is a declaration of everlasting love, but soon shows that its pledge exists\npast death, becoming a haunting symbol what can happen when love isn’t returned home. \n\n(C) At first it is a declaration of everlasting marriage, but soon shows that its pledge even exists in war, becoming a symbol of how love can survive death and overcome all trials. \n\n(D) At first it is a declaration of commitment, but soon shows that its pledge exists in death, becoming a haunting symbol of how love doesn’t last forever. \n\n",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Veterans -- United States -- Fiction; Husband and wife -- Fiction; PS; Post-apocalyptic fiction; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
61213 | What is Sandra reporting on?
Choices:
(A) A chess tournament where the old master, Krakatower, will be present.
(B) A chess-playing machine that is able to beat humans.
(C) A chess tournament where many chess masters will be present.
(D) A chess tournament where for the very first time a machine will be taught to play.
| [
"B",
"A chess-playing machine that is able to beat humans. \n"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE
</h1>
<h2>
by FRITZ LEIBER
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
The machine was not perfect. It
<br/>
could be tricked. It could make
<br/>
mistakes. And—it could learn!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Silently, so as not to shock anyone with illusions about well dressed
young women, Sandra Lea Grayling cursed the day she had persuaded the
<i>
Chicago Space Mirror
</i>
that there would be all sorts of human interest
stories to be picked up at the first international grandmaster chess
tournament in which an electronic computing machine was entered.
</p>
<p>
Not that there weren't enough humans around, it was the interest that
was in doubt. The large hall was crammed with energetic dark-suited
men of whom a disproportionately large number were bald, wore glasses,
were faintly untidy and indefinably shabby, had Slavic or Scandinavian
features, and talked foreign languages.
</p>
<p>
They yakked interminably. The only ones who didn't were scurrying
individuals with the eager-zombie look of officials.
</p>
<p>
Chess sets were everywhere—big ones on tables, still bigger
diagram-type electric ones on walls, small peg-in sets dragged from
side pockets and manipulated rapidly as part of the conversational
ritual and still smaller folding sets in which the pieces were the tiny
magnetized disks used for playing in free-fall.
</p>
<p>
There were signs featuring largely mysterious combinations of letters:
FIDE, WBM, USCF, USSF, USSR and UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly sure about
the last three.
</p>
<p>
The many clocks, bedside table size, would have struck a familiar
note except that they had little red flags and wheels sprinkled over
their faces and they were all in pairs, two clocks to a case. That
Siamese-twin clocks should be essential to a chess tournament struck
Sandra as a particularly maddening circumstance.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Her last assignment had been to interview the pilot pair riding the
first American manned circum-lunar satellite—and the five alternate
pairs who hadn't made the flight. This tournament hall seemed to Sandra
much further out of the world.
</p>
<p>
Overheard scraps of conversation in reasonably intelligible English
were not particularly helpful. Samples:
</p>
<p>
"They say the Machine has been programmed to play nothing but pure
Barcza System and Indian Defenses—and the Dragon Formation if anyone
pushes the King Pawn."
</p>
<p>
"Hah! In that case...."
</p>
<p>
"The Russians have come with ten trunkfuls of prepared variations and
they'll gang up on the Machine at adjournments. What can one New Jersey
computer do against four Russian grandmasters?"
</p>
<p>
"I heard the Russians have been programmed—with hypnotic cramming and
somno-briefing. Votbinnik had a nervous breakdown."
</p>
<p>
"Why, the Machine hasn't even a
<i>
Haupturnier
</i>
or an intercollegiate
won. It'll over its head be playing."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but maybe like Capa at San Sebastian or Morphy or Willie Angler
at New York. The Russians will look like potzers."
</p>
<p>
"Have you studied the scores of the match between Moon Base and
Circum-Terra?"
</p>
<p>
"Not worth the trouble. The play was feeble. Barely Expert Rating."
</p>
<p>
Sandra's chief difficulty was that she knew absolutely nothing about
the game of chess—a point that she had slid over in conferring with
the powers at the
<i>
Space Mirror
</i>
, but that now had begun to weigh on
her. How wonderful it would be, she dreamed, to walk out this minute,
find a quiet bar and get pie-eyed in an evil, ladylike way.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Perhaps mademoiselle would welcome a drink?"
</p>
<p>
"You're durn tootin' she would!" Sandra replied in a rush, and then
looked down apprehensively at the person who had read her thoughts.
</p>
<p>
It was a small sprightly elderly man who looked like a somewhat
thinned down Peter Lorre—there was that same impression of the happy
Slavic elf. What was left of his white hair was cut very short,
making a silvery nap. His pince-nez had quite thick lenses. But in
sharp contrast to the somberly clad men around them, he was wearing
a pearl-gray suit of almost exactly the same shade as Sandra's—a
circumstance that created for her the illusion that they were fellow
conspirators.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, wait a minute," she protested just the same. He had already taken
her arm and was piloting her toward the nearest flight of low wide
stairs. "How did you know I wanted a drink?"
</p>
<p>
"I could see that mademoiselle was having difficulty swallowing," he
replied, keeping them moving. "Pardon me for feasting my eyes on your
lovely throat."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't suppose they'd serve drinks here."
</p>
<p>
"But of course." They were already mounting the stairs. "What would
chess be without coffee or schnapps?"
</p>
<p>
"Okay, lead on," Sandra said. "You're the doctor."
</p>
<p>
"Doctor?" He smiled widely. "You know, I like being called that."
</p>
<p>
"Then the name is yours as long as you want it—Doc."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Meanwhile the happy little man had edged them into the first of a small
cluster of tables, where a dark-suited jabbering trio was just rising.
He snapped his fingers and hissed through his teeth. A white-aproned
waiter materialized.
</p>
<p>
"For myself black coffee," he said. "For mademoiselle rhine wine and
seltzer?"
</p>
<p>
"That'd go fine." Sandra leaned back. "Confidentially, Doc, I was
having trouble swallowing ... well, just about everything here."
</p>
<p>
He nodded. "You are not the first to be shocked and horrified by
chess," he assured her. "It is a curse of the intellect. It is a game
for lunatics—or else it creates them. But what brings a sane and
beautiful young lady to this 64-square madhouse?"
</p>
<p>
Sandra briefly told him her story and her predicament. By the time they
were served, Doc had absorbed the one and assessed the other.
</p>
<p>
"You have one great advantage," he told her. "You know nothing
whatsoever of chess—so you will be able to write about it
understandably for your readers." He swallowed half his demitasse and
smacked his lips. "As for the Machine—you
<i>
do
</i>
know, I suppose, that
it is not a humanoid metal robot, walking about clanking and squeaking
like a late medieval knight in armor?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Doc, but...." Sandra found difficulty in phrasing the question.
</p>
<p>
"Wait." He lifted a finger. "I think I know what you're going to ask.
You want to know why, if the Machine works at all, it doesn't work
perfectly, so that it always wins and there is no contest. Right?"
</p>
<p>
Sandra grinned and nodded. Doc's ability to interpret her mind was as
comforting as the bubbly, mildly astringent mixture she was sipping.
</p>
<p>
He removed his pince-nez, massaged the bridge of his nose and replaced
them.
</p>
<p>
"If you had," he said, "a billion computers all as fast as the Machine,
it would take them all the time there ever will be in the universe just
to play through all the possible games of chess, not to mention the
time needed to classify those games into branching families of wins for
White, wins for Black and draws, and the additional time required to
trace out chains of key-moves leading always to wins. So the Machine
can't play chess like God. What the Machine can do is examine all the
likely lines of play for about eight moves ahead—that is, four moves
each for White and Black—and then decide which is the best move on the
basis of capturing enemy pieces, working toward checkmate, establishing
a powerful central position and so on."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"That sounds like the way a man would play a game," Sandra observed.
"Look ahead a little way and try to make a plan. You know, like getting
out trumps in bridge or setting up a finesse."
</p>
<p>
"Exactly!" Doc beamed at her approvingly. "The Machine
<i>
is
</i>
like a
man. A rather peculiar and not exactly pleasant man. A man who always
abides by sound principles, who is utterly incapable of flights of
genius, but who never makes a mistake. You see, you are finding human
interest already, even in the Machine."
</p>
<p>
Sandra nodded. "Does a human chess player—a grandmaster, I mean—ever
look eight moves ahead in a game?"
</p>
<p>
"Most assuredly he does! In crucial situations, say where there's a
chance of winning at once by trapping the enemy king, he examines
many more moves ahead than that—thirty or forty even. The Machine
is probably programmed to recognize such situations and do something
of the same sort, though we can't be sure from the information World
Business Machines has released. But in most chess positions the
possibilities are so very nearly unlimited that even a grandmaster can
only look a very few moves ahead and must rely on his judgment and
experience and artistry. The equivalent of those in the Machine is the
directions fed into it before it plays a game."
</p>
<p>
"You mean the programming?"
</p>
<p>
"Indeed yes! The programming is the crux of the problem of the
chess-playing computer. The first practical model, reported by
Bernstein and Roberts of IBM in 1958 and which looked four moves
ahead, was programmed so that it had a greedy worried tendency to grab
at enemy pieces and to retreat its own whenever they were attacked. It
had a personality like that of a certain kind of chess-playing dub—a
dull-brained woodpusher afraid to take the slightest risk of losing
material—but a dub who could almost always beat an utter novice.
The WBM machine here in the hall operates about a million times as
fast. Don't ask me how, I'm no physicist, but it depends on the new
transistors and something they call hypervelocity, which in turn
depends on keeping parts of the Machine at a temperature near absolute
zero. However, the result is that the Machine can see eight moves ahead
and is capable of being programmed much more craftily."
</p>
<p>
"A million times as fast as the first machine, you say, Doc? And yet it
only sees twice as many moves ahead?" Sandra objected.
</p>
<p>
"There is a geometrical progression involved there," he told her
with a smile. "Believe me, eight moves ahead is a lot of moves when
you remember that the Machine is errorlessly examining every one of
thousands of variations. Flesh-and-blood chess masters have lost games
by blunders they could have avoided by looking only one or two moves
ahead. The Machine will make no such oversights. Once again, you see,
you have the human factor, in this case working for the Machine."
</p>
<p>
"Savilly, I have been looking allplace for you!"
</p>
<p>
A stocky, bull-faced man with a great bristling shock of black,
gray-flecked hair had halted abruptly by their table. He bent over Doc
and began to whisper explosively in a guttural foreign tongue.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Sandra's gaze traveled beyond the balustrade. Now that she could look
down at it, the central hall seemed less confusedly crowded. In the
middle, toward the far end, were five small tables spaced rather widely
apart and with a chessboard and men and one of the Siamese clocks set
out on each. To either side of the hall were tiers of temporary seats,
about half of them occupied. There were at least as many more people
still wandering about.
</p>
<p>
On the far wall was a big electric scoreboard and also, above the
corresponding tables, five large dully glassy chessboards, the White
squares in light gray, the Black squares in dark.
</p>
<p>
One of the five wall chessboards was considerably larger than the other
four—the one above the Machine.
</p>
<p>
Sandra looked with quickening interest at the console of the Machine—a
bank of keys and some half-dozen panels of rows and rows of tiny
telltale lights, all dark at the moment. A thick red velvet cord on
little brass standards ran around the Machine at a distance of about
ten feet. Inside the cord were only a few gray-smocked men. Two of
them had just laid a black cable to the nearest chess table and were
attaching it to the Siamese clock.
</p>
<p>
Sandra tried to think of a being who always checked everything, but
only within limits beyond which his thoughts never ventured, and who
never made a mistake....
</p>
<p>
"Miss Grayling! May I present to you Igor Jandorf."
</p>
<p>
She turned back quickly with a smile and a nod.
</p>
<p>
"I should tell you, Igor," Doc continued, "that Miss Grayling
represents a large and influential Midwestern newspaper. Perhaps you
have a message for her readers."
</p>
<p>
The shock-headed man's eyes flashed. "I most certainly do!" At that
moment the waiter arrived with a second coffee and wine-and-seltzer.
Jandorf seized Doc's new demitasse, drained it, set it back on the tray
with a flourish and drew himself up.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Tell your readers, Miss Grayling," he proclaimed, fiercely arching his
eyebrows at her and actually slapping his chest, "that I, Igor Jandorf,
will defeat the Machine by the living force of my human personality!
Already I have offered to play it an informal game blindfold—I, who
have played 50 blindfold games simultaneously! Its owners refuse me. I
have challenged it also to a few games of rapid-transit—an offer no
true grandmaster would dare ignore. Again they refuse me. I predict
that the Machine will play like a great oaf—at least against
<i>
me
</i>
.
Repeat: I, Igor Jandorf, by the living force of my human personality,
will defeat the Machine. Do you have that? You can remember it?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh yes," Sandra assured him, "but there are some other questions I
very much want to ask you, Mr. Jandorf."
</p>
<p>
"I am sorry, Miss Grayling, but I must clear my mind now. In ten
minutes they start the clocks."
</p>
<p>
While Sandra arranged for an interview with Jandorf after the day's
playing session, Doc reordered his coffee.
</p>
<p>
"One expects it of Jandorf," he explained to Sandra with a philosophic
shrug when the shock-headed man was gone. "At least he didn't take your
wine-and-seltzer. Or did he? One tip I have for you: don't call a chess
master Mister, call him Master. They all eat it up."
</p>
<p>
"Gee, Doc, I don't know how to thank you for everything. I hope I
haven't offended Mis—Master Jandorf so that he doesn't—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry about that. Wild horses couldn't keep Jandorf away from a
press interview. You know, his rapid-transit challenge was cunning.
That's a minor variety of chess where each player gets only ten seconds
to make a move. Which I don't suppose would give the Machine time to
look three moves ahead. Chess players would say that the Machine has a
very slow sight of the board. This tournament is being played at the
usual international rate of 15 moves an hour, and—"
</p>
<p>
"Is that why they've got all those crazy clocks?" Sandra interrupted.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes. Chess clocks measure the time each player takes in making his
moves. When a player makes a move he presses a button that shuts his
clock off and turns his opponent's on. If a player uses too much time,
he loses as surely as if he were checkmated. Now since the Machine
will almost certainly be programmed to take an equal amount of time
on successive moves, a rate of 15 moves an hour means it will have 4
minutes a move—and it will need every second of them! Incidentally
it was typical Jandorf bravado to make a point of a blindfold
challenge—just as if the Machine weren't playing blindfold itself. Or
<i>
is
</i>
the Machine blindfold? How do you think of it?"
</p>
<p>
"Gosh, I don't know. Say, Doc, is it really true that Master Jandorf
has played 50 games at once blindfolded? I can't believe that."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Of course not!" Doc assured her. "It was only 49 and he lost two of
those and drew five. Jandorf always exaggerates. It's in his blood."
</p>
<p>
"He's one of the Russians, isn't he?" Sandra asked. "Igor?"
</p>
<p>
Doc chuckled. "Not exactly," he said gently. "He is originally a Pole
and now he has Argentinian citizenship. You have a program, don't you?"
</p>
<p>
Sandra started to hunt through her pocketbook, but just then two lists
of names lit up on the big electric scoreboard.
</p>
<p class="ph2">
THE PLAYERS
</p>
<p class="ph2">
William Angler, USA
<br/>
Bela Grabo, Hungary
<br/>
Ivan Jal, USSR
<br/>
Igor Jandorf, Argentina
<br/>
Dr. S. Krakatower, France
<br/>
Vassily Lysmov, USSR
<br/>
The Machine, USA (programmed by Simon Great)
<br/>
Maxim Serek, USSR
<br/>
Moses Sherevsky, USA
<br/>
Mikhail Votbinnik, USSR
<br/>
<i>
Tournament Director
</i>
: Dr. Jan Vanderhoef
</p>
<p class="ph2">
FIRST ROUND PAIRINGS
</p>
<p class="ph2">
Sherevsky vs. Serek
<br/>
Jal vs. Angler
<br/>
Jandorf vs. Votbinnik
<br/>
Lysmov vs. Krakatower
<br/>
Grabo vs. Machine
</p>
<p>
"Cripes, Doc, they all sound like they were Russians," Sandra said
after a bit. "Except this Willie Angler. Oh, he's the boy wonder,
isn't he?"
</p>
<p>
Doc nodded. "Not such a boy any longer, though. He's.... Well, speak of
the Devil's children.... Miss Grayling, I have the honor of presenting
to you the only grandmaster ever to have been ex-chess-champion of the
United States while still technically a minor—Master William Augustus
Angler."
</p>
<p>
A tall, sharply-dressed young man with a hatchet face pressed the old
man back into his chair.
</p>
<p>
"How are you, Savvy, old boy old boy?" he demanded. "Still chasing the
girls, I see."
</p>
<p>
"Please, Willie, get off me."
</p>
<p>
"Can't take it, huh?" Angler straightened up somewhat. "Hey waiter!
Where's that chocolate malt? I don't want it
<i>
next
</i>
year. About that
<i>
ex-
</i>
, though. I was swindled, Savvy. I was robbed."
</p>
<p>
"Willie!" Doc said with some asperity. "Miss Grayling is a journalist.
She would like to have a statement from you as to how you will play
against the Machine."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Angler grinned and shook his head sadly. "Poor old Machine," he said.
"I don't know why they take so much trouble polishing up that pile of
tin just so that I can give it a hit in the head. I got a hatful of
moves it'll burn out all its tubes trying to answer. And if it gets too
fresh, how about you and me giving its low-temperature section the
hotfoot, Savvy? The money WBM's putting up is okay, though. That first
prize will just fit the big hole in my bank account."
</p>
<p>
"I know you haven't the time now, Master Angler," Sandra said rapidly,
"but if after the playing session you could grant me—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry, babe," Angler broke in with a wave of dismissal. "I'm dated up
for two months in advance. Waiter! I'm here, not there!" And he went
charging off.
</p>
<p>
Doc and Sandra looked at each other and smiled.
</p>
<p>
"Chess masters aren't exactly humble people, are they?" she said.
</p>
<p>
Doc's smile became tinged with sad understanding. "You must excuse
them, though," he said. "They really get so little recognition or
recompense. This tournament is an exception. And it takes a great deal
of ego to play greatly."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose so. So World Business Machines is responsible for this
tournament?"
</p>
<p>
"Correct. Their advertising department is interested in the prestige.
They want to score a point over their great rival."
</p>
<p>
"But if the Machine plays badly it will be a black eye for them,"
Sandra pointed out.
</p>
<p>
"True," Doc agreed thoughtfully. "WBM must feel very sure.... It's
the prize money they've put up, of course, that's brought the world's
greatest players here. Otherwise half of them would be holding off
in the best temperamental-artist style. For chess players the prize
money is fabulous—$35,000, with $15,000 for first place, and all
expenses paid for all players. There's never been anything like it.
Soviet Russia is the only country that has ever supported and rewarded
her best chess players at all adequately. I think the Russian players
are here because UNESCO and FIDE (that's
<i>
Federation Internationale
des Echecs
</i>
—the international chess organization) are also backing
the tournament. And perhaps because the Kremlin is hungry for a little
prestige now that its space program is sagging."
</p>
<p>
"But if a Russian doesn't take first place it will be a black eye for
them."
</p>
<p>
Doc frowned. "True, in a sense.
<i>
They
</i>
must feel very sure.... Here
they are now."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four men were crossing the center of the hall, which was clearing,
toward the tables at the other end. Doubtless they just happened to be
going two by two in close formation, but it gave Sandra the feeling of
a phalanx.
</p>
<p>
"The first two are Lysmov and Votbinnik," Doc told her. "It isn't often
that you see the current champion of the world—Votbinnik—and an
ex-champion arm in arm. There are two other persons in the tournament
who have held that honor—Jal and Vanderhoef the director, way back."
</p>
<p>
"Will whoever wins this tournament become champion?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh no. That's decided by two-player matches—a very long
business—after elimination tournaments between leading contenders.
This tournament is a round robin: each player plays one game with every
other player. That means nine rounds."
</p>
<p>
"Anyway there
<i>
are
</i>
an awful lot of Russians in the tournament,"
Sandra said, consulting her program. "Four out of ten have USSR after
them. And Bela Grabo, Hungary—that's a satellite. And Sherevsky and
Krakatower are Russian-sounding names."
</p>
<p>
"The proportion of Soviet to American entries in the tournament
represents pretty fairly the general difference in playing strength
between the two countries," Doc said judiciously. "Chess mastery
moves from land to land with the years. Way back it was the Moslems
and the Hindus and Persians. Then Italy and Spain. A little over a
hundred years ago it was France and England. Then Germany, Austria
and the New World. Now it's Russia—including of course the Russians
who have run away from Russia. But don't think there aren't a lot of
good Anglo-Saxon types who are masters of the first water. In fact,
there are a lot of them here around us, though perhaps you don't
think so. It's just that if you play a lot of chess you get to looking
Russian. Once it probably made you look Italian. Do you see that short
bald-headed man?"
</p>
<p>
"You mean the one facing the Machine and talking to Jandorf?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Now that's one with a lot of human interest. Moses Sherevsky.
Been champion of the United States many times. A very strict Orthodox
Jew. Can't play chess on Fridays or on Saturdays before sundown." He
chuckled. "Why, there's even a story going around that one rabbi told
Sherevsky it would be unlawful for him to play against the Machine
because it is technically a
<i>
golem
</i>
—the clay Frankenstein's monster of
Hebrew legend."
</p>
<p>
Sandra asked, "What about Grabo and Krakatower?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Doc gave a short scornful laugh. "Krakatower! Don't pay any attention
to
<i>
him
</i>
. A senile has-been, it's a scandal he's been allowed to play
in this tournament! He must have pulled all sorts of strings. Told them
that his lifelong services to chess had won him the honor and that they
had to have a member of the so-called Old Guard. Maybe he even got down
on his knees and cried—and all the time his eyes on that expense money
and the last-place consolation prize! Yet dreaming schizophrenically
of beating them all! Please, don't get me started on Dirty Old
Krakatower."
</p>
<p>
"Take it easy, Doc. He sounds like he would make an interesting
article? Can you point him out to me?"
</p>
<p>
"You can tell him by his long white beard with coffee stains. I don't
see it anywhere, though. Perhaps he's shaved it off for the occasion.
It would be like that antique womanizer to develop senile delusions of
youthfulness."
</p>
<p>
"And Grabo?" Sandra pressed, suppressing a smile at the intensity of
Doc's animosity.
</p>
<p>
Doc's eyes grew thoughtful. "About Bela Grabo (why are three out of
four Hungarians named Bela?) I will tell you only this: That he is a
very brilliant player and that the Machine is very lucky to have drawn
him as its first opponent."
</p>
<p>
He would not amplify his statement. Sandra studied the Scoreboard again.
</p>
<p>
"This Simon Great who's down as programming the Machine. He's a famous
physicist, I suppose?"
</p>
<p>
"By no means. That was the trouble with some of the early chess-playing
machines—they were programmed by scientists. No, Simon Great is a
psychologist who at one time was a leading contender for the world's
chess championship. I think WBM was surprisingly shrewd to pick him
for the programming job. Let me tell you—No, better yet—"
</p>
<p>
Doc shot to his feet, stretched an arm on high and called out sharply,
"Simon!"
</p>
<p>
A man some four tables away waved back and a moment later came over.
</p>
<p>
"What is it, Savilly?" he asked. "There's hardly any time, you know."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The newcomer was of middle height, compact of figure and feature, with
graying hair cut short and combed sharply back.
</p>
<p>
Doc spoke his piece for Sandra.
</p>
<p>
Simon Great smiled thinly. "Sorry," he said, "But I am making no
predictions and we are giving out no advance information on the
programming of the Machine. As you know, I have had to fight the
Players' Committee tooth and nail on all sorts of points about that
and they have won most of them. I am not permitted to re-program the
Machine at adjournments—only between games (I did insist on that and
get it!) And if the Machine breaks down during a game, its clock keeps
running on it. My men are permitted to make repairs—if they can work
fast enough."
</p>
<p>
"That makes it very tough on you," Sandra put in. "The Machine isn't
allowed any weaknesses."
</p>
<p>
Great nodded soberly. "And now I must go. They've almost finished the
count-down, as one of my technicians keeps on calling it. Very pleased
to have met you, Miss Grayling—I'll check with our PR man on that
interview. Be seeing you, Savvy."
</p>
<p>
The tiers of seats were filled now and the central space almost clear.
Officials were shooing off a few knots of lingerers. Several of the
grandmasters, including all four Russians, were seated at their tables.
Press and company cameras were flashing. The four smaller wallboards
lit up with the pieces in the opening position—white for White and red
for Black. Simon Great stepped over the red velvet cord and more flash
bulbs went off.
</p>
<p>
"You know, Doc," Sandra said, "I'm a dog to suggest this, but what
if this whole thing were a big fake? What if Simon Great were really
playing the Machine's moves? There would surely be some way for his
electricians to rig—"
</p>
<p>
Doc laughed happily—and so loudly that some people at the adjoining
tables frowned.
</p>
<p>
"Miss Grayling, that is a wonderful idea! I will probably steal it for
a short story. I still manage to write and place a few in England.
No, I do not think that is at all likely. WBM would never risk such
a fraud. Great is completely out of practice for actual tournament
play, though not for chess-thinking. The difference in style between
a computer and a man would be evident to any expert. Great's own style
is remembered and would be recognized—though, come to think of it, his
style was often described as being machinelike...." For a moment Doc's
eyes became thoughtful. Then he smiled again. "But no, the idea is
impossible. Vanderhoef as Tournament Director has played two or three
games with the Machine to assure himself that it operates legitimately
and has grandmaster skill."
</p>
<p>
"Did the Machine beat him?" Sandra asked.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Doc shrugged. "The scores weren't released. It was very hush-hush.
But about your idea, Miss Grayling—did you ever read about Maelzel's
famous chess-playing automaton of the 19th Century? That one too was
supposed to work by machinery (cogs and gears, not electricity) but
actually it had a man hidden inside it—your Edgar Poe exposed the
fraud in a famous article. In
<i>
my
</i>
story I think the chess robot will
break down while it is being demonstrated to a millionaire purchaser
and the young inventor will have to win its game for it to cover up
and swing the deal. Only the millionaire's daughter, who is really a
better player than either of them ... yes, yes! Your Ambrose Bierce
too wrote a story about a chess-playing robot of the clickety-clank-grr
kind who murdered his creator, crushing him like an iron grizzly bear
when the man won a game from him. Tell me, Miss Grayling, do you find
yourself imagining this Machine putting out angry tendrils to strangle
its opponents, or beaming rays of death and hypnotism at them? I can
imagine...."
</p>
<p>
While Doc chattered happily on about chess-playing robots and chess
stories, Sandra found herself thinking about him. A writer of some sort
evidently and a terrific chess buff. Perhaps he was an actual medical
doctor. She'd read something about two or three coming over with the
Russian squad. But Doc certainly didn't sound like a Soviet citizen.
</p>
<p>
He was older than she'd first assumed. She could see that now that
she was listening to him less and looking at him more. Tired, too.
Only his dark-circled eyes shone with unquenchable youth. A useful old
guy, whoever he was. An hour ago she'd been sure she was going to muff
this assignment completely and now she had it laid out cold. For the
umpteenth time in her career Sandra shied away from the guilty thought
that she wasn't a writer at all or even a reporter, she just used
dime-a-dozen female attractiveness to rope a susceptible man (young,
old, American, Russian) and pick his brain....
</p>
<p>
She realized suddenly that the whole hall had become very quiet.
</p>
<p>
Doc was the only person still talking and people were again looking at
them disapprovingly. All five wallboards were lit up and the changed
position of a few pieces showed that opening moves had been made on
four of them, including the Machine's. The central space between
the tiers of seats was completely clear now, except for one man
hurrying across it in their direction with the rapid yet quiet, almost
tip-toe walk that seemed to mark all the officials.
<i>
Like morticians'
assistants
</i>
, she thought. He rapidly mounted the stairs and halted at
the top to look around searchingly. His gaze lighted on their table,
his eyebrows went up, and he made a beeline for Doc. Sandra wondered if
she should warn him that he was about to be shushed.
</p>
<p>
The official laid a hand on Doc's shoulder. "Sir!" he said agitatedly.
"Do you realize that they've started your clock, Dr. Krakatower?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) A chess tournament where the old master, Krakatower, will be present. \n\n(B) A chess-playing machine that is able to beat humans. \n\n(C) A chess tournament where many chess masters will be present.\n\n(D) A chess tournament where for the very first time a machine will be taught to play.\n",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Computers -- Fiction; Journalists -- Fiction; Chess -- Tournaments -- Fiction"
} |
61263 | Who wanted to mine Lovenbroy’s minerals?
Choices:
(A) Croanie
(B) MUDDEL
(C) Boge
(D) Lovenbroy neighbors
| [
"C",
"Boge\n"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
CULTURAL EXCHANGE
</h1>
<h2>
BY KEITH LAUMER
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
It was a simple student exchange—but
<br/>
Retief gave them more of
<br/>
an education than they expected!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
I
</p>
<p>
Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered
beret from the clothes tree. "I'm off now, Retief," he said. "I hope
you'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without any
unfortunate incidents."
</p>
<p>
"That seems a modest enough hope," Retief said. "I'll try to live up to
it."
</p>
<p>
"I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division," Magnan
said testily. "When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization
Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I
fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the
wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two
weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function."
</p>
<p>
"In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple of
weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure
to bear."
</p>
<p>
"I assume you jest, Retief," Magnan said sadly. "I should expect even
you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may
be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more
cultivated channels."
</p>
<p>
"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land," Retief said,
glancing at the Memo for Record. "That's a sizable sublimation."
</p>
<p>
Magnan nodded. "The Bogans have launched no less than four military
campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of
the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that
precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy."
</p>
<p>
"Breaking and entering," Retief said. "You may have something there.
But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial
world of the poor but honest variety."
</p>
<p>
"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,"
Magnan said. "Our function is merely to bring them together. See
that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will
be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic
restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree."
</p>
<p>
A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. "What is it, Miss Furkle?"
</p>
<p>
"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again." On the small desk
screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.
</p>
<p>
"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,"
Magnan said. "Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here
at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you."
</p>
<p>
"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit," Retief said.
</p>
<p>
Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's
button.
</p>
<p>
"Send the bucolic person in."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers
of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,
stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at
sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held
out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face
to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.
</p>
<p>
Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.
</p>
<p>
"That's nice knuckle work, mister," the stranger said, massaging his
hand. "First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I
started it, I guess." He grinned and sat down.
</p>
<p>
"What can I do for you?" Retief said.
</p>
<p>
"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were
all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.
What I wanted to see you about was—" He shifted in his chair. "Well,
out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just
about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't
know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Retief said. "Have a cigar?" He pushed a box across the desk.
Arapoulous took one. "Bacchus vines are an unusual crop," he said,
puffing the cigar alight. "Only mature every twelve years. In between,
the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.
We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.
Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—"
</p>
<p>
"Sounds very pleasant," Retief said. "Where does the Libraries and
Education Division come in?"
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous leaned forward. "We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks
can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the
land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable
forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.
Retief."
</p>
<p>
"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—"
</p>
<p>
"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our
year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric
orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly
painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.
Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for
woodworkers. Our furniture—"
</p>
<p>
"I've seen some of your furniture," Retief said. "Beautiful work."
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous nodded. "All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil
and those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then
comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting
closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?
That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay
inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach
on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.
The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have
the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to the
center of a globular cluster, you know...."
</p>
<p>
"You say it's time now for the wine crop?"
</p>
<p>
"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the
ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't
take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new
places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a
lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this
year's different. This is Wine Year."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. "Our wine
crop is our big money crop," he said. "We make enough to keep us going.
But this year...."
</p>
<p>
"The crop isn't panning out?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only
twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's
not the crop."
</p>
<p>
"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the
Commercial—"
</p>
<p>
"Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever
settled for anything else!"
</p>
<p>
"It sounds like I've been missing something," said Retief. "I'll have
to try them some time."
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. "No
time like the present," he said.
</p>
<p>
Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both
dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.
</p>
<p>
"Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous," he said.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't
<i>
drinking
</i>
. It's just wine." Arapoulous pulled the wire
retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the
air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.
"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me." He winked.
</p>
<p>
Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. "Come
to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint
native customs."
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep
rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked
at Arapoulous thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted
port."
</p>
<p>
"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief," Arapoulous said. He took a
mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. "It's Bacchus
wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy." He pushed the second
bottle toward Retief. "The custom back home is to alternate red wine
and black."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,
caught it as it popped up.
</p>
<p>
"Bad luck if you miss the cork," Arapoulous said, nodding. "You
probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years
back?"
</p>
<p>
"Can't say that I did, Hank." Retief poured the black wine into two
fresh glasses. "Here's to the harvest."
</p>
<p>
"We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy," Arapoulous said,
swallowing wine. "But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.
We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a
force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than
we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.
But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men."
</p>
<p>
"That's too bad," Retief said. "I'd say this one tastes more like roast
beef and popcorn over a Riesling base."
</p>
<p>
"It put us in a bad spot," Arapoulous went on. "We had to borrow
money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start
exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when
you're doing it for strangers."
</p>
<p>
"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy," Retief
said. "What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But
we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can
turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage
season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.
First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards
covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens
here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep
grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine
to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on
who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,
and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,
the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:
roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of
fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's
done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes
for the best crews.
</p>
<p>
"Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostly
for the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start to
get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are
born after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his
toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer
of grape juice?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Never did," Retief said. "You say most of the children are born after
a vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning."
</p>
<p>
"I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight," Retief
said.
</p>
<p>
"Forty-two, Terry years," Arapoulous said. "But this year it looks bad.
We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big
vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then
next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—"
</p>
<p>
"You hocked the vineyards?"
</p>
<p>
"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time."
</p>
<p>
"On the whole," Retief said, "I think I prefer the black. But the red
is hard to beat...."
</p>
<p>
"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan
to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd
repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling
side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci
nose-flute players—"
</p>
<p>
"Can they pick grapes?"
</p>
<p>
"Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this over
with the Labor Office?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronics
specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.
Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought
I was trying to buy slaves."
</p>
<p>
The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.
</p>
<p>
"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes," she said. "Then
afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks." Retief finished his glass, stood. "I have to run, Hank," he
said. "Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.
Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottles
here. Cultural exhibits, you know."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
II
</p>
<p>
As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague
across the table.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.
What are they getting?"
</p>
<p>
Whaffle blinked. "You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over
at MUDDLE," he said. "Properly speaking, equipment grants are the
sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and
Exchanges." He pursed his lips. "However, I suppose there's no harm in
telling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment."
</p>
<p>
"Drill rigs, that sort of thing?"
</p>
<p>
"Strip mining gear." Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,
blinked at it. "Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE
interested in MEDDLE's activities?"
</p>
<p>
"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up
earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over
on—"
</p>
<p>
"That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir," Whaffle cut in. "I have sufficient
problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business."
</p>
<p>
"Speaking of tractors," another man put in, "we over at the Special
Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'
General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for
mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—"
</p>
<p>
"SCROUNGE was late on the scene," Whaffle said. "First come, first
served. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen." He strode
off, briefcase under his arm.
</p>
<p>
"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds," the SCROUNGE committeeman
said. "Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out
to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist
peace-loving d'Land—comes to naught." He shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?" asked Retief. "We're
sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an
institution."
</p>
<p>
"University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college."
</p>
<p>
"Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?"
</p>
<p>
"Two thousand students? Hah! Two
<i>
hundred
</i>
students would overtax the
facilities of the college."
</p>
<p>
"I wonder if the Bogans know that?"
</p>
<p>
"The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwise
trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students
indeed!" He snorted and walked away.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the
elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a
cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them
lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half
an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and
ordered a beer.
</p>
<p>
A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.
</p>
<p>
"Happy days," he said.
</p>
<p>
"And nights to match."
</p>
<p>
"You said it." He gulped half his beer. "My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.
Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place
waiting...."
</p>
<p>
"You meeting somebody?"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on
me."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?"
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—" he turned
to Retief—"not one of those kids is over eighteen." He hiccupped.
"Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?"
</p>
<p>
"Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?"
</p>
<p>
The young fellow blinked at Retief. "Oh, you know about it, huh?"
</p>
<p>
"I represent MUDDLE."
</p>
<p>
Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. "I came on ahead. Sort of
an advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it like
a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act under
pressure. If I had my old platoon—"
</p>
<p>
He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. "Had enough," he said. "So
long, friend. Or are you coming along?"
</p>
<p>
Retief nodded. "Might as well."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of
the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to
attention, his chest out.
</p>
<p>
"Drop that, mister," Karsh snapped. "Is that any way for a student to
act?"
</p>
<p>
The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.
</p>
<p>
"Heck, no," he said. "Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to
town? We fellas were thinking—"
</p>
<p>
"You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Now
line up!"
</p>
<p>
"We have quarters ready for the students," Retief said. "If you'd like
to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid
on."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks," said Karsh. "They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't
have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about
going over the hill." He hiccupped. "I mean they might play hookey."
</p>
<p>
"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long
wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner."
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," Karsh said. "As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off." He
hiccupped again. "Can't travel without our baggage, y'know."
</p>
<p>
"Suit yourself," Retief said. "Where's the baggage now?"
</p>
<p>
"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here."
</p>
<p>
"Sure," Karsh said. "That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?" Karsh
winked. "And bring a few beers."
</p>
<p>
"Not this time," Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging
from Customs. "They seem to be all boys," he commented. "No female
students?"
</p>
<p>
"Maybe later," Karsh said. "You know, after we see how the first bunch
is received."
</p>
<p>
Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.
</p>
<p>
"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound
for?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, the University at d'Land, of course."
</p>
<p>
"Would that be the Technical College?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. "I'm sure I've never pried into these
details."
</p>
<p>
"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?" Retief
said. "Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students are
travelling so far to study—at Corps expense."
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Magnan never—"
</p>
<p>
"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves
me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for
a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.
But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation
to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on
Lovenbroy."
</p>
<p>
"Well!" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.
"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!"
</p>
<p>
"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question," Retief said. "But
never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors
will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business," Miss Furkle said. "Mr. Magnan
always—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the
office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the Corps
Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored over
indices.
</p>
<p>
"Can I help you?" someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, ma'am," Retief said. "I'm looking for information on a
mining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor."
</p>
<p>
"You won't find it in the industrial section," the librarian said.
"Come along." Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit
section lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, plugged
it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored
vehicle.
</p>
<p>
"That's the model WV," she said. "It's what is known as a continental
siege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower."
</p>
<p>
"There must be an error somewhere," Retief said. "The Bolo model I want
is a tractor. Model WV M-1—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for
demolition work. That must be what confused you."
</p>
<p>
"Probably—among other things. Thank you."
</p>
<p>
Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. "I have the information you
wanted," she said. "I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under the
impression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—"
</p>
<p>
"Sure," Retief said. "Shoot. How many tractors?"
</p>
<p>
"Five hundred."
</p>
<p>
"Are you sure?"
</p>
<p>
Miss Furkle's chins quivered. "Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—"
</p>
<p>
"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five
hundred tractors is a lot of equipment."
</p>
<p>
"Was there anything further?" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.
</p>
<p>
"I sincerely hope not," Retief said.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph2">
III
</p>
<p>
Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and
hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled "CERP
7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general)." He paused at a page headed Industry.
</p>
<p>
Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of
Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and
sipped the black wine meditatively.
</p>
<p>
It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the
production of such vintages....
</p>
<p>
Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put
through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial
Attache.
</p>
<p>
"Retief here, Corps HQ," he said airily. "About the MEDDLE shipment,
the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show
we're shipping five hundred units...."
</p>
<p>
"That's correct. Five hundred."
</p>
<p>
Retief waited.
</p>
<p>
"Ah ... are you there, Retief?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundred
tractors."
</p>
<p>
"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—"
</p>
<p>
"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,"
Retief said. "Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps
half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they
could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had any
ore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining
outfit? I should think—"
</p>
<p>
"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?
And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the
equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four
hundred and ninety tractors?"
</p>
<p>
"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!"
</p>
<p>
"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic
tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a
gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme
cooking—"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction."
</p>
<p>
"What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a
blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit."
</p>
<p>
"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us
branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You may speak freely."
</p>
<p>
"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a
difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodation
to a group with which we have rather strong business ties."
</p>
<p>
"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,"
Retief said. "Any connection?"
</p>
<p>
"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha."
</p>
<p>
"Who gets the tractors eventually?"
</p>
<p>
"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!"
</p>
<p>
"Who gets them?"
</p>
<p>
"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—"
</p>
<p>
"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized
transshipment of grant material?"
</p>
<p>
"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan
representative."
</p>
<p>
"And when will they be shipped?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But
look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!"
</p>
<p>
"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself." Retief rang
off, buzzed the secretary.
</p>
<p>
"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new
applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement
of students."
</p>
<p>
"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.
Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in."
</p>
<p>
"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him."
</p>
<p>
"I'll ask him if he has time."
</p>
<p>
"Great. Thanks." It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced
man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab
shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"What is it you wish?" he barked. "I understood in my discussions with
the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these
irritating conferences."
</p>
<p>
"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How
many this time?"
</p>
<p>
"Two thousand."
</p>
<p>
"And where will they be going?"
</p>
<p>
"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is
to provide transportation."
</p>
<p>
"Will there be any other students embarking this season?"
</p>
<p>
"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business." Gulver looked at Retief with
pursed lips. "As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another
two thousand to Featherweight."
</p>
<p>
"Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,"
Retief said. "Your people must be unusually interested in that region
of space."
</p>
<p>
"If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters of
importance to see to."
</p>
<p>
After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. "I'd like to have a
break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the
present program," he said. "And see if you can get a summary of what
MEDDLE has been shipping lately."
</p>
<p>
Miss Furkle compressed her lips. "If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm sure
he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.
I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie
Legation—"
</p>
<p>
"The lists, Miss Furkle."
</p>
<p>
"I'm not accustomed," Miss Furkle said, "to intruding in matters
outside our interest cluster."
</p>
<p>
"That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But never
mind. I need the information, Miss Furkle."
</p>
<p>
"Loyalty to my Chief—"
</p>
<p>
"Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the material
I've asked for," Retief said. "I'm taking full responsibility. Now
scat."
</p>
<p>
The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. "MUDDLE, Retief speaking...."
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.
</p>
<p>
"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you."
</p>
<p>
In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. "Sorry if I'm rushing you,
Retief," he said. "But have you got anything for me?"
</p>
<p>
Retief waved at the wine bottles. "What do you know about Croanie?"
</p>
<p>
"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like
fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon
time. Over a foot long."
</p>
<p>
"You on good terms with them?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge."
</p>
<p>
"So?"
</p>
<p>
"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here
a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of
bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy
game."
</p>
<p>
Miss Furkle buzzed. "I have your lists," she said shortly.
</p>
<p>
"Bring them in, please."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye
and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.
</p>
<p>
"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash," Arapoulous
observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time
to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.
</p>
<p>
"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?" Retief inquired.
</p>
<p>
Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.
</p>
<p>
"A hundred would help," he said. "A thousand would be better. Cheers."
</p>
<p>
"What would you say to two thousand?"
</p>
<p>
"Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?"
</p>
<p>
"I hope not." He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked
for the dispatch clerk.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that
contingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDT
transports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.
Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait."
</p>
<p>
Jim came back to the phone. "Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.
But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketed
clear through to Lovenbroy."
</p>
<p>
"Listen, Jim," Retief said. "I want you to go over to the warehouse and
take a look at that baggage for me."
</p>
<p>
Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The
level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to
the phone.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.
Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—"
</p>
<p>
"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,
I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for a
friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, you
understand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning that
will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do...."
</p>
<p>
Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.
</p>
<p>
"As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get down
to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Croanie\n\n(B) MUDDEL\n\n(C) Boge\n\n(D) Lovenbroy neighbors \n",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Short stories; Science fiction; Space colonies -- Fiction; PS; Diplomats -- Fiction; Retief (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Life on other planets -- Fiction"
} |
20014 | What is the meaning of Fiss’s title?
Choices:
(A) It is ironic that free speech requires the suppression of debunked ideas.
(B) It is ironic that the command, “Shut Up,” is paired with verb explain. This paradox is a metaphor for the way free speech works.
(C) It is ironic that free speech can only be achieved via the hand of the state.
(D) It is ironic that free speech requires the silencing of a few small groups.
| [
"D",
"It is ironic that free speech requires the silencing of a few small groups. \n"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Shut Up, He Explained<br/><br/> Owen Fiss is a professor at<br/>the Yale Law School and a highly regarded scholar of constitutional law. The<br/>subject of this short book is the present direction of the law governing the<br/>freedom of speech. What Professor Fiss has to say about it is worth attending<br/>to not merely because of his prominence in the field but because his argument<br/>is planted in the common assumptive ground of a lot of contemporary academic<br/>thought about the bankruptcy of individualism. The thesis of the book is Fiss',<br/>but the wisdom is conventional.<br/><br/> Professor<br/>Fiss thinks the present direction of First Amendment law is a bad one, and he<br/>has an idea about how we might improve it. The short way to put his argument<br/>(though it is not quite the way he puts it) is to say that our approach to<br/>speech has become increasingly permissive. Courts have become more and more<br/>reluctant to allow the state to interfere with the rights of individual<br/>speakers to say what they wish, and it is time to roll back that permissiveness<br/>and to embark on a new approach that would permit the state to silence some<br/>speakers and promote others, but still, Fiss argues, in the name of freedom of<br/>speech.<br/><br/> This is what Fiss means by the "irony" in his title: that<br/>true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is<br/>not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation<br/>that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best<br/>efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of<br/>free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some<br/>interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he<br/>has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he<br/>regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate<br/>speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of<br/>market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those<br/>groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or<br/>to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment.<br/>Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would<br/>have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Irony of Free Speech is a discussion of several speech issues:<br/>campaign-finance laws, state funding for the arts, pornography, speech codes,<br/>and equal time. These discussions are not doctrinaire, but their general<br/>inclination is to favor state intervention, on political grounds, in each of<br/>those areas--that is, to favor restrictions on campaign spending, greater<br/>regulation of pornography, and so on. Fiss' analyses of specific cases are<br/>presented against a lightly sketched historical argument. Light though the<br/>sketching is, the historical argument is almost the most objectionable thing<br/>about the book, since it involves a distortion of the history of First<br/>Amendment law that is fairly plain even to someone who is not a professor at<br/>Yale Law School.<br/><br/> <br/>The argument is that "the liberalism of the<br/>nineteenth century was defined by the claims of individual liberty and resulted<br/>in an unequivocal demand for liberal government, [while] the liberalism of<br/>today embraces the value of equality as well as liberty." The constitutional<br/>law of free speech, says Fiss, was shaped by the earlier type of liberalism--he<br/>calls it "libertarian"--which regarded free speech as a right of individual<br/>self-expression; it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name<br/>of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both<br/>these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black<br/>students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially,<br/>in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be "equal" if<br/>they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of<br/>outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of<br/>individuals to express themselves.<br/><br/> Fiss'<br/>suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that<br/>liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and<br/>equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of<br/>liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to<br/>foster (in William Brennan's words) "uninhibited, robust, and wide-open" debate<br/>in society as a whole; speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should<br/>therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total<br/>freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when<br/>they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth<br/>to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of<br/>unorthodox art.<br/><br/> The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard,<br/>which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from<br/>19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It<br/>emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its<br/>creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not<br/>classical liberals; they were progressives. They abhorred the doctrine of<br/>natural rights because, in their time, that doctrine was construed to cover not<br/>the right to "self-expression" but the "right to property." Turn-of-the-century<br/>courts did not display a libertarian attitude toward civil rights; they<br/>displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out<br/>legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds<br/>that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their<br/>own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples<br/>consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of<br/>health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of<br/>taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the<br/>value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century<br/>classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two "liberalisms"<br/>are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies.<br/><br/> Hand,<br/>Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative<br/>right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as "the right<br/>of the donkey to drool") but on a democratic need for full and open political<br/>debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts<br/>on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to<br/>insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because<br/>it was there from the start.<br/><br/> <br/>Why does Fiss portray the history of First<br/>Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his<br/>own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our<br/>problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable<br/>ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by<br/>adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or "intersubjective" view<br/>of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs.<br/>communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law<br/>governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the<br/>matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in "self-expression"<br/>with a more up-to-date belief in "robust debate," as Fiss would like to think<br/>it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the<br/>Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a<br/>democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as<br/>possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the<br/>picture.<br/><br/> Here,<br/>assuming we want to try the interventionist approach, it is hard to see how a<br/>one-size theory can possibly fit all cases. The issues underlying pornography,<br/>hate speech, arts grants, campaign finance, and equal-time provisions are all<br/>different. The ideological impetus behind judicial developments in the last two<br/>areas, campaign finance and equal-time provisions, is related less to speech,<br/>except as a kind of constitutional cover, than to a revival of the old "right<br/>to property"--that is, the Supreme Court tends to disapprove of legislative and<br/>administrative efforts to require broadcasters to carry "opposing viewpoints"<br/>on the grounds that since it's their property, owners of television stations<br/>should be able to broadcast what they like. Fiss believes that the need for<br/>equal-time laws is as urgent today as it was in the 1970s, which is peculiar in<br/>light of the proliferation of media outlets. But the state does arguably have<br/>an interest, compatible with the First Amendment, in stipulating the way those<br/>media are used, and Fiss' discussion of those issues is the least aggravating<br/>in his book.<br/><br/> Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other<br/>issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase,<br/>that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears<br/>to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he<br/>would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of<br/>homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the<br/>opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this<br/>access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses<br/>either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who "silence"<br/>women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert<br/>Mapplethorpe.<br/><br/> Fiss'<br/>analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his<br/>interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution<br/>usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business<br/>altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using<br/>strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions; he wants the<br/>criteria to be political. He thinks the NEA should subsidize art that will<br/>enhance the "robustness" of the debate and should therefore prefer unorthodox<br/>art--though only, of course, if it represents a viewpoint the endowment<br/>considers, by virtue of social need and a prior history of exclusion, worthy of<br/>its megaphone. (No Nazi art, in other words.)<br/><br/> <br/>Mapplethorpe's photographs seem to Fiss to<br/>qualify under these guidelines, since, he says, "in the late 1980s the AIDS<br/>crisis confronted America in the starkest fashion and provoked urgent questions<br/>regarding the scope and direction of publicly funded medical research. To<br/>address those issues the public--represented by the casual museum<br/>visitor--needed an understanding of the lives and practices of the gay<br/>community, so long hidden from view." This seems completely wrongheaded. People<br/>(for the most part) didn't find Mapplethorpe's X <br/> Portfolio<br/>photographs objectionable because they depicted homosexuality. They found them<br/>objectionable because they depicted sadomasochism. The notion that it was what<br/>Fiss calls a "source of empowerment for the members of the gay community" to<br/>have homosexuality associated with snarling guys prancing around in leather<br/>jockstraps, using bullwhips as sex toys, and pissing in each other's mouths, at<br/>a time when AIDS had become a national health problem and the issue of gays in<br/>the military was about to arise, is ludicrous. Any NEA chairperson who had the<br/>interests of the gay community at heart would have rushed to defund the<br/>exhibit. Jesse Helms could not have demonized homosexuality more<br/>effectively--which, of course, is why he was pleased to draw public attention<br/>to the pictures. Now that is what we call an irony of free speech.<br/><br/> Awarding funding to the work<br/>of a gay artist because gay Americans need more political clout is an<br/>effort at cultural engineering, and the problem with cultural engineering is<br/>the problem with social engineering raised to a higher power. We have a hard<br/>enough time calculating the effects of the redistribution of wealth in our<br/>society. How can we possibly calculate the effects of redistributing the right<br/>to speak--of taking it away from people Professor Fiss feels have spoken long<br/>enough and mandating it for people he feels have not been adequately heard? One<br/>thing that is plain from the brief unhappy history of campus speech codes is<br/>that you automatically raise the value of the speech you punish and depress the<br/>value of the speech you sponsor. There are indeed many ironies here. Maybe<br/>someone will write a book about them.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) It is ironic that free speech requires the suppression of debunked ideas.\n\n(B) It is ironic that the command, “Shut Up,” is paired with verb explain. This paradox is a metaphor for the way free speech works. \n\n(C) It is ironic that free speech can only be achieved via the hand of the state.\n\n(D) It is ironic that free speech requires the silencing of a few small groups. \n",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20014 | Who is Owen Fiss and what did he do?
Choices:
(A) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible taking Robert Mapplethorpe to court.
(B) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, The Irony of Free Speech
(C) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained.
(D) He is a professor at Harvard Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained.
| [
"B",
"He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, The Irony of Free Speech \n"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Shut Up, He Explained<br/><br/> Owen Fiss is a professor at<br/>the Yale Law School and a highly regarded scholar of constitutional law. The<br/>subject of this short book is the present direction of the law governing the<br/>freedom of speech. What Professor Fiss has to say about it is worth attending<br/>to not merely because of his prominence in the field but because his argument<br/>is planted in the common assumptive ground of a lot of contemporary academic<br/>thought about the bankruptcy of individualism. The thesis of the book is Fiss',<br/>but the wisdom is conventional.<br/><br/> Professor<br/>Fiss thinks the present direction of First Amendment law is a bad one, and he<br/>has an idea about how we might improve it. The short way to put his argument<br/>(though it is not quite the way he puts it) is to say that our approach to<br/>speech has become increasingly permissive. Courts have become more and more<br/>reluctant to allow the state to interfere with the rights of individual<br/>speakers to say what they wish, and it is time to roll back that permissiveness<br/>and to embark on a new approach that would permit the state to silence some<br/>speakers and promote others, but still, Fiss argues, in the name of freedom of<br/>speech.<br/><br/> This is what Fiss means by the "irony" in his title: that<br/>true freedom of speech for all requires suppressing the speech of some. This is<br/>not, technically, an irony. It is a paradox. An irony would be the observation<br/>that an attempt to increase freedom for all often entails, despite our best<br/>efforts, a decrease in freedom for a few. If Fiss had addressed the subject of<br/>free speech in this spirit, as an irony, he would undoubtedly have had some<br/>interesting things to say, for he is a learned and temperate writer. But he<br/>has, instead, chosen to address the issue as an advocate for specific groups he<br/>regards as politically disadvantaged--women, gays, victims of racial-hate<br/>speech, the poor (or, at least, the not-rich), and people who are critical of<br/>market capitalism--and to design a constitutional theory that will enable those<br/>groups to enlist the state in efforts either to suppress speech they dislike or<br/>to subsidize speech they do like, without running afoul of the First Amendment.<br/>Embarked on this task, the most learned and temperate writer in the world would<br/>have a hard time avoiding tendentiousness. Fiss does not avoid it.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Irony of Free Speech is a discussion of several speech issues:<br/>campaign-finance laws, state funding for the arts, pornography, speech codes,<br/>and equal time. These discussions are not doctrinaire, but their general<br/>inclination is to favor state intervention, on political grounds, in each of<br/>those areas--that is, to favor restrictions on campaign spending, greater<br/>regulation of pornography, and so on. Fiss' analyses of specific cases are<br/>presented against a lightly sketched historical argument. Light though the<br/>sketching is, the historical argument is almost the most objectionable thing<br/>about the book, since it involves a distortion of the history of First<br/>Amendment law that is fairly plain even to someone who is not a professor at<br/>Yale Law School.<br/><br/> <br/>The argument is that "the liberalism of the<br/>nineteenth century was defined by the claims of individual liberty and resulted<br/>in an unequivocal demand for liberal government, [while] the liberalism of<br/>today embraces the value of equality as well as liberty." The constitutional<br/>law of free speech, says Fiss, was shaped by the earlier type of liberalism--he<br/>calls it "libertarian"--which regarded free speech as a right of individual<br/>self-expression; it is now used to foil efforts to regulate speech in the name<br/>of the newer liberal value, equality. Contemporary liberals, inheriting both<br/>these traditions, find themselves in a bind. They want, let's say, black<br/>students to be free from harassment at institutions where they are, racially,<br/>in a minority, since liberals worry that black students cannot be "equal" if<br/>they feel intimidated. But those same liberals get upset at the thought of<br/>outlawing hate speech, since that would mean infringing upon the right of<br/>individuals to express themselves.<br/><br/> Fiss'<br/>suggestion--this is the chief theoretical proposal of his book--is that<br/>liberals should stop thinking about this as a conflict between liberty and<br/>equality and start thinking about it as a conflict between two kinds of<br/>liberty: social vs. individual. The First Amendment, he says, was intended to<br/>foster (in William Brennan's words) "uninhibited, robust, and wide-open" debate<br/>in society as a whole; speech that inhibits or monopolizes that debate should<br/>therefore fall outside the protection of the law. We can maximize the total<br/>freedom of speech by silencing people who prevent others from speaking--when<br/>they utter racial epithets, represent women in degrading ways, use their wealth<br/>to dominate the press and the political process, or block the funding of<br/>unorthodox art.<br/><br/> The historical part of this analysis rests on a canard,<br/>which is the assertion that the constitutional law of free speech emerged from<br/>19 th -century classical laissez-faire liberalism. It did not. It<br/>emerged at the time of World War I, and the principal figures in its<br/>creation--Learned Hand, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., and Louis Brandeis--were not<br/>classical liberals; they were progressives. They abhorred the doctrine of<br/>natural rights because, in their time, that doctrine was construed to cover not<br/>the right to "self-expression" but the "right to property." Turn-of-the-century<br/>courts did not display a libertarian attitude toward civil rights; they<br/>displayed a libertarian attitude toward economic rights, tending to throw out<br/>legislation aimed at regulating industry and protecting workers on the grounds<br/>that people had a constitutional right to enter into contracts and to use their<br/>own property as they saw fit. Holmes, Brandeis, and their disciples<br/>consistently supported state intervention in economic affairs--the passage of<br/>health and safety regulations, the protection of unions, the imposition of<br/>taxes, and so on. The post-New Deal liberals whom Fiss associates with the<br/>value of equality are their heirs. The heirs of the19 th -century<br/>classical liberals are Jack Kemp and Newt Gingrich. Fiss' two "liberalisms"<br/>are, in fact, almost entirely different political philosophies.<br/><br/> Hand,<br/>Holmes, and Brandeis based their First Amendment opinions not on some putative<br/>right to individual self-expression (an idea Holmes referred to as "the right<br/>of the donkey to drool") but on a democratic need for full and open political<br/>debate. First Amendment law since their time has performed its balancing acts<br/>on precisely that social value--the very value Fiss now proposes we need to<br/>insert into First Amendment jurisprudence. We don't need to insert it, because<br/>it was there from the start.<br/><br/> <br/>Why does Fiss portray the history of First<br/>Amendment jurisprudence in this perverted way? Because he wants to line up his<br/>own free-speech argument within the conventional academic view that our<br/>problems are mostly the consequences of an antiquated and discreditable<br/>ideology of liberal individualism, and that they can mostly be solved by<br/>adopting a social-constructionist, or communitarian, or "intersubjective" view<br/>of human nature instead. The merits of liberal individualism vs.<br/>communitarianism can await another occasion to be debated. For since the law<br/>governing the freedom of speech does not emerge out of libertarianism, the<br/>matter does not boil down to replacing an obsolete belief in "self-expression"<br/>with a more up-to-date belief in "robust debate," as Fiss would like to think<br/>it does. What it boils down to is whether we need to replace the<br/>Hand-Holmes-Brandeis way of maximizing the benefits of free speech in a<br/>democratic society, which tries to push the state as far out of the picture as<br/>possible, with a different way, which tries to get the state farther into the<br/>picture.<br/><br/> Here,<br/>assuming we want to try the interventionist approach, it is hard to see how a<br/>one-size theory can possibly fit all cases. The issues underlying pornography,<br/>hate speech, arts grants, campaign finance, and equal-time provisions are all<br/>different. The ideological impetus behind judicial developments in the last two<br/>areas, campaign finance and equal-time provisions, is related less to speech,<br/>except as a kind of constitutional cover, than to a revival of the old "right<br/>to property"--that is, the Supreme Court tends to disapprove of legislative and<br/>administrative efforts to require broadcasters to carry "opposing viewpoints"<br/>on the grounds that since it's their property, owners of television stations<br/>should be able to broadcast what they like. Fiss believes that the need for<br/>equal-time laws is as urgent today as it was in the 1970s, which is peculiar in<br/>light of the proliferation of media outlets. But the state does arguably have<br/>an interest, compatible with the First Amendment, in stipulating the way those<br/>media are used, and Fiss' discussion of those issues is the least aggravating<br/>in his book.<br/><br/> Still, that discussion, like his discussions of the other<br/>issues, rests on a claim long associated with the left--the claim, in a phrase,<br/>that the minority is really the majority. In the case of speech, Fiss appears<br/>to believe that the reason the American public is less enlightened than he<br/>would wish it to be concerning matters such as feminism, the rights of<br/>homosexuals, and regulation of industry is that people are denied access to the<br/>opinions and information that would enlighten them. The public is denied this<br/>access because the state, in thrall to the ideology of individualism, refuses<br/>either to interfere with speech bullies--such as pornographers--who "silence"<br/>women, or to subsidize the speech of the unorthodox, such as Robert<br/>Mapplethorpe.<br/><br/> Fiss'<br/>analysis of the Mapplethorpe case offers a good example of the perils of his<br/>interventionist approach. Arts policy is, unquestionably, a mess. The solution<br/>usually proposed is divorce: Either get the state out of the business<br/>altogether or invent some ironclad process for distributing the money using<br/>strictly artistic criteria. Fiss rejects both solutions; he wants the<br/>criteria to be political. He thinks the NEA should subsidize art that will<br/>enhance the "robustness" of the debate and should therefore prefer unorthodox<br/>art--though only, of course, if it represents a viewpoint the endowment<br/>considers, by virtue of social need and a prior history of exclusion, worthy of<br/>its megaphone. (No Nazi art, in other words.)<br/><br/> <br/>Mapplethorpe's photographs seem to Fiss to<br/>qualify under these guidelines, since, he says, "in the late 1980s the AIDS<br/>crisis confronted America in the starkest fashion and provoked urgent questions<br/>regarding the scope and direction of publicly funded medical research. To<br/>address those issues the public--represented by the casual museum<br/>visitor--needed an understanding of the lives and practices of the gay<br/>community, so long hidden from view." This seems completely wrongheaded. People<br/>(for the most part) didn't find Mapplethorpe's X <br/> Portfolio<br/>photographs objectionable because they depicted homosexuality. They found them<br/>objectionable because they depicted sadomasochism. The notion that it was what<br/>Fiss calls a "source of empowerment for the members of the gay community" to<br/>have homosexuality associated with snarling guys prancing around in leather<br/>jockstraps, using bullwhips as sex toys, and pissing in each other's mouths, at<br/>a time when AIDS had become a national health problem and the issue of gays in<br/>the military was about to arise, is ludicrous. Any NEA chairperson who had the<br/>interests of the gay community at heart would have rushed to defund the<br/>exhibit. Jesse Helms could not have demonized homosexuality more<br/>effectively--which, of course, is why he was pleased to draw public attention<br/>to the pictures. Now that is what we call an irony of free speech.<br/><br/> Awarding funding to the work<br/>of a gay artist because gay Americans need more political clout is an<br/>effort at cultural engineering, and the problem with cultural engineering is<br/>the problem with social engineering raised to a higher power. We have a hard<br/>enough time calculating the effects of the redistribution of wealth in our<br/>society. How can we possibly calculate the effects of redistributing the right<br/>to speak--of taking it away from people Professor Fiss feels have spoken long<br/>enough and mandating it for people he feels have not been adequately heard? One<br/>thing that is plain from the brief unhappy history of campus speech codes is<br/>that you automatically raise the value of the speech you punish and depress the<br/>value of the speech you sponsor. There are indeed many ironies here. Maybe<br/>someone will write a book about them.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible taking Robert Mapplethorpe to court.\n\n(B) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, The Irony of Free Speech \n\n(C) He is a professor at Yale Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained.\n\n(D) He is a professor at Harvard Law School. He is responsible for writing the book, Shut Up, He Explained. \n",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
53016 | Given the way that the marocca grow, will the narrator and Captain Hannah likely have to make trips back to Mypore II in the future to transport more marocca?
Choices:
(A) Yes, because the marocca plants will not have a very long lifespan on Gloryanna III.
(B) No, because the marocca will be so difficult to maintain on Gloryanna III that any hopes of restarting a marocca industry on the planet will be abandoned.
(C) No, because the plants grow extraordinarily fast and they reproduce on a large-scale.
(D) Yes, because the marocca do not produce many fruits, so more plants will have to be transported to make the plant profitable. | [
"C",
"No, because the plants grow extraordinarily fast and they reproduce on a large-scale."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
CAKEWALK TO GLORYANNA
</h1>
<p>
BY L. J. STECHER, JR.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
The job was easy. The profit was enormous. The
<br/>
only trouble was—the cargo had a will of its own!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Captain Hannah climbed painfully down from the
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
, hobbled
across the spaceport to where Beulah and I were waiting to greet him
and hit me in the eye. Beulah—that's his elephant, but I have to take
care of her for him because Beulah's baby belongs to me and Beulah has
to take care of it—kept us apart until we both cooled down a little.
Then, although still somewhat dubious about it, she let us go together
across the field to the spaceport bar.
</p>
<p>
I didn't ask Captain Hannah why he had socked me.
</p>
<p>
Although he has never been a handsome man, he usually has the
weathered and austere dignity that comes from plying the remote reaches
among the stars. Call it the Look of Eagles. Captain Hannah had lost
the Look of Eagles. His eyes were swollen almost shut; every inch of
him that showed was a red mass of welts piled on more welts, as though
he had tangled with a hive of misanthropic bees. The gold-braided hat
of his trade was not clamped in its usual belligerent position slightly
over one eye. It was riding high on his head, apparently held up by
more of the ubiquitous swellings.
</p>
<p>
I figured that he figured that I had something to do with the way he
looked.
</p>
<p>
"Shipping marocca to Gloryanna III didn't turn out to be a cakewalk
after all?" I suggested.
</p>
<p>
He glared at me in silence.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps you would like a drink first, and then you would be willing to
tell me about it?"
</p>
<p>
I decided that his wince was intended for a nod, and ordered rhial.
I only drink rhial when I've been exposed to Captain Hannah. It was
almost a pleasure to think that
<i>
I
</i>
was responsible, for a change, for
having
<i>
him
</i>
take the therapy.
</p>
<p>
"A
<i>
Delta
</i>
Class freighter can carry almost anything," he said at last,
in a travesty of his usual forceful voice. "But some things it should
never try."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He lapsed back into silence after this uncharacteristic admission. I
almost felt sorry for him, but just then Beulah came racking across
the field with her two-ton infant in tow, to show her off to Hannah. I
walled off my pity. He had foisted those two maudlin mastodons off onto
me in one of our earlier deals, and if I had somehow been responsible
for his present troubles, it was no more than he deserved. I rated
winning for once.
</p>
<p>
"You
<i>
did
</i>
succeed in getting the marocca to Gloryanna III?" I asked
anxiously, after the elephants had been admired and sent back home.
The success of that venture—even if the job had turned out to be more
difficult than we had expected—meant an enormous profit to both of
us. The fruit of the marocca is delicious and fabulously expensive.
The plant grew only on the single planet Mypore II. Transshipped seeds
invariably failed to germinate, which explained its rarity.
</p>
<p>
The Myporians were usually, and understandably, bitterly, opposed to
letting any of the living plants get shipped off their planet. But when
I offered them a sizable piece of cash plus a perpetual share of the
profits for letting us take a load of marocca plants to Gloryanna III,
they relented and, for the first time in history, gave their assent. In
fact, they had seemed delighted.
</p>
<p>
"I got them there safely," said Captain Hannah.
</p>
<p>
"And they are growing all right?" I persisted.
</p>
<p>
"When I left, marocca was growing like mad," said Captain Hannah.
</p>
<p>
I relaxed and leaned back in my chair. I no longer felt the need of
rhial for myself. "Tell me about it," I suggested.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It was you who said that we should carry those damn plants to
Gloryanna III," he said balefully. "I ought to black your other eye."
</p>
<p>
"Simmer down and have some more rhial," I told him. "Sure I get the
credit for that. Gloryanna III is almost a twin to Mypore II. You know
that marocca takes a very special kind of environment. Bright sun most
of the time—that means an almost cloudless environment. A very equable
climate. Days and nights the same length and no seasons—that means no
ecliptical and no axial tilt. But our tests showed that the plants had
enough tolerance to cause no trouble in the trip in
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
." A
light dawned. "Our tests were no good?"
</p>
<p>
"Your tests were no good," agreed the captain with feeling. "I'll tell
you about it first, and
<i>
then
</i>
I'll black your other eye," he decided.
</p>
<p>
"You'll remember that I warned you that we should take some marocca
out into space and solve any problems we might find before committing
ourselves to hauling a full load of it?" asked Captain Hannah.
</p>
<p>
"We couldn't," I protested. "The Myporians gave us a deadline. If
we had gone through all of that rigamarole, we would have lost the
franchise. Besides, they gave you full written instructions about what
to do under all possible circumstances."
</p>
<p>
"Sure. Written in Myporian. A very difficult language to translate.
Especially when you're barricaded in the head."
</p>
<p>
I almost asked him why he had been barricaded in the bathroom of the
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
, but I figured it was safer to let him tell me in his
own way, in his own time.
</p>
<p>
"Well," he said, "I got into parking orbit around Mypore without any
trouble. The plastic film kept the water in the hydroponic tanks
without any trouble, even in a no-gravity condition. And by the time I
had lined up for Gloryanna and Jumped, I figured, like you said, that
the trip would be a cakewalk.
</p>
<p>
"Do you remember how the plants always keep their leaves facing the
sun? They twist on their stems all day, and then they go on twisting
them all night, still pointing at the underground sun, so that they're
aimed right at sunrise. So the stem looks like a corkscrew?"
</p>
<p>
I nodded. "Sure. That's why they can't stand an axial tilt. They
'remember' the rate and direction of movement, and keep it up during
the night time. So what? We had that problem all figured out."
</p>
<p>
"You think so? That solution was one of yours, too, wasn't it?" He
gazed moodily at his beaker of rhial. "I must admit it sounded good
to me, too. In Limbo, moving at multiple light-speeds, the whole
Universe, of course, turns into a bright glowing spot in our direction
of motion, with everything else dark. So I lined up the
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
perpendicular to her direction of motion, put a once-every-twenty-one
hour spin on her to match the rotation rates of Mypore II and Gloryanna
III, and uncovered the view ports to let in the light. It gradually
brightened until 'noon time', with the ports pointing straight at the
light source, and then dimmed until we had ten and one-half hours of
darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Of course, it didn't work."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"For Heaven's sake, why not?"
</p>
<p>
"For Heaven's sake why should it? With no gravity for reference, how
were the plants supposed to know that the 'sun' was supposed to be
moving?"
</p>
<p>
"So what did you do?" I asked, when that had sunk in. "If the stem
doesn't keep winding, the plants die; and they can only take a few
extra hours of night time before they run down."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," said Captain Hannah in quiet tones of controlled desperation, "it
was very simple. I just put enough spin on the ship to make artificial
gravity, and then I strung a light and moved it every fifteen minutes
for ten and one-half hours, until I had gone halfway around the room.
Then I could turn the light off and rest for ten and one-half hours.
The plants liked it fine.
</p>
<p>
"Of course, first I had to move all the hydroponic tanks from their
original positions perpendicular to the axial thrust line of the ship
to a radial position. And because somehow we had picked up half of
the plants in the northern hemisphere of Mypore and the other half in
the southern hemisphere, it turned out that half of the plants had a
sinistral corkscrew and the other half had a dextral. So I had to set
the plants up in two different rooms, and run an artificial sun for
each, going clockwise with one, widdershins with the other.
</p>
<p>
"I won't even talk about what I went through while I was shifting the
hydroponic tanks, when all the plastic membranes that were supposed to
keep the water in place started to break."
</p>
<p>
"I'd like to know," I said sincerely.
</p>
<p>
He stared at me in silence for a moment. "Well, it filled the cabin
with great solid bubbles of water. Water bubbles will oscillate and
wobble like soap bubbles," he went on dreamily, "but of course,
they're not empty, like soap bubbles. The surface acts a little like
a membrane, so that sometimes two of the things will touch and gently
bounce apart without joining. But just try
<i>
touching
</i>
one of them. You
could drown—I almost did. Several times.
</p>
<p>
"I got a fire pump—an empty one. You know the kind; a wide cylinder
with a piston with a handle, and a hose that you squirt the water out
of, or can suck water in with. The way you use it is, you float up on
a big ball of water, with the pump piston down—closed. You carefully
poke the end of the hose into the ball of water, letting only the metal
tip touch.
<i>
Never
</i>
the hose. If you let the hose touch, the water runs
up it and tries to drown you. Then you pull up on the piston, and draw
all the water into the cylinder. Of course, you have to hold the pump
with your feet while you pull the handle with your free hand."
</p>
<p>
"Did it work?" I asked eagerly.
</p>
<p>
"Eventually. Then I stopped to think of what to do with the water.
It was full of minerals and manure and such, and I didn't want to
introduce it into the ship's tanks."
</p>
<p>
"But you solved the problem?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"In a sense," said the captain. "I just emptied the pump back into the
air, ignored the bubbles, repositioned the tanks, put spin on the ship
and then ladled the liquid back into the tanks with a bucket."
</p>
<p>
"Didn't you bump into a lot of the bubbles and get yourself dunked a
good deal while you were working with the tanks?"
</p>
<p>
He shrugged. "I couldn't say. By that time I was ignoring them. It was
that or suicide. I had begun to get the feeling that they were stalking
me. So I drew a blank."
</p>
<p>
"Then after that you were all right, except for the tedium of moving
the lights around?" I asked him. I answered myself at once. "No. There
must be more. You haven't told me why you hid out in the bathroom, yet."
</p>
<p>
"Not yet," said Captain Hannah. "Like you, I figured I had the
situation fairly well under control, but like you, I hadn't thought
things through. The plastic membranes hadn't torn when we brought the
tanks in board the
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
. It never occurred to me to hunt
around for the reasons for the change. But I wouldn't have had long to
hunt anyway, because in a few hours the reasons came looking for me.
</p>
<p>
"They were a tiny skeeter-like thing. A sort of midge or junior grade
mosquito. They had apparently been swimming in the water during their
larval stage. Instead of making cocoons for themselves, they snipped
tiny little pieces of plastic to use as protective covers in the pupal
stage. I guess they were more like butterflies than mosquitoes in their
habits. And now they were mature.
</p>
<p>
"There were thousands and thousands of them, and each one of them made
a tiny, maddening whine as it flew."
</p>
<p>
"And they bit? That explains your bumps?" I asked sympathetically.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no. These things didn't bite, they itched. And they got down
inside of everything they could get down inside, and clung. That
included my ears and my eyes and my nose.
</p>
<p>
"I broke out a hand sprayer full of a DDT solution, and sprayed it
around me to try to clear the nearby air a little, so that I could
have room to think. The midges loved it. But the plants that were in
reach died so fast that you could watch their leaves curl up and drop
off.
</p>
<p>
"I couldn't figure whether to turn up the fans and dissipate the
cloud—by spreading it all through the ship—or whether to try to block
off the other plant room, and save it at least. So I ended up by not
doing anything, which was the right thing to do. No more plants died
from the DDT.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"So then I did a few experiments, and found that the regular poison
spray in the ship's fumigation system worked just fine. It killed
the bugs without doing the plants any harm at all. Of course, the
fumigation system is designed to work with the fumigator off the ship,
because it's poisonous to humans too.
</p>
<p>
"I finally blocked the vents and the door edges in the head, after
running some remote controls into there, and then started the
fumigation system going. While I was sitting there with nothing much
to do, I tried to translate what I could of the Myporian instructions.
It was on page eleven that it mentioned casually that the midges—the
correct word is carolla—are a necessary part of the life cycle of the
marocca. The larvae provide an enzyme without which the plants die.
</p>
<p>
"Of course. I immediately stopped slapping at the relatively few midges
that had made their way into the head with me, and started to change
the air in the ship to get rid of the poison. I knew it was too late
before I started, and for once I was right.
</p>
<p>
"The only live midges left in the ship were the ones that had been
with me during the fumigation process. I immediately tried to start
a breeding ground for midges, but the midges didn't seem to want to
cooperate. Whatever I tried to do, they came back to me. I was the only
thing they seemed to love. I didn't dare bathe, or scratch, or even
wriggle, for fear of killing more of them. And they kept on itching. It
was just about unbearable, but I bore it for three interminable days
while the midges died one by one. It was heartbreaking—at least, it
was to me.
</p>
<p>
"And it was unnecessary, too. Because apparently the carolla had
already laid their eggs, or whatever it is that they do, before I
had fumigated them. After my useless days of agony, a new batch
came swarming out. And this time there were a few of a much larger
thing with them—something like an enormous moth. The new thing just
blundered around aimlessly.
</p>
<p>
"I lit out for the head again, to keep away from that intolerable
whining. This time I took a luxurious shower and got rid of most of the
midges that came through the door with me. I felt almost comfortable,
in fact, until I resumed my efforts to catch up on my reading.
</p>
<p>
"The mothlike things—they are called dingleburys—also turn out to
provide a necessary enzyme. They are supposed to have the same timing
of their life cycle as the carolla. Apparently the shaking up I had
given their larvae in moving the tanks and dipping the water up in
buckets and all that had inhibited them in completing their cycle the
first time around.
</p>
<p>
"And the reason they had the same life cycle as the carolla was that
the adult dinglebury will eat only the adult carolla, and it has to
fill itself full to bursting before it will reproduce. If I had the
translation done correctly, they were supposed to dart gracefully
around, catching carolla on the wing and stuffing themselves happily.
</p>
<p>
"I had to find out what was wrong with my awkward dingleburys. And
that, of course, meant going out into the ship again. But I had to do
that anyway, because it was almost 'daylight', and time for me to start
shifting the lights again.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"The reason for the dingleburys' problem is fairly obvious. When you
set up artificial gravity by spinning a ship, the gravity is fine down
near the skin where the plants are. But the gravity potential is very
high, and it gets very light up where things fly around, going to zero
on the middle line of the ship. And the unfamiliar gravity gradient,
together with the Coriolis effect and all, makes the poor dingleburys
dizzy, so they can't catch carolla.
</p>
<p>
"And if you think I figured all that out about dingleburys getting
dizzy at the time, in that madhouse of a ship, then you're crazy. What
happened was that I saw that there was one of the creatures that didn't
seem to be having any trouble, but was acting like the book said it
should. I caught it and examined it. The poor thing was blind, and was
capturing her prey by sound alone.
</p>
<p>
"So I spent the whole day—along with my usual chore of shifting the
lights—blindfolding dingleburys. Which is a hell of a sport for a man
who is captain of his own ship."
</p>
<p>
I must say that I agreed with him, but it seemed to be a good time for
me to keep my mouth shut.
</p>
<p>
"Well, after the dingleburys had eaten and propagated, they became
inquisitive. They explored the whole ship, going into places I wouldn't
have believed it to be possible for them to reach, including the inside
of the main computer, which promptly shorted out. I finally figured
that one of the things had managed to crawl up the cooling air exhaust
duct, against the flow of air, to see what was going on inside.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't dare to get rid of the things without checking my book, of
course, so it was back to the head for me. 'Night' had come again—and
it was the only place I could get any privacy. There were plenty of the
carolla left to join me outside.
</p>
<p>
"I showered and swatted and started to read. I got as far as where it
said that the dingleburys continued to be of importance, and then I'm
afraid I fell asleep.
</p>
<p>
"I got up with the sun the next morning. Hell, I had to, considering
that it was I who turned the sun on! I found that the dingleburys
immediately got busy opening small buds on the stems of the marocca
plants. Apparently they were pollinating them. I felt sure that these
buds weren't the marocca blossoms from which the fruit formed—I'd
seen a lot of those while we were on Mypore II and they were much
bigger and showier than these little acorn-sized buds.
</p>
<p>
"Of course, I should have translated some more of my instruction book,
but I was busy.
</p>
<p>
"Anyway, the action of the dingleburys triggered the violent growth
phase of the marocca plants. Did you know that they plant marocca
seedlings, back on Mypore II,
<i>
at least
</i>
a hundred feet apart? If
you'll recall, a mature field, which was the only kind we ever saw, is
one solid mass of green growth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"The book says that it takes just six hours for a marocca field to
shift from the seedling stage to the mature stage. It didn't seem that
long. You could
<i>
watch
</i>
the stuff grow—groping and crawling along; one
plant twining with another as they climbed toward the light.
</p>
<p>
"It was then that I began to get worried. If they twined around the
light, they would keep me from moving it, and they would shadow it so
it wouldn't do its job right. In effect, their growth would put out the
sun.
</p>
<p>
"I thought of putting up an electrically charged fence around the
light, but the bugs had put most of my loose equipment out of action,
so I got a machete. When I took a swing at one of the vines, something
bit me on the back of the neck so hard it almost knocked me down. It
was one of the dingleburys, and it was as mad as blazes. It seems that
one of the things they do is to defend the marocca against marauders.
That was the first of my welts, and it put me back in the head in
about two seconds.
</p>
<p>
"And what's more, I found that I couldn't kill the damn things. Not if
I wanted to save the plants. The growth only stops at the end of six
hours, after the blossoms appear and are visited by the dingleburys. No
dingleburys, no growth stoppage.
</p>
<p>
"So for the next several hours I had to keep moving those lights, and
keep them clear of the vines, and keep the vines from shadowing each
other to the point where they curled up and died, and I had to do it
<i>
gently
</i>
, surrounded by a bunch of worried dingleburys.
</p>
<p>
"Every time they got a little too worried, or I slipped and bumped into
a plant too hard, or looked crosseyed at them, they bit me. If you
think I look bad now, you should have seen me just about the time the
blossoms started to burst.
</p>
<p>
"I was worried about those blossoms. I felt sure that they would smell
terrible, or make me sick, or hypnotize me, or something. But they just
turned out to be big, white, odorless flowers. They did nothing for me
or to me. They drove the dingleburys wild, though, I'm happy to say.
Made them forget all about me.
</p>
<p>
"While they were having their orgy, I caught up on my reading. It
was necessary for me to cut back the marocca vines. For one thing,
I couldn't get up to the area of the bridge. For another, the main
computer was completely clogged. I could use the auxiliary, on the
bridge, if I could get to it, but it's a poor substitute. For another
thing, I would have to cut the stuff way back if I was ever going to
get the plants out of the ship. And I was a little anxious to get my
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
back to normal as soon as possible. But before cutting,
I had to translate the gouge.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It turns out that it's all right to cut marocca as soon as it stops
growing. To keep the plants from dying, though, you have to mulch the
cuttings and then feed them back to the plants, where the roots store
whatever they need against the time of the next explosive period of
growth. Of course, if you prefer you can wait for the vines to die back
naturally, which takes several months.
</p>
<p>
"There was one little catch, of course. The cuttings from the vines
will poison the plants if they are fed back to them without having been
mixed with a certain amount of processed mulch. Enzymes again. And
there was only one special processor on board.
</p>
<p>
"I was the special processor. That's what the instructions said—I
translated very carefully—it required an 'organic processor'.
</p>
<p>
"So I had to eat pounds of that horrible tasting stuff every day, and
process it the hard way.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't even have time to scratch my bites. I must have lost weight
everywhere but in the swollen places, and they looked worse than they
do now. The doctor says it may take a year before the bumps all go
away—if they ever do—but I have improved a lot already.
</p>
<p>
"For a while I must have been out of my head. I got so caught up in
the rhythm of the thing that I didn't even notice when we slipped out
of Limbo into real space near Gloryanna III. It was three days, the
Control Tower on Gloryanna III told me, that they tried continuously
to raise me on the communications gear before I heard the alarm bell
and answered them, so I had to do a good deal of backtracking before
I could get into parking orbit around the planet, and then set
<i>
Delta
Crucis
</i>
down safely. Even as shaky as I was,
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
behaved
like a lady.
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't chopped off all of the new growth, although I had the plants
down to manageable size. Some of the blossoms left on the plants had
formed fruit, and the fruit had ripened and dried, and the seeds had
developed fully. They were popping and spreading fine dust-like spores
all over the ship, those last few hours before I landed.
</p>
<p>
"By that time, though, an occasional sneezing fit and watering eyes
didn't bother me any. I was far beyond the point where hay fever could
add to my troubles.
</p>
<p>
"When I opened the airlock door, though, the spores drifting outside
set the customs inspectors to sneezing and swearing more than seemed
reasonable at the time." Captain Hannah inhaled a sip of rhial, and
seemed to be enjoying the powerful stuff. He acted as if he thought he
had finished.
</p>
<p>
"Well, go on," I urged him. "The marocca plants were still in good
shape, weren't they?"
</p>
<p>
Hannah nodded. "They were growing luxuriously." He nodded his head a
couple of more times, in spite of the discomfort it must have given
him.
</p>
<p>
He said, "They made me burn the entire crop right away, of course. They
didn't get all of the carolla or dingleburys, though. Or spores."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Gloryanna III is the original home planet of marocca. They hated the
stuff, of course, but they liked the profit. Then, when a plague almost
wiped out the dingleburys, they introduced khorram furs as a cash
crop. It wasn't as lucrative, but it was so much more pleasant that
they outlawed marocca. Took them almost fifty years to stamp it out
completely. Meanwhile, some clever native shipped a load of the stuff
to Mypore II. He took his time, did it without any trouble and made his
fortune. And got out again quickly.
</p>
<p>
"The Gloryannans were going to hold my
<i>
Delta Crucis
</i>
as security to
pay for the cost of stamping out marocca all over again—those spores
sprout fast—and for a time I was worried.
</p>
<p>
"Of course, when I showed them our contract—that you alone were
responsible for everything once I landed the plants safely on Gloryanna
III, they let me go.
</p>
<p>
"They'll send you the bill. They don't figure it will take them more
than a few months to complete the job."
</p>
<p>
Captain Hannah stopped talking and stood up, painfully and a little
unsteadily.
</p>
<p>
I'm afraid I didn't even notice when he blacked my other eye. I was too
busy reaching for the rhial.
</p>
<p class="ph3">
END
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Yes, because the marocca plants will not have a very long lifespan on Gloryanna III.\n(B) No, because the marocca will be so difficult to maintain on Gloryanna III that any hopes of restarting a marocca industry on the planet will be abandoned.\n(C) No, because the plants grow extraordinarily fast and they reproduce on a large-scale.\n(D) Yes, because the marocca do not produce many fruits, so more plants will have to be transported to make the plant profitable. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Interstellar travel -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction; Hannah, Bart (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; Short stories"
} |
61204 | How do Wayne's thoughts toward Captain Jack and his dialogue toward Captain Jack differ?
Choices:
(A) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack respectfully, but mocks him in his thoughts.
(B) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack in a fearful manner, but underestimates him in his thoughts.
(C) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack quietly, but wishes he could have more confidence on the inside.
(D) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack arrogantly, but is scared of him in his thoughts. | [
"A",
"Wayne speaks to Captain Jack respectfully, but mocks him in his thoughts."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE RECRUIT
</h1>
<h2>
BY BRYCE WALTON
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
It was dirty work, but it would
<br/>
make him a man. And kids had a
<br/>
right to grow up—some of them!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.
</p>
<p>
The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut
and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously
polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty
that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,
marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.
</p>
<p>
The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone."
</p>
<p>
"But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time."
</p>
<p>
"Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting
for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough."
</p>
<p>
Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.
</p>
<p>
"We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember
about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to
go, like they say. You read the books."
</p>
<p>
"But he's unhappy."
</p>
<p>
"Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What
do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or
we'll be late."
</p>
<p>
Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless
noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.
Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the
same old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all the
way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or with
eyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retire
into limbo.
</p>
<p>
How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? One
thing—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pants
off Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget his
punkie origins in teeveeland.
</p>
<p>
But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressed
impulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was no
doubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.
So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alone
waiting for the breakout call from HQ.
</p>
<p>
"Well, dear, if you say so," Mother said, with the old resigned sigh
that must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.
</p>
<p>
They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.
</p>
<p>
"Relax," Wayne said. "You're not going anywhere tonight."
</p>
<p>
"What, son?" his old man said uneasily. "Sure we are. We're going to
the movies."
</p>
<p>
He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn't
answer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then was
silent.
</p>
<p>
"Okay, go," Wayne said. "If you wanta walk. I'm taking the family
boltbucket."
</p>
<p>
"But we promised the Clemons, dear," his mother said.
</p>
<p>
"Hell," Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. "I just got my
draft call."
</p>
<p>
He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. "Oh, my dear boy," Mother cried
out.
</p>
<p>
"So gimme the keys," Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. His
understanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Do be careful, dear," his mother said. She ran toward him as he
laughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomed
the Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramp
onto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-calling
neon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailed
the glaring wonders of escape.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strode
under a sign reading
<i>
Public Youth Center No. 947
</i>
and walked casually
to the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and a
pansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.
</p>
<p>
"Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?"
</p>
<p>
Wayne grinned down. "Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey."
</p>
<p>
"Well," the sergeant said. "How tough we are this evening. You have a
pass, killer?"
</p>
<p>
"Wayne Seton. Draft call."
</p>
<p>
"Oh." The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wrote
on a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. "Go to the Armory and
check out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report to
Captain Jack, room 307."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks, sarge dear," Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.
</p>
<p>
A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.
Finally he said, "So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kid
breaking out tonight?"
</p>
<p>
"Hold your teeth, pop," Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting a
cigarette. "I've decided."
</p>
<p>
The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.
"Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city and
you're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babes
are clever hellcats in a dark alley."
</p>
<p>
"You must be a genius," Wayne said. "A corporal with no hair and still
a counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad."
</p>
<p>
The corporal sighed wearily. "You can get that balloon head
ventilated, bud, and good."
</p>
<p>
Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward the
shelves and racks of weapons. "I'll remember that crack when I get
my commission." He blew smoke in the corporal's face. "Bring me a
Smith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw in
a Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with the
double springs."
</p>
<p>
The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchblade
disguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,
while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled the
cylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slipped
the knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at its
gleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refracted
incandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting and
scary.
</p>
<p>
He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his left
armpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling the
way the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacket
back on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward the
elevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, "Good luck, tiger."
</p>
<p>
Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive with
stuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. Captain
Jack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It had
a head shaped like a grinning bear.
</p>
<p>
Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed to
shrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a pea
among bowling balls.
</p>
<p>
Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggy
head. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.
</p>
<p>
"Wayne Seton," said Captain Jack as if he were discussing something
in a bug collection. "Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?
Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.
His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fear
the way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'll
show you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat until
he screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,
ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. But
that wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,
what was he doing holding down a desk?
</p>
<p>
"Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterfly
collection."
</p>
<p>
The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inch
from Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clamped
a knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.
</p>
<p>
Captain Jack chuckled. "All right, superboy." He handed Wayne his
passcard. "Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to make
out."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the West
Side. Know where that is, punk?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir, but I'll find it fast."
</p>
<p>
"Sure you will, punk," smiled Captain Jack. "She'll be wearing yellow
slacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a hefty
psycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.
They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go and
they're your key to the stars."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Wayne said.
</p>
<p>
"So run along and make out, punk," grinned Captain Jack.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of bright
respectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.
</p>
<p>
Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop's
quivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. The
Olds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.
</p>
<p>
The air through the open window was chill and damp coming from
Slumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.
He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,
secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pitted
potholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.
Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breath
through the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling with
the shadows of mysterious promise.
</p>
<p>
He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiously
into it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy as
he spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.
</p>
<p class="ph2">
<i>
FOUR ACES CLUB
</i>
</p>
<p>
He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, digging
the sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brass
filtering through windows painted black.
</p>
<p>
He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out of
a bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoaked
shirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grub
balanced on one end.
</p>
<p>
The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight had
a dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in a
grotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror and
doom.
</p>
<p>
"I gotta hide, kid. They're on me."
</p>
<p>
Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.
</p>
<p>
The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.
</p>
<p>
"Help me, kid."
</p>
<p>
He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blast
of headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushed
past Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tires
squealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out and
crouched as he began stalking the old rummy.
</p>
<p>
"This is him! This is him all right," the teener yelled, and one hand
came up swinging a baseball bat.
</p>
<p>
A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.
</p>
<p>
The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. The
teener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the air
as the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.
</p>
<p>
Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonder
at finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfew
and no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.
Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,
until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. He
held his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved in
spirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a hunting
license and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.
</p>
<p>
The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teener
laughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yell
clogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouth
still open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curled
up with stick arms over his rheumy face.
</p>
<p>
The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and down
with his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into the
Cad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of falling
glass.
</p>
<p>
"Go, man!"
</p>
<p>
The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as it
bounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished like
bright wind-blown sparks.
</p>
<p>
Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying in
scummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, made
his heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.
</p>
<p>
He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... and
pursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness and
stood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt and
yellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.
</p>
<p>
He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.
The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a red
slash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager for
running, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table near
her, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.
</p>
<p>
She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitude
of being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in a
weirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.
</p>
<p>
Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirty
T-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouse
heavy.
</p>
<p>
"What's yours, teener?" the slug-faced waiter asked.
</p>
<p>
"Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo," Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, teener."
</p>
<p>
Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched and
fed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. She
sat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.
</p>
<p>
Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttons
imbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on one
side. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furious
cat's.
</p>
<p>
Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk at
his lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentrated
on staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes bright
but dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared little
mouse.
</p>
<p>
The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was in
the pay of the state.
</p>
<p>
"What else, teener?"
</p>
<p>
"One thing. Fade."
</p>
<p>
"Sure, teener," the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.
</p>
<p>
Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled his
veins, became hot wire twisting in his head.
</p>
<p>
He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumped
fast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped the
air. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, the
white eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at her
throat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.
</p>
<p>
"Okay, you creep," Wayne said.
</p>
<p>
He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a table
crashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blast
filled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the door
holding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and was
out the door.
</p>
<p>
Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt the
cold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinted
down the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.
</p>
<p>
He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now and
then, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with the
life-or-death animation of a wild deer.
</p>
<p>
Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.
Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,
sliding down a brick shute.
</p>
<p>
He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And her
scream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire with
terror.
</p>
<p>
"You, baby," Wayne gasped. "I gotcha."
</p>
<p>
She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,
her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gave
a squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.
He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitated
in the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose trickling
plaster, a whimpering whine.
</p>
<p>
"No use running," Wayne said. "Go loose. Give, baby. Give now."
</p>
<p>
She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,
feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through a
sagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse's
shadow floated ahead.
</p>
<p>
He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railing
ripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. He
heard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded from
cracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into the
third-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under the
jagged skylight.
</p>
<p>
Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listening
to his creeping, implacable footfalls.
</p>
<p>
Then he yelled and slammed open the door.
</p>
<p>
Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. In
the corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More like
a nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,
shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under the
moon-streaming skylight.
</p>
<p>
She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. He
snickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent's
tongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rotten
cloth.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Do it quick, hunter," she whispered. "Please do it quick."
</p>
<p>
"What's that, baby?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know the
difference."
</p>
<p>
"I'm gonna bruise and beat you," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Kill me first," she begged. "I don't want—" She began to cry. She
cried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouth
open.
</p>
<p>
"You got bad blood, baby," he snarled. He laughed but it didn't sound
like him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.
</p>
<p>
"Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry."
</p>
<p>
She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring up
at him.
</p>
<p>
He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned and
shuffled away from her.
</p>
<p>
He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging and
clutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.
</p>
<p>
"Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,
God, I'm so tired waiting and running!"
</p>
<p>
"I can't," he said, and sickness soured in his throat.
</p>
<p>
"Please."
</p>
<p>
"I can't, I can't!"
</p>
<p>
He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,
studied Wayne with abstract interest.
</p>
<p>
"You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"But you couldn't execute them?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir."
</p>
<p>
"They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girl
killed her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing can
be done for them? That they have to be executed?"
</p>
<p>
"I know."
</p>
<p>
"Too bad," the doctor said. "We all have aggressive impulses, primitive
needs that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in all
of us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but
<i>
educated
</i>
. The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,
Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,
Seton?"
</p>
<p>
"I—felt sorry for her."
</p>
<p>
"Is that all you can say about it?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.
</p>
<p>
"You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's still
in there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shed
clean innocent blood, can I?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir," Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. "I'm sorry I punked out."
</p>
<p>
"Give him the treatment," the doctor said wearily. "And send him back
to his mother."
</p>
<p>
Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to split
open some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But there
was no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and his
poker-playing pals.
</p>
<p>
They had all punked out.
</p>
<p>
Like him.
</p>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack respectfully, but mocks him in his thoughts.\n(B) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack in a fearful manner, but underestimates him in his thoughts.\n(C) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack quietly, but wishes he could have more confidence on the inside.\n(D) Wayne speaks to Captain Jack arrogantly, but is scared of him in his thoughts.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Executions and executioners -- Fiction; Teenage boys -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Psychological fiction; Short stories"
} |
63890 | Why did the narrator initially become frustrated with the task that Captain Walsh gave him.
Choices:
(A) The narrator realized the directions he was given were unclear.
(B) The task proved much harder than the narrator thought.
(C) He realized that he was part of a more important mission.
(D) He realized he was sent to the wrong planet. | [
"B",
"The task proved much harder than the narrator thought."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
A PLANET NAMED JOE
</h1>
<h2>
By S. A. LOMBINO
</h2>
<p>
<i>
There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake
<br/>
a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel
<br/>
Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major
<br/>
Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.
</i>
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories
<br/>
November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
<br/>
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever since
we went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.
</p>
<p>
For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.
He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much as
I liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. At
least, that's what he told me.
</p>
<p>
I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We were
somewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations in
Space II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think of
it, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now and
then. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me get
by with gravy.
</p>
<p>
"It will be a simple assignment, Major," he said to me, peering over
his fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," I said.
</p>
<p>
"It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native."
</p>
<p>
I wanted to say, "Then why the hell don't you send a green kid on
the job? Why me?" Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with his
fingers.
</p>
<p>
"The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent." He paused, then
added, "For a native, that is."
</p>
<p>
I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked the
way he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.
Which brought to mind an important point.
</p>
<p>
"I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. I
thought our activities were confined to Mars."
</p>
<p>
He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his desk
as if he were waiting for me to cut.
</p>
<p>
"Mmmm," he said, "yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It so
happens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand just
what's happening on Mars."
</p>
<p>
I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get very
far.
</p>
<p>
"He's had many dealings with the natives there," Walsh explained. "If
anyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can."
</p>
<p>
If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could give
them to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he called
it "revolt." It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost at
least a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.
</p>
<p>
"And this man is on Venus now?" I asked for confirmation. I'd never
been to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. It
was just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Major," he said. "This man is on Venus."
</p>
<p>
At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reported
him for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uranium
that could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.
He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing by
reporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists in
any military organization, he outranked me.
</p>
<p>
"And the man's name, sir?"
</p>
<p>
"Joe." A tight smile played on his face.
</p>
<p>
"Joe what?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Just Joe."
</p>
<p>
"Just Joe?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Walsh said. "A native, you know. They rarely go in for more than
first names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name
like Joe. Among the natives, I mean."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know, sir."
</p>
<p>
"A relatively simple assignment," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
"Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?
Personal habits? Anything?"
</p>
<p>
Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. "Well, physically he's like
any of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. He
does have a peculiar habit, though."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
I sighed. "Well, it's not very much to go on."
</p>
<p>
"You'll find him," Walsh said, grinning. "I'm sure of it."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking on
that trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thought
about Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling that
revolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd started
pushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as if
the whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he took
over. Swell guy, Walsh.
</p>
<p>
Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunic
I was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Like
a mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhere
I looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'd
never seen before, and some as bare as cactus.
</p>
<p>
I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told me
about. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything about
him was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to have
been stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back to
normal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.
</p>
<p>
I wondered if he spoke English. "Hey, boy," I called.
</p>
<p>
He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distance
between us in seconds.
</p>
<p>
"Call me Joe," he said.
</p>
<p>
I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this
<i>
was
</i>
going to be a
simple assignment after all. "I sure am glad to see you, Joe," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Same here, Toots," he answered.
</p>
<p>
"The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you," I told
him.
</p>
<p>
"You've got the wrong number," he said, and I was a little surprised at
his use of Terran idiom.
</p>
<p>
"You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm Joe, all right," he said. "Only thing I ever traded, though, was a
pocketknife. Got a set of keys for it."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and began
wondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was looking
for. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediately
upon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked him
anyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for a
drink first.
</p>
<p>
"Where's the Officer's Club?" I asked the Venusian.
</p>
<p>
"Are you buying information or are you just curious?"
</p>
<p>
"Can you take me there?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Sure thing, Toots." He picked up my bags and started walking up a
heavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes when
he dropped my bags and said, "There it is."
</p>
<p>
The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields that
protected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortable
but I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slipped
the native thirty solars.
</p>
<p>
He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. "Oh
well, you're new here. We'll let it go."
</p>
<p>
He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'd
meant. Had I tipped him too little?
</p>
<p>
I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside it
looked as hot as hell.
</p>
<p>
On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began to
curse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart game
and a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.
</p>
<p>
I walked over and asked, "What are you serving, pal?"
</p>
<p>
"Call me Joe," he answered.
</p>
<p>
He caught me off balance. "What?"
</p>
<p>
"Joe," he said again.
</p>
<p>
A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.
"You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all about
Mars, would you?"
</p>
<p>
"I never left home," he said simply. "What are you drinking?"
</p>
<p>
That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....
</p>
<p>
<i>
But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like
</i>
Joe.
<i>
Among the natives, I mean.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, most
contemptible....
</p>
<p>
"What are you drinking, pal?" the Venusian asked again.
</p>
<p>
"Skip it," I said. "How do I get to the captain's shack?"
</p>
<p>
"Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it."
</p>
<p>
I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved at
the bartender.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, Joe," he said. "How's it going?"
</p>
<p>
"Not so hot, Joe," the bartender replied.
</p>
<p>
I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of a
great gag. Very funny. Very....
</p>
<p>
"You Major Polk, sweetheart?" the Venusian who'd just come in asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.
</p>
<p>
"You better get your butt over to the captain's shack," he said. "He's
about ready to post you as overdue."
</p>
<p>
"Sure," I said wearily. "Will you take my bags, please?"
</p>
<p>
"Roger," he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.
</p>
<p>
"So long, Joe," he said to the bartender.
</p>
<p>
"See you, Joe," the bartender called back.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearing
a tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he did
an officer.
</p>
<p>
"Have a seat, Major," he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on the
desk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw it
was empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door popped
open. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" the Venusian asked.
</p>
<p>
"We're out of cigarettes, Joe," the Captain said. "Will you get us
some, please?"
</p>
<p>
"Sure thing," the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed the
door behind him.
</p>
<p>
<i>
Another Joe
</i>
, I thought.
<i>
Another damned Joe.
</i>
</p>
<p>
"They steal them," Captain Bransten said abruptly.
</p>
<p>
"Steal what?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few things
they like about Terran culture."
</p>
<p>
So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.
<i>
He does have a peculiar
habit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.
</i>
Cigarettes
was the tip I should have given; not solars.
</p>
<p>
"All right," I said, "suppose we start at the beginning."
</p>
<p>
Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. "Sir?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name but
I think its popularity here is a little outstanding."
</p>
<p>
Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think it
was so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze and
waited for his explanation.
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Is there a local hero named Joe?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No, no, nothing like that," he assured me. "It's a simple culture, you
know. Not nearly as developed as Mars."
</p>
<p>
"I can see that," I said bitingly.
</p>
<p>
"And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.
Lots of enlisted men, you know."
</p>
<p>
I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtful
ancestry more keenly.
</p>
<p>
"It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,"
Bransten was saying.
</p>
<p>
I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walsh
sitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.
</p>
<p>
"Get to the point, Captain!" I barked.
</p>
<p>
"Easy, sir," Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captain
wasn't used to entertaining Majors. "The enlisted men. You know how
they are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call him
Joe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd you
like to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?"
</p>
<p>
"I follow, all right," I said bitterly.
</p>
<p>
"Well," Bransten went on, "that sort of thing mushrooms. The natives
are a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joe
business, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and the
cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he were
personally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as if
he were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the first
place.
</p>
<p>
"Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all."
</p>
<p>
Just a case of extended
<i>
idiot
</i>
, I thought. An idiot on a wild goose
chase a hell of a long way from home.
</p>
<p>
"I understand perfectly," I snapped. "Where are my quarters?"
</p>
<p>
Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, reminding
me that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the first
Venusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.
</p>
<p>
I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a carton
stuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropical
tunic.
</p>
<p>
I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sort
of thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when I
twinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.
</p>
<p>
Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fat
pussy cat.
</p>
<p>
"What is it, Major?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"This man Joe," I said. "Can you give me any more on him?"
</p>
<p>
Walsh's grin grew wider. "Why, Major," he said, "you're not having any
difficulties, are you?"
</p>
<p>
"None at all," I snapped back. "I just thought I'd be able to find him
a lot sooner if...."
</p>
<p>
"Take your time, Major," Walsh beamed. "There's no rush at all."
</p>
<p>
"I thought...."
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure you can do the job," Walsh cut in. "I wouldn't have sent you
otherwise."
</p>
<p>
Hell, I was through kidding around. "Look...."
</p>
<p>
"He's somewhere in the jungle, you know," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against those
big white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched the
surprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of miles
away.
</p>
<p>
He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up on
him.
</p>
<p>
"Polk!" he shouted, "can you hear me?"
</p>
<p>
I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screen
on my end went blank, too.
</p>
<p>
<i>
He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.
</i>
</p>
<p>
I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to my
quarters.
</p>
<p>
As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.
</p>
<p>
One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hopping
the next ship back to Earth.
</p>
<p>
It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.
It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of the
Service altogether.
</p>
<p>
Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in that
jungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, a
trader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, of
course, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I might
really find a guy who was trader Joe.
</p>
<p>
I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, and
besides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in his
life. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If there
was I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.
</p>
<p>
I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.
</p>
<p>
A tall Venusian stepped into the room.
</p>
<p>
"Joe?" I asked, just to be sure.
</p>
<p>
"Who else, boss?" he answered.
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying to locate someone," I said. "I'll need a guide to take me
into the jungle. Can you get me one?"
</p>
<p>
"It'll cost you, boss," the Venusian said.
</p>
<p>
"How much?"
</p>
<p>
"Two cartons of cigarettes at least."
</p>
<p>
"Who's the guide?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"How's the price sound?"
</p>
<p>
"Fine, fine," I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they were
almost a childish people!
</p>
<p>
"His name is Joe," the Venusian told me. "Best damn guide on the
planet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.
Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to...."
</p>
<p>
"Skip it," I said, cutting the promotion short. "Tell him to show up
around fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need."
</p>
<p>
The Venusian started to leave.
</p>
<p>
"And Joe," I said, stopping him at the door, "I hope you're not
overlooking your commission on the deal."
</p>
<p>
His face broke into a wide grin. "No danger of that, boss," he said.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'd
just have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe on
a planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but the
Captain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid of
me. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemed
like a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for something
that had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd be
back again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all set
for me.
</p>
<p>
Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.
</p>
<p>
The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to consider
it seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failing
at the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that a
few more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career with
Space II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsaken
place like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.
But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next in
command. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and I
could understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.
</p>
<p>
I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his good
points against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. A
guy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton of
uranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,
would deliberately do just about anything.
</p>
<p>
Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe may
have been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than a
gag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.
</p>
<p>
The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,
elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.
</p>
<p>
"I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Are you familiar with the jungle?" I asked him.
</p>
<p>
"Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand."
</p>
<p>
"Has Joe told you what the payment will be?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes."
</p>
<p>
I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.
</p>
<p>
"When can we leave?"
</p>
<p>
"Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list of
supplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wear
light clothing, boots, and a hat."
</p>
<p>
"Will I need a weapon?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. "Why, what for, sir?"
</p>
<p>
"Never mind," I said. "What's your name, by the way?"
</p>
<p>
He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He was
definitely surprised.
</p>
<p>
"Joe," he said. "Didn't you know?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested the
boots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and it
would have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by the
high boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.
</p>
<p>
Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to be
enjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secret
pleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn't
see three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,
his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.
Then he'd say, "This way," and take off into what looked like more
impenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directly
to another village.
</p>
<p>
Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of their
huts, tall and blue, shouting, "Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes?" It took
me a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.
</p>
<p>
Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round of
stinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor had
I any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty low
about the whole affair.
</p>
<p>
Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In each
village he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swapped
gossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbye
to all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.
</p>
<p>
His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thing
that would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. He
would talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.
</p>
<p>
"I like Venus," he said once. "I would never leave it."
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever been to Earth?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No," Joe replied. "I like Terrans too, you understand. They are good
for Venus. And they are fun."
</p>
<p>
"Fun?" I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: species
Leonard Walsh.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, yes," he said wholeheartedly. "They joke and they laugh and ...
well, you know."
</p>
<p>
"I suppose so," I admitted.
</p>
<p>
Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,
that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had been
just my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer and
employee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmosphere
began to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, about
the people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigid
tests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, nodding
sympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.
</p>
<p>
And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitely
friendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up our
grinding pace to find what we were looking for.
</p>
<p>
Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the matted
greenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knife
gleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangled
vines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicing
through them like strips of silk.
</p>
<p>
"How far are we from the Station?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Three or four Earth weeks," he replied.
</p>
<p>
I sighed wearily. "Where do we go from here?"
</p>
<p>
"There are more villages," he said.
</p>
<p>
"We'll never find him."
</p>
<p>
"Possibly," Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.
</p>
<p>
"A wild goose chase. A fool's errand."
</p>
<p>
"We'd better get started," Joe said simply.
</p>
<p>
I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, a
brilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the same
feeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of my
friends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at my
own house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joe
reminded me of that friend.
</p>
<p>
"There's a village ahead," he said, and the grin on his face was large
now, his eyes shining.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing out
to greet us. No cries of "Cigarettes? Cigarettes?" I caught up with Joe.
</p>
<p>
"What's the story?" I whispered.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.
</p>
<p>
And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays of
the sun like a great silver bullet.
</p>
<p>
"What...?" I started.
</p>
<p>
"It's all right," Joe said, smiling.
</p>
<p>
The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II near
the nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walsh
standing near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, Major," he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't look
cheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.
</p>
<p>
"Fancy meeting you here, Colonel," I said, trying to match his
joviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.
</p>
<p>
Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over with
happiness.
</p>
<p>
"I see you found your man," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me he
was getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.
</p>
<p>
I faced Walsh again. "Okay, what's it all about, pal?"
</p>
<p>
"Colonel," Walsh corrected me. "You mustn't forget to say Colonel,
<i>
Major
</i>
." He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthless
finality.
</p>
<p>
I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'd
been. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walsh
pointing the stun gun at my middle.
</p>
<p>
"We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?"
</p>
<p>
"If you mean in miles," I said, looking around at the plants, "we sure
have."
</p>
<p>
Walsh grinned a little. "Always the wit," he said drily. And then the
smile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. "I'm
going to kill you, you know." He said it as if he were saying, "I think
it'll rain tomorrow."
</p>
<p>
Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoying
this. Another of those funny Terran games.
</p>
<p>
"You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome," Walsh said. "I suppose I
should thank you, really."
</p>
<p>
"You're welcome," I said.
</p>
<p>
"It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me."
</p>
<p>
"It was your own damn fault," I said. "You knew what you were doing
when you decided to cork off."
</p>
<p>
Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.
</p>
<p>
"You didn't have to report me," Walsh said.
</p>
<p>
"No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should have
nudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it again
sometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!"
</p>
<p>
Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barely
audible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on this
little spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,
unimportant drama.
</p>
<p>
I could hear Joe breathing beside me.
</p>
<p>
"I'm on my way out," Walsh rasped. "Finished, do you understand?"
</p>
<p>
"Good," I said. And I meant it.
</p>
<p>
"This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible."
</p>
<p>
Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn't
understand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to the
game, the fun?
</p>
<p>
"You brought the Mars business on yourself," I told Walsh. "There was
never any trouble before you took command."
</p>
<p>
"The natives," he practically shouted. "They ... they...."
</p>
<p>
Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going to
say about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.
Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.
</p>
<p>
"What about the natives?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"Nothing," Walsh said. "Nothing." He was silent for a while.
</p>
<p>
"A man of my calibre," he said then, his face grim. "Dealing with
savages." He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.
The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at the
colonel in puzzlement.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) The narrator realized the directions he was given were unclear.\n(B) The task proved much harder than the narrator thought.\n(C) He realized that he was part of a more important mission.\n(D) He realized he was sent to the wrong planet.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; PS; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction"
} |
53269 | How would Eddie's reaction to the missing isotope been different if he had not been so knowledgeable about radioactivity?
Choices:
(A) He would have been very worried due to the severity of the situation.
(B) He would not have cared because he would be disinterested in the situation.
(C) He would have been extremely curious about the situation.
(D) He would have found a way to be more helpful for his father's situation. | [
"B",
"He would not have cared because he would be disinterested in the situation."
] | <?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<h1>
YOUNG READERS
<br/>
Atom Mystery
</h1>
11
<h2 id="c1">
<br/>
CHAPTER ONE
</h2>
<p>
It was only a dream. Eddie Taylor would like
to have finished it, but the bar of morning sunlight
poking in under the window shade pried
his eyes open. The dream fled. Eddie kicked
off the sheet, swung his feet to the floor, and
groped under the bed for his tennis shoes.
</p>
<p>
He heard his father’s heavy footsteps in the
hallway. They stopped outside of his bedroom
door.
</p>
<p>
“You awake, Eddie?”
</p>
<p>
“I’m awake, Dad,” Eddie answered.
</p>
<p>
“Breakfast’s ready. Get washed and
dressed.”
</p>
12
<p>
“Be right there,” Eddie said. Then, remembering
the dream, he added, “Oh, Dad, is it
all right if I use the Geiger counter today?”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Taylor opened the door. He was a big
man, broad-shouldered and still thin-waisted.
Eddie found it easy to believe the stories he
had heard about his father being an outstanding
football player in his time. Even his glasses
and the gray hair at his temples didn’t add
much age, although Eddie knew it had been
eighteen years since his father had played his
last game of college football.
</p>
<p>
“You may use the Geiger counter any time
you want, Eddie,” Mr. Taylor said, “as long as
you take good care of it. You figured out where
you can find some uranium ore?”
</p>
<p>
Eddie smiled sheepishly. “I—I had a
dream,” he said. “Plain as day. It was out on
Cedar Point. I was walking along over some
rocks. Suddenly the Geiger counter began
clicking like everything.”
</p>
13
<p>
“Cedar Point?” his father asked. “I’ve
never been out there. But, from what I hear,
there are plenty of rock formations. Might
be worth a try, at that. You never can tell
where you might strike some radioactivity.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you believe in dreams, Dad?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, now, that’s a tough question, son.
I can’t say that I really do. Still, one clue is
as good as another when it comes to hunting
uranium ore, I guess. But right now we’d
better get out to breakfast before your mother
scalps us. Hurry it up.” His father turned
and went back down the hallway toward the
kitchen.
</p>
<p>
Eddie pulled on his trousers and T shirt
and went into the bathroom. He washed hurriedly,
knowing that even if he missed a spot
or two, he was fairly safe. During the summer
months his freckles got so thick and dark that
it would take a magnifying glass to detect any
small smudges of dirt hiding among them. He
plastered some water on his dark-red hair,
pushed a comb through it, and shrugged as it
snapped back almost to its original position.
Oh, well, he had tried.
</p>
14
<p>
He grinned into the mirror, reached a
finger into his mouth, and unhooked the
small rubber bands from his tooth braces.
He dropped them into the waste basket. He’d
put fresh ones in after breakfast.
</p>
<p>
He brushed his teeth carefully, taking particular
pains around the metal braces. The
tooth-straightening orthodontist had warned
him about letting food gather around the
metal clamps. It could start cavities.
</p>
<p>
Finished, Eddie went out to breakfast.
</p>
<p>
“Good morning, dear,” his mother greeted
him, handing him a plate of eggs.
</p>
<p>
“Hi, Mom,” Eddie said. “Gotta hurry. Big
day today.”
</p>
<p>
“So your father says. But I’m afraid your
big day will have to start with sorting out and
tying up those newspapers and magazines that
have been collecting in the garage.”
</p>
<p>
“Aw, Mom—”
</p>
<p>
“Eddie, I asked you to do it three days ago.
Remember? And the Goodwill truck comes
around today.”
</p>
<p>
“But, Mom—”
</p>
15
<p>
“No arguments, son,” his father put in
calmly but firmly. “School vacation doesn’t
mean that your chores around here are on
vacation, too. Get at it right away, and you’ll
still have time to hunt your uranium.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” Mr. Taylor added, excusing himself
from the table, “I’d better be getting over
to school. I’m expecting to receive shipment
of a new radioisotope today.”
</p>
<p>
The very word excited Eddie. In fact, anything
having to do with atomic science
excited him. He knew something about
isotopes—pronounced
<i>
eye-suh-tope
</i>
. You
couldn’t have a father who was head of the
atomic-science department at Oceanview
College without picking up a little knowledge
along the way. Eddie knew that a radioisotope
was a material which had been “cooked” in an
atomic reactor until it was “hot” with radioactivity.
When carefully controlled, the radiation
stored up in such isotopes was used in
many beneficial ways.
</p>
16
<p>
“Why don’t college professors get summer
vacations, too?” Eddie asked. One reason for
asking that particular question was to keep
from prying deeper into the subject of the
radioisotope. Much of his father’s work at
Oceanview College was of a secret nature.
Eddie had learned not to ask questions about
it. His father usually volunteered any information
he wanted known, so Eddie stuck to
questions which could and would be answered.
</p>
<p>
“We get vacations,” his father said. “But—well,
my work is a little different, you know.
At the speed atomic science is moving today,
we simply can’t afford to waste time. But don’t
worry. We’ll take a week or so off before school
starts in the fall. Maybe head for the mountains
with our tent and sleeping bags.”
</p>
<p>
“And Geiger counter?” Eddie asked
eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“Wouldn’t think of leaving it home,” his
father said, smiling. “By the way, I put new
batteries in it the other day. Take it easy on
them. Remember to switch it off when you’re
not actually using it.”
</p>
<p>
“I will,” Eddie promised. He had forgotten
several times before, weakening the batteries.
</p>
17
<p>
It took Eddie over an hour to sort out the
newspapers and magazines in the garage, tie
them in neat bundles, and place them out on
the front curb for the Goodwill pickup. By
that time the sun was high overhead. It had
driven off the coolness which the ocean air
had provided during the earlier hours.
</p>
<p>
“Anything else, Mom?” he asked, returning
to the house and getting the Geiger counter
out of the closet. He edged toward the back
door before his mother had much time to
think of something more for him to do.
</p>
<p>
“I guess not, dear,” Mrs. Taylor said, smiling
over his hasty retreat. “What are you going
to do?”
</p>
<p>
“Think I’ll do a little prospecting,” Eddie
said.
</p>
<p>
“Where?”
</p>
<p>
“Probably in the hills beyond the college,”
Eddie said. The more he thought about it, the
more he realized it was a little late in the day
to go to Cedar Point. The best way to get
there was by rowboat across Moon Bay, and
that was too long a row to be starting now.
Besides, there were plenty of other places
around the outskirts of Oceanview where
likely looking rock formations invited search
with a Geiger counter.
</p>
18
<p>
“Are you going alone?” his mother asked.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, guess I’ll stop by and see if Teena
wants to go,” Eddie answered casually. He
tried to make it sound as though he would
be doing Teena Ross a big favor. After all,
she was only a girl. Eddie didn’t figure a girl
would make a very good uranium prospecting
partner, but most of the fellows he knew were
away at camp, or vacationing with their folks,
or something like that.
</p>
<p>
“She’ll enjoy it, I’m sure,” his mother said.
</p>
<p>
“I’ll take Sandy, too,” Eddie said. “He needs
the exercise.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s a good idea, dear. Be back in time
for an early dinner.”
</p>
<p>
Eddie let Sandy off his chain. The taffy-colored
cocker spaniel yipped wildly over his
freedom, racing back and forth as Eddie
started down the street.
</p>
19
<p>
Christina Ross—whom everybody called
Teena—lived at the far end of the block.
Eddie went around to the side door of the
light-green stucco house and knocked.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, hi, Eddie,” Teena greeted him, appearing
at the screen door. “I was hoping
you’d come over.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I—I just happened to be going by,”
Eddie said. “Thought you might want to
watch me do a little prospecting with the Geiger
counter. But maybe you’re too busy.”
</p>
<p>
That’s how to handle it, Eddie thought.
Don’t act anxious. Let Teena be anxious.
Then maybe she’ll even offer to bring along
a couple of sandwiches or some fruit.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I’d love to go,” Teena said eagerly,
“but I’m just finishing the dishes. Come on
in.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m in kind of a hurry.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll only be a minute.” She pushed the
screen door open for him. “I’ll make us some
sandwiches.”
</p>
<p>
“Stay here, Sandy,” Eddie said. “Sit.” The
dog minded, although he looked a bit rebellious.
</p>
20
<p>
Eddie went inside and followed Teena to
the kitchen. He felt triumphant about the
sandwiches.
</p>
<p>
Teena tossed him a dish towel. “You dry
them,” she said.
</p>
<p>
“Who, me?”
</p>
<p>
“Why not? You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?
I can make the sandwiches while you dry the
silverware.” She smiled, putting tiny crinkles
in her small, slightly upturned nose. She wore
her hair in a pony tail. Even though her hair
was blond all year long, it seemed even
lighter in the summer. Eddie couldn’t tell
whether the sun had faded it, or whether her
deep summer tan simply made her hair look
lighter by contrast. Maybe both.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, coming into
the kitchen. “Looks like Teena put you to
work.”
</p>
<p>
“She always does, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said,
pretending great injury. “Don’t know why I
keep coming over here.”
</p>
<p>
“I know,” Teena spoke up quickly. “It’s
because we’re friends, that’s why.”
</p>
21
<p>
Eddie knew she was right. They were
friends—good friends. They had been ever
since Eddie’s family had moved to Oceanview
and his father had become head of the college’s
atomic-science department. In fact, their
parents were close friends, also. Teena’s father
was chief engineer for the Acme Aviation
Company, one of the coast town’s largest
manufacturing concerns.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’ll be glad to finish them, Eddie,”
Mrs. Ross offered. “I know how boys detest
doing dishes.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I don’t really mind, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie
said. “Besides, Teena’s making sandwiches to
take with us.”
</p>
<p>
“Another prospecting trip?” Teena’s
mother glanced at the Geiger counter which
Eddie had set carefully on the dinette table.
</p>
<p>
“I still think there must be some uranium
around here,” Eddie insisted. “And we can
find it if anyone can.”
</p>
<p>
“I agree,” Mrs. Ross said. “But even if you
don’t find it, you both seem to enjoy your
hikes.”
</p>
22
<p>
“Oh, yes, it’s fun, Mother,” Teena replied,
wrapping wax paper around a sandwich.
“Guess I’m ready. I’ve got a bone for Sandy,
too.”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t go too far out from town,” Mrs.
Ross cautioned, as Eddie picked up the Geiger
counter. “And stick near the main roads.
You know the rules.”
</p>
<p>
“We sure do, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie assured
her. “And we’ll be back early.”
</p>
<p>
They walked past the college campus, and
toward the rocky foothills beyond. At various
rock mounds and outcroppings, Eddie
switched on the Geiger counter. The needle
of the dial on the black box wavered slightly.
A slow clicking came through the earphones,
but Eddie knew these indicated no more than
a normal background count. There were slight
traces of radioactivity in almost all earth or
rocks. It was in the air itself, caused by mysterious
and ever-present cosmic rays, so there
was always a mild background count when
the Geiger counter was turned on; but to
mean anything, the needle had to jump far
ahead on the gauge, and the clicking through
the earphones had to speed up until it sounded
almost like bacon frying in a hot skillet.
</p>
23
<p>
There was none of that today. After they
had hiked and searched most of the forenoon,
Eddie said, “We might as well call it a day,
Teena. Doesn’t seem to be anything out here.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s all right with me,” Teena agreed,
plucking foxtails from Sandy’s ears. “Pretty
hot, anyway. Let’s eat our sandwiches and go
back home.”
</p>
<p>
“All right,” Eddie said. “You know, one of
these days I’d like to go out to Cedar Point
and scout around. Maybe we’ll find something
there.” Then he told Teena about his dream.
</p>
<p>
Teena smiled. “A dream sure isn’t much to
go on,” she said, “but they say it’s pretty out on
Cedar Point. I’ll go any time you want to,
Eddie.” She handed him one of the sandwiches.
</p>
<p>
It was midafternoon by the time they arrived
back at Teena’s house. They worked a while
on a new jigsaw puzzle Teena had received
on a recent birthday. Then Eddie said good-by
and went on down the street toward his
own home.
</p>
24
<p>
After putting Sandy on his long chain and
filling his water dish, Eddie went in the back
door. He put the Geiger counter in the closet
and went into the kitchen.
</p>
<p>
“What’s for dinner, Mom?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Taylor turned from the sink. Eddie
knew at once, just seeing the expression on
his mother’s face, that something was wrong.
</p>
<p>
“Dinner?” his mother said absently. “It’s
not quite four o’clock yet, Eddie. Besides,
dinner may be a little late today.”
</p>
<p>
“But this morning you said it would be
early,” Eddie reminded her, puzzled.
</p>
<p>
“This morning I didn’t know what might
happen.”
</p>
25
<p>
Then Eddie heard the sound of his father’s
voice coming from the den. There was a
strange urgent tone in it. The door to the den
was open. Eddie went through the dining
room and glanced into the den. His father
sat stiffly behind his homemade desk, talking
rapidly into the telephone. Eddie caught only
the last few sketchy words. Then his father
placed the telephone in its cradle, glanced up,
and saw Eddie.
</p>
<p>
If there had been even the slightest doubt
in Eddie’s mind about something being
wrong, it vanished now. Mr. Taylor looked
years older than he had that very morning.
Worry lay deep in his eyes. He fumbled
thoughtfully with a pencil, turning it end over
end on his desk.
</p>
<p>
“Hello, son,” he said. He didn’t even ask
whether Eddie had discovered any uranium
ore that day. Always before, he had shown
genuine interest in Eddie’s prospecting trips.
</p>
<p>
“Dad,” Eddie said anxiously, “what—what’s
the matter?”
</p>
<p>
“It shows that much, does it, son?” his
father said tiredly.
</p>
<p>
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Eddie prompted.
“Or can’t you tell me?”
</p>
<p>
Mr. Taylor leaned back. “Quite a bit’s
wrong, Eddie,” he said, “and I guess there’s
no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’ll be in
the evening papers, anyway.”
</p>
26
<p>
“Evening papers?”
</p>
<p>
“Eddie, you remember me mentioning this
morning about that radioisotope shipment I
was expecting today?”
</p>
<p>
“I remember,” Eddie said. “Did it come?”
</p>
<p>
“It did—and it didn’t,” his father said.
</p>
<p>
“What does that mean, Dad?” Eddie asked,
puzzled.
</p>
<p>
“The delivery truck arrived at the school
with it,” his father explained, “but while the
driver was inquiring where to put it, the container
disappeared.”
</p>
<p>
“Disappeared?”
</p>
<p>
“The radioisotope was stolen, Eddie,” his
father said slowly. “Stolen right out from
under our noses!”
</p>
27
<h2 id="c2">
<br/>
CHAPTER TWO
</h2>
<p>
At the moment, Eddie didn’t pry for further
information on the theft of the valuable radioactive
isotope. His father had plenty on his
mind, as it was. The main information was in
the evening
<i>
Globe
</i>
, which Eddie rushed out
to get as soon as he heard it plop onto the
front porch.
</p>
<p>
He took the newspaper to his father to read
first. After having finished, Mr. Taylor handed
the paper to Eddie and leaned back thoughtfully
in his chair.
</p>
28
<p>
“They’ve got it pretty straight, at that,” Mr.
Taylor said, “but I’m afraid this is going to
stir up quite a bit of trouble.”
</p>
<p>
“It wasn’t your fault, was it, Dad?” Eddie
defended.
</p>
<p>
“It was as much mine as anybody’s, son,”
his father said. “Probably more so. After all,
I am head of the department. I knew about
the shipment. That should make it my responsibility
to see that it was properly received
and placed in our atomic-materials storage
vault. But there is little point in trying to
place the blame on anyone. I’m willing to accept
that part of it. The important thing is
that we recover that radioisotope. Not only is
it of a secret nature, but it is also dangerously
radioactive if improperly handled.”
</p>
<p>
“But—but wasn’t it in a safe container?”
Eddie asked.
</p>
29
<p>
“Of course,” his father said. “There were
only two ounces of it in a fifty-pound lead
capsule. As long as it remains in that capsule
it’s safe. As you know, the lead prevents any
radiation from escaping. Out of that capsule,
however, those two ounces of radioisotope can
be very dangerous.”
</p>
<p>
“Fifty pounds,” Eddie said thoughtfully.
“That’s a pretty big thing to steal, isn’t it?”
</p>
<p>
“Not when it’s lead, son,” his father replied.
“Not much bigger than a two-quart
milk bottle, in fact.”
</p>
<p>
“Even at that, no kid could have taken it,”
Eddie said.
</p>
<p>
“Kid?” His father smiled thinly. “We don’t
think it was any kid, Eddie. Not by a long
shot. The whole thing was carefully planned
and carefully carried out. It was not the work
of amateurs.”
</p>
<p>
Eddie read the newspaper account. The
small truck from Drake Ridge, where one of
the country’s newest atomic reactors was
located, had arrived earlier than expected at
Oceanview College. It had backed up to the
receiving dock where all of the college supplies
were delivered. Since deliveries during vacation
months were few, there was no one on the
dock when the truck arrived. A half hour later,
when the delivery was expected, there would
have been. The truck’s early arrival had
caught them unprepared.
</p>
30
<p>
The driver had left the truck and had gone
around the building to the front office. It had
taken him less than five minutes to locate the
receiving-dock foreman. Together, they had
returned through the small warehouse and
opened the rear door onto the dock.
</p>
<p>
During that short time someone had pried
open the heavy padlock on the delivery truck’s
rear door and had stolen the fifty-pound lead
capsule containing the radioisotope.
</p>
<p>
Dusty footprints on the pavement around
the rear of the truck indicated that two men
had carried out the theft. A heavy iron pry bar
had been dropped at the rear of the truck after
the lock was sprung. It was a common type
used by carpenters. There were no fingerprints
or other identifying marks on it. The footprints
were barely visible and of no help other
than to indicate that two men were involved
in the crime.
</p>
31
<p>
“Dad,” Eddie asked, looking up from the
paper, “how could anyone carry away something
weighing fifty pounds without being noticed?”
</p>
<p>
“Chances are they had their car parked
nearby,” his father said. “As you know, there
are no fences or gates around Oceanview College.
People come and go as they please. As a
matter of fact, there are always quite a few
automobiles parked around the shipping and
receiving building, and parking space is scarce
even during summer sessions. Anyone could
park and wait there unnoticed. Or they could
walk around without attracting any undue attention.”
</p>
<p>
“But, Dad,” Eddie continued, “how would
the men know that the delivery truck would
arrive a half hour early?”
</p>
<p>
“They wouldn’t,” his father said. “They
may have had another plan. The way things
worked out, they didn’t need to use it. The
early delivery and the business of leaving the
truck unguarded for a few minutes probably
gave them a better opportunity than they had
expected. At least, they took quick advantage
of it.”
</p>
32
<p>
“I don’t see what anyone would want with
a radioisotope,” Eddie said. “Maybe they figured
there was something else inside of that
lead capsule.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s unlikely, son,” Mr. Taylor said.
“Believe me, it was no common theft. Nor
were the thieves ordinary thieves. That isotope
was a new one. A very secret one. Our job at
the college was to conduct various tests with it
in order to find out exactly how it could best
be put to use as a cure for disease, or for sterilizing
food, or even as a source of power.”
</p>
<p>
“Power?” Eddie said. “Boy, it must have
been a strong isotope.” He knew that the
strength of radioisotopes could be controlled
largely by the length of time they were allowed
to “cook” in an atomic reactor and soak up
radioactivity.
</p>
33
<p>
“We weren’t planning to run a submarine
with it,” his father said. “It wasn’t that strong.
Still, it doesn’t take so very much radioactivity
to make two ounces of an isotope quite powerful—and
quite deadly. I only hope whoever
stole it knows what he’s doing. However, I’m
sure he does.”
</p>
<p>
“You mean he must have been an atomic
scientist himself?” Eddie asked.
</p>
<p>
“Let’s just say he—or both of them—have
enough training in the subject to know how to
handle that isotope safely,” Mr. Taylor said.
</p>
<p>
“But, Dad,” Eddie wondered, “what could
they do with it?”
</p>
<p>
“They could study it,” his father explained.
“At least, they could send it somewhere to be
broken down and studied. Being a new isotope,
the formula is of great value.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean, send it somewhere?”
Eddie asked.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps to some other country.”
</p>
<p>
“Then—then you mean whoever stole it
were spies!” Eddie exclaimed breathlessly.
</p>
<p>
“That’s entirely possible,” his father said.
“In fact, it’s the only logical explanation I can
think of. People simply don’t go around stealing
radioactive isotopes without a mighty important
reason.”
</p>
34
<p>
“Dinner’s ready,” Eddie’s mother called
from the kitchen.
</p>
<p>
During dinner Eddie wasn’t sure just what
he was eating. The idea of spies stealing atomic
materials kept building up in his mind. By the
time dessert was finished, he was anxious to
talk with someone, yet he knew he shouldn’t
bother his father with any more questions. He
asked if he could go over and visit with Teena
for a while.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you were together most of the day,”
his mother said, “but I guess it’s all right. Be
back in about an hour, though.”
</p>
<p>
It was a balmy evening. On such evenings,
he and Teena sometimes walked along the
beach barefoot, collecting sea shells. Today
Eddie had no desire to do that. He ran down
the block.
</p>
<p>
Teena answered his knock.
</p>
<p>
“Come on in, Eddie,” she invited, seeming
surprised to see him. “Mother and I are just
finishing dinner.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I figured you’d be through by now,”
Eddie apologized, following her inside.
</p>
35
<p>
“Hello, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross said, but she
didn’t seem as cheerful as usual.
</p>
<p>
“Good evening, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie said. “I—I
hope I’m not making a pest of myself.” He
looked around for Mr. Ross, but Teena’s
father apparently hadn’t arrived home from
Acme Aircraft yet. There wasn’t a place set for
him at the table, either.
</p>
<p>
“You’re never a pest, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross assured
him. “I was going to call your mother in
a little while about that newspaper write-up.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you read it?” Eddie said.
</p>
<p>
“How could anyone miss it?” Teena said.
“Right on the front page.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose your father is quite concerned
over it,” Teena’s mother said.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, yes,” Eddie affirmed. “He was the one
who ordered the isotope.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s an isotope?” Teena asked.
</p>
<p>
“I’m not sure I know, either,” Mrs. Ross
said. “Maybe we could understand more of
what it’s all about if you could explain what a
radioisotope is, Eddie.”
</p>
36
<p>
“Well,” Eddie said slowly, “it’s not easy to
explain, but I’ll try. You know how rare
uranium is. There’s not nearly enough of it to
fill all the needs for radioactive materials. Besides,
pure uranium is so powerful and expensive
and dangerous to handle that it’s not
a very good idea to try using it in its true form.
So they build an atomic reactor like the one at
Drake Ridge.”
</p>
<p>
“We’ve driven by it,” Mrs. Ross said. “My,
it’s a big place.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll say,” Eddie agreed. “Of course, only
one building holds the reactor itself. It’s the
biggest building near the center.”
</p>
<p>
“I remember it,” Teena said.
</p>
<p>
“Well, the reactor is about four stories
high,” Eddie went on. “They call it a uranium
‘pile.’ It’s made up of hundreds and hundreds
of graphite bricks. That’s where they get the
name ‘pile’—from brick pile. Anyway, scattered
around in between the bricks are small
bits of uranium. Uranium atoms are radioactive.
That is, they keep splitting up and sending
out rays.”
</p>
<p>
“Why do they do that?” Teena asked.
</p>
37
<p>
“It’s just the way nature made uranium, I
guess,” Eddie said. “Most atoms stay in one
piece, although they move around lickety-split
all of the time. Uranium atoms not only move
around, but they break apart. They shoot out
little particles called neutrons. These neutrons
hit other atoms and split them apart, sending
out more neutrons. It’s a regular chain reaction.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve heard of chain reactions,” Mrs. Ross
said.
</p>
<p>
“Well, with all of the splitting up and moving
around of the uranium atoms,” Eddie went
on, “an awful lot of heat builds up. If they
don’t control it—well, you’ve seen pictures of
atomic-bomb explosions. That’s a chain reaction
out of control.”
</p>
<p>
“Out of control is right,” Teena said.
</p>
38
<p>
“But the atomic piles control the reaction,”
Eddie said. “The graphite bricks keep the
splitting-up atoms apart so one neutron won’t
go smashing into other atoms unless they want
it to. They have ways of controlling it so that
only as much radiation builds up as they want.
You can even hear the reactor hum as the radioactive
rays go tearing through it. But by
careful tending, the scientists keep the atomic
collisions far enough apart so the thing doesn’t
blow up.”
</p>
<p>
“Boy, that sounds dangerous,” Teena said.
</p>
<p>
“Well, they know just how to do it,” Eddie
replied.
</p>
<p>
“Aren’t the rays dangerous?” Mrs. Ross
asked.
</p>
<p>
“I’ll say they’re dangerous,” Eddie said.
“But the whole pile is covered by a shield of
concrete about eight feet thick. That keeps the
rays from getting out and injuring the workmen.”
</p>
<p>
“Goodness. Eight feet is a lot of cement.”
</p>
<p>
“It takes a lot to stop radioactive atomic
particles,” Eddie explained. “Especially the
gamma rays. They’re the fastest and most dangerous,
and the hardest to stop. Alpha and beta
rays are fairly easy to stop. But the gamma
rays are regular high-velocity invisible bullets.
They’ll go right through a stone wall unless
it’s plenty thick. Of course, you can’t see them.
Not with even the most powerful microscope
in the world.”
</p>
39
<p>
“I wouldn’t want to work around a place
where I might get shot at by—by dangerous
rays you can’t even see,” Teena said.
</p>
<p>
“I would,” Eddie said. “Everyone is carefully
protected. They see to that. Well, anyway,
if all of those uranium atoms were shooting
radioactive rays around inside of that pile
and doing nothing, there would be an awful
lot of energy going to waste. So the atomic
scientists take certain elements which aren’t
radioactive, but can be made radioactive, and
shove small pieces of them into holes drilled
in the pile.”
</p>
<p>
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Teena asked.
</p>
<p>
“They don’t shove them in with their bare
hands,” Eddie said, trying not to show exasperation.
“They use long holders to push the
small chunks of material into the holes in the
reactor. Then, as those uranium atoms keep
splitting up and shooting particles around inside
of the pile, some of them smack into the
chunks of material, and stick there. Most elements
will soak up radiation, just like a sponge
soaks up water.”
</p>
40
<p>
“My, that’s interesting, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross
said.
</p>
<p>
“I’ve seen them do it,” Eddie said proudly,
then added, “from behind a protective shield,
of course. When the material has soaked up
enough radiation, they pull it back out. They
say it’s ‘cooked.’”
</p>
<p>
“You mean it’s hot?” Teena asked.
</p>
<p>
“It’s hot,” Eddie said, “but not like if it
came out of a stove. By hot, they mean it’s
radioactive. If you touched it, or even got near
it, you would get burned, but you probably
wouldn’t even know it for a while. It would be
a radiation burn. That’s a kind of burn you
don’t feel, but it destroys your blood cells and
tissues, and—well, you’ve had it.”
</p>
<p>
“So that’s what a radioisotope is,” Mrs. Ross
said. “It’s like a sponge. Only instead of soaking
up water, it soaks up radiation.”
</p>
41
<p>
“That’s about it,” Eddie said. “My dad says
that as more is learned about the ways to use
isotopes, the whole world is going to be improved.
You’ve heard of radiocobalt for curing
cancer. Well, that’s an isotope. They make it
by cooking cobalt in an atomic reactor. Oh,
there are hundreds of different isotopes. Like
I said, isotopes can be made of most of the
elements. And there are over a hundred elements.
Some soak up a lot of radioactivity, and
are strong and dangerous. Others absorb only
a little and are pretty safe to use. Depends, too,
on how long they let them cook in the reactor.”
</p>
<p>
“What kind was the one stolen from the
college today?” Teena asked.
</p>
<p>
“Dad didn’t say exactly,” Eddie answered,
“except he did say that if whoever took it
didn’t know what he was doing and opened up
the lead capsule, it could kill him. Of course,
even the mild isotopes are deadly if they’re not
handled right.”
</p>
<p>
“My goodness, it is a serious matter, isn’t
it?” Mrs. Ross said.
</p>
42
<p>
Eddie nodded. It was even more serious
than its threat of danger to anyone who
handled it carelessly. It was a new isotope—a
secret isotope. His father hadn’t said whether
it had been developed for curing things or for
destroying things. But many radioisotopes
could do either; it depended on how they were
used. Eddie assumed that anyone who would
stoop to stealing isotopes more than likely
would be interested in their ability to destroy
rather than their ability to benefit mankind.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I certainly do hope everything works
out all right,” Teena’s mother said.
</p>
<p>
“So do I,” Teena agreed.
</p>
<p>
Eddie glanced at the kitchen clock. “Oh,
boy,” he said, “I’d better be heading back
home. I didn’t mean to come over here and
talk so long.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, we’re glad you did, Eddie,” Mrs. Ross
said. “I’m afraid too few of us know anything
about this atom business.”
</p>
43
<p>
“That’s right, Mrs. Ross,” Eddie agreed.
“People should talk more and read more about
it. After all, this is an atomic age. We might as
well face it. My father says that in horse-and-buggy
days everyone knew how to feed a horse
and grease a wagon wheel. They knew what was
needed to get the work done. But now that
atoms are being harnessed to do the work, not
many people even bother to find out what an
atom is.”
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Ross smiled. “I guess you’re right,
Eddie,” she said, “but I wouldn’t quite know
how to go about feeding an atom.”
</p>
<p>
“Or greasing one,” Teena added.
</p>
<p>
Eddie laughed. “I sure wouldn’t want the
job of trying to feed a herd of them the size of
a period,” he said. “Did you know that there
are about three million billion atoms of carbon
in a single period printed at the end of a
sentence. That’s how small atoms are.”
</p>
<p>
“Three million billion is a lot of something,”
a man’s voice spoke behind him.
“What are we talking about, Eddie?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, hello, Mr. Ross,” Eddie said, turning
around and standing up. “I didn’t hear you
come in.”
</p>
44
<p>
Teena’s father was a medium-sized man
with light-brown hair which was getting somewhat
thin on top. He was usually quite cheerful
and full of fun, but tonight his face seemed
unusually drawn and sober. He stepped to the
table, leaned over, and gave both Teena and
Mrs. Ross a kiss on the cheek.
</p>
<p>
“Eddie was telling us about atoms,” Teena’s
mother said. “Did you know there were three
million billion of them in a period?”
</p>
<p>
“How many in a comma?” Mr. Ross said to
Eddie, then added quickly, “forget it, Eddie.
It wasn’t very funny. I—I’m afraid I don’t feel
very funny tonight.”
</p>
<p>
“Sit down, dear,” Mrs. Ross said. “I’ll warm
your dinner. You didn’t sound very cheerful
when you called to say you would be late. How
did everything go at the plant today?”
</p>
<p>
“Not so good,” Teena’s father said tiredly.
“In fact, not good at all.”
</p>
<p>
Problems. It seemed that everyone had
problems, Eddie thought, as he started to
leave.
| {
"choices": "(A) He would have been very worried due to the severity of the situation.\n(B) He would not have cared because he would be disinterested in the situation.\n(C) He would have been extremely curious about the situation.\n(D) He would have found a way to be more helpful for his father's situation.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Mystery and detective stories; Nuclear physics -- Juvenile fiction; Scientists -- Juvenile fiction; PZ"
} |
61481 | What would the main characters of the article all most likely agree with about Androka?
Choices:
(A) Androka is arrogant.
(B) Androka can be noncompliant.
(C) Androka is often clueless.
(D) Androka can be mysterious. | [
"B",
"Androka can be noncompliant."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
SILENCE IS—DEADLY
</h1>
<h2>
By Bertrand L. Shurtleff
</h2>
<p class="ph1">
Radio is an absolute necessity in modern
<br/>
organization—and particularly in modern
<br/>
naval organization. If you could silence all
<br/>
radio—silence of that sort would be deadly!
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The hurried
<i>
rat-a-tat
</i>
of knuckles hammered on the cabin door.
Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from his
chair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. That
would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked that
way—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all.
</p>
<p>
Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowly
to the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man in
the cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guest
of the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines of
concentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board.
Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and his
lips relaxed in a faint smile.
</p>
<p>
Androka had arrived on board the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
the day before she sailed
from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and
equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks,
which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over
his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours
daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his
laboratory.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientist
whose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his country
under the domination of the Nazi
<i>
gestapo
</i>
. At other times, the man
seemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer—a mad genius!
</p>
<p>
Curtis opened the door and looked out. Rain whipped against his face
like a stinging wet lash. Overhead, the sky was a storm-racked mass of
clouds, broken in one spot by a tiny patch of starlit blue.
</p>
<p>
His eyes rested inquiringly on the face of the man who stood before
him. It
<i>
was
</i>
Nelson, his shaggy blond brows drawn scowlingly down
over his pale eyes; his thin face a mass of tense lines; his big hands
fumbling at the neck of his slicker. Rain was coursing down his white
cheeks, streaking them with glistening furrows.
</p>
<p>
The fellow was a headache to Curtis. He was overfriendly with a
black-browed bos'n's mate named Joe Bradford—the worst trouble maker
on board. But there was no question of his ability. He was a good
navigating officer—dependable, accurate, conscientious. Nevertheless,
his taut face, restless, searching eyes, and eternally nervous manner
got Curtis' goat.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, Nelson!" he said.
</p>
<p>
Nelson shouldered his way inside, and stood there in his dripping
oilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light.
</p>
<p>
Curtis closed the door and nodded toward the bent form of Zukor
Androka, with a quizzical grin. "Old Czech-and-Double-Czech is working
hard on his latest invention to pull Hitler's teeth and re-establish
the Czech Republic!"
</p>
<p>
Nelson had no answering smile, although there had been a great deal
of good-natured joking aboard the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
ever since the navy
department had sent the scientist on board the cruiser to carry on his
experiments.
</p>
<p>
"I'm worried, sir!" Nelson said. "I'm not sure about my dead reckoning.
This storm—"
</p>
<p>
Curtis threw his arm around Nelson's dripping shoulders. "Forget it!
Don't let a little error get you down!"
</p>
<p>
"But this storm, sir!" Nelson avoided Curtis' friendly eyes and slipped
out from under his arm. "It's got me worried. Quartering wind of
undetermined force, variable and gusty. There's a chop to the sea—as
if from unestimated currents among the islets. No chance to check by
observation, and now there is a chance—look at me!"
</p>
<p>
He held out his hands. They were shaking as if he had the chills.
</p>
<p>
"You say there is a chance?" Curtis asked. "Stars out?"
</p>
<p>
"As if by providence, sir, there's a clear patch. I'm wondering—" His
voice trailed off, but his eyes swung toward the gleaming sextant on
the rack.
</p>
<p>
Commander Curtis shrugged good-naturedly and reached for the
instrument. "Not that I've lost confidence in you, Nels, but just
because you asked for it!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Curtis donned his slicker and went outside, sextant in hand. In a few
minutes he returned and handed Nelson a sheet of paper with figures
underlined heavily.
</p>
<p>
"Here's what I make it," the commander told his navigating officer.
"Bet you're not off appreciably."
</p>
<p>
Nelson stared at the computations with shaking head. Then he mutely
held up his own.
</p>
<p>
Curtis stared, frowned, grabbed his own sheet again. "Any time I'm
that far off old Figure-'em Nelson's estimate, I'm checking back," he
declared, frowning at the two papers and hastily rechecking his own
figures.
</p>
<p>
"Call up to the bridge to stop her," he told Nelson. "We can't afford
to move in these waters with such a possibility of error!"
</p>
<p>
Nelson complied, and the throbbing drive of the engines lessened
at once. Nelson said: "I've been wondering, sir, if it wouldn't be
advisable to try getting a radio cross-bearing. With all these rocks
and islets—"
</p>
<p>
"Radio?" repeated the little Czech, thrusting his face between the
other two, in his independent fashion that ignored ship's discipline.
"You're using your radio?" He broke into a knowing chuckle, his keen
old eyes twinkling behind their thick lenses. "Go ahead and try it. See
how much you can get! It will be no more than Hitler can get when Zukor
Androka decrees silence over the German airways! Try it! Try it, I say!"
</p>
<p>
Bob Curtis stared at him, as if questioning his sanity. Then he
hastened to the radio room, with Nelson at his heels, and the Czech
trotting along behind.
</p>
<p>
The door burst open as they neared it. A frightened operator came out,
still wearing his earphones, and stood staring upward incredulously at
the aërial.
</p>
<p>
"Get us a radio cross-bearing for location at once," Curtis said
sharply, for the operator seemed in a daze.
</p>
<p>
"Bearing, sir?" The man brought his eyes down with difficulty, as if
still dissatisfied. "I'm sorry, sir, but the outfit's dead. Went out on
me about five minutes ago. I was taking the weather report when the set
conked. I was trying to see if something's wrong."
</p>
<p>
The Czech inventor giggled. Curtis gave him another curious look and
thrust himself into the radio room.
</p>
<p>
"Try again!" he told the operator. "See what you can get!"
</p>
<p>
The radio man leaped to his seat and tried frantically. Again and
again, he sent off a request for a cross-bearing from shore stations
that had recently been established to insure safety to naval vessels,
but there was no answer on any of the bands—not even the blare of a
high-powered commercial program in the higher reach, nor the chatter of
ships or amateurs on the shorter.
</p>
<p>
"Dead!" Androka muttered, with a bitter laugh. "Yet not dead,
gentlemen! The set is uninjured. The waves are what have been upset. I
have shattered them around your ship, just as I can eventually shatter
them all over Central Europe! For the next two hours, no radio messages
can enter or leave my zone of radio silence—of refracted radio waves,
set up by my little station on one of the neighboring islets!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There was a long pause, while commander and navigator stared at him.
Curtis was the first to speak.
</p>
<p>
"Your secrecy might well cost the United States navy one of its best
light cruisers—and us our lives!" he said angrily. "We need that check
by radio at once! If you're not talking nonsense, call off your dogs
till we learn just where we are!"
</p>
<p>
Androka held out his palms helplessly. "I can do nothing. I have given
orders to my assistant that he must keep two hours of radio silence! I
can get no message to him, for our radio is dead!"
</p>
<p>
As if to mock him, the ship's radio began to answer:
</p>
<p>
"Station 297 calling U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
. Station 297 calling U.
S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
—"
</p>
<p>
"U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
calling Station 297!" the operator intoned,
winking at the two officers over Androka's discomfiture, and asked for
the bearings.
</p>
<p>
The answer came back: "Bearings north east by a quarter east, U. S.
Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
Curtis sighed with relief. He saw that Nelson was staring fiercely
at the radio operator, as the man went on calling: "U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
calling Station 364. U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
calling
Station 364—"
</p>
<p>
Then the instrument rasped again: "Station 364 calling U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
. Bearings north west by three west. Bearings north west by
three west, U. S. Cruiser
<i>
Comerford
</i>
from Cay 364."
</p>
<p>
Commander and navigator had both scribbled verifications of the
numbers. Ignoring the gibbering Androka, who was wailing his
disappointment that messages had penetrated his veil of silence, they
raced for the chart room.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Quickly the parallels stepped off the bearing from the designated
points. Light intersecting lines proclaimed a check on their position.
</p>
<p>
Curtis frowned and shook his head. Slowly he forced a reluctant grin as
he stuck out his hand.
</p>
<p>
"Shake, Nels," he said. "It's my turn to eat crow. You and the radio
must be right. Continue as you were!"
</p>
<p>
"I'm relieved, sir, just the same," Nelson admitted, "to have the radio
bearings. We'd have piled up sure if you'd been right."
</p>
<p>
They went on through the night. The starlit gap in the clouds had
closed. The sky was again a blanket of darkness pouring sheets of rain
at them.
</p>
<p>
Nelson went back to the bridge, and Androka returned to the commander's
cabin. Curtis lingered in the wireless room with the radio operator.
</p>
<p>
"It's a funny thing," the latter said, still dialing and grousing, "how
I got that cross-bearing through and can't get another squeak out of
her. I'm wondering if that old goat really
<i>
has
</i>
done something to the
ether. The set seems O. K."
</p>
<p>
He lingered over the apparatus, checking and rechecking. Tubes lighted;
wires were alive to the touch and set him to shaking his head at the
tingle they sent through his inquiring fingers.
</p>
<p>
Curtis left him at it, and went to rejoin Androka in the cabin. He
found the little inventor pacing up and down, shaking his fists in the
air; pausing every now and then to run his bony fingers through his
tangled mop of gray hair, or to claw nervously at his beard.
</p>
<p>
"You have seen a miracle, commander!" he shouted at Curtis. "
<i>
My
</i>
miracle! My invention has shattered the ether waves hereabouts
hopelessly."
</p>
<p>
"Seems to me," Curtis said dryly, "this invention can harm your friends
as much as your enemies."
</p>
<p>
The scientist drew himself up to his full height—which was only a
little over five feet. His voice grew shrill. "Wait! Just wait! There
are other inventions to supplement this one. Put them together, and
they will defeat the Nazi hordes which have ravaged my country!"
</p>
<p>
Curtis was a little shocked by the hatred that gleamed in Androka's
eyes, under their bushy brows. There was something of the wild animal
in the man's expression, as his lips drew back from his yellowed teeth.
</p>
<p>
"Those tanks you have below," Curtis said, "have they some connection
with this radio silence?"
</p>
<p>
A far-away look came into Androka's eyes. He did not seem to hear
the question. He lowered his voice: "My daughter is still in Prague.
So are my sister and her husband, and
<i>
their
</i>
two daughters. If the
<i>
gestapo
</i>
knew what I am doing, all of them would be better dead. You
understand—better dead?"
</p>
<p>
Curtis said: "I understand."
</p>
<p>
"And if the Nazi agents in America knew of the islet from which my zone
of silence is projected—" Androka paused, his head tilted to one side,
as if he were listening to something—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On deck, there was shouting and commotion. Curtis rushed out, pulling
on his slicker as he went. The shout from the watch forward had been
picked up, and was being relayed all over the ship. The words struck on
Curtis' ears with a note of impending tragedy.
</p>
<p>
"Breakers ahead!"
</p>
<p>
He was beside Navigating Officer Nelson on the bridge, and saw the
helmsman climbing the rapidly spinning wheel like a monkey as he put it
hard aport.
</p>
<p>
Then the ship struck. Everything movable shot ahead until it brought up
at the end of a swing or smacked against something solid.
</p>
<p>
Curtis felt Nelson's hand grip his shoulder, as he put his lips close
to his ear and shouted: "You must have been right, sir, and the radio
bearings and my reckoning wrong. We've hit that reef a terrific smack.
I'm afraid we're gored!"
</p>
<p>
"Get out the collision mat!" Curtis ordered. "We ought to be able to
keep her up!"
</p>
<p>
And then he became aware of a deadly stillness. A vast wall of silence
enveloped the entire cruiser. Looking over the side, he could no longer
see the waves that a few minutes before had beaten savagely against the
ship.
</p>
<p>
The
<i>
Comerford
</i>
was shrouded in a huge pall of yellowish-gray mist, and
more of it was coming up from below—from ventilators and hatchways and
skylights—as if the whole ship were flooded with some evil vapor.
</p>
<p>
Somehow, Curtis' mind flashed to the stories he'd heard of the forts of
the Maginot Line, and of other forts in Holland and Belgium that had
fallen before the early Nazi blitzkrieg, when their defenders found
themselves struck numb and helpless by a gas that had been flooded into
the inner compartments of their strongholds.
</p>
<p>
There were those who said it was the work of sappers who had tunneled
under the foundations, while others laid the induction of the gas to
Fifth Column traitors. There were a hundred more or less plausible
explanations—
</p>
<p>
The vapor clouds that enveloped the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
were becoming thicker.
All about the deck lay the forms of unconscious seamen, suddenly
stricken helpless. And then Curtis saw other forms flitting about the
deck—forms that looked like creatures from another world, but he
recognized them for what they were—men wearing gas masks.
</p>
<p>
Nelson was nowhere in sight. The steersman lay in a limp heap beside
the swinging wheel. Then a gas-masked figure appeared through the
shroud of mist and steadied it, so that the cruiser would not be
completely at the mercy of the wind and the waves.
</p>
<p>
Curtis heard the anchor let down, as if by invisible hands, the chain
screaming and flailing its clanking way through the hawse hole. Then he
was completely walled in by the yellowish-gray mist. He felt his senses
swimming.
</p>
<p>
Voices droned all around him in mumbling confusion—guttural voices
that ebbed and flowed in a tide of excited talk. He caught a word of
English now and then, mixed in with a flood of Teuton phonetics.
</p>
<p>
Two words, in particular, registered clearly on his mind. One was
"
<i>
Carethusia
</i>
"; the other was "convoy." But gradually his eardrums
began to throb, as if someone were pounding on them from the inside. He
couldn't get his breath; a cloud seemed to be mounting within him until
it swept over his brain—
</p>
<p>
He felt something strike the side of his head, and realized that he had
fallen in a heap on the bridge. And after that, he wasn't conscious of
anything—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The rain had abated to a foggy drizzle. The wash of the surf swung the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
in a lazy, rolling motion, as she lay with her bow nosing
into the sandbar at the entrance of the inlet.
</p>
<p>
From her bridge, Navigating Officer Nelson watched the gas-masked
figures moving about the decks, descending companionways—like goblins
from an ancient fairy tale or a modern horror story. Nelson looked like
a goblin himself, with his face covered by a respirator. At his side,
stood his fellow conspirator Bos'n's Mate Joe Bradford, also wearing a
gas mask.
</p>
<p>
Nelson spoke in a low tone, his lips close to Bradford's ear. "It
worked, Joe!"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah!" Bradford agreed. "It worked—fine!"
</p>
<p>
The limp bodies of the
<i>
Comerford's
</i>
crew were being carried to the
lowered accommodation ladder and transferred into waiting lifeboats.
</p>
<p>
Nelson swore under his breath. "Reckon it'll take a couple of hours
before the ship's rid of that damn gas!"
</p>
<p>
Bradford shook his head in disagreement. "The old geezer claims he's
got a neutralizing chemical in one of them tanks of his that'll clear
everything up inside half an hour."
</p>
<p>
"I'd rather get along without Androka, if we could!" Nelson muttered.
"He's nothing but a crackpot!"
</p>
<p>
"It was a crackpot who invented the gas we used to break up the
Maginot Line," Bradford reminded him. "It saved a lot of lives for the
<i>
Fuehrer
</i>
—lives that'd have been lost if the forts had to be taken by
our storm troopers!"
</p>
<p>
Nelson grunted and turned away. A short, thick-set figure in the
uniform of a German naval commander had ascended the accommodation
ladder and was mounting to the bridge. He, too, was equipped with a
respirator.
</p>
<p>
He came up to Nelson, saluted, and held out his hand, introducing
himself as Herr Kommander Brandt. He began to speak in German, but
Nelson stopped him.
</p>
<p>
"I don't speak any German," he explained. "I was born and educated in
the United States—of German parents, who had been ruined in the First
World War. My mother committed suicide when she learned that we were
penniless. My father—" He paused and cleared his throat.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Ja!
</i>
Your father?" the German officer prompted, dropping into
accented English. "Your father?"
</p>
<p>
"My father dedicated me to a career of revenge—to wipe out his
wrongs," Nelson continued. "If America hadn't gone into the First
World War, he wouldn't have lost his business; my mother would still
be living. When he joined the Nazi party, the way became clear to use
me—to educate me in a military prep school, then send me to Annapolis,
for a career in the United States navy—and no one suspected me. No
one—"
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes," Bradford put in, "I think Curtis suspected you."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe Curtis'll find out his suspicions were justified," Nelson said
bitterly. "But it won't do Curtis any good—a commander who's lost
his ship." He turned to Brandt. "You have plenty of men to work the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
Brandt nodded his square head. "We have a full crew—two hundred
men—officers, seamen, mechanics, radio men, technical experts, all
German naval reservists living in the United States, who've been sent
here secretly, a few at a time, during the past six weeks!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The three—Brandt, Nelson and Bradford—stood on the bridge and talked,
while the efficient stretcher-bearers worked industriously to remove
the limp bodies of the
<i>
Comerford's
</i>
unconscious crew and row them
ashore.
</p>
<p>
And when that task was completed, lifeboats began to come alongside
with strange-looking radio equipment, and more gas tanks like those
Androka had brought aboard the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
with him, and dynamos and
batteries that looked like something out of a scientific nightmare.
</p>
<p>
And bustling all over the place, barking excited commands in German,
pushing and pulling and pointing to emphasize his directions, was the
strange figure of Professor Zukor Androka!
</p>
<p>
"The professor's in his glory!" Nelson remarked to Kommander Brandt.
</p>
<p>
"Funny thing about him," Bradford put in, "is that his inventions work.
That zone of silence cut us off completely."
</p>
<p>
Kommander Brandt nodded. "Goodt! But you got your message giving your
bearings—the wrong ones?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Nelson said. "That came through all right. And won't Curtis have
a time explaining it!"
</p>
<p>
"Hereafter," Brandt said solemnly, "the zone of silence vill be
projected from the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
; and ve have another invention of
Androka's vich vill be even more useful vhen ve come to cut the
<i>
Carethusia
</i>
out of her convoy."
</p>
<p>
"The
<i>
Carethusia
</i>
?" Nelson asked, in a puzzled tone.
</p>
<p>
Brandt said: "She's a freighter in a convoy out of St. Johns—twelve
thousand tons. The orders are to take her; not sink her."
</p>
<p>
"What's the idea?"
</p>
<p>
"Her cargo," Brandt explained. "It iss more precious than rubies. It
includes a large shipment of boarts."
</p>
<p>
"Boarts?" Nelson repeated. "What are they?"
</p>
<p>
"Boarts," Brandt told him, "are industrial diamonds—black,
imperfectly crystallized stones, but far more valuable to us than
flawless diamonds from Tiffany's on Fift' Avenue. They are needed for
making machine tools. They come from northern Brazil—and our supply is
low."
</p>
<p>
"I should think we could get a shipment of these boarts direct from
Brazil—through the blockade," Nelson said, "without taking the risk of
capturing a United States navy cruiser."
</p>
<p>
"There are other things Germany needs desperately on board the
<i>
Carethusia
</i>
," Brandt explained. "Vanadium and nickel and hundreds of
barrels of lard oil for machine-tool lubrication. Our agents have been
watching the convoys closely for weeks for just such a cargo as the
<i>
Carethusia
</i>
is taking over."
</p>
<p>
"Can we trust Androka?" Nelson asked, with a sudden note of suspicion
in his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Brandt assured him. "Of all men—we can trust Androka!"
</p>
<p>
"But he's a Czech," Nelson argued.
</p>
<p>
"The
<i>
gestapo
</i>
takes care of Czechs and Poles and Frenchmen and other
foreigners whom it chooses as its agents," Brandt pointed out. "Androka
has a daughter and other relations in Prague. He knows that if anything
misfires, if there is the slightest suspicion of treachery on his part,
his daughter and the others will suffer. Androka's loyalty is assured!"
</p>
<p>
Nelson turned to watch the forward fighting top of the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
.
The masked German seamen were installing some sort of apparatus
up there—a strange-looking object that looked something like an
old-fashioned trench mortar, and which connected with cables to the
room that served as Androka's laboratory and workshop.
</p>
<p>
Another crew was installing radio apparatus in the mizzentop turret.
</p>
<p>
Descending a companionway to see what was going on below, Nelson found
that portholes were being opened, and men were spraying chemical around
to rid the below-decks atmosphere of the lethal gas that had overcome
the
<i>
Comerford's
</i>
American crew.
</p>
<p>
Returning to the bridge, he found that the tide in the inlet had risen
considerably, and that the cruiser was riding more easily at her anchor.
</p>
<p>
Then, at Brandt's orders, the anchor was hauled in, and lifeboats and a
motor launch were used as tugs to work the vessel entirely free of the
sand bar. This was accomplished without difficulty.
</p>
<p>
Brandt came over to where Nelson was standing on the bridge and held
out his hand.
</p>
<p>
"Congratulations, Herr Kommander Nelson!" he said. "Ve have stolen one
of the United States navy's newest and fastest cruisers!" He made a
gesture as if raising a beer stein to drink a toast. "
<i>
Prosit!
</i>
" he
added.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Prosit!
</i>
" Nelson repeated, and the two grinned at each other.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Stars were twinkling in a patch of black-blue sky, and broken mountains
of gray cloud were skudding before the east wind. Commander Bob Curtis
found himself lying in wet sand, on a beach, somewhere, with the
rain—now a light, driving mist—beating on his face. He was chilled;
his limbs were stiff and numb. His nose and throat felt parched inside,
as if a wave of searing heat had scorched them.
</p>
<p>
According to his last calculations, the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
had been cruising
off the Maine coast. This probably was one of the islets of that
region, or it might be the mainland.
</p>
<p>
It was hard work getting to his feet, and when he did manage to stand,
he could only plant his heels in the sand and sway to and fro for fully
a minute, like a child learning to walk.
</p>
<p>
All around him in the nearly total darkness, he could make out the dim
forms of men sprawled on the beach; and of other men moving about,
exploring. He heard the murmur of voices and saw the glow of lighted
cigarettes.
</p>
<p>
A man with a flashlight was approaching him. Its white glare shone for
a moment in Curtis' face, and the familiar voice of Ensign Jack Dillon
spoke: "Commander Curtis! Are you O. K., sir?"
</p>
<p>
"I think so!" Curtis' heart warmed at the eager expression in Dillon's
face; at the heartfelt concern in his friendly brown eyes. The young
ensign was red-headed, impetuous, thoroughly genuine in his emotions.
"How about yourself, Jack?" Curtis added.
</p>
<p>
"A bit of a headache from the gas, but that's all. Any orders, sir?"
</p>
<p>
Curtis thought for a moment. "Muster the crew, as best you can. We'll
try to make a roll call. Is there any sign of the ship?"
</p>
<p>
There was a solemn note in Dillon's voice. "No, sir. She's been worked
off the sandbar and put to sea!"
</p>
<p>
The words struck Curtis with the numbing shock of a blow on some nerve
center. For the first time, he realized fully the tragedy that had
swept down on him. He had lost his ship—one of the United States
navy's fastest and newest small light cruisers—under circumstances
which smelled strongly of treachery and sabotage.
</p>
<p>
As he thought back, he realized that he
<i>
might
</i>
have prevented the
loss, if he had been more alert, more suspicious. For it was clear to
him now that the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
had been deliberately steered to this
place; that the men who had seized her had been waiting here for that
very purpose.
</p>
<p>
The pieces of the picture fitted together like a jigsaw
puzzle—Androka's zone of silence; the bearings given by radio;
Navigating Officer Nelson's queer conduct. They were all part of a
carefully laid plan!
</p>
<p>
All the suspicious circumstances surrounding Nelson came flooding into
Curtis' mind. He had never liked the man; never trusted him. Nelson
always acted as if he had some secret, something to hide.
</p>
<p>
Curtis recalled that Nelson and Androka had long conversations
together—conversations which they would end abruptly when anyone else
came within earshot. And Nelson had always been chummy with the worst
trouble maker in the crew—Bos'n's Mate Bradford.
</p>
<p>
Curtis went around, finding the officers, issuing orders. There were
still some unconscious men to be revived. In a sheltered cove among
the rocks, an exploring group had found enough dry driftwood to make a
fire—
</p>
<p>
In another hour, the skies had cleared, and white moonlight flooded
the scene with a ghostly radiance. The men of the
<i>
Comerford
</i>
had
all regained consciousness and were drying out in front of the big
driftwood bonfires in the cove.
</p>
<p>
Curtis ordered a beacon kept burning on a high promontory. Then he got
the men lined up, according to their respective classifications, for a
check-up on the missing.
</p>
<p>
When this was completed, it was found that the
<i>
Comerford's
</i>
entire
complement of two hundred and twenty men were present—except
Navigating Officer Nelson, and Bos'n's Mate Bradford! And Zukor Androka
was also missing!
</p>
<p>
With the coming of dawn, a little exploration revealed that the
<i>
Comerford's
</i>
crew was marooned on an islet, about a square mile in
area; that they had been put ashore without food or extra clothing or
equipment of any kind, and that no boats had been left for them.
</p>
<p>
One searching party reported finding the remains of what had been a
radio station on a high promontory on the north shore of the islet.
Another had found the remains of tents and log cabins, recently
demolished, in a small, timbered hollow—a well-hidden spot invisible
from the air, unless one were flying very low; a place where two
hundred or more men could have camped.
</p>
<p>
There was a good water supply—a small creek fed by springs—but
nothing in the way of food. Evidently food was a precious commodity
which the recent inhabitants of the islet couldn't afford to leave
behind.
</p>
<p>
Curtis was studying the wreckage of the wireless station, wondering
if this might have been the source of Androka's zone of silence, when
Ensign Jack Dillon came up to him.
</p>
<p>
"There's a coast-guard cutter heading for the island, sir," he
announced.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Androka is arrogant.\n(B) Androka can be noncompliant.\n(C) Androka is often clueless.\n(D) Androka can be mysterious.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "United States. Navy -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction; Inventors -- Fiction; World War, 1939-1945 -- Naval operations -- Fiction; Radio -- Fiction"
} |
20011 | What is the significance of including all the costs and price tags in the article?
Choices:
(A) To show the carelessness for money demonstrated by the New York elite.
(B) To eventually calculate and justify the net worth of people like Si.
(C) To demonstrate how such large sums of money are spent so generously.
(D) To show how people like Si keep track of their budget. | [
"A",
"To show the carelessness for money demonstrated by the New York elite."
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Let Si Get This<br/><br/> During a typical lunch time<br/>at the Royalton Hotel restaurant in midtown Manhattan, The <br/> New<br/>Yorker 's Tina Brown might be installed at her usual table, and<br/>Vogue 's Anna Wintour might be at her usual table (chewing on her usual<br/>meal--a $25 hamburger). Vanity Fair 's Graydon Carter might be there too,<br/>although he has transferred his main allegiance to a place called Patroon.<br/>Filling out the room are other editors, publicists, and writers from these<br/>magazines and GQ and House & Garden and so on. And one man,<br/>who probably isn't there himself, picks up every tab. Some of the lesser fry<br/>may even utter the Condé Nast mantra--though it is hardly necessary at the<br/>Royalton--as they grab for the check: "Let Si get this."<br/><br/> S.I. "Si"<br/>Newhouse Jr. and his younger brother, Donald, control Advance Publications, one<br/>of America's largest privately held companies. (Estimate of their combined<br/>wealth: $13 billion.) Donald tends to Advance's hugely profitable newspaper,<br/>radio, and TV holdings. Si runs the less profitable but more glamorous<br/>properties. These are the 15 Condé Nast magazines, including (in descending<br/>order of fabulousness) Vogue , Vanity Fair , GQ , Condé<br/>Nast Traveler , House & Garden , Allure , Details ,<br/>Self , Mademoiselle , and Glamour ; ; and Random House.<br/><br/> The expense-account lunch is a hallowed journalistic<br/>tradition. But consider a day in the life of an editor working for Si Newhouse.<br/>(Donald's editors are a different story, as they will be happy to tell you.)<br/>It's a closed economy where almost all human needs and desires can be gratified<br/>with a miraculous, unlimited currency called the Si.<br/><br/> A Lincoln Town Car is waiting<br/>outside your door in the morning to take you to work. The car, which costs $50<br/>an hour, is written into your contract. First stop, breakfast with a writer at<br/>the Four Seasons. The check may be as little as $40. When you reach the office,<br/>you realize you're out of cigarettes. No problem--you send your assistant to<br/>buy a pack for you. She gets reimbursed from petty cash ($3). (Could be worse<br/>for the assistant: She could be forced to pick up her boss's birth-control<br/>pills, or her boss's pet from the vet, or presents for her boss's<br/>children--regular duties for Condé Nast underlings.)<br/><br/> You've<br/>forgotten to return the video your kids watched yesterday, so you have a<br/>messenger take it back to Blockbuster. Si spends $20; you save a $1.50 late<br/>fee.<br/><br/> <br/>Then there's lunch. The magazines account for<br/>more than a quarter of daytime revenues at the Four Seasons and the Royalton. A<br/>modest lunch for two at the Royalton (no fancy wine or anything) might cost<br/>$80. But Si's generosity extends to even assistants and sub-sub-editors, dining<br/>on sushi at their desks. If you spend $10 or less on lunch, and claim you were<br/>working, Si pays. At Vogue and Vanity Fair , almost everyone has a<br/>"working lunch" every day . An editor at Allure says that "working<br/>lunches" there are limited to 10 a month.<br/><br/> Back at the office, you hear<br/>that a friend at another Newhouse magazine has been promoted, so you send<br/>flowers. The tab: $100. Si pays. (One of my favorite Condé Nast stories is of<br/>an editor who had just been promoted to an extremely senior job. His office was<br/>jammed with congratulatory flowers and cards. All had been sent by fellow Condé<br/>Nast staffers. All had been billed to the company.) Four o'clock, and it's<br/>snack time. Your assistant joins the mob in the lobby newsstand. She bills your<br/>candy bar, juice, and cigarettes (as well as her own candy bar, juice, and<br/>cigarettes) to the magazine ($15). After all, it's a "working snack." Later,<br/>there's a birthday party for your assistant. You order champagne and a cake--on<br/>the company, of course, and present her with your gift--a Prada wallet<br/>($200). Later, she submits the expense sheet for it. Finally, after a Random<br/>House book party at Le Cirque 2000 (estimated cost to Si: $35,000), your car<br/>ferries you home.<br/><br/> Newhouse<br/>expense stories are a staple of New York literary-journalistic conversation.<br/>Stories about the $10,000 in expenses that a New Yorker editor billed<br/>for a single month. About the interior-decorating costs for the<br/>fashion-magazine editor who likes to have her office photographs rearranged<br/>every few months. About the hotel tab for the big-name New York writer who<br/>spent three weeks in Washington's Hay-Adams (basic room: $285 a night)<br/>researching a Vanity Fair story that will never run. About the<br/>Vogue editor who has furnished her summer house from items purchased for<br/>fashion shoots--beautiful furniture, designer pillows, coffee-table books.<br/>Vogue assistants have nicknamed the house "Petty Cash Junction."<br/><br/> None of the 39 past and present Newhouse employees I spoke<br/>to for this story would talk on the record, for . And the nature of the subject<br/>makes it hard to separate apocrypha from the truth. Did Condé Nast pay, as<br/>sources insist it did, hundreds of thousands of dollars in back taxes on behalf<br/>of an editor who didn't bother to file tax forms? Did an editor really expense<br/>$20,000 in a weeklong trip to Paris? The people who pay the bills are not<br/>talking. But every example of excess cited here was told to me by at least one<br/>source (and usually more than one) in a position to know.<br/><br/> Need a<br/>facial? Treat yourself and bill it to Si. This is what is called "scouting." It<br/>is also a great way to get free haircuts. To be fair, Si doesn't pay for all<br/>such treats. There is also a much-honored tradition of accepting tribute from<br/>companies that Condé Nast magazines cover. One magazine exec reportedly got so<br/>much loot last Christmas--Cuban cigars, "crates of wine," designer suits ("It<br/>was like a Spanish galleon")--that he needed three cars to cart it home. At<br/>yuletide, even midlevel fashion-mag writers and editors are inundated with<br/>"cashmere sweaters, Versace pillows, coats ..." recalls one ex- Vogue<br/>staffer wistfully.<br/><br/> <br/>At the top of the masthead, the perks are<br/>perkier. His Si-ness (their joke, not mine) does not expect his editors in<br/>chief to actually live on their million-dollar salaries. He also gives them<br/>clothing allowances (up to $50,000 a year). He buys them cars of their choice<br/>and hires chauffeurs to drive them. He offers them low- or no-interest home<br/>loans. GQ editor Art Cooper reportedly received two $1-million loans,<br/>one for a Manhattan apartment, the other for a Connecticut farm. Tina Brown and<br/>her husband, Harold Evans, former president of Random House, reportedly just<br/>took a $2-million boost to buy a $3.7-million Manhattan house.<br/><br/> Si's<br/>favorite courtiers lead lives of jaw-dropping privilege. When she was editor of<br/>British Vogue , Wintour commuted between London and New York--on the<br/>Concorde. Another Si confidant decided his office didn't feel right, so he<br/>hired one of the grandmasters of feng shui to rearrange it. Some editors<br/>prepare for trips by Federal Expressing their luggage to their destination.<br/>Why? "So you don't have to carry your bags. No one would be caught dead<br/>carrying a bag."<br/><br/> Condé Nast has also created a class of mandarin<br/>journalists, writers who live much better than they ever could if they wrote<br/>only for normal magazines. One free-lancer tells of building much of a summer<br/>traveling with her husband in the West and Europe around a couple of Condé Nast<br/>assignments. Last summer, The <br/> New Yorker sent a staffer to Venice<br/>to cover the Venice Film Festival. The weeklong trip, which must have cost<br/>thousands, resulted in a short piece.<br/><br/> Writers,<br/>of course, are nowhere near as profligate as photographers. Stories of wasteful<br/>shoots abound: the matching seaweed that had to be flown from California to the<br/>Caribbean for a fashion photo; the Annie Liebovitz Vanity Fair cover<br/>shot of Arnold Schwarzenegger that reportedly cost $100,000; the Vogue<br/>shoot in Africa in which, an ex- Vogue editor claims, the photographer<br/>and his huge entourage wined and dined to the tune of "hundreds of thousands of<br/>dollars."<br/><br/> <br/>And then there are the parties. Last month<br/>The <br/> New Yorker spent--and this is not a joke--$500,000 on a<br/>two-day "Next Conference" at the Disney Institute in Florida, in connection<br/>with a special issue on the same theme. In order to get Vice President Gore,<br/>who was traveling in California at the time, The <br/> New Yorker paid<br/>for him and his entourage to fly Air Force Two from California to Florida and<br/>back. And vice presidents are not the only things that Condé Nast flies in for<br/>parties. The <br/> New Yorker once shipped silverware from New York to<br/>Chicago for a dinner. ("What, they don't have silverware in Chicago?" asks a<br/>New Yorker staffer.) Vanity Fair toted food from New York to<br/>Washington for this year's party on the night of the White House Correspondents<br/>Dinner. (What, they don't have food in Washington?)<br/><br/> That<br/>annual Washington do has grown from an after-dinner gathering for drinks at a<br/>contributor's apartment to two huge blasts--before and after the dinner<br/>itself--at a rented embassy. VF 's annual Oscar-night party has become a<br/>similar institution in Hollywood. In addition to the parties themselves, Si<br/>also naturally pays to fly in VF staffers and to put them up at top<br/>hotels. (What, they don't have editors in Washington or L.A.?)<br/><br/> Some Condé Nast parties are so ridiculous that even other<br/>Condé Nasties make fun of them. This week's New Yorker , for example,<br/>mocks a recent Vogue party in honor of food writer Jeffrey Steingarten.<br/>According to The <br/> New Yorker , Wintour so detested the carpet at Le<br/>Cirque 2000 that she ordered the florist to cover it with autumn leaves<br/>(handpicked, of course).<br/><br/> The apogee of party absurdity<br/>is Vanity Fair 's sponsorship of an annual London dinner for the<br/>Serpentine Museum in Hyde Park. As one observer puts it, "Vanity Fair ,<br/>an American magazine, pays more than $100,000 to a British art museum solely so<br/>that it can sponsor a dinner where Graydon Carter gets to sit next to Princess<br/>Diana." The princess was the museum's patron.<br/><br/> Actually,<br/>paying $100,000 for face time with Princess Di may not have been a foolish<br/>investment for a magazine so dependent on peddling her image. And Condé Nast's<br/>excess has other plausible justifications as well.<br/><br/> <br/>Some top editors may earn their perks.<br/>Vogue and GQ make millions, according to industry analysts.<br/>Vanity Fair is enjoying banner years, and while it probably hasn't made<br/>back the millions Newhouse lost in starting it up, it is certainly in the<br/>black. The <br/> New Yorker loses money--how much may even surpass<br/>perks as a topic of Newhouse gossip and speculation. On the other hand,<br/>The <br/> New Yorker is the most talked-about magazine in America, and<br/>Tina Brown is the most talked-about editor. That is worth something.<br/><br/> Public<br/>media companies such as Time Warner (or, for that matter, Microsoft) can entice<br/>and hold journalists with stock options. Advance is private, so Newhouse uses<br/>other golden handcuffs. He runs a lifestyle prison. Top editors stay because<br/>they could never afford to live in a house as nice as the one Si's<br/>interest-free loan bought them, or to host parties as nice as the ones Si's<br/>party planners throw for them.<br/><br/> Condé Nast's magazines are all about glamour, wealth,<br/>prestige. To uphold that image, magazine editors need to circulate at the top<br/>of New York society. But the top of New York society consists of people who<br/>make far more money than magazine editors do--investment bankers,<br/>corporate chieftains, and fashion designers. Million-dollar salaries aren't<br/>enough to mix as equals with the Trumps and Karans. Si's perks are<br/>equalizers.<br/><br/> And they say it's not as good<br/>as it used to be. In 1992, according to Thomas Maier's biography of Newhouse,<br/>the editor of Self held a birthday party for Si Newhouse's dog .<br/>(Owners ate caviar; dogs drank Evian.) The lowliest assistants used to take car<br/>services home. But new Condé Nast CEO Steve Florio has restricted cars and<br/>catering. Editors who used to fly the Concorde now fly first-class; those who<br/>used to fly first-class now fly business. Expense accounts are scrutinized.<br/>Even so, today's Condé Nast is economical only by Condé Nast standards. The<br/>belt is tighter, but it's still hand-tooled, hand-tanned, and fashioned from<br/>the finest Italian leather.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) To show the carelessness for money demonstrated by the New York elite.\n(B) To eventually calculate and justify the net worth of people like Si.\n(C) To demonstrate how such large sums of money are spent so generously.\n(D) To show how people like Si keep track of their budget.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20011 | What general structure does the article follow?
Choices:
(A) Topic sentence and details.
(B) Persuasive hook and explanation.
(C) Argument and supportive details.
(D) Problem and solution. | [
"B",
"Persuasive hook and explanation."
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Let Si Get This<br/><br/> During a typical lunch time<br/>at the Royalton Hotel restaurant in midtown Manhattan, The <br/> New<br/>Yorker 's Tina Brown might be installed at her usual table, and<br/>Vogue 's Anna Wintour might be at her usual table (chewing on her usual<br/>meal--a $25 hamburger). Vanity Fair 's Graydon Carter might be there too,<br/>although he has transferred his main allegiance to a place called Patroon.<br/>Filling out the room are other editors, publicists, and writers from these<br/>magazines and GQ and House & Garden and so on. And one man,<br/>who probably isn't there himself, picks up every tab. Some of the lesser fry<br/>may even utter the Condé Nast mantra--though it is hardly necessary at the<br/>Royalton--as they grab for the check: "Let Si get this."<br/><br/> S.I. "Si"<br/>Newhouse Jr. and his younger brother, Donald, control Advance Publications, one<br/>of America's largest privately held companies. (Estimate of their combined<br/>wealth: $13 billion.) Donald tends to Advance's hugely profitable newspaper,<br/>radio, and TV holdings. Si runs the less profitable but more glamorous<br/>properties. These are the 15 Condé Nast magazines, including (in descending<br/>order of fabulousness) Vogue , Vanity Fair , GQ , Condé<br/>Nast Traveler , House & Garden , Allure , Details ,<br/>Self , Mademoiselle , and Glamour ; ; and Random House.<br/><br/> The expense-account lunch is a hallowed journalistic<br/>tradition. But consider a day in the life of an editor working for Si Newhouse.<br/>(Donald's editors are a different story, as they will be happy to tell you.)<br/>It's a closed economy where almost all human needs and desires can be gratified<br/>with a miraculous, unlimited currency called the Si.<br/><br/> A Lincoln Town Car is waiting<br/>outside your door in the morning to take you to work. The car, which costs $50<br/>an hour, is written into your contract. First stop, breakfast with a writer at<br/>the Four Seasons. The check may be as little as $40. When you reach the office,<br/>you realize you're out of cigarettes. No problem--you send your assistant to<br/>buy a pack for you. She gets reimbursed from petty cash ($3). (Could be worse<br/>for the assistant: She could be forced to pick up her boss's birth-control<br/>pills, or her boss's pet from the vet, or presents for her boss's<br/>children--regular duties for Condé Nast underlings.)<br/><br/> You've<br/>forgotten to return the video your kids watched yesterday, so you have a<br/>messenger take it back to Blockbuster. Si spends $20; you save a $1.50 late<br/>fee.<br/><br/> <br/>Then there's lunch. The magazines account for<br/>more than a quarter of daytime revenues at the Four Seasons and the Royalton. A<br/>modest lunch for two at the Royalton (no fancy wine or anything) might cost<br/>$80. But Si's generosity extends to even assistants and sub-sub-editors, dining<br/>on sushi at their desks. If you spend $10 or less on lunch, and claim you were<br/>working, Si pays. At Vogue and Vanity Fair , almost everyone has a<br/>"working lunch" every day . An editor at Allure says that "working<br/>lunches" there are limited to 10 a month.<br/><br/> Back at the office, you hear<br/>that a friend at another Newhouse magazine has been promoted, so you send<br/>flowers. The tab: $100. Si pays. (One of my favorite Condé Nast stories is of<br/>an editor who had just been promoted to an extremely senior job. His office was<br/>jammed with congratulatory flowers and cards. All had been sent by fellow Condé<br/>Nast staffers. All had been billed to the company.) Four o'clock, and it's<br/>snack time. Your assistant joins the mob in the lobby newsstand. She bills your<br/>candy bar, juice, and cigarettes (as well as her own candy bar, juice, and<br/>cigarettes) to the magazine ($15). After all, it's a "working snack." Later,<br/>there's a birthday party for your assistant. You order champagne and a cake--on<br/>the company, of course, and present her with your gift--a Prada wallet<br/>($200). Later, she submits the expense sheet for it. Finally, after a Random<br/>House book party at Le Cirque 2000 (estimated cost to Si: $35,000), your car<br/>ferries you home.<br/><br/> Newhouse<br/>expense stories are a staple of New York literary-journalistic conversation.<br/>Stories about the $10,000 in expenses that a New Yorker editor billed<br/>for a single month. About the interior-decorating costs for the<br/>fashion-magazine editor who likes to have her office photographs rearranged<br/>every few months. About the hotel tab for the big-name New York writer who<br/>spent three weeks in Washington's Hay-Adams (basic room: $285 a night)<br/>researching a Vanity Fair story that will never run. About the<br/>Vogue editor who has furnished her summer house from items purchased for<br/>fashion shoots--beautiful furniture, designer pillows, coffee-table books.<br/>Vogue assistants have nicknamed the house "Petty Cash Junction."<br/><br/> None of the 39 past and present Newhouse employees I spoke<br/>to for this story would talk on the record, for . And the nature of the subject<br/>makes it hard to separate apocrypha from the truth. Did Condé Nast pay, as<br/>sources insist it did, hundreds of thousands of dollars in back taxes on behalf<br/>of an editor who didn't bother to file tax forms? Did an editor really expense<br/>$20,000 in a weeklong trip to Paris? The people who pay the bills are not<br/>talking. But every example of excess cited here was told to me by at least one<br/>source (and usually more than one) in a position to know.<br/><br/> Need a<br/>facial? Treat yourself and bill it to Si. This is what is called "scouting." It<br/>is also a great way to get free haircuts. To be fair, Si doesn't pay for all<br/>such treats. There is also a much-honored tradition of accepting tribute from<br/>companies that Condé Nast magazines cover. One magazine exec reportedly got so<br/>much loot last Christmas--Cuban cigars, "crates of wine," designer suits ("It<br/>was like a Spanish galleon")--that he needed three cars to cart it home. At<br/>yuletide, even midlevel fashion-mag writers and editors are inundated with<br/>"cashmere sweaters, Versace pillows, coats ..." recalls one ex- Vogue<br/>staffer wistfully.<br/><br/> <br/>At the top of the masthead, the perks are<br/>perkier. His Si-ness (their joke, not mine) does not expect his editors in<br/>chief to actually live on their million-dollar salaries. He also gives them<br/>clothing allowances (up to $50,000 a year). He buys them cars of their choice<br/>and hires chauffeurs to drive them. He offers them low- or no-interest home<br/>loans. GQ editor Art Cooper reportedly received two $1-million loans,<br/>one for a Manhattan apartment, the other for a Connecticut farm. Tina Brown and<br/>her husband, Harold Evans, former president of Random House, reportedly just<br/>took a $2-million boost to buy a $3.7-million Manhattan house.<br/><br/> Si's<br/>favorite courtiers lead lives of jaw-dropping privilege. When she was editor of<br/>British Vogue , Wintour commuted between London and New York--on the<br/>Concorde. Another Si confidant decided his office didn't feel right, so he<br/>hired one of the grandmasters of feng shui to rearrange it. Some editors<br/>prepare for trips by Federal Expressing their luggage to their destination.<br/>Why? "So you don't have to carry your bags. No one would be caught dead<br/>carrying a bag."<br/><br/> Condé Nast has also created a class of mandarin<br/>journalists, writers who live much better than they ever could if they wrote<br/>only for normal magazines. One free-lancer tells of building much of a summer<br/>traveling with her husband in the West and Europe around a couple of Condé Nast<br/>assignments. Last summer, The <br/> New Yorker sent a staffer to Venice<br/>to cover the Venice Film Festival. The weeklong trip, which must have cost<br/>thousands, resulted in a short piece.<br/><br/> Writers,<br/>of course, are nowhere near as profligate as photographers. Stories of wasteful<br/>shoots abound: the matching seaweed that had to be flown from California to the<br/>Caribbean for a fashion photo; the Annie Liebovitz Vanity Fair cover<br/>shot of Arnold Schwarzenegger that reportedly cost $100,000; the Vogue<br/>shoot in Africa in which, an ex- Vogue editor claims, the photographer<br/>and his huge entourage wined and dined to the tune of "hundreds of thousands of<br/>dollars."<br/><br/> <br/>And then there are the parties. Last month<br/>The <br/> New Yorker spent--and this is not a joke--$500,000 on a<br/>two-day "Next Conference" at the Disney Institute in Florida, in connection<br/>with a special issue on the same theme. In order to get Vice President Gore,<br/>who was traveling in California at the time, The <br/> New Yorker paid<br/>for him and his entourage to fly Air Force Two from California to Florida and<br/>back. And vice presidents are not the only things that Condé Nast flies in for<br/>parties. The <br/> New Yorker once shipped silverware from New York to<br/>Chicago for a dinner. ("What, they don't have silverware in Chicago?" asks a<br/>New Yorker staffer.) Vanity Fair toted food from New York to<br/>Washington for this year's party on the night of the White House Correspondents<br/>Dinner. (What, they don't have food in Washington?)<br/><br/> That<br/>annual Washington do has grown from an after-dinner gathering for drinks at a<br/>contributor's apartment to two huge blasts--before and after the dinner<br/>itself--at a rented embassy. VF 's annual Oscar-night party has become a<br/>similar institution in Hollywood. In addition to the parties themselves, Si<br/>also naturally pays to fly in VF staffers and to put them up at top<br/>hotels. (What, they don't have editors in Washington or L.A.?)<br/><br/> Some Condé Nast parties are so ridiculous that even other<br/>Condé Nasties make fun of them. This week's New Yorker , for example,<br/>mocks a recent Vogue party in honor of food writer Jeffrey Steingarten.<br/>According to The <br/> New Yorker , Wintour so detested the carpet at Le<br/>Cirque 2000 that she ordered the florist to cover it with autumn leaves<br/>(handpicked, of course).<br/><br/> The apogee of party absurdity<br/>is Vanity Fair 's sponsorship of an annual London dinner for the<br/>Serpentine Museum in Hyde Park. As one observer puts it, "Vanity Fair ,<br/>an American magazine, pays more than $100,000 to a British art museum solely so<br/>that it can sponsor a dinner where Graydon Carter gets to sit next to Princess<br/>Diana." The princess was the museum's patron.<br/><br/> Actually,<br/>paying $100,000 for face time with Princess Di may not have been a foolish<br/>investment for a magazine so dependent on peddling her image. And Condé Nast's<br/>excess has other plausible justifications as well.<br/><br/> <br/>Some top editors may earn their perks.<br/>Vogue and GQ make millions, according to industry analysts.<br/>Vanity Fair is enjoying banner years, and while it probably hasn't made<br/>back the millions Newhouse lost in starting it up, it is certainly in the<br/>black. The <br/> New Yorker loses money--how much may even surpass<br/>perks as a topic of Newhouse gossip and speculation. On the other hand,<br/>The <br/> New Yorker is the most talked-about magazine in America, and<br/>Tina Brown is the most talked-about editor. That is worth something.<br/><br/> Public<br/>media companies such as Time Warner (or, for that matter, Microsoft) can entice<br/>and hold journalists with stock options. Advance is private, so Newhouse uses<br/>other golden handcuffs. He runs a lifestyle prison. Top editors stay because<br/>they could never afford to live in a house as nice as the one Si's<br/>interest-free loan bought them, or to host parties as nice as the ones Si's<br/>party planners throw for them.<br/><br/> Condé Nast's magazines are all about glamour, wealth,<br/>prestige. To uphold that image, magazine editors need to circulate at the top<br/>of New York society. But the top of New York society consists of people who<br/>make far more money than magazine editors do--investment bankers,<br/>corporate chieftains, and fashion designers. Million-dollar salaries aren't<br/>enough to mix as equals with the Trumps and Karans. Si's perks are<br/>equalizers.<br/><br/> And they say it's not as good<br/>as it used to be. In 1992, according to Thomas Maier's biography of Newhouse,<br/>the editor of Self held a birthday party for Si Newhouse's dog .<br/>(Owners ate caviar; dogs drank Evian.) The lowliest assistants used to take car<br/>services home. But new Condé Nast CEO Steve Florio has restricted cars and<br/>catering. Editors who used to fly the Concorde now fly first-class; those who<br/>used to fly first-class now fly business. Expense accounts are scrutinized.<br/>Even so, today's Condé Nast is economical only by Condé Nast standards. The<br/>belt is tighter, but it's still hand-tooled, hand-tanned, and fashioned from<br/>the finest Italian leather.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) Topic sentence and details.\n(B) Persuasive hook and explanation.\n(C) Argument and supportive details.\n(D) Problem and solution.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
51310 | Why is O'Leary and the Warden at odds?
Choices:
(A) The Warden doesn't want to be aware of any problems, and so dismisses O'Leary's worries.
(B) The Warden knows that O'Leary has thoughts of switching jobs.
(C) O'Leary knows that something is wrong, but can't push the matter because it would go against their specializations.
(D) The Warden is taking pills, and it's warping his judgement. O'Leary knows this. | [
"C",
"O'Leary knows that something is wrong, but can't push the matter because it would go against their specializations. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
My Lady Greensleeves
</h1>
<p>
By FREDERIK POHL
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
This guard smelled trouble and it could be
<br/>
counted on to come—for a nose for trouble
<br/>
was one of the many talents bred here!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph4">
I
</p>
<p>
His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in his
nostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the trouble
was yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain of
guards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known to
its inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scent
of trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived to
reach his captaincy.
</p>
<p>
And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.
</p>
<p>
He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl like
her into a place like this. And, what was more important, why she
couldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.
</p>
<p>
He demanded: "Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?"
</p>
<p>
The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The block
guard, Sodaro, growled warningly: "Watch it, auntie!"
</p>
<p>
O'Leary shook his head. "Let her talk, Sodaro." It said in the
<i>
Civil
Service Guide to Prison Administration
</i>
: "Detainees will be permitted
to speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings." And O'Leary
was a man who lived by the book.
</p>
<p>
She burst out: "I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never told
me I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slush
up, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards and
told them I refused to mop."
</p>
<p>
The block guard guffawed. "Wipe talk—that's what she was telling you
to do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—"
</p>
<p>
"Shut up, Sodaro."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She was
attractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got off
to a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in the
disciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear and
looked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting for
him to judge their cases.
</p>
<p>
He said patiently: "Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out your
cell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, you
should have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—"
</p>
<p>
"Hey, Cap'n, wait!" Sodaro was looking alarmed. "This isn't a first
offense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing in
the mess hall." He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. "The
block guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,
and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when the
other one asked her to move along." He added virtuously: "The guard
warned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure."
</p>
<p>
Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: "I
don't care. I don't care!"
</p>
<p>
O'Leary stopped her. "That's enough! Three days in Block O!"
</p>
<p>
It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. He
had managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omitted
to say "sir" every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it up
forever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria was
clearly the next step for her.
</p>
<p>
All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheet
to Sodaro and said absently: "Too bad a kid like her has to be here.
What's she in for?"
</p>
<p>
"You didn't know, Cap'n?" Sodaro leered. "She's in for conspiracy to
violate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,
Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!"
</p>
<p>
Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain marked
"Civil Service." But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, the
smell from his nose.
</p>
<p>
What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirty
business? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across the
yard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent Civil
Service parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. If
anything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, and
look what she had made of it.
</p>
<p>
The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is no
exception, but with the difference that his is the one species that
creates its own environment in which to specialize. From the moment
that clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weapons
made by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by the
ceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.
</p>
<p>
Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. From
the born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolved
to the point of smaller contact and less communication between the
specializations, until now they could understand each other on only the
most basic physical necessities—and not even always then.
</p>
<p>
But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degree
of civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregation
of each specialization—social and genetic measures to make them
breed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,
or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting the
specializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laborer
or Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,
would be good at no specialization.
</p>
<p>
And the basis of this specialization society was: "The aptitude groups
are the true races of mankind." Putting it into law was only the legal
enforcement of a demonstrable fact.
</p>
<p>
"Evening, Cap'n." A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight and
touched his cap as O'Leary passed by.
</p>
<p>
"Evening."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted those
things, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'd
noticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much to
sweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over the
cobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate's
job to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when they
didn't.
</p>
<p>
There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was a
perfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,
not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He
<i>
was
</i>
proud of it. It was
<i>
right
</i>
that he should be proud of it. He was
civil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content to
do a good, clean civil-service job.
</p>
<p>
If he had happened to be born a fig—a
<i>
clerk
</i>
, he corrected
himself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have been
proud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—or
a mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.
</p>
<p>
Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,
but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Leary
was a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with a
touch of envy how
<i>
comfortable
</i>
it must be to be a wipe—a
<i>
laborer
</i>
.
No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work and
loaf, work and loaf.
</p>
<p>
Of course, he wouldn't
<i>
really
</i>
want that kind of life, because he was
Civil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers that
weren't
<i>
meant
</i>
to be—
</p>
<p>
"Evening, Cap'n."
</p>
<p>
He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge of
maintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.
</p>
<p>
"Evening, Conan," he said.
</p>
<p>
Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for the
next hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter on
the prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept the
cars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was up
in another year or so, he would go back to his life with his status
restored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and he
certainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass as
Civil Service or anything else. He knew his place.
</p>
<p>
So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph4">
II
</p>
<p>
Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called by
different names. Old Marquette called it "the canary;" Louisiana State
called it "the red hats;" elsewhere it was called "the hole," "the
snake pit," "the Klondike." When you're in it, you don't much care what
it is called; it is a place for punishment.
</p>
<p>
And punishment is what you get.
</p>
<p>
Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was the
disciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets its
inhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community of
its own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. And
like any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.
Their names were Sauer and Flock.
</p>
<p>
Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. She
was in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by an
irritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floor
below, when she heard the yelling.
</p>
<p>
"Owoo-o-o," screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block and
"Yow-w-w!" shrieked Flock at the other.
</p>
<p>
The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deck
guard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was on
the outside.
</p>
<p>
The inside guard muttered: "Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves."
</p>
<p>
The outside guard shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"Detail,
<i>
halt
</i>
!" The two guards turned to see what was coming in as
the three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at the
head of the stairs. "Here they are," Sodaro told them. "Take good care
of 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,
because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep her
company." He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block O
guards.
</p>
<p>
The outside guard said sourly: "A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Leary
knows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others all
riled up."
</p>
<p>
"Let them in," the inside guard told him. "The others are riled up
already."
</p>
<p>
Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them no
attention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on the
tanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the block
corridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, you
could ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,
against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was a
rule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on all
the time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner's
restraining garment removed.
</p>
<p>
Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flat
on her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It was
like walking through molasses.
</p>
<p>
The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. "Take it easy,
auntie. Come on, get in your cell." He steered her in the right
direction and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.
"Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rules
say you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying!" He shook his
head, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cry
in the Greensleeves.
</p>
<p>
However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not from
tears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as she
passed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urge
to retch.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They were
laborers—"wipes," for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.
They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard even
for them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,
grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithe
five-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupid
eyes of a calf.
</p>
<p>
Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. "Hey, Flock!"
</p>
<p>
"What do you want, Sauer?" called Flock from his own cell.
</p>
<p>
"We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling so
as not to disturb the lady!" He screeched with howling, maniacal
laughter. "Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,
Flock!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, you think so?" shrieked Flock. "Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,
Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!"
</p>
<p>
The howling started all over again.
</p>
<p>
The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned off
the tangler field once more. He licked his lips. "Say, you want to take
a turn in here for a while?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh-uh." The outside guard shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"You're yellow," the inside guard said moodily. "Ah, I don't know why I
don't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beat
your head off!"
</p>
<p>
"Ee-ee-ee!" screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. "I'm scared!" Then he
grinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. "Don't you know
you can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?"
</p>
<p>
"Shut
<i>
up
</i>
!" yelled the inside guard.
</p>
<p>
Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not help
it. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was getting
under her skin. They weren't even—even
<i>
human
</i>
, she told herself
miserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards the
satisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!
</p>
<p>
Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedly
that resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectly
normal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion against
the vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was
<i>
good
</i>
that
Sauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicious
system—
</p>
<p>
But did they have to scream so?
</p>
<p>
The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself to
weeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!
</p>
<p>
It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,
because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner very
long.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph4">
III
</p>
<p>
"I smell trouble," said O'Leary to the warden.
</p>
<p>
"Trouble? Trouble?" Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and his
little round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. Warden
Godfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates in
the Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto the
last decent job he would have in his life.
</p>
<p>
"Trouble?
<i>
What
</i>
trouble?"
</p>
<p>
O'Leary shrugged. "Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? This
afternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard."
</p>
<p>
The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: "O'Leary, what
did you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ball
in the yard. That's what recreation periods are for."
</p>
<p>
"You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on the
outside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipes
don't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things."
</p>
<p>
O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that
it didn't
<i>
smell
</i>
right?
</p>
<p>
"For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She's
a pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's a
lifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.
But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because she
told Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. Now
Mathias wouldn't—"
</p>
<p>
The warden raised his hand. "Please, O'Leary, don't bother me about
that kind of stuff." He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He poured
himself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in a
desk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then dropped
a pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring the
scalding heat.
</p>
<p>
He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.
</p>
<p>
"O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You have
your job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job is
just as important as my job," he said piously. "
<i>
Everybody's
</i>
job is
just as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick to
our own jobs. We don't want to try to
<i>
pass
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way was
that for the warden to talk to him?
</p>
<p>
"Excuse the expression, O'Leary," the warden said anxiously. "I mean,
after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right?" He was
a great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. "
<i>
You
</i>
know you
don't want to worry about
<i>
my
</i>
end of running the prison. And
<i>
I
</i>
don't
want to worry about
<i>
yours
</i>
. You see?" And he folded his hands and
smiled like a civil-service Buddha.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
O'Leary choked back his temper. "Warden, I'm telling you that there's
trouble coming up. I smell the signs."
</p>
<p>
"Handle it, then!" snapped the warden, irritated at last.
</p>
<p>
"But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—"
</p>
<p>
"It isn't," the warden said positively. "Don't borrow trouble with
all your supposing, O'Leary." He sipped the remains of his coffee,
made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of not
noticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets into
it this time.
</p>
<p>
He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.
</p>
<p>
"Well, then," he said at last. "You just remember what I've told you
tonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'
Oh, curse the thing."
</p>
<p>
His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.
</p>
<p>
That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;
they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. "What
the devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did
<i>
what
</i>
?
You're going to WHAT?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.
Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened like
clamshells in a steamer.
</p>
<p>
"O'Leary," he said faintly, "my mistake."
</p>
<p>
And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from his
fingers.
</p>
<p>
The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and it
didn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.
Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of the
hard-timers of the Greensleeves.
</p>
<p>
His name was Flock.
</p>
<p>
He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,
thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe the
crazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was the
face of an agonized man.
</p>
<p>
The outside guard bellowed: "Okay, okay. Take ten!"
</p>
<p>
Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually did
happen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch that
actuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prison
rules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited the
Greensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst case
had to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.
</p>
<p>
"Rest period" it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a less
lovely term for it.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.
</p>
<p>
Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slat
bed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fields
had a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.
Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbed
the backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddy
currents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing against
rubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.
</p>
<p>
The guard peered genially into her cell. "You're okay, auntie." She
proudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.
He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her while
she attended to various personal matters, as he did with the male
prisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley was
grateful. At least she didn't have to live
<i>
quite
</i>
like a fig—like an
underprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.
</p>
<p>
Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: "What the hell's
the matter with you?" He opened the door of the cell with an
asbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.
</p>
<p>
Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.
</p>
<p>
The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.
Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was real
enough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: "Cramps. I—I—"
</p>
<p>
"Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut." The guard lumbered around
Flock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell in
here, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some people
didn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, he
realized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.
Almost like meat scorching.
</p>
<p>
It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let the
stinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes to
get all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy if
he didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He was
pretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a little
vain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his ability
to make the rounds in two minutes, every time.
</p>
<p>
Every time but this.
</p>
<p>
For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.
</p>
<p>
The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There was
Flock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn't
been in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, there
was something that glinted and smoked.
</p>
<p>
"All right," croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shut
with pain.
</p>
<p>
But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,
smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as though
it had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame God
knows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,
filed to sharpness over endless hours.
</p>
<p>
No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowly
cooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shiv
had been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"All right," whispered Flock, "just walk out the door and you won't get
hurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tell
him not to, you hear?"
</p>
<p>
He was nearly fainting with the pain.
</p>
<p>
But he hadn't let go.
</p>
<p>
He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph4">
IV
</p>
<p>
It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes still
streaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacing
the two bound deck guards.
</p>
<p>
Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. "Hey, Warden!" he said, and the
voice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold and
hating. "Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurt
himself real bad and he needs a doctor." He gestured playfully at the
guards with the shiv. "I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I got
your guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?"
</p>
<p>
And he snapped the connection.
</p>
<p>
O'Leary said: "Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!"
</p>
<p>
The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,
and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prison
operator: "Get me the governor—fast."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Riot!
</i>
</p>
<p>
The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.
</p>
<p>
It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Seniority
with his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding the
Porkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.
</p>
<p>
It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Field
to the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to a
Red Alert that was real.
</p>
<p>
It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highway
checkpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of the
nineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.
</p>
<p>
Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.
</p>
<p>
A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered in
every limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds of
thousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under the
impact of the news from the prison.
</p>
<p>
For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merely
a street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasers
relaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among the
corrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipes
and no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. The
airmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech of
the alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretched
and yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complained
and their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduled
for tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kids
couldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.
</p>
<p>
And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothers
struggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefing
area to hear.
</p>
<p>
They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. "Riot!"
gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. "The wipes! I
<i>
told
</i>
Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. You
know how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a club
and stand right by the door and—"
</p>
<p>
"Club!" snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two children
querulously awake in her nursery at home. "What in God's name is the
use of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'd
better come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need it
before this night is over."
</p>
<p>
But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over the
scramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter of
trouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had called
them out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-such
levels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.
</p>
<p>
The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with a
whistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and they
were the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took up
their picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiers
in each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.
</p>
<p>
They were ready for the breakout.
</p>
<p>
But there wasn't any breakout.
</p>
<p>
The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. The
helicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.
</p>
<p>
The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.
They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.
The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts on
the walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights of
the guard squadrons surrounding the walls.
</p>
<p>
North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimed
land, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showed
lights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasion
from their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowded
tenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window to
window; and there were crowds in the bright streets.
</p>
<p>
"The whole bloody thing's going to blow up!" a helicopter bombardier
yelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of the
whirling blades. "Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakout
from the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll be
right in the middle of it!"
</p>
<p>
He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for every
man, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle of
it. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.
<i>
No mixing.
</i>
That
was the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm in
a family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborers
a clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer ties
than blood or skin?
</p>
<p>
But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; and
once they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. The
breakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had ever
known.
</p>
<p>
But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming to
come.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) The Warden doesn't want to be aware of any problems, and so dismisses O'Leary's worries. \n(B) The Warden knows that O'Leary has thoughts of switching jobs. \n(C) O'Leary knows that something is wrong, but can't push the matter because it would go against their specializations. \n(D) The Warden is taking pills, and it's warping his judgement. O'Leary knows this. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Prison riots -- Fiction; PS; Prisons -- Fiction; Science fiction"
} |
51286 | What is significant about the meal Matilda is served?
Choices:
(A) It lends credence to Gorka’s otherworldly claims. How else could it have happened?
(B) She’d been starving, and it was enough to distract her from the reality of what happened to her.
(C) It’s exactly what she wanted to eat, and she didn’t have to ask for it. ,
(D) It means Gorka’s paranoid servant had been observing her, and determined her favorite foods. | [
"A",
"It lends credence to Gorka’s otherworldly claims. How else could it have happened? "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
PEN PAL
</h1>
<p>
Illustrated by DON SIBLEY
</p>
<p>
By MILTON LESSER
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
<br/>
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
<br/>
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
</p>
<p>
This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
Matilda, you see, had patience.
</p>
<p>
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
</p>
<p>
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
</p>
<p>
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't
<i>
fall
</i>
in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
</p>
<p>
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
</p>
<p>
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
</p>
<p>
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
</p>
<p>
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
off the night table.
</p>
<p>
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
<i>
it
</i>
. Or, that is,
<i>
him
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose
universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a
provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be
intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a
lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful
opportunity cultural experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
</p>
<p>
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
</p>
<p>
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
</p>
<p>
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
</p>
<p>
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
</p>
<p>
And so she got there.
</p>
<p>
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Is that in the United States?"
</p>
<p>
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
</p>
<p>
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
<i>
oh
</i>
under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
</p>
<p>
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
</p>
<p>
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
</p>
<p>
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
</p>
<p>
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
Matilda cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she began. "I'm looking for—"
</p>
<p>
"Haron Gorka." The librarian nodded.
</p>
<p>
"How on earth did you know?"
</p>
<p>
"That's easy. You're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring
about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now
you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear.
"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Of course I know him. He's our steadiest reader here at
the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four
books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty
years younger—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "Only ten," she
assured the librarian. "Ten years would be more than sufficient, I'm
sure."
</p>
<p>
"Are you? Well. Well, well." The librarian did something with the back
of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're right at that." Then she sighed. "But I guess a miss is as
good as a mile."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know
him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if
five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
</p>
<p>
"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the
addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear."
</p>
<p>
"What about the other five women?"
</p>
<p>
"They convinced me that I ought to give them his address."
</p>
<p>
Matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill.
"Was this the way?" she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this
sort of thing.
</p>
<p>
The librarian shook her head.
</p>
<p>
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her
hand. "Then is this better?"
</p>
<p>
"That's worse. I wouldn't take your money—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry. What then?"
</p>
<p>
"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still
could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me
faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will
do, and with half a dozen of you, I'll get an overall picture. Each one
of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each
have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture
considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share
of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the
address. She thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car,
whistling to herself.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except
that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen
to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her
spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the
librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps
he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to
his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or
personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked
him all the more for it.
</p>
<p>
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda's
made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the
only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a
dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would
be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought
had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which
she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought
Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having
been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps
she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open
arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead,
someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked
had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly.
He told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room
which evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small
undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the
wall, there was a button.
</p>
<p>
"You want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press
that button. The results will surprise you."
</p>
<p>
"What about Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to
home, lady, and I will tell him you are here."
</p>
<p>
A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He
closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears
had not missed the ominous click. She ran to the door and tried to open
it, but it would not budge. It was locked—from the outside.
</p>
<p>
It must be said to Matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. After
that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty,
she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. Besides, it was not
her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a
neurotic servant.
</p>
<p>
For a time Matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was
going on outside she could hear nothing. In that case, she would
pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently
she lay down on the bed to take a nap. This didn't last long, however:
she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two
heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to
her overwrought nerves.
</p>
<p>
At that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and
she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy
beefsteak. Well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. In that case, she
would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little
slot in the wall and pressed the button.
</p>
<p>
She heard the whir of machinery. A moment later there was a soft
sliding sound. Through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed
almost instantly by a tray. On the tray were a bowl of turtle soup,
mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a
parfait—and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her
salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. The fact
that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be
attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was
extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic
servant.
</p>
<p>
When she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a
little while Matilda was asleep again. This time she did not dream at
all. It was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was
with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's
servant, and he said, "Mr. Gorka will see you now."
</p>
<p>
"Now?"
</p>
<p>
"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He had a point there, but Matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair.
She told the servant so.
</p>
<p>
"Miss," he replied, "I assure you it will not matter in the least to
Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"You sure?" Matilda wanted to take no chances.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Come."
</p>
<p>
She followed him out of the little room and across what should have
been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with
dust. Of the other women Matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly
realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her
own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with
Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him
better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the
old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and
compare notes.
</p>
<p>
She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with
Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was
just that he was so
<i>
ordinary
</i>
-looking. She almost would have preferred
the monster of her dreams.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an
almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist
at each corner.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Greetings. You have come—"
</p>
<p>
"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in
assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see
and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to
keep on the middle of the road.
</p>
<p>
"I am fine. Are you ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You came in response to my ad. You want to hear me talk, do
you not?"
</p>
<p>
"I—do." Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back
and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and
seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to
<i>
know
</i>
the
man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines
than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and
Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit.
</p>
<p>
"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for
dinner," she told him brightly.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and
teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you
press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines
how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the
adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. It means either that
you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if
Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh—ready."
</p>
<p>
"Well?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you like me to talk about?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, anything."
</p>
<p>
"Please. As the ad read, my universal experience—is universal.
Literally. You'll have to be more specific."
</p>
<p>
"Well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels?
Unfortunately, while I've done a lot of reading, I haven't been to all
the places I would have liked—"
</p>
<p>
"Good enough. You know, of course, how frigid Deneb VII is?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda said, "Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, there was the time our crew—before I had retired, of
course—made a crash landing there. We could survive in the vac-suits,
of course, but the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
were after us almost at once. They go
mad over plastic. They will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. Our
vac-suits—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"—were made of plastic," Matilda suggested. She did not understand a
thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Must you interrupt? The air-hose and the water feed, these
were plastic. Not the rest of the suit. The point is that half of us
were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder
were near death. I owe my life to the mimicry of a
<i>
flaak
</i>
from Capella
III. It assumed the properties of plastic and led the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
a
merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb
system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry
<i>
flaaks
</i>
with you. Excellent idea, really excellent."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her
that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she
<i>
wanted
</i>
to believe in him and the result was that it took until now
for her to realize it.
</p>
<p>
"Stop making fun of me," she said.
</p>
<p>
"So, naturally, you'll see
<i>
flaaks
</i>
all over that system—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop!"
</p>
<p>
"What's that? Making fun of you?" Haron Gorka's voice had been so
eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he
seemed disappointed. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of
resignation, and he said, "Very well. I'm wrong again. You are the
sixth, and you're no better than the other five. Perhaps you are even
more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she
is right and I am wrong...."
</p>
<p>
Haron Gorka turned his back.
</p>
<p>
Matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the
house, go outside and get into her car. She noticed not without
surprise that the other five cars were now gone. She was the last of
Haron Gorka's guests to depart.
</p>
<p>
As she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw
the servant leaving, too. Far down the road, he was walking slowly.
Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all
alone.
</p>
<p>
As she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. There
were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric
who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly
insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in
particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his
voice high-pitched and eager.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was not until she had passed the small library building that she
remembered what she had promised the librarian. In her own way, the
aging woman would be as disappointed as Matilda, but a promise was a
promise, and Matilda turned the car in a wide U-turn and parked it
outside the library.
</p>
<p>
The woman sat at her desk as Matilda had remembered her, gray,
broom-stick figure, rigid. But now when she saw Matilda she perked up
visibly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, my dear," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Hi."
</p>
<p>
"You're back a bit sooner than I expected. But, then, the other five
have returned, too, and I imagine your story will be similar."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what they told you," Matilda said. "But this is what
happened to me."
</p>
<p>
She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and
in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second
because she knew it would make her feel better.
</p>
<p>
"So," she finished, "Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or
insane. I'm sorry."
</p>
<p>
"He's neither," the librarian contradicted. "Perhaps he is slightly
eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Did he leave a message for his wife?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the
five."
</p>
<p>
"No. He didn't. But you were the last and I thought he would give you a
message for his wife—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda didn't understand. She didn't understand at all, but she told
the little librarian what the message was. "He wanted her to return,"
she said.
</p>
<p>
The librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "You wouldn't believe
me if I told you something."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Mrs. Gorka."
</p>
<p>
The librarian stood up and came around the desk. She opened a drawer
and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "You
see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much."
</p>
<p>
Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for
anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two.
</p>
<p>
"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star
system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He
says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the
accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he
loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of
the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given
the opportunity just to listen to him.
</p>
<p>
"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand,
ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will
settle down on Canopus XIV and cultivate
<i>
torgas
</i>
. That would be so
nice—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if Haron wants me back, then I have to go. Have a care, my dear.
If you marry, choose a home-body. I've had the experience and you've
seen my Haron for yourself."
</p>
<p>
And then the woman was gone. Numbly, Matilda walked to the doorway and
watched her angular figure disappear down the road. Of all the crazy
things....
</p>
<p>
Deneb and Capella and Canopus, these were stars. Add a number and you
might have a planet revolving about each star. Of all the insane—
</p>
<p>
They were mad, all right, and now Matilda wondered if, actually,
they were husband and wife. It could readily be; maybe the madness
was catching. Maybe if you thought too much about such things, such
travels, you could get that way. Of course, Herman represented the
other extreme, and Herman was even worse in his own way—but hereafter
Matilda would seek the happy medium.
</p>
<p>
And, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. They
were, she realized, for kids.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She ate dinner in Cedar Falls and then she went out to her car again,
preparing for the journey back home. The sun had set and it was a clear
night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the Milky Way was a pale
rainbow bridge in the sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda paused. Off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon,
and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place.
</p>
<p>
The glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the
horizon. It flickered. It flickered again, and finally it was gone.
</p>
<p>
The stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. That was
why Matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a
clear summer night when you could see the span of the Milky Way.
</p>
<p>
But abruptly the stars and the Milky Way were paled by the brightest
shooting star Matilda had ever seen. It flashed suddenly and it
remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across
the night sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda gasped and ran into her car. She started the gears and pressed
the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home.
</p>
<p>
It was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going
<i>
up
</i>
.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It lends credence to Gorka’s otherworldly claims. How else could it have happened? \n(B) She’d been starving, and it was enough to distract her from the reality of what happened to her.\n(C) It’s exactly what she wanted to eat, and she didn’t have to ask for it. ,\n(D) It means Gorka’s paranoid servant had been observing her, and determined her favorite foods. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; Single women -- Fiction; PS"
} |
51286 | Is Haron’s story true?
Choices:
(A) No. Haron only tells her the story in the hopes of getting his wife to come home,
(B) Yes. Matilda confirms when she sees the “shooting star.”
(C) Yes, though only his wife is aware of that.
(D) No. Both he and his wife are truly delusional. | [
"B",
"Yes. Matilda confirms when she sees the “shooting star.”"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
PEN PAL
</h1>
<p>
Illustrated by DON SIBLEY
</p>
<p>
By MILTON LESSER
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
<br/>
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
<br/>
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
</p>
<p>
This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
Matilda, you see, had patience.
</p>
<p>
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
</p>
<p>
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
</p>
<p>
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't
<i>
fall
</i>
in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
</p>
<p>
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
</p>
<p>
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
</p>
<p>
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
</p>
<p>
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
off the night table.
</p>
<p>
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
<i>
it
</i>
. Or, that is,
<i>
him
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose
universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a
provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be
intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a
lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful
opportunity cultural experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
</p>
<p>
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
</p>
<p>
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
</p>
<p>
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
</p>
<p>
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
</p>
<p>
And so she got there.
</p>
<p>
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Is that in the United States?"
</p>
<p>
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
</p>
<p>
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
<i>
oh
</i>
under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
</p>
<p>
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
</p>
<p>
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
</p>
<p>
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
</p>
<p>
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
Matilda cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she began. "I'm looking for—"
</p>
<p>
"Haron Gorka." The librarian nodded.
</p>
<p>
"How on earth did you know?"
</p>
<p>
"That's easy. You're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring
about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now
you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear.
"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Of course I know him. He's our steadiest reader here at
the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four
books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty
years younger—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "Only ten," she
assured the librarian. "Ten years would be more than sufficient, I'm
sure."
</p>
<p>
"Are you? Well. Well, well." The librarian did something with the back
of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're right at that." Then she sighed. "But I guess a miss is as
good as a mile."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know
him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if
five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
</p>
<p>
"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the
addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear."
</p>
<p>
"What about the other five women?"
</p>
<p>
"They convinced me that I ought to give them his address."
</p>
<p>
Matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill.
"Was this the way?" she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this
sort of thing.
</p>
<p>
The librarian shook her head.
</p>
<p>
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her
hand. "Then is this better?"
</p>
<p>
"That's worse. I wouldn't take your money—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry. What then?"
</p>
<p>
"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still
could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me
faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will
do, and with half a dozen of you, I'll get an overall picture. Each one
of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each
have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture
considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share
of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the
address. She thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car,
whistling to herself.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except
that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen
to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her
spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the
librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps
he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to
his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or
personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked
him all the more for it.
</p>
<p>
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda's
made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the
only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a
dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would
be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought
had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which
she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought
Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having
been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps
she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open
arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead,
someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked
had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly.
He told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room
which evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small
undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the
wall, there was a button.
</p>
<p>
"You want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press
that button. The results will surprise you."
</p>
<p>
"What about Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to
home, lady, and I will tell him you are here."
</p>
<p>
A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He
closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears
had not missed the ominous click. She ran to the door and tried to open
it, but it would not budge. It was locked—from the outside.
</p>
<p>
It must be said to Matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. After
that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty,
she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. Besides, it was not
her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a
neurotic servant.
</p>
<p>
For a time Matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was
going on outside she could hear nothing. In that case, she would
pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently
she lay down on the bed to take a nap. This didn't last long, however:
she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two
heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to
her overwrought nerves.
</p>
<p>
At that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and
she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy
beefsteak. Well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. In that case, she
would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little
slot in the wall and pressed the button.
</p>
<p>
She heard the whir of machinery. A moment later there was a soft
sliding sound. Through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed
almost instantly by a tray. On the tray were a bowl of turtle soup,
mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a
parfait—and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her
salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. The fact
that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be
attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was
extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic
servant.
</p>
<p>
When she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a
little while Matilda was asleep again. This time she did not dream at
all. It was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was
with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's
servant, and he said, "Mr. Gorka will see you now."
</p>
<p>
"Now?"
</p>
<p>
"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He had a point there, but Matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair.
She told the servant so.
</p>
<p>
"Miss," he replied, "I assure you it will not matter in the least to
Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"You sure?" Matilda wanted to take no chances.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Come."
</p>
<p>
She followed him out of the little room and across what should have
been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with
dust. Of the other women Matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly
realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her
own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with
Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him
better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the
old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and
compare notes.
</p>
<p>
She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with
Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was
just that he was so
<i>
ordinary
</i>
-looking. She almost would have preferred
the monster of her dreams.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an
almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist
at each corner.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Greetings. You have come—"
</p>
<p>
"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in
assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see
and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to
keep on the middle of the road.
</p>
<p>
"I am fine. Are you ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You came in response to my ad. You want to hear me talk, do
you not?"
</p>
<p>
"I—do." Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back
and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and
seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to
<i>
know
</i>
the
man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines
than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and
Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit.
</p>
<p>
"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for
dinner," she told him brightly.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and
teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you
press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines
how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the
adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. It means either that
you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if
Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh—ready."
</p>
<p>
"Well?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you like me to talk about?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, anything."
</p>
<p>
"Please. As the ad read, my universal experience—is universal.
Literally. You'll have to be more specific."
</p>
<p>
"Well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels?
Unfortunately, while I've done a lot of reading, I haven't been to all
the places I would have liked—"
</p>
<p>
"Good enough. You know, of course, how frigid Deneb VII is?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda said, "Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, there was the time our crew—before I had retired, of
course—made a crash landing there. We could survive in the vac-suits,
of course, but the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
were after us almost at once. They go
mad over plastic. They will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. Our
vac-suits—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"—were made of plastic," Matilda suggested. She did not understand a
thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Must you interrupt? The air-hose and the water feed, these
were plastic. Not the rest of the suit. The point is that half of us
were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder
were near death. I owe my life to the mimicry of a
<i>
flaak
</i>
from Capella
III. It assumed the properties of plastic and led the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
a
merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb
system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry
<i>
flaaks
</i>
with you. Excellent idea, really excellent."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her
that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she
<i>
wanted
</i>
to believe in him and the result was that it took until now
for her to realize it.
</p>
<p>
"Stop making fun of me," she said.
</p>
<p>
"So, naturally, you'll see
<i>
flaaks
</i>
all over that system—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop!"
</p>
<p>
"What's that? Making fun of you?" Haron Gorka's voice had been so
eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he
seemed disappointed. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of
resignation, and he said, "Very well. I'm wrong again. You are the
sixth, and you're no better than the other five. Perhaps you are even
more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she
is right and I am wrong...."
</p>
<p>
Haron Gorka turned his back.
</p>
<p>
Matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the
house, go outside and get into her car. She noticed not without
surprise that the other five cars were now gone. She was the last of
Haron Gorka's guests to depart.
</p>
<p>
As she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw
the servant leaving, too. Far down the road, he was walking slowly.
Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all
alone.
</p>
<p>
As she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. There
were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric
who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly
insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in
particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his
voice high-pitched and eager.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was not until she had passed the small library building that she
remembered what she had promised the librarian. In her own way, the
aging woman would be as disappointed as Matilda, but a promise was a
promise, and Matilda turned the car in a wide U-turn and parked it
outside the library.
</p>
<p>
The woman sat at her desk as Matilda had remembered her, gray,
broom-stick figure, rigid. But now when she saw Matilda she perked up
visibly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, my dear," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Hi."
</p>
<p>
"You're back a bit sooner than I expected. But, then, the other five
have returned, too, and I imagine your story will be similar."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what they told you," Matilda said. "But this is what
happened to me."
</p>
<p>
She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and
in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second
because she knew it would make her feel better.
</p>
<p>
"So," she finished, "Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or
insane. I'm sorry."
</p>
<p>
"He's neither," the librarian contradicted. "Perhaps he is slightly
eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Did he leave a message for his wife?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the
five."
</p>
<p>
"No. He didn't. But you were the last and I thought he would give you a
message for his wife—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda didn't understand. She didn't understand at all, but she told
the little librarian what the message was. "He wanted her to return,"
she said.
</p>
<p>
The librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "You wouldn't believe
me if I told you something."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Mrs. Gorka."
</p>
<p>
The librarian stood up and came around the desk. She opened a drawer
and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "You
see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much."
</p>
<p>
Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for
anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two.
</p>
<p>
"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star
system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He
says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the
accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he
loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of
the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given
the opportunity just to listen to him.
</p>
<p>
"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand,
ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will
settle down on Canopus XIV and cultivate
<i>
torgas
</i>
. That would be so
nice—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if Haron wants me back, then I have to go. Have a care, my dear.
If you marry, choose a home-body. I've had the experience and you've
seen my Haron for yourself."
</p>
<p>
And then the woman was gone. Numbly, Matilda walked to the doorway and
watched her angular figure disappear down the road. Of all the crazy
things....
</p>
<p>
Deneb and Capella and Canopus, these were stars. Add a number and you
might have a planet revolving about each star. Of all the insane—
</p>
<p>
They were mad, all right, and now Matilda wondered if, actually,
they were husband and wife. It could readily be; maybe the madness
was catching. Maybe if you thought too much about such things, such
travels, you could get that way. Of course, Herman represented the
other extreme, and Herman was even worse in his own way—but hereafter
Matilda would seek the happy medium.
</p>
<p>
And, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. They
were, she realized, for kids.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She ate dinner in Cedar Falls and then she went out to her car again,
preparing for the journey back home. The sun had set and it was a clear
night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the Milky Way was a pale
rainbow bridge in the sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda paused. Off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon,
and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place.
</p>
<p>
The glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the
horizon. It flickered. It flickered again, and finally it was gone.
</p>
<p>
The stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. That was
why Matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a
clear summer night when you could see the span of the Milky Way.
</p>
<p>
But abruptly the stars and the Milky Way were paled by the brightest
shooting star Matilda had ever seen. It flashed suddenly and it
remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across
the night sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda gasped and ran into her car. She started the gears and pressed
the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home.
</p>
<p>
It was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going
<i>
up
</i>
.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) No. Haron only tells her the story in the hopes of getting his wife to come home,\n(B) Yes. Matilda confirms when she sees the “shooting star.”\n(C) Yes, though only his wife is aware of that. \n(D) No. Both he and his wife are truly delusional.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; Single women -- Fiction; PS"
} |
50103 | How is it this society can manage such slow communications?
Choices:
(A) People live long enough now where they’ve adapted to the delay.
(B) Everything eventually gets to where it’s going, so they make do.
(C) They work around it. They have the time to wait.
(D) Science is progressing slowly as well, so they can’t rush it anyway. | [
"A",
"People live long enough now where they’ve adapted to the delay."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="pb c000"/>
<h1 class="c001">
<b>
The
</b>
<br/>
<br/>
<b>
Dwindling
</b>
<br/>
<br/>
<b>
Years
</b>
</h1>
<p class="c002">
<b>
<i>
He didn’t expect to be last—but
neither did he anticipate
the horror of being the first!
</i>
</b>
</p>
<b>
By LESTER DEL REY
</b>
<b>
Illustrated by JOHNS
</b>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c004">
NEARLY TWO hundred
years of habit carried the
chairman of Exodus Corporation
through the morning ritual
of crossing the executive
floor. Giles made the expected
comments, smiled the proper
smiles and greeted his staff by
the right names, but it was purely
automatic. Somehow, thinking
had grown difficult in the mornings
recently.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Inside his private office, he
dropped all pretense and slumped
into the padding of his chair, gasping
for breath and feeling his
heart hammering in his chest.
He’d been a fool to come to work,
he realized. But with the Procyon
shuttle arriving yesterday, there
was no telling what might turn
up. Besides, that fool of a medicist
had sworn the shot would
cure any allergy or asthma.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles heard his secretary come
in, but it wasn’t until the smell
of the coffee reached his nose
that he looked up. She handed
him a filled cup and set the carafe
down on the age-polished surface
of the big desk. She watched
solicitously as he drank.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“That bad, Arthur?” she asked.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Just a little tired,” he told
her, refilling the cup. She’d made
the coffee stronger than usual
and it seemed to cut through
some of the thickness in his head.
“I guess I’m getting old, Amanda.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
She smiled dutifully at the
time-worn joke, but he knew she
wasn’t fooled. She’d cycled to
middle age four times in her
job and she probably knew him
better than he knew himself—which
wouldn’t be hard, he
thought. He’d hardly recognized
the stranger in the mirror as he
tried to shave. His normal thinness
had looked almost gaunt
and there were hollows in his
face and circles under his eyes.
Even his hair had seemed thinner,
though that, of course, was
impossible.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Anything urgent on the Procyon
shuttle?” he asked as she
continue staring at him with worried
eyes.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
SHE JERKED her gaze away
guiltily and turned to the incoming
basket. “Mostly drugs for
experimenting. A personal letter
for you, relayed from some place
I never heard of. And one of the
super-light missiles! They found
it drifting half a light-year out
and captured it. Jordan’s got a
report on it and he’s going crazy.
But if you don’t feel well—”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“I’m all right!” he told her
sharply. Then he steadied himself
and managed to smile. “Thanks
for the coffee, Amanda.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
She accepted dismissal reluctantly.
When she was gone, he
sat gazing at the report from Jordan
at Research.
</p>
<p class="c005">
For eighty years now, they’d
been sending out the little ships
that vanished at greater than the
speed of light, equipped with
every conceivable device to make
them return automatically after
taking pictures of wherever they
arrived. So far, none had ever returned
or been located. This was
the first hope they’d found that
the century-long trips between
stars in the ponderous shuttles
might be ended and he should
have been filled with excitement
at Jordan’s hasty preliminary report.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He leafed through it. The little
ship apparently had been picked
up by accident when it almost
collided with a Sirius-local ship.
Scientists there had puzzled over
it, reset it and sent it back. The
two white rats on it had still been
alive.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles dropped the report wearily
and picked up the personal
message that had come on the
shuttle. He fingered the microstrip
inside while he drank another
coffee, and finally pulled
out the microviewer. There were
three frames to the message, he
saw with some surprise.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He didn’t need to see the signature
on the first projection.
Only his youngest son would have
sent an elaborate tercentenary
greeting verse—one that would
arrive ninety years too late! Harry
had been born just before Earth
passed the drastic birth limitation
act and his mother had
spoiled him. He’d even tried to
avoid the compulsory emigration
draft and stay on with his mother.
It had been the bitter quarrels
over that which had finally
broken Giles’ fifth marriage.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Oddly enough, the message in
the next frame showed none of
that. Harry had nothing but
praise for the solar system where
he’d been sent. He barely mentioned
being married on the way
or his dozen children, but filled
most of the frame with glowing
description and a plea for his
father to join him there!
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_2_0_6 c007">
GILES SNORTED and turned
to the third frame, which
showed a group picture of the
family in some sort of vehicle,
against the background of an alien
but attractive world.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He had no desire to spend
ninety years cooped up with a
bunch of callow young emigrants,
even in one of the improved Exodus
shuttles. And even if Exodus
ever got the super-light
drive working, there was no reason
he should give up his work.
The discovery that men could
live practically forever had put
an end to most family ties; sentiment
wore thin in half a century—which
wasn’t much time
now, though it had once seemed
long enough.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Strange how the years seemed
to get shorter as their number increased.
There’d been a song
once—something about the years
dwindling down. He groped for
the lines and couldn’t remember.
Drat it! Now he’d probably lie
awake most of the night again,
trying to recall them.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The outside line buzzed musically,
flashing Research’s number.
Giles grunted in irritation. He
wasn’t ready to face Jordan yet.
But he shrugged and pressed the
button.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The intense face that looked
from the screen was frowning as
Jordan’s eyes seemed to sweep
around the room. He was still
young—one of the few under
a hundred who’d escaped deportation
because of special ability—and
patience was still foreign to
him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Then the frown vanished as
an expression of shock replaced
it, and Giles felt a sinking sensation.
If he looked
<i>
that
</i>
bad—
</p>
<p class="c005">
But Jordan wasn’t looking at
him; the man’s interest lay in the
projected picture from Harry, across
the desk from the communicator.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Antigravity!” His voice was
unbelieving as he turned his head
to face the older man. “What
world is that?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles forced his attention on
the picture again and this time
he noticed the vehicle shown. It
was enough like an old model
Earth conveyance to pass casual
inspection, but it floated wheellessly
above the ground. Faint
blur lines indicated it had been
moving when the picture was
taken.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“One of my sons—” Giles
started to answer. “I could find
the star’s designation....”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Jordan cursed harshly. “So we
can send a message on the shuttle,
begging for their secret in a
couple of hundred years! While
a hundred other worlds make a
thousand major discoveries they
don’t bother reporting! Can’t the
Council see
<i>
anything
</i>
?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles had heard it all before.
Earth was becoming a backwater
world; no real progress had been
made in two centuries; the young
men were sent out as soon as
their first fifty years of education
were finished, and the older men
were too conservative for really
new thinking. There was a measure
of truth in it, unfortunately.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“They’ll slow up when their
populations fill,” Giles repeated
his old answers. “We’re still ahead
in medicine and we’ll get the
other discoveries eventually, without
interrupting the work of making
the Earth fit for our longevity.
We can wait. We’ll have to.”
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
THE YOUNGER man stared
at him with the strange puzzled
look Giles had seen too often
lately. “Damn it, haven’t you read
my report? We know the super-light
drive works! That missile
reached Sirius in less than ten
days. We can have the secret of
this antigravity in less than a
year! We—”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Wait a minute.” Giles felt the
thickness pushing back at his
mind and tried to fight it off. He’d
only skimmed the report, but this
made no sense. “You mean you
can calibrate your guiding devices
accurately enough to get a
missile where you want it and
back?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“
<i>
What?
</i>
” Jordan’s voice rattled
the speaker. “Of course not! It
took two accidents to get the
thing back to us—and with a
half-light-year miss that delayed
it about twenty years before the
Procyon shuttle heard its signal.
Pre-setting a course may take
centuries, if we can ever master
it. Even with Sirius expecting the
missiles and ready to cooperate.
I mean the big ship. We’ve had it
drafted for building long enough;
now we can finish it in three
months. We know the drive works.
We know it’s fast enough to reach
Procyon in two weeks. We even
know life can stand the trip. The
rats were unharmed.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles shook his head at what
the other was proposing, only
partly believing it. “Rats don’t
have minds that could show any
real damage such as the loss of
power to rejuvenate. We can’t put
human pilots into a ship with our
drive until we’ve tested it more
thoroughly, Bill, even if they
could correct for errors on arrival.
Maybe if we put in stronger signaling
transmitters....”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Yeah. Maybe in two centuries
we’d have a through route charted
to Sirius. And we still wouldn’t
have proved it safe for human
pilots. Mr. Giles, we’ve got to
have the big ship. All we need is
<i>
one
</i>
volunteer!”
</p>
<p class="c005">
It occurred to Giles then that
the man had been too fired with
the idea to think. He leaned back,
shaking his head again wearily.
“All right, Bill. Find me one volunteer.
Or how about you? Do
you really want to risk losing the
rest of your life rather than waiting
a couple more centuries until
we know it’s safe? If you do, I’ll
order the big ship.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Jordan opened his mouth and
for a second Giles’ heart caught
in a flux of emotions as the
man’s offer hovered on his lips.
Then the engineer shut his mouth
slowly. The belligerence ran out
of him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He looked sick, for he had no
answer.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
NO SANE man would risk a
chance for near eternity
against such a relatively short
wait. Heroism had belonged to
those who knew their days were
numbered, anyhow.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Forget it, Bill,” Giles advised.
“It may take longer, but eventually
we’ll find a way. With time
enough, we’re bound to. And
when we do, the ship will be
ready.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
The engineer nodded miserably
and clicked off. Giles turned
from the blank screen to stare
out of the windows, while his
hand came up to twist at the lock
of hair over his forehead. Eternity!
They had to plan and build
for it. They couldn’t risk that
plan for short-term benefits. Usually
it was too easy to realize that,
and the sight of the solid, time-enduring
buildings outside should
have given him a sense of security.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Today, though, nothing seemed
to help. He felt choked, imprisoned,
somehow lost; the city beyond
the window blurred as he
studied it, and he swung the chair
back so violently that his hand
jerked painfully on the forelock
he’d been twisting.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Then he was staring unbelievingly
at the single white hair that
was twisted with the dark ones
between his fingers.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Like an automaton, he bent
forward, his other hand groping
for the mirror that should be in
one of the drawers. The dull pain
in his chest sharpened and his
breath was hoarse in his throat,
but he hardly noticed as he found
the mirror and brought it up. His
eyes focused reluctantly. There
were other white strands in his
dark hair.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The mirror crashed to the floor
as he staggered out of the office.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It was only two blocks to Giles’
residence club, but he had to
stop twice to catch his breath
and fight against the pain that
clawed at his chest. When he
reached the wood-paneled lobby,
he was barely able to stand.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Dubbins was at his side almost
at once, with a hand under
his arm to guide him toward his
suite.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Let me help you, sir,” Dubbins
suggested, in the tones
Giles hadn’t heard since the man
had been his valet, back when
it was still possible to find personal
servants. Now he managed
the club on a level of quasi-equality
with the members. For the
moment, though, he’d slipped
back into the old ways.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_2_0_6 c007">
GILES FOUND himself lying
on his couch, partially undressed,
with the pillows just right
and a long drink in his hand. The
alcohol combined with the reaction
from his panic to leave him
almost himself again. After all,
there was nothing to worry about;
Earth’s doctors could cure anything.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“I guess you’d better call Dr.
Vincenti,” he decided. Vincenti
was a member and would probably
be the quickest to get.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Dubbins shook his head. “Dr.
Vincenti isn’t with us, sir. He
left a year ago to visit a son in
the Centauri system. There’s a
Dr. Cobb whose reputation is
very good, sir.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles puzzled over it doubtfully.
Vincenti had been an oddly
morose man the last few times
he’d seen him, but that could
hardly explain his taking a twenty-year
shuttle trip for such a
slim reason. It was no concern of
his, though. “Dr. Cobb, then,” he
said.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles heard the other man’s
voice on the study phone, too low
for the words to be distinguishable.
He finished the drink, feeling
still better, and was sitting
up when Dubbins came back.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Dr. Cobb wants you to come
to his office at once, sir,” he said,
dropping to his knee to help
Giles with his shoes. “I’d be
pleased to drive you there.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles frowned. He’d expected
Cobb to come to him. Then he
grimaced at his own thoughts.
Dubbins’ manners must have carried
him back into the past; doctors
didn’t go in for home visits
now—they preferred to see their
patients in the laboratories that
housed their offices. If this kept
on, he’d be missing the old days
when he’d had a mansion and
counted his wealth in possessions,
instead of the treasures he could
build inside himself for the future
ahead. He was getting positively
childish!
</p>
<p class="c005">
Yet he relished the feeling of
having Dubbins drive his car.
More than anything else, he’d
loved being driven. Even after
chauffeurs were a thing of the
past, Harry had driven him
around. Now he’d taken to walking,
as so many others had, for
even with modern safety measures
so strict, there was always
a small chance of some accident
and nobody had any desire to
spend the long future as a cripple.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“I’ll wait for you, sir,” Dubbins
offered as they stopped beside
the low, massive medical building.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It was almost too much consideration.
Giles nodded, got out
and headed down the hall uncertainly.
Just how bad did he
look? Well, he’d soon find out.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He located the directory and
finally found the right office, its
reception room wall covered
with all the degrees Dr. Cobb had
picked up in some three hundred
years of practice. Giles felt
better, realizing it wouldn’t be
one of the younger men.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
COBB APPEARED himself,
before the nurse could take
over, and led Giles into a room
with an old-fashioned desk and
chairs that almost concealed the
cabinets of equipment beyond.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He listened as Giles stumbled
out his story. Halfway through,
the nurse took a blood sample
with one of the little mosquito
needles and the machinery behind
the doctor began working on
it.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Your friend told me about the
gray hair, of course,” Cobb said.
At Giles’ look, he smiled faintly.
“Surely you didn’t think people
could miss that in this day and
age? Let’s see it.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
He inspected it and began
making tests. Some were older
than Giles could remember—knee
reflex, blood pressure, pulse
and fluoroscope. Others involved
complicated little gadgets that
ran over his body, while meters
bobbed and wiggled. The blood
check came through and Cobb
studied it, to go back and make
further inspections of his own.
</p>
<p class="c005">
At last he nodded slowly.
“Hyper-catabolism, of course. I
thought it might be. How long
since you had your last rejuvenation?
And who gave it?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“About ten years ago,” Giles
answered. He found his identity
card and passed it over, while
the doctor studied it. “My sixteenth.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
It wasn’t going right. He could
feel it. Some of the panic symptoms
were returning; the pulse in
his neck was pounding and his
breath was growing difficult.
Sweat ran down his sides from
his armpit and he wiped his palms
against his coat.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Any particular emotional
strain when you were treated—some
major upset in your life?”
Cobb asked.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles thought as carefully as
he could, but he remembered
nothing like that. “You mean—it
didn’t take? But I never had
any trouble, Doctor. I was one of
the first million cases, when a
lot of people couldn’t rejuvenate
at all, and I had no trouble even
then.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Cobb considered it, hesitated as
if making up his mind to be frank
against his better judgment. “I
can’t see any other explanation.
You’ve got a slight case of angina—nothing
serious, but quite definite—as
well as other signs
of aging. I’m afraid the treatment
didn’t take fully. It might have
been some unconscious block
on your part, some infection not
diagnosed at the time, or even a
fault in the treatment. That’s
pretty rare, but we can’t neglect
the possibility.”
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
HE STUDIED his charts again
and then smiled. “So we’ll
give you another treatment. Any
reason you can’t begin immediately?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles remembered that Dubbins
was waiting for him, but this
was more important. It hadn’t
been a joke about his growing old,
after all. But now, in a few days,
he’d be his old—no, of course
not—his young self again!
</p>
<p class="c005">
They went down the hall to
another office, where Giles waited
outside while Cobb conferred
with another doctor and technician,
with much waving of charts.
He resented every second of it.
It was as if the almost forgotten
specter of age stood beside him,
counting the seconds. But at last
they were through and he was led
into the quiet rejuvenation room,
where the clamps were adjusted
about his head and the earpieces
were fitted. The drugs were shot
painlessly into his arm and the
light-pulser was adjusted to his
brain-wave pattern.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It had been nothing like this his
first time. Then it had required
months of mental training, followed
by crude mechanical and
drug hypnosis for other months.
Somewhere in every human brain
lay the memory of what his cells
had been like when he was young.
Or perhaps it lay in the cells
themselves, with the brain as only
a linkage to it. They’d discovered
that, and the fact that the mind
could effect physical changes in
the body. Even such things as
cancer could be willed out of existence—provided
the brain
could be reached far below the
conscious level and forced to
operate.
</p>
<p class="c005">
There had been impossible
faith cures for millenia—cataracts
removed from blinded eyes
within minutes, even—but finding
the mechanism in the brain
that worked those miracles had
taken an incredible amount of
study and finding a means of
bringing it under control had
taken even longer.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Now they did it with dozens of
mechanical aids in addition to
the hypnotic instructions—and
did it usually in a single sitting,
with the full transformation of
the body taking less than a week
after the treatment!
</p>
<p class="c005">
But with all the equipment, it
wasn’t impossible for a mistake
to happen. It had been no fault of
his ... he was sure of that ... his
mind was easy to reach ... he
could relax so easily....
</p>
<p class="c005">
He came out of it without
even a headache, while they were
removing the probes, but the
fatigue on the operator’s face told
him it had been a long and difficult
job. He stretched experimentally,
with the eternal unconscious
expectation that he would
find himself suddenly young
again. But that, of course, was ridiculous.
It took days for the mind
to work on all the cells and to
repair the damage of time.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
COBB LED him back to the
first office, where he was given
an injection of some kind and
another sample of his blood was
taken, while the earlier tests were
repeated. But finally the doctor
nodded.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“That’s all for now, Mr. Giles.
You might drop in tomorrow
morning, after I’ve had a chance
to complete my study of all this.
We’ll know by then whether you’ll
need more treatment. Ten o’clock
okay?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“But I’ll be all right?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Cobb smiled the automatic reassurance
of his profession. “We
haven’t lost a patient in two hundred
years, to my knowledge.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Thanks,” said Giles. “Ten
o’clock is fine.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Dubbins was still waiting, reading
a paper whose headlined feature
carried a glowing account of
the discovery of the super-light
missile and what it might mean.
He took a quick look at Giles and
pointed to it. “Great work, Mr.
Giles. Maybe we’ll all get to see
some of those other worlds yet.”
Then he studied Giles more carefully.
“Everything’s in good shape
now, sir?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“The doctor says everything’s
going to be fine,” Giles answered.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It was then he realized for the
first time that Cobb had said no
such thing. A statement that
lightning had never struck a
house was no guarantee that it
never would. It was an evasion
meant to give such an impression.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The worry nagged at him all
the way back. Word had already
gone around the club that he’d
had some kind of attack and
there were endless questions that
kept it on his mind. And even
when it had been covered and
recovered, he could still sense the
glances of the others, as if he
were Vincenti in one of the man’s
more morose moods.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He found a single table in the
dining room and picked his way
through the meal, listening to
the conversation about him only
when it was necessary because
someone called across to him.
Ordinarily, he was quick to support
the idea of clubs in place
of private families. A man here
could choose his group and grow
into them. Yet he wasn’t swallowed
by them, as he might be by
a family. Giles had been living
here for nearly a century now and
he’d never regretted it. But tonight
his own group irritated him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He puzzled over it, finding no
real reason. Certainly they weren’t
forcing themselves on him. He
remembered once when he’d had
a cold, before they finally licked
that; Harry had been a complete
nuisance, running around with
various nostrums, giving him no
peace. Constant questions about
how he felt, constant little looks
of worry—until he’d been ready
to yell at the boy. In fact, he
had.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Funny, he couldn’t picture really
losing his temper here. Families
did odd things to a man.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
HE LISTENED to a few of
the discussions after the dinner,
but he’d heard them all before,
except for one about the
super-speed drive, and there he
had no wish to talk until he could
study the final report. He gave up
at last and went to his own suite.
What he needed was a good
night’s sleep after a little relaxation.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Even that failed him, though.
He’d developed one of the finest
chess collections in the world, but
tonight it held no interest. And
when he drew out his tools and
tried working on the delicate,
lovely jade for the set he was
carving his hands seemed to be
all thumbs. None of the other interests
he’d developed through
the years helped to add to the
richness of living now.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He gave it up and went to bed—to
have the fragment of that
song pop into his head. Now there
was no escaping it. Something
about the years—or was it days—dwindling
down to something
or other.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Could they really dwindle
down? Suppose he couldn’t rejuvenate
all the way? He knew
that there were some people who
didn’t respond as well as others.
Sol Graves, for instance. He’d
been fifty when he finally learned
how to work with the doctors and
they could only bring him back to
about thirty, instead of the normal
early twenties. Would that
reduce the slice of eternity that
rejuvenation meant? And what
had happened to Sol?
</p>
<p class="c005">
Or suppose it wasn’t rejuvenation,
after all; suppose something
had gone wrong with him
permanently?
</p>
<p class="c005">
He fought that off, but he
couldn’t escape the nagging
doubts at the doctor’s words.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He got up once to stare at himself
in the mirror. Ten hours had
gone by and there should have
been some signs of improvement.
He couldn’t be sure, though,
whether there were or not.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He looked no better the next
morning when he finally dragged
himself up from the little sleep
he’d managed to get. The hollows
were still there and the circles
under his eyes. He searched for
the gray in his hair, but the traitorous
strands had been removed
at the doctor’s office and he could
find no new ones.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He looked into the dining room
and then went by hastily. He
wanted no solicitous glances this
morning. Drat it, maybe he
should move out. Maybe trying
family life again would give him
some new interests. Amanda probably
would be willing to marry
him; she’d hinted at a date once.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He stopped, shocked by the
awareness that he hadn’t been out
with a woman for....
</p>
<p class="c005">
He couldn’t remember how
long it had been. Nor why.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“In the spring, a young man’s
fancy,” he quoted to himself, and
then shuddered.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It hadn’t been that kind of
spring for him—not this rejuvenation
nor the last, nor the one
before that.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_2_0_6 c007">
GILES TRIED to stop scaring
himself and partially succeeded,
until he reached the doctor’s
office. Then it was no longer necessary
to frighten himself. The
wrongness was too strong, no matter
how professional Cobb’s smile!
</p>
<p class="c005">
He didn’t hear the preliminary
words. He watched the smile vanish
as the stack of reports came
out. There was no nurse here
now. The machines were quiet—and
all the doors were shut.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles shook his head, interrupting
the doctor’s technical jargon.
Now that he knew there was reason
for his fear, it seemed to
vanish, leaving a coldness that
numbed him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“I’d rather know the whole
truth,” he said. His voice sounded
dead in his ears. “The worst first.
The rejuvenation...?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Cobb sighed and yet seemed relieved.
“Failed.” He stopped, and
his hands touched the reports on
his desk. “Completely,” he added
in a low, defeated tone.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“But I thought that was impossible!”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“So did I. I wouldn’t believe
it even yet—but now I find it
isn’t the first case. I spent the
night at Medical Center going up
the ranks until I found men who
really know about it. And now I
wish I hadn’t.” His voice ran
down and he gathered himself together
by an effort. “It’s a shock
to me, too, Mr. Giles. But—well,
to simplify it, no memory is perfect—even
cellular memory. It
loses a little each time. And the
effect is cumulative. It’s like an
asymptotic curve—the further it
goes, the steeper the curve. And—well,
you’ve passed too far.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
He faced away from Giles,
dropping the reports into a
drawer and locking it. “I wasn’t
supposed to tell you, of course.
It’s going to be tough enough
when they’re ready to let people
know. But you aren’t the first and
you won’t be the last, if that’s any
consolation. We’ve got a longer
time scale than we used to have—but
it’s in centuries, not in
eons. For everybody, not just
you.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
It was no consolation. Giles
nodded mechanically. “I won’t
talk, of course. How—how long?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Cobb spread his hands unhappily.
“Thirty years, maybe. But
we can make them better. Geriatric
knowledge is still on record.
We can fix the heart and all the
rest. You’ll be in good physical
condition, better than your grandfather—”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“And then....” Giles couldn’t
pronounce the words. He’d grown
old and he’d grow older. And
eventually he’d die!
</p>
<p class="c005">
An immortal man had suddenly
found death hovering on his
trail. The years had dwindled and
gone, and only a few were left.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He stood up, holding out his
hand. “Thank you, Doctor,” he
said, and was surprised to find
he meant it. The man had done
all he could and had at least
saved him the suspense of growing
doubt and horrible eventual
discovery.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
OUTSIDE ON the street, he
looked up at the Sun and
then at the buildings built to last
for thousands of years. Their
eternity was no longer a part of
him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Even his car would outlast him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He climbed into it, still partly
numbed, and began driving mechanically,
no longer wondering
about the dangers that might possibly
arise. Those wouldn’t matter
much now. For a man who
had thought of living almost forever,
thirty years was too short
a time to count.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He was passing near the club
and started to slow. Then he
went on without stopping. He
wanted no chance to have them
asking questions he couldn’t answer.
It was none of their business.
Dubbins had been kind—but
now Giles wanted no kindness.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The street led to the office
and he drove on. What else was
there for him? There, at least, he
could still fill his time with work—work
that might even be useful.
In the future, men would
need the super-light drive if they
were to span much more of the
Universe than now. And he could
speed up the work in some ways
still, even if he could never see
its finish.
</p>
<p class="c005">
It would be cold comfort but it
was something. And he might
keep busy enough to forget sometimes
that the years were gone
for him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Automatic habit carried him
through the office again, to Amanda’s
desk, where her worry was
still riding her. He managed a
grin and somehow the right words
came to his lips. “I saw the doctor,
Amanda, so you can stop
figuring ways to get me there.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
She smiled back suddenly, without
feigning it. “Then you’re all
right?”
</p>
<p class="c005">
“As all right as I’ll ever be,”
he told her. “They tell me I’m just
growing old.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
This time her laugh was heartier.
He caught himself before he
could echo her mirth in a different
voice and went inside where she
had the coffee waiting for him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Oddly, it still tasted good to
him.
</p>
<p class="c005">
The projection was off, he saw,
wondering whether he’d left it on
or not. He snapped the switch and
saw the screen light up, with the
people still in the odd, wheelless
vehicle on the alien planet.
</p>
<hr class="c006"/>
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c007">
FOR A long moment, he stared
at the picture without thinking,
and then bent closer. Harry’s
face hadn’t changed much. Giles
had almost forgotten it, but there
was still the same grin there. And
his grandchildren had a touch
of it, too. And of their grandfather’s
nose, he thought. Funny,
he’d never seen even pictures of
his other grandchildren. Family
ties melted away too fast for interstellar
travel.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Yet there seemed to be no
slackening of them in Harry’s
case, and somehow it looked like
a family, rather than a mere
group. A very pleasant family in
a very pleasant world.
</p>
<p class="c005">
He read Harry’s note again,
with its praise for the planet and
its invitation. He wondered if
Dr. Vincenti had received an invitation
like that, before he left.
Or had he even been one of those
to whom the same report had
been delivered by some doctor?
It didn’t matter, but it would explain
things, at least.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Twenty years to Centaurus,
while the years dwindled down—
</p>
<p class="c005">
Then abruptly the line finished
itself. “The years dwindle down
to a precious few....” he remembered.
“A precious few.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Those dwindling years had
been precious once. He unexpectedly
recalled his own grandfather
holding him on an old
knee and slipping him candy
that was forbidden. The years
seemed precious to the old man
then.
</p>
<p class="c005">
Amanda’s voice came abruptly
over the intercom. “Jordan wants
to talk to you,” she said, and the
irritation was sharp in her voice.
“He won’t take no!”
</p>
<p class="c005">
Giles shrugged and reached for
the projector, to cut it off. Then,
on impulse, he set it back to the
picture, studying the group again
as he switched on Jordan’s wire.
</p>
<p class="c005">
But he didn’t wait for the hot
words about whatever was the
trouble.
</p>
<p class="c005">
“Bill,” he said, “start getting
the big ship into production. I’ve
found a volunteer.”
</p>
<p class="c005">
He’d been driven to it, he knew,
as he watched the man’s amazed
face snap from the screen. From
the first suspicion of his trouble,
something inside him had been
forcing him to make this decision.
And maybe it would do no good.
Maybe the ship would fail. But
thirty years was a number a man
could risk.
</p>
<p class="c005">
If he made it, though....
</p>
<p class="c005">
Well, he’d see those grandchildren
of his this year—and
Harry. Maybe he’d even tell
Harry the truth, once they got
done celebrating the reunion. And
there’d be other grandchildren.
With the ship, he’d have time
enough to look them up. Plenty
of time!
</p>
<p class="c005">
Thirty years was a long time,
when he stopped to think of it.
</p>
<b>
—LESTER DEL REY
</b>
<hr class="pb c000"/>
<!-- created with ppgen.py 3.52e on 2015-09-12 02:02:59 GMT -->
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) People live long enough now where they’ve adapted to the delay.\n(B) Everything eventually gets to where it’s going, so they make do. \n(C) They work around it. They have the time to wait. \n(D) Science is progressing slowly as well, so they can’t rush it anyway. ",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Older men -- Fiction; PS; Science fiction; Short stories; Aging -- Fiction"
} |
50869 | How does the phrase "to be or not to be" tie into the overall story?
Choices:
(A) It is what Glmpauszn has to ask himself as he invades the not-world.
(B) It plays into the nature of Glmpauszn's people, and how they exist along side ours.
(C) It references Glmpauszn's disappearance, and the question if he was ever really there.
(D) It plays into the uncertain nature of the story's truth. | [
"B",
"It plays into the nature of Glmpauszn's people, and how they exist along side ours. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gleeb for Earth
</h1>
<p>
By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Not to be or not to not be ... that was the
<br/>
not-question for the invader of the not-world.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because he
can do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch with
somebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,
everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, "Why
didn't you warn us?"
</p>
<p>
I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly to
me because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also they
might think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my license
revoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guests
might be down on their luck now and then.
</p>
<p>
What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance of
two of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.
</p>
<p>
Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,
I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters I
include here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.
And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside the
coat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt the
underwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was also
the underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out of
it and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer were
the letters I told you about.
</p>
<p>
Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum that
checked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was a
real case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.
Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs to
his room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.
</p>
<p>
In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the same
suit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest the
shirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in the
middle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of the
mirror. Only the frame!
</p>
<p>
What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes these
guys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I read
the letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in different
handwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.
India, China, England, everywhere.
</p>
<p>
My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops or
maybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he says
write to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you have
them. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,
the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I never
touch junk, not even aspirin.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Yours very truly,
<br/>
Ivan Smernda
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Bombay, India
<br/>
June 8
</p>
<p>
Mr. Joe Binkle
<br/>
Plaza Ritz Arms
<br/>
New York City
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,
for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,
Glmpauszn, will be born.
</p>
<p>
Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirror
gateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with such
tremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetus
within the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am static
and for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universe
with fear and trepidation.
</p>
<p>
As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but got
no response. What could have diminished your powers of articulate
wave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages and
returning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsing
and surrounded with an impregnable chimera.
</p>
<p>
Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned the
not-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by what
the not-world calls "mail" till we meet. For this purpose I must
utilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whose
inadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.
Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.
</p>
<p>
I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentary
reports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasury
of facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be free
of the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed in
your task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when we
return again.
</p>
<p>
The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city of
Bombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.
Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exact
location, for the not-people might have access to the information.
</p>
<p>
I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When it
is alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring from
the pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrational
likeness.
</p>
<p>
I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am among
them. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gateway
lies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child in
order that I might destroy the not-people completely.
</p>
<p>
All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix too
fast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.
Gezsltrysk, what a task!
</p>
<p>
Farewell till later.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Wichita, Kansas
<br/>
June 13
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,
I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there are
no terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you in
not-language what I had to go through during the first moments of my
birth.
</p>
<p>
Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limited
equipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctor
came in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternation
reigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. What
difference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.
As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,
since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother
(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw up
their hands and left.
</p>
<p>
I learned the following day that the opposite component of my
not-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyance
during my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, a
bender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.
</p>
<p>
When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, I
made a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36
not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I was
standing by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.
He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable of
speech.
</p>
<p>
Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, I
produced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.
</p>
<p>
"Poppa," I said.
</p>
<p>
This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords that
are now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted sounded
low-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must have
jarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from the
room.
</p>
<p>
They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble something
about my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared at
the doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,
she fell down heavily. She made a distinct
<i>
thump
</i>
on the floor.
</p>
<p>
This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the window
and retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,
but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!
</p>
<p>
I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including the
cleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a reply
from Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praise
indeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.
But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himself
and it's his nature never to flatter anyone.
</p>
<p>
From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping the
qualifying preface except where comparisons must be made between this
alleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitive
mythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these people
refer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But we
learned otherwise, while they never have.
</p>
<p>
New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hard
time classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to the
inevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror of
the not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand your
not replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What could
have happened to your vibrations?
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Albuquerque, New Mexico
<br/>
June 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.
My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feeler
vibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then I
establish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without his
knowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes my
letter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what he
has done.
</p>
<p>
My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of an
individual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, but
I fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tell
you about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I have
accomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.
</p>
<p>
In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind of
sleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.
Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.
</p>
<p>
As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...
my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hard
time classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquire
the stuff needed for the destruction of these people.
</p>
<p>
Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, the
impressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioning
for me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficient
mechanism I inhabit.
</p>
<p>
I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.
It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurried
immediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked up
and all about me at the beauty.
</p>
<p>
Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. I
simply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions was
to realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do not
let yourself believe they do.
</p>
<p>
This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.
Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. She
wore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention was
diverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.
</p>
<p>
The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried from
nearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene with
an attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I told
myself. But they were.
</p>
<p>
I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that you
unfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.
</p>
<p>
"He was stark naked," the girl with the sneakers said.
</p>
<p>
A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.
</p>
<p>
"Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out of
this area."
</p>
<p>
"But—"
</p>
<p>
"No more buck-bathing, Lizzy," the officer ordered. "No more speeches
in the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Now
where is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him."
</p>
<p>
That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to this
oversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressions
that assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,
pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. I
must feel each, become accustomed to it.
</p>
<p>
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information I
have been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.
What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission is
impaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can write
you with more enlightenment.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Moscow, Idaho
<br/>
June 17
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greet
me in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,
pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of five
bucks!
</p>
<p>
It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up with
the correct variant of the slang term "buck." Is it possible that you
are powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live in
this inferior world?
</p>
<p>
A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged in
a struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusions
of this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have lived
a semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this world
ripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individual
fluctuations make up our sentient population.
</p>
<p>
Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardized
by these people. The not-world and our world are like two baskets
as you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with the
greatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sides
are joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrational
plane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a world
of higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.
While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,
more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.
</p>
<p>
They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selves
into ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to force
some of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,
causing them much agony and fright.
</p>
<p>
The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people call
mediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit one
of them at the first opportunity to see for myself.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I picked
them up while examining the "slang" portion of my information catalog
which you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimate
cause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peace
of our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,
get hep.
</p>
<p>
As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Des Moines, Iowa
<br/>
June 19
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passages
in my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.
Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled here
"revolting" are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they are
all being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the most
important part of my journey—completion of the weapon against the
not-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue that
day, I assure you.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Boise, Idaho
<br/>
July 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.
Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed in
our catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reed
bending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bent
indeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is known
quaintly in this tongue as a "hooker of red-eye." Ha! I've mastered
even the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. I feel much better now.
</p>
<p>
You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions that
constantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself to
react exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.
</p>
<p>
Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I am
burned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,
I experience a tickle.
</p>
<p>
This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a group
of symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangely
enough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this world
came most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thing
here, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.
</p>
<p>
I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank and
carried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the money
to a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the best
hotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.
</p>
<p>
Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the other
about it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another for
the love of it.
</p>
<p>
Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten or
fifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen spare
rooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I have
failed. This alcohol is taking effect now.
</p>
<p>
Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!
I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've been
studying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics of
these people, in the movies. This is the best place to see these
people as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and there
do homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.
</p>
<p>
Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.
</p>
<p>
By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won't
cost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who's
writing this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?
</p>
<p>
I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at last
learning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, one
simply must persevere, I always say.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Penobscot, Maine
<br/>
July 20
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned it
in any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came across
to this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had a
quart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feel
wonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.
</p>
<p>
There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into this
body and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. Now
I can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports today
outlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we must
finally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experiments
yet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation of
the inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss his
vibrations.
</p>
<p>
I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out a
blonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She was
attracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised is
perfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.
</p>
<p>
I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I remember
distinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money I
had dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.
We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would you
believe it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through the
money in her bare feet! Then we kissed.
</p>
<p>
Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerve
ends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets these
impulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in the
adrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of the
entire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.
</p>
<p>
I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again the
tingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myself
quickly.
</p>
<p>
Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and love
in this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girl
and tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.
This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,
wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he would
have a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?
</p>
<p>
I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.
Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. I
had not found love.
</p>
<p>
I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fell
asleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called gin
and didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.
</p>
<p>
I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don't
I wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?
I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is a
gin mixture.
</p>
<p>
I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'll
take him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting up
an atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to do
is activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.
</p>
<p>
Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,
you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off the
fat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Sacramento, Calif.
<br/>
July 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letter
the morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank a
lot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seance
things.
</p>
<p>
Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we got
to the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner and
continued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed again
because she said yes immediately.
</p>
<p>
The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had the
most frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror these
people really are to our world.
</p>
<p>
The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strong
psychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but I
was too busy with the redhead to notice.
</p>
<p>
Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternal
grandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. He
concentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form in
the room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,
shapeless cascade of light.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, "Grandma Lucy!" Then I
really took notice.
</p>
<p>
Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgftury
partially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating in
the fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhku
was open and his btgrimms were down.
</p>
<p>
Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievable
pattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and the
redhead.
</p>
<p>
Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as a
result of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in these
not-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the reality
of not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is only
half over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling all
my powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even become
invisible any more.
</p>
<p>
I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.
</p>
<p>
Quickly!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Florence, Italy
<br/>
September 10
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pick
closer points of communication soon. I have nothing to report but
failure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formula
that is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms were
filled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.
</p>
<p>
I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when I
realized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reaction
that inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave there
immediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was not
aware of the nature of my activities.
</p>
<p>
I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. I
stuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then sauntered
into the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the manager
I was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his best
customer.
</p>
<p>
"But why, sir?" he asked plaintively.
</p>
<p>
I was baffled. What could I tell him?
</p>
<p>
"Don't you like the rooms?" he persisted. "Isn't the service good?"
</p>
<p>
"It's the rooms," I told him. "They're—they're—"
</p>
<p>
"They're what?" he wanted to know.
</p>
<p>
"They're not safe."
</p>
<p>
"Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is...."
</p>
<p>
At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.
</p>
<p>
"See?" I screamed. "Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!"
</p>
<p>
He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.
Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think like
the not-men, curse them.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Rochester, New York
<br/>
September 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury's
niggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a form
of mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,
transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end will
be swift and fatal.
</p>
<p>
First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.
Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.
Absolutely nothing.
</p>
<p>
We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bring
with me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place of
birth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, a
large mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowly
climb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secure
world. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.
</p>
<p>
You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same with
me. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world senses
falter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. When
the gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.
</p>
<p>
In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queer
world will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, can
we, Joe?
</p>
<p>
And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll have
hgutry before the ghjdksla!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon brain
dissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody who
knows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is a
gleeb?
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It is what Glmpauszn has to ask himself as he invades the not-world. \n(B) It plays into the nature of Glmpauszn's people, and how they exist along side ours. \n(C) It references Glmpauszn's disappearance, and the question if he was ever really there. \n(D) It plays into the uncertain nature of the story's truth.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Epistolary fiction; Short stories"
} |
50668 | What clue did the water tanks and tubing give Jery?
Choices:
(A) An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably during the night
(B) An idea of how much water was used during the trip
(C) An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably via the tanks
(D) An idea as to whether or not the other man was lying | [
"A",
"An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably during the night "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE SECRET MARTIANS
</h1>
<p>
by JACK SHARKEY
</p>
<p>
ACE BOOKS, INC.
<br/>
23 West 47th Street,
<br/>
New York 36, N. Y.
</p>
<p>
THE SECRET MARTIANS
<br/>
Copyright, 1960, by Ace Books, Inc.
<br/>
All Rights Reserved
</p>
<p>
Printed in U.S.A.
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
<br/>
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
MASTER SPY OF THE RED PLANET
</p>
<p>
Jery Delvin had a most unusual talent. He could detect the flaws in
any scheme almost on sight—even where they had eluded the best brains
in the ad agency where he worked. So when the Chief of World Security
told him that he had been selected as the answer to the Solar System's
greatest mystery, Jery assumed that it was because of his mental
agility.
</p>
<p>
But when he got to Mars to find out why fifteen boys had vanished from
a spaceship in mid-space, he found out that even his quick mind needed
time to pierce the maze of out-of-this-world double-dealing. For Jery
had become a walking bomb, and when he set himself off, it would be the
end of the whole puzzle of THE SECRET MARTIANS—with Jery as the first
to go!
</p>
<p>
Jack Sharkey decided to be a writer nineteen years ago, in the Fourth
Grade, when he realized all at once that "someone wrote all those
stories in the textbooks." While everyone else looked forward variously
to becoming firemen, cowboys, and trapeze artists, Jack was devouring
every book he could get his hands on, figuring that "if I put enough
literature into my head, some of it might overflow and come out."
</p>
<p>
After sixteen years of education, Jack found himself teaching high
school English in Chicago, a worthwhile career, but "not what one would
call zesty." After a two-year Army hitch, and a year in advertising
"sublimating my urge to write things for cash," Jack moved to New York,
determined to make a career of full-time fiction-writing.
</p>
<p>
Oddly enough, it worked out, and he now does nothing else. He says,
"I'd like to say I do this for fulfillment, or for cash, or because
it's my destiny; however, the real reason (same as that expressed by
Jean Kerr) is that this kind of stay-at-home self-employment lets me
sleep late in the morning."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<h2>
1
</h2>
<p>
I was sitting at my desk, trying to decide how to tell the women of
America that they were certain to be lovely in a Plasti-Flex brassiere
without absolutely guaranteeing them anything, when the two security
men came to get me. I didn't quite believe it at first, when I looked
up and saw them, six-feet-plus of steel nerves and gimlet eyes, staring
down at me, amidst my litter of sketches, crumpled copy sheets and
deadline memos.
</p>
<p>
It was only a fraction of an instant between the time I saw them and
the time they spoke to me, but in that miniscule interval I managed
to retrace quite a bit of my lifetime up till that moment, seeking
vainly for some reason why they'd be standing there, so terribly and
inflexibly efficient looking. Mostly, I ran back over all the ads I'd
created and/or okayed for Solar Sales, Inc. during my five years with
the firm, trying to see just where I'd gone and shaken the security
of the government. I couldn't find anything really incriminating,
unless maybe it was that hair dye that unexpectedly turned bright green
after six weeks in the hair, but that was the lab's fault, not mine.
So I managed a weak smile toward the duo, and tried not to sweat too
profusely.
</p>
<p>
"Jery Delvin?" said the one on my left, a note of no-funny-business in
his brusque baritone.
</p>
<p>
"... Yes," I said, some terrified portion of my mind waiting
masochistically for them to draw their collapsers and reduce me to a
heap of hot protons.
</p>
<p>
"Come with us," said his companion. I stared at him, then glanced
hopelessly at the jumble of things on my desk. "Never mind that stuff,"
he added.
</p>
<p>
I rose from my place, slipped my jacket from its hook, and started
across the office toward the door, each of them falling into rigid step
beside me. Marge, my secretary, stood wide-eyed as we passed through
her office, heading for the hall exit.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Delvin," she said, her voice a wispy croak. "When will you be
back? The Plasti-Flex man is waiting for your—"
</p>
<p>
I opened my mouth, but one of the security men cut in.
</p>
<p>
"You will be informed," he said to Marge.
</p>
<p>
She was staring after me, open-mouthed, as the door slid neatly shut
behind us.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
W-Will
</i>
I be back?" I asked desperately, as we waited for the
elevator. "At all? Am I under arrest? What's up, anyhow?"
</p>
<p>
"You will be informed," said the man again. I had to let it go at that.
Security men were not hired for their loquaciousness. They had a car
waiting at the curb downstairs, in the No Parking zone. The cop on the
beat very politely opened the door for them when we got there. Those
red-and-bronze uniforms carry an awful lot of weight. Not to mention
the golden bulk of their holstered collapsers.
</p>
<p>
There was nothing for me to do but sweat it out and to try and enjoy
the ride, wherever we were going.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"
<i>
You
</i>
are Jery Delvin?"
</p>
<p>
The man who spoke seemed more than surprised; he seemed stunned. His
voice held an incredulous squeak, a squeak which would have amazed his
subordinates. It certainly amazed me. Because the speaker was Philip
Baxter, Chief of Interplanetary Security, second only to the World
President in power, and not even that in matters of security. I managed
to nod.
</p>
<p>
He shook his white-maned head, slowly. "I don't believe it."
</p>
<p>
"But I am, sir," I insisted doggedly.
</p>
<p>
Baxter pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment,
then sighed, grinned wryly, and waggled an index finger at an empty
plastic contour chair.
</p>
<p>
"I guess maybe you are at that, son. Sit down, sit down."
</p>
<p>
I folded gingerly at knees and hips and slid back into the chair,
pressing my perspiring palms against the sides of my pants to get rid
of their uncomfortably slippery feel. "Thank you, sir."
</p>
<p>
There was a silence, during which I breathed uneasily, and a bit too
loudly. Baxter seemed to be trying to say something.
</p>
<p>
"I suppose you're wondering why I've called—" he started, then stopped
short and flushed with embarrassment. I felt a sympathetic hot wave
flooding my own features. A copy chief in an advertising company almost
always reacts to an obvious cliche.
</p>
<p>
Then, with something like a look of relief on his blunt face, he
snatched up a brochure from his kidney-shaped desktop and his eyes
raced over the lettering on its face.
</p>
<p>
"Jery Delvin," he read, musingly and dispassionately. "Five foot eleven
inches tall, brown hair, slate-gray eyes. Citizen. Honest, sober,
civic-minded, slightly antisocial...."
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, questioningly.
</p>
<p>
"I'd rather not discuss that, sir, if you don't mind."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mind if I do mind?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh ... Oh, well if you put it like that. It's girls, sir. They block
my mind. Ruin my work."
</p>
<p>
"I don't get you."
</p>
<p>
"Well, in my job—See, I've got this gift. I'm a spotter."
</p>
<p>
"A what?"
</p>
<p>
"A spotter. I can't be fooled. By advertising. Or mostly anything else.
Except girls."
</p>
<p>
"I'm still not sure that I—"
</p>
<p>
"It's like this. I designate ratios, by the minute. They hand me a new
ad, and I read it by a stopwatch. Then, as soon as I spot the clinker,
they stop the watch. If I get it in five seconds, it passes. But if I
spot it in less, they throw it out and start over again. Or is that
clear? No, I guess you're still confused, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Just a bit," Baxter said.
</p>
<p>
I took a deep breath and tried again.
</p>
<p>
"Maybe an example would be better. Uh, you know the one about 'Three
out of five New York lawyers use Hamilton Bond Paper for note-taking'?"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard that, yes."
</p>
<p>
"Well, the clinker—that's the sneaky part of the ad, sir, or what we
call weasel-wording—the clinker in that one is that while it seems to
imply sixty percent of New York lawyers, it actually means precisely
what it says: Three out of five. For that particular product, we had
to question seventy-nine lawyers before we could come up with three who
liked Hamilton Bond, see? Then we took the names of the three, and the
names of two of the seventy-six men remaining, and kept them on file."
</p>
<p>
"On file?" Baxter frowned. "What for?"
</p>
<p>
"In case the Federal Trade Council got on our necks. We could prove
that three out of five lawyers used the product. Three out of those
five. See?"
</p>
<p>
"Ah," said Baxter, grinning. "I begin to. And your job is to test these
ads, before they reach the public. What fools you for five seconds will
fool the average consumer indefinitely."
</p>
<p>
I sat back, feeling much better. "That's right, sir."
</p>
<p>
Then Baxter frowned again. "But what's this about girls?"
</p>
<p>
"They—they block my thinking, sir, that's all. Why, take that example
I just mentioned. In plain writing, I caught the clinker in one-tenth
of a second. Then they handed me a layout with a picture of a lawyer
dictating notes to his secretary on it. Her legs were crossed. Nice
legs. Gorgeous legs...."
</p>
<p>
"How long that time, Delvin?"
</p>
<p>
"Indefinite. Till they took the girl away, sir."
</p>
<p>
Baxter cleared his throat loudly. "I understand, at last. Hence your
slight antisocial rating. You avoid women in order to keep your job."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. Even my secretary, Marge, whom I'd never in a million years
think of looking at twice, except for business reasons, of course, has
to stay out of my office when I'm working, or I can't function."
</p>
<p>
"You have my sympathy, son," Baxter said, not unkindly.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, sir. It hasn't been easy."
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't imagine it has...." Baxter was staring into some far-off
distance. Then he remembered himself and blinked back to the present.
"Delvin," he said sharply. "I'll come right to the point. This thing
is.... You have been chosen for an extremely important mission."
</p>
<p>
I couldn't have been more surprised had he announced my incipient
maternity, but I was able to ask, "Me? For Pete's sake, why, sir?"
</p>
<p>
Baxter looked me square in the eye. "Damned if I know!"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<h2>
2
</h2>
<p>
I stared at him, nonplussed. He'd spoken with evidence of utmost
candor, and the Chief of Interplanetary Security was not one to be
accused of a friendly josh, but—"You're kidding!" I said. "You must
be. Otherwise, why was I sent for?"
</p>
<p>
"Believe me, I wish I knew," he sighed. "You were chosen, from all
the inhabitants of this planet, and all the inhabitants of the Earth
Colonies, by the Brain."
</p>
<p>
"You mean that International Cybernetics picked me for a mission?
That's crazy, if you'll pardon me, sir."
</p>
<p>
Baxter shrugged, and his genial smile was a bit tightly stretched.
"When the current emergency arose and all our usual methods failed, we
had to submit the problem to the Brain."
</p>
<p>
"And," I said, beginning to be fascinated by his bewildered manner,
"what came out?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me for a long moment, then picked up that brochure again,
and said, without referring to it, "Jery Delvin, five foot eleven
inches tall—"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, but read me the part where it says why I was picked," I said, a
little exasperated.
</p>
<p>
Baxter eyed me balefully, then skimmed the brochure through the air in
my direction. I caught it just short of the carpet.
</p>
<p>
"If you can find it, I'll read it!" he said, almost snarling.
</p>
<p>
I looked over the sheet, then turned it over and scanned the black
opposite side. "All it gives is my description, governmental status,
and address!"
</p>
<p>
"Uh-huh," Baxter grunted laconically. "It amuses you, does it?" The
smile was still on his lips, but there was a grimness in the glitter of
his narrowing eyes.
</p>
<p>
"Not really," I said hastily. "It baffles me, to be frank."
</p>
<p>
"If you're sitting there in that hopeful stance awaiting some sort of
explanation, you may as well relax," Baxter said shortly. "I have none
to make. IC had none to make. Damn it all to hell!" He brought a meaty
fist down on the desktop. "No one has an explanation! All we know is
that the Brain always picks the right man."
</p>
<p>
I let this sink in, then asked, "What made you ask for a man in
the first place, sir? I've always understood that your own staff
represented some of the finest minds—"
</p>
<p>
"Hold it, son. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. We asked for no man.
We asked for a solution to an important problem. And your name was what
we got. You, son, are the solution."
</p>
<p>
Chief of Security or not, I was getting a little burned up at his
highhanded treatment of my emotions. "How nice!" I said icily. "Now if
I only knew the problem!"
</p>
<p>
Baxter blinked, then lost some of his scowl. "Yes, of course;" Baxter
murmured, lighting up a cigar. He blew a plume of blue smoke toward the
ceiling, then continued. "You've heard, of course, of the Space Scouts?"
</p>
<p>
I nodded. "Like the old-time Boy Scouts, only with rocket-names for
their various troops in place of the old animal names."
</p>
<p>
"And you recall the recent government-sponsored trip they had? To Mars
and back, with the broadly-smiling government picking up the enormous
tab?"
</p>
<p>
I detected a tinge of cynicism in his tone, but said nothing.
</p>
<p>
"What a gesture!" Baxter went on, hardly speaking directly to me at
all. "Inter-nation harmony! Good will! If these mere boys can get
together and travel the voids of space, then so can everyone else! Why
should there be tensions between the various nations comprising the
World Government, when there's none between these fine lads, one from
every civilized nation on Earth?"
</p>
<p>
"You sound disillusioned, sir," I interjected.
</p>
<p>
He stared at me as though I'd just fallen in from the ceiling or
somewhere. "Huh? Oh, yes, Delvin, isn't it? Sorry, I got carried away.
Where was I?"
</p>
<p>
"You were telling about how this gesture, the WG sending these kids
off for an extraterrestrial romp, will cement relations between those
nations who have remained hostile despite the unification of all
governments on Earth. Personally, I think it was a pretty good idea,
myself. Everybody likes kids. Take this jam we were trying to push.
Pomegranate Nectar, it was called. Well, sir, it just wouldn't sell,
and then we got this red-headed kid with freckles like confetti all
over his slightly bucktoothed face, and we—Sir?"
</p>
<p>
I'd paused, because he was staring at me like a man on the brink of
apoplexy. I swallowed, and tried to look relaxed.
</p>
<p>
After a moment, he found his voice. "To go on, Delvin. Do you recall
what happened to the Space Scouts last week?"
</p>
<p>
I thought a second, then nodded. "They've been having such a good time
that the government extended their trip by—Why are you shaking your
head that way, sir?"
</p>
<p>
"Because it's not true, Delvin," he said. His voice was suddenly old
and tired, and very much in keeping with his snowy hair. "You see, the
Space Scouts have vanished."
</p>
<p>
I came up in the chair, ramrod-straight. "Their mothers—they've been
getting letters and—"
</p>
<p>
"Forgeries, Fakes. Counterfeits."
</p>
<p>
"You mean whoever took the Scouts is falsifying—"
</p>
<p>
"No.
<i>
My
</i>
men are doing the work. Handpicked crews, day and night,
have been sending those letters to the trusting mothers. It's been
ghastly, Delvin. Hard on the men, terribly hard. Undotted
<i>
i
</i>
's,
misuse of tenses, deliberate misspellings. They take it out of an
adult, especially an adult with a mind keen enough to get him into
Interplanetary Security. We've limited the shifts to four hours per man
per day. Otherwise, they'd all be gibbering by now!"
</p>
<p>
"And your men haven't found out anything?" I marvelled.
</p>
<p>
Baxter shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"And you finally had to resort to the Brain, and it gave you my name,
but no reason for it?"
</p>
<p>
Baxter cupped his slightly jowled cheeks in his hands and propped his
elbows on the desktop, suddenly slipping out of his high position to
talk to me man-to-man. "Look, son, an adding machine—which is a minor
form of an electronic brain, and even works on the same principle—can
tell you that two and two make four. But can it tell you why?
</p>
<p>
"Well, no, but—"
</p>
<p>
"That, in a nutshell is our problem. We coded and fed to the Brain
every shred of information at our disposal; the ages of the children,
for instance, and all their physical attributes, and where they were
last seen, and what they were wearing. Hell, everything! The machine
took the factors, weighed them, popped them through its billions of
relays and tubes, and out of the end of the answer slot popped a single
sheet. The one you just saw. Your dossier."
</p>
<p>
"Then I'm to be sent to Mars?" I said, nervously.
</p>
<p>
"That's just it," Baxter sighed. "We don't even know that! We're like a
savage who finds a pistol: used correctly, it's a mean little weapon;
pointed the wrong way, it's a quick suicide. So, you are our weapon.
Now, the question is: Which way do we point you?"
</p>
<p>
"You got me!" I shrugged hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
"However, since we have nothing else to go on but the locale from which
the children vanished, my suggestion would be to send you there."
</p>
<p>
"Mars, you mean," I said.
</p>
<p>
"No, to the spaceship
<i>
Phobos II
</i>
. The one they were returning to Earth
in when they disappeared."
</p>
<p>
"They disappeared from a spaceship? While in space?"
</p>
<p>
Baxter nodded.
</p>
<p>
"But that's impossible," I said, shaking my head against this
disconcerting thought.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Baxter. "That's what bothers me."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<h2>
3
</h2>
<p>
<i>
Phobos II
</i>
, for obvious reasons, was berthed in a Top Security
spaceport. Even so, they'd shuttled it into a hangar, safe from the
eyes of even their own men, and as a final touch had hidden the ship's
nameplate beneath magnetic repair-plates.
</p>
<p>
I had a metal disk—bronze and red, the Security colors—insigniaed
by Baxter and counterembossed with the President's special device, a
small globe surmounted by clasping hands. It gave me authority to do
anything. With such an identification disc, I could go to Times Square
and start machine gunning the passers-by, and not one of New York's
finest would raise a hand to stop me.
</p>
<p>
And, snugly enholstered, I carried a collapser, the restricted weapon
given only to Security Agents, so deadly was its molecule-disrupting
beam. Baxter had spent a tremulous hour showing me how to use the
weapon, and especially how to turn the beam off. I'd finally gotten the
hang of it, though not before half his kidney-shaped desk had flashed
into nothingness, along with a good-sized swath of carpeting and six
inches of concrete floor.
</p>
<p>
His parting injunction had been. "Be careful, Delvin, huh?"
</p>
<p>
Yes, parting. I was on my own. After all, with a Security disc—the
Amnesty, they called it—such as I possessed, and a collapser, I could
go anywhere, do anything, commandeer anything I might need. All with
no questions asked. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty chipper as I
entered the hangar housing
<i>
Phobos II
</i>
. At the moment, I was the most
influential human being in the known universe.
</p>
<p>
The pilot, as per my videophoned request, was waiting there for me. I
saw him as I stepped into the cool shadows of the building from the hot
yellow sunlight outside. He was tall, much taller than I, but he seemed
nervous as hell. At least he was pacing back and forth amid a litter
of half-smoked cigarette butts beside the gleaming tailfins of the
spaceship, and a fuming butt was puckered into place in his mouth.
</p>
<p>
"Anders?" I said, approaching to within five feet of him before
halting, to get the best psychological effect from my appearance.
</p>
<p>
He turned, saw me, and hurriedly spat the butt out onto the cement
floor. "Yes, sir!" he said loudly, throwing me a quivering salute. His
eyes were a bit wild as they took me in.
</p>
<p>
And well they might be. An Amnesty-bearer can suddenly decide a subject
is not answering questions to his satisfaction and simply blast the
annoying party to atoms. It makes for straight responses. Of course,
I was dressing the part, in a way. I wore the Amnesty suspended by a
thin golden chain from my neck, and for costume I wore a raven-black
blouse and matching uniform trousers and boots. I must have looked
quite sinister. I'm under six feet, but I'm angular and wiry. Thus,
in ominous black, with an Amnesty on my breast and a collapser in
my holster, I was a sight to strike even honest citizens into quick
examinations of conscience. I felt a little silly, but the outfit was
Baxter's idea.
</p>
<p>
"I understand you were aboard the
<i>
Phobos II
</i>
when the incident
occurred?" I said sternly, which was unusual for my wonted demeanor.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir!" he replied swiftly, at stiff attention.
</p>
<p>
"I don't really have any details," I said, and waited for him to take
his cue. As an afterthought, to help him talk, I added, "At ease, by
the way, Anders."
</p>
<p>
"Thank you, sir," he said, not actually loosening much in his rigid
position, but his face looking happier. "See, I was supposed to pilot
the kids back here from Mars when their trip was done, and—" He gave
a helpless shrug. "I dunno, sir. I got 'em all aboard, made sure they
were secure in the takeoff racks, and then I set my coordinates for
Earth and took off. Just a run-of-the-mill takeoff, sir."
</p>
<p>
"And when did you notice they were missing?" I asked, looking at the
metallic bulk of the ship and wondering what alien force could snatch
fifteen fair-sized young boys through its impervious hull without
leaving a trace.
</p>
<p>
"Chow time, sir. That's when you expect to have the little—to have
the kids in your hair, sir. Everyone wants his rations first—You know
how kids are, sir. So I went to the galley and was about to open up
the ration packs, when I noticed how damned quiet it was aboard. And
especially funny that no one was in the galley waiting for me to start
passing the stuff out."
</p>
<p>
"So you searched," I said.
</p>
<p>
Anders nodded sorrowfully. "Not a trace of 'em, sir. Just some of their
junk left in their storage lockers."
</p>
<p>
I raised my eyebrows. "Really? I'd be interested in seeing this junk,
Anders."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes, sir. Right this way, sir. Watch out for these rungs, they're
slippery."
</p>
<p>
I ascended the retractable metal rungs that jutted from a point
between the tailfins to the open airlock, twenty feet over ground
level, and followed Anders inside the ship.
</p>
<p>
I trailed Anders through the ship, from the pilot's compartment—a
bewildering mass of dials, switches, signal lights and wire—through
the galley into the troop section. It was a cramped cubicle housing a
number of nylon-webbed foam rubber bunks. The bunks were empty, but I
looked them over anyhow. I carefully tugged back the canvas covering
that fitted envelope-fashion over a foam rubber pad, and ran my finger
over the surface of the pad. It came away just slightly gritty.
</p>
<p>
"Uh-huh!" I said, smiling. Anders just stared at me.
</p>
<p>
I turned to the storage lockers. "Let's see this junk they were
suddenly deprived of."
</p>
<p>
Anders, after a puzzled frown, obediently threw open the doors of
the riveted tiers of metal boxes along the rear wall; the wall next
to the firing chambers, which I had no particular desire to visit. I
glanced inside at the articles therein, and noted with interest their
similarity.
</p>
<p>
"Now, then," I resumed, "the thrust of this rocket to get from Mars to
Earth is calculated with regard to the mass on board, is that correct?"
He nodded. "Good, that clears up an important point. I'd also like to
know if this rocket has a dehumidifying system to keep the cast-off
moisture from the passengers out of the air?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, sure, sir!" said Anders. "Otherwise, we'd all be swimming in our
own sweat after a ten-hour trip across space!"
</p>
<p>
"Have you checked the storage tanks?" I asked. "Or is the cast-off
perspiration simply jetted into space?"
</p>
<p>
"No. It's saved, sir. It gets distilled and stored for washing and
drinking. Otherwise, we'd all dehydrate, with no water to replace the
water we lost."
</p>
<p>
"Check the tanks," I said.
</p>
<p>
Anders, shaking his head, moved into the pilot's section and looked at
a dial there. "Full, sir. But that's because I didn't drink very much,
and any sweating I did—which was a hell of a lot, in this case—was a
source of new water for the tanks."
</p>
<p>
"Uh-huh." I paused and considered. "I suppose the tubing for these
tanks is all over the ship? In all the hollow bulkhead space, to take
up the moisture fast?"
</p>
<p>
Anders, hopelessly lost, could only nod wearily.
</p>
<p>
"Would it hold—" I did some quick mental arithmetic—"let's say, about
twenty-four extra cubic feet?"
</p>
<p>
He stared, then frowned, and thought hard. "Yes, sir," he said,
after a minute. "Even twice that, with no trouble, but—" He caught
himself short. It didn't pay to be too curious about the aims of an
Amnesty-bearer.
</p>
<p>
"It's all right, Anders. You've been a tremendous help. Just one thing.
When you left Mars, you took off from the night side, didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes, I did, sir. But how did you—?"
</p>
<p>
"No matter, Anders. That'll be all."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir!" He saluted sharply and started off.
</p>
<p>
I started back for Interplanetary Security, and my second—and I hoped,
last—interview with Chief Baxter. I had a slight inkling why the Brain
had chosen me; because, in the affair of the missing Space Scouts, my
infallible talent for spotting the True within the Apparent had come
through nicely. I had found a very interesting clinker.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<h2>
4
</h2>
<p>
"Strange," I remarked to Chief Baxter when I was seated once again in
his office, opposite his newly replaced desk. "I hardly acted like
myself out at that airfield. I was brusque, highhanded, austere, almost
malevolent with the pilot. And I'm ordinarily on the shy side, as a
matter of fact."
</p>
<p>
"It's the Amnesty that does it," he said, gesturing toward the disc. It
lay on his desk, now, along with the collapser. I felt, with the new
information I'd garnered, that my work was done, and that the new data
fed into the Brain would produce some other results, not involving me.
</p>
<p>
I looked at the Amnesty, then nodded. "Kind of gets you, after awhile.
To know that you are the most influential person in creation is to
automatically act the part. A shame, in a way."
</p>
<p>
"The hell it is!" Baxter snapped. "Good grief, man, why'd you think the
Amnesty was created in the first place?"
</p>
<p>
I sat up straight and scratched the back of my head. "Now you mention
it, I really don't know. It seems a pretty dangerous thing to have
about, the way people jump when they see it."
</p>
<p>
"It is dangerous, of course, but it's vitally necessary. You're young,
Jery Delvin, and even the finest history course available these days
is slanted in favor of World Government. So you have no idea how tough
things were before the Amnesty came along. Ever hear of red tape?"
</p>
<p>
I shook my head. "No, I don't believe so. Unless it had something to do
with the former communist menace? They called themselves the Reds, I
believe...."
</p>
<p>
He waved me silent. "No connection at all, son. No, red tape was, well,
involvement. Forms to be signed, certain factors to be considered,
protocol to be dealt with, government agencies to be checked with,
classifications, bureaus, sub-bureaus, congressional committees. It
was impossible, Jery, my boy, to get anything done whatsoever without
consulting someone else. And the time lag and paperwork involved made
accurate and swift action impossible, sometimes. What we needed, of
course, was a person who could simply have all authority, in order to
save the sometimes disastrous delays. So we came up with the Amnesty."
</p>
<p>
"But the danger. If you should pick the wrong man—"
</p>
<p>
Baxter smiled. "No chance of that, Jery. We didn't leave it up to any
committee or bureau or any other faction to do the picking. Hell, that
would have put us right back where we'd been before. No, we left it up
to the Brain. We'd find ourselves in a tight situation, and the Brain
after being fed the data, would come up with either a solution, or a
name."
</p>
<p>
I stared at him. "Then, when I was here before, I was here solely to
receive the Amnesty, is that it?"
</p>
<p>
Baxter nodded. "The Brain just picks the men. Then we tell the men the
situation, hand over the Amnesty, and pray."
</p>
<p>
I had a sudden thought. "Say, what happens if two men are selected by
the Brain? Who has authority over whom?"
</p>
<p>
Baxter grimaced and shivered. "Don't even think such a thing! Even
your mentioning such a contingency gives me a small migraine. It'd be
unprecedented in the history of the Brain or the Amnesty." He grinned,
suddenly. "Besides, it can't happen. There's only one of these—" he
tapped the medallion gently "—in existence, Jery. So we couldn't have
such a situation!"
</p>
<p>
I sank back into the contour chair, and glanced at my watch. Much too
late to go back to work. I'd done a lot in one day, I reasoned. Well,
the thing was out of my hands. Baxter had the information I'd come
up with, and it had been coded and fed to the Brain. As soon as the
solution came through, I could be on my way back to the world of hard
and soft sell.
</p>
<p>
"You understand," said Baxter suddenly, "that you're to say nothing
whatever about the disappearance of the Space Scouts until this office
makes the news public? You know what would happen if this thing should
leak!"
</p>
<p>
The intercom on Baxter's desk suddenly buzzed, and a bright red light
flashed on. "Ah!" he said, thumbing a knob. "Here we go, at last!"
</p>
<p>
As he exerted pressure on the knob, a thin slit in the side of the
intercom began feeding out a long sheet of paper; the new answer from
the Brain. It reached a certain length, then was automatically sheared
off within the intercom, and the sheet fell gently to the desktop.
Baxter picked it up and swiftly scanned its surface. A look of dismay
overrode his erstwhile genial features.
</p>
<p>
I had a horrible suspicion. "Not again?" I said softly.
</p>
<p>
Baxter swore under his breath. Then he reached across the desktop and
tossed me the Amnesty.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably during the night \n(B) An idea of how much water was used during the trip \n(C) An idea of how and when the boys went missing - probably via the tanks\n(D) An idea as to whether or not the other man was lying ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Mystery fiction; Science fiction; PS; Mars (Planet) -- Fiction"
} |
51129 | What characteristic of Zotul does he believe he shares with the Earthmen?
Choices:
(A) cunning
(B) integrity
(C) creativity
(D) impartiality | [
"B",
"integrity"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gift From Earth
</h1>
<p>
By MANLY BANISTER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by KOSSIN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Except for transportation, it was absolutely
<br/>
free ... but how much would the freight cost?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is an outrage," said Koltan of the House of Masur, "that the
Earthmen land among the Thorabians!"
</p>
<p>
Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he
was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.
</p>
<p>
At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in his
dotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to the
Pottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and
he knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldest
and Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, their
treasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last in
the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.
</p>
<p>
"Behold, my sons," said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. "What are
these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength
and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may
come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the
fame and fortune of the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"It
<i>
is
</i>
a damned imposition," agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's
philosophical attitude. "They could have landed just as easily here in
Lor."
</p>
<p>
"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy," said Singula, whose mind ran
rather to matters of financial aspect, "and leave us the grease."
</p>
<p>
By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,
which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were panting
to get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, a
very scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept his
own counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enough
for him. He would report when the time was ripe.
</p>
<p>
"Doubtless," said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference
was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his
elders, "the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building
that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only means
of transport."
</p>
<p>
Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret
conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.
The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,
remember your position in the family."
</p>
<p>
Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.
</p>
<p>
"Listen to the boy," said the aged father. "There is more wisdom in his
head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of
the clay."
</p>
<p>
Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him
a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough
thing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated in
their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they
did.
</p>
<p>
Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought
about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way
of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could
figure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation of
his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of
course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange
metal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of the
city, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all of
tile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all the
people to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had much
too quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much to
be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.
</p>
<p>
The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of
Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all
Zurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, in
effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,
for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a
whaling for it.
</p>
<p>
There was also some talk going around about agreements made between
the Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard one
thing one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less a
newspaper, was unknown on Zur.
</p>
<p>
Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,
none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had
tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is
always an "anti" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed
happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.
</p>
<p>
Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of ships
arrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur was
practically acrawl with Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called
"corporations"—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. The
object of the visit was trade.
</p>
<p>
In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zurian
city of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it took
some time for the news to spread.
</p>
<p>
The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the
pottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing an
aluminum pot at him.
</p>
<p>
"What is that thing?" he asked curiously.
</p>
<p>
"A pot. I bought it at the market."
</p>
<p>
"Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend my
substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I
say!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The pretty young wife laughed at him. "Up to your ears in clay, no
wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen
are selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old clay
pots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break when
dropped."
</p>
<p>
"What good is it?" asked Zotul, interested. "How will it hold heat,
being so light?"
</p>
<p>
"The Earthmen don't cook as we do," she explained patiently. "There is
a paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will have
to design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a new
type of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why do
you need a whole new stove for one little pot?"
</p>
<p>
"A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltan
will have to produce the new stove because all the housewives are
buying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthman
said so."
</p>
<p>
"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go
back to cooking with your old ones."
</p>
<p>
"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so
cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you
will have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to use
them."
</p>
<p>
After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul
stamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that would
accommodate the terrestrial pots very well.
</p>
<p>
And Koltan put the model into production.
</p>
<p>
"Orders already are pouring in like mad," he said the next day. "It
was wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I am
sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to
do well by us."
</p>
<p>
The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up with
the demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than a
million had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting the
hundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in every
land.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.
One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had ever
dreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust of
the Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured from
it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its
scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by
the novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorian
language—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of the
brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.
</p>
<p>
Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enough
in value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set up
telegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.
Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every major
city on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyed
the instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the business
of the House of Masur continued to look up.
</p>
<p>
"As I have always said from the beginning," chortled Director Koltan,
"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and
especially for the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"You didn't think so at first," Zotul pointed out, and was immediately
sorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for his
unthinkable impertinence.
</p>
<p>
It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their
production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per
cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves
greatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; but
their business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots from
Earth.
</p>
<p>
About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made
their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the
newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for
everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.
What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They
destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.
</p>
<p>
The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of
Masur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltan
called an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of his
senile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old man
might still have a little wit left that could be helpful.
</p>
<p>
"Note," Koltan announced in a shaky voice, "that the Earthmen undermine
our business," and he read off the figures.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," said Zotul, "it is a good thing also, as you said before,
and will result in something even better for us."
</p>
<p>
Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly
subsided.
</p>
<p>
"They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferior
terrestrial junk," Koltan went on bitterly. "It is only the glamor that
sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their
eyes, we can be ruined."
</p>
<p>
The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the while
Father Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they got
nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
</p>
<p>
"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom
of your trouble, but the
<i>
things
</i>
of Earth. Think of the telegraph and
the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.
The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these
newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are
intrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock to
buy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, you
might also have advertisements of your own."
</p>
<p>
Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertising
from the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by the
advertisements of the Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the
brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several
things had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortal
rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had
procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which
they found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. What
they did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discovered
in the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, working
under supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oil
regions to every major and minor city on Zur.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the first
terrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business in
gas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove business
was gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gas
at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the
brothers Masur.
</p>
<p>
The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making an
energetic protest to the governor of Lor.
</p>
<p>
At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmen
for a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it and
departed from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House of
Masur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed that
much new building was taking place and wondered what it was.
</p>
<p>
"Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure," said Koltan
blackly.
</p>
<p>
In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radio
receiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron was
loaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and other
radio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with the
natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with
commercials.
</p>
<p>
Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or
they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.
</p>
<p>
"I think," the governor told them, "that you gentlemen have not
paused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to be
modern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doing
all in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing a
great, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed in
ten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know they
are even bringing
<i>
autos
</i>
to Zur!"
</p>
<p>
The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of these
hitherto unheard-of vehicles.
</p>
<p>
"It only remains," concluded the governor, "to build highways, and the
Earthmen are taking care of that."
</p>
<p>
At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves
that they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for houses
and street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the new
highways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be made
yet.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The people
bought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highways
were constructed.
</p>
<p>
The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants
and began to manufacture Portland cement.
</p>
<p>
You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Of
course, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for either
tile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuff
made far better road surfacing.
</p>
<p>
The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.
</p>
<p>
The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, "I cannot
handle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the Merchandising
Council."
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such as
yours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strain
in the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal with
it. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them."
</p>
<p>
The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers to
Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling
him in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.
</p>
<p>
All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the
purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they
had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.
</p>
<p>
Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated
on their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was not
surprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down to
make room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, paved
with something called "blacktop" and jammed with an array of glittering
new automobiles.
</p>
<p>
An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now
that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached
with desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them and
they were the envied ones of Zur.
</p>
<p>
Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook hands
jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a
better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual
with genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed in
the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for
an indefinite sense of alienness about him.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur," boomed the Earthman, clapping
Zotul on the back. "Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you
straightened out in no time."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this
occasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.
</p>
<p>
Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been
made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.
</p>
<p>
"Once," he said formally, "the Masur fortune was the greatest in
the world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous Kalrab
Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater
reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and
bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone
is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and
all because of new things coming from Earth."
</p>
<p>
Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. "Why didn't you come
to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,
we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to
do right by the customer."
</p>
<p>
"Divinity witness," Zorin said, "that we ask only compensation for
damages."
</p>
<p>
Broderick shook his head. "It is not possible to replace an immense
fortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported your
trouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Do
you own an automobile?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?"
</p>
<p>
Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. "My wife Lania likes
the music," he explained. "I cannot afford the other things."
</p>
<p>
Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the
bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.
</p>
<p>
"To begin with," he said, "I am going to make you a gift of all these
luxuries you do not have." As Zotul made to protest, he cut him off
with a wave of his hand. "It is the least we can do for you. Pick a car
from the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things delivered
and installed in your home."
</p>
<p>
"To receive gifts," said Zotul, "incurs an obligation."
</p>
<p>
"None at all," beamed the Earthman cheerily. "Every item is given to
you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is
that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to
make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the
Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out
the full program takes time."
</p>
<p>
He chuckled deeply. "We of Earth have a saying about one of our
extremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,
but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the
motto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it
was no more than fair to pay transportation.
</p>
<p>
He said, "How much does the freight cost?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick told him.
</p>
<p>
"It may seem high," said the Earthman, "but remember that Earth is
sixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of the
merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering
the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible," said Zotul drably. "Not I and all my brothers together
have so much money any more."
</p>
<p>
"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you
credit!"
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Zotul skeptically.
</p>
<p>
"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the
rich," said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the
involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that
might have had a discouraging effect.
</p>
<p>
On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.
Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. "What must I do
to get credit?"
</p>
<p>
"Just sign this paper," said Broderick, "and you become part of our
Easy Payment Plan."
</p>
<p>
Zotul drew back. "I have five brothers. If I took all these things for
myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue."
</p>
<p>
"Here." Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. "Have each
of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is
all there is to it."
</p>
<p>
It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul
wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.
</p>
<p>
"I will talk it over with them," he said. "Give me the total so I will
have the figures."
</p>
<p>
The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul
pointed this out politely.
</p>
<p>
"Interest," Broderick explained. "A mere fifteen per cent. After all,
you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be
paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.
This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble."
</p>
<p>
"I see." Zotul puzzled over it sadly. "It is too much," he said. "Our
plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments."
</p>
<p>
"I have a surprise for you," smiled Broderick. "Here is a contract. You
will start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certain
parts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage local
manufacture to help bring prices down."
</p>
<p>
"We haven't the equipment."
</p>
<p>
"We will equip your plant," beamed Broderick. "It will require only
a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial
company."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,
won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter
interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.
These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.
</p>
<p>
The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the
Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.
</p>
<p>
For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the
new concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by a
terrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn from
the crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.
The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,
served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In the
winter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, though
they had gas-fired central heating.
</p>
<p>
About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electric
generators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood of
electrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,
batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had to
buy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?
</p>
<p>
The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.
They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electric
fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could
possibly sell them.
</p>
<p>
"We will be forty years paying it all off," exulted Zotul, "but
meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?"
</p>
<p>
But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.
The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The
Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because
it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's
unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.
Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.
</p>
<p>
The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The sets
were delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own and
maintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earth
had them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,
but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.
</p>
<p>
The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lush
business.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decade
and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this
backward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise was
slow, but it was extremely sure.
</p>
<p>
The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had less
money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television
kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the
pangs of impoverishment.
</p>
<p>
The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul
designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons
were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold
them for less.
</p>
<p>
The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any
more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.
</p>
<p>
"You got us into this," they said, emphasizing their bitterness with
fists. "Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some
contracts to continue operating."
</p>
<p>
Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.
Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.
Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.
</p>
<p>
Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hint
of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.
</p>
<p>
"So you can't pay," he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He
looked at Zotul coldly. "It is well you have come to us instead of
making it necessary for us to approach you through the courts."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what you mean," said Zotul.
</p>
<p>
"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything
attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are
attached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. We
will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your
pottery to us."
</p>
<p>
The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think of
beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was
somewhat comforted.
</p>
<p>
"To fail," said Koltan soberly, "is not a Masur attribute. Go to the
governor and tell him what we think of this business. The House of
Masur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it is
time for the government to do something for us."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene of
confusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application for
an interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. It
was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female
terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men
covetous and Zurian women envious.
</p>
<p>
"The governor will see you," she said sweetly. "He has been expecting
you."
</p>
<p>
"Me?" marveled Zotul.
</p>
<p>
She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governor
of Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with a
friendly smile.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again."
</p>
<p>
Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,
the Earthman.
</p>
<p>
"I—I came to see the governor," he said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
Broderick nodded agreeably. "I am the governor and I am well acquainted
with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down."
</p>
<p>
"I don't understand. The Earthmen...." Zotul paused, coloring. "We are
about to lose our plant."
</p>
<p>
"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away
from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and
richest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have
bought you out."
</p>
<p>
"Our government...."
</p>
<p>
"Your governments belong to us, too," said Broderick. "When they could
not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took
them over, just as we are taking you over."
</p>
<p>
"You mean," exclaimed Zotul, aghast, "that you Earthmen own everything
on Zur?"
</p>
<p>
"Even your armies."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
why
</i>
?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared
down moodily into the street.
</p>
<p>
"You don't know what an overcrowded world is like," he said. "A street
like this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossible
on Earth."
</p>
<p>
"But it's mobbed," protested Zotul. "It gave me a headache."
</p>
<p>
"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has
made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only
habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least
populous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in."
</p>
<p>
"And after that?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick smiled gently. "Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry
with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians
nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both."
</p>
<p>
Zotul sat in silent thought. "But you did not have to buy us out. You
had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could
have been yours alone." He stopped in alarm. "Or am I suggesting an
idea that didn't occur to you?"
</p>
<p>
"No," said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with
memory. "We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method
causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more
sure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job is
finished, we can repair the dislocations."
</p>
<p>
"At last I understand what you said about the tortoise."
</p>
<p>
"Slow but sure." Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on the
shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,
but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur
are equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we had
to break down your caste system."
</p>
<p>
Zotul's eyes widened. "And that is why my brothers did not beat me when
I failed!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you and
your brothers to sign?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Zotul. "I am ready."
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) cunning\n(B) integrity\n(C) creativity\n(D) impartiality",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Business -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Extrasolar planets -- Fiction"
} |
51129 | what is the 'gift from Earth'?
Choices:
(A) capitalism
(B) the printing press
(C) metal, copper wire, and other goods
(D) destruction of the caste system | [
"A",
"capitalism"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gift From Earth
</h1>
<p>
By MANLY BANISTER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by KOSSIN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Except for transportation, it was absolutely
<br/>
free ... but how much would the freight cost?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is an outrage," said Koltan of the House of Masur, "that the
Earthmen land among the Thorabians!"
</p>
<p>
Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he
was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.
</p>
<p>
At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in his
dotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to the
Pottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and
he knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldest
and Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, their
treasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last in
the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.
</p>
<p>
"Behold, my sons," said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. "What are
these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength
and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may
come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the
fame and fortune of the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"It
<i>
is
</i>
a damned imposition," agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's
philosophical attitude. "They could have landed just as easily here in
Lor."
</p>
<p>
"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy," said Singula, whose mind ran
rather to matters of financial aspect, "and leave us the grease."
</p>
<p>
By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,
which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were panting
to get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, a
very scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept his
own counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enough
for him. He would report when the time was ripe.
</p>
<p>
"Doubtless," said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference
was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his
elders, "the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building
that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only means
of transport."
</p>
<p>
Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret
conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.
The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,
remember your position in the family."
</p>
<p>
Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.
</p>
<p>
"Listen to the boy," said the aged father. "There is more wisdom in his
head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of
the clay."
</p>
<p>
Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him
a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough
thing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated in
their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they
did.
</p>
<p>
Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought
about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way
of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could
figure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation of
his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of
course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange
metal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of the
city, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all of
tile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all the
people to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had much
too quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much to
be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.
</p>
<p>
The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of
Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all
Zurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, in
effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,
for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a
whaling for it.
</p>
<p>
There was also some talk going around about agreements made between
the Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard one
thing one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less a
newspaper, was unknown on Zur.
</p>
<p>
Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,
none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had
tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is
always an "anti" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed
happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.
</p>
<p>
Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of ships
arrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur was
practically acrawl with Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called
"corporations"—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. The
object of the visit was trade.
</p>
<p>
In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zurian
city of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it took
some time for the news to spread.
</p>
<p>
The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the
pottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing an
aluminum pot at him.
</p>
<p>
"What is that thing?" he asked curiously.
</p>
<p>
"A pot. I bought it at the market."
</p>
<p>
"Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend my
substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I
say!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The pretty young wife laughed at him. "Up to your ears in clay, no
wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen
are selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old clay
pots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break when
dropped."
</p>
<p>
"What good is it?" asked Zotul, interested. "How will it hold heat,
being so light?"
</p>
<p>
"The Earthmen don't cook as we do," she explained patiently. "There is
a paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will have
to design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a new
type of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why do
you need a whole new stove for one little pot?"
</p>
<p>
"A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltan
will have to produce the new stove because all the housewives are
buying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthman
said so."
</p>
<p>
"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go
back to cooking with your old ones."
</p>
<p>
"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so
cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you
will have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to use
them."
</p>
<p>
After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul
stamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that would
accommodate the terrestrial pots very well.
</p>
<p>
And Koltan put the model into production.
</p>
<p>
"Orders already are pouring in like mad," he said the next day. "It
was wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I am
sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to
do well by us."
</p>
<p>
The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up with
the demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than a
million had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting the
hundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in every
land.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.
One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had ever
dreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust of
the Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured from
it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its
scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by
the novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorian
language—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of the
brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.
</p>
<p>
Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enough
in value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set up
telegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.
Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every major
city on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyed
the instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the business
of the House of Masur continued to look up.
</p>
<p>
"As I have always said from the beginning," chortled Director Koltan,
"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and
especially for the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"You didn't think so at first," Zotul pointed out, and was immediately
sorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for his
unthinkable impertinence.
</p>
<p>
It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their
production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per
cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves
greatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; but
their business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots from
Earth.
</p>
<p>
About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made
their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the
newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for
everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.
What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They
destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.
</p>
<p>
The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of
Masur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltan
called an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of his
senile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old man
might still have a little wit left that could be helpful.
</p>
<p>
"Note," Koltan announced in a shaky voice, "that the Earthmen undermine
our business," and he read off the figures.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," said Zotul, "it is a good thing also, as you said before,
and will result in something even better for us."
</p>
<p>
Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly
subsided.
</p>
<p>
"They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferior
terrestrial junk," Koltan went on bitterly. "It is only the glamor that
sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their
eyes, we can be ruined."
</p>
<p>
The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the while
Father Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they got
nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
</p>
<p>
"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom
of your trouble, but the
<i>
things
</i>
of Earth. Think of the telegraph and
the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.
The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these
newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are
intrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock to
buy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, you
might also have advertisements of your own."
</p>
<p>
Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertising
from the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by the
advertisements of the Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the
brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several
things had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortal
rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had
procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which
they found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. What
they did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discovered
in the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, working
under supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oil
regions to every major and minor city on Zur.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the first
terrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business in
gas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove business
was gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gas
at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the
brothers Masur.
</p>
<p>
The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making an
energetic protest to the governor of Lor.
</p>
<p>
At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmen
for a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it and
departed from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House of
Masur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed that
much new building was taking place and wondered what it was.
</p>
<p>
"Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure," said Koltan
blackly.
</p>
<p>
In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radio
receiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron was
loaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and other
radio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with the
natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with
commercials.
</p>
<p>
Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or
they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.
</p>
<p>
"I think," the governor told them, "that you gentlemen have not
paused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to be
modern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doing
all in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing a
great, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed in
ten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know they
are even bringing
<i>
autos
</i>
to Zur!"
</p>
<p>
The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of these
hitherto unheard-of vehicles.
</p>
<p>
"It only remains," concluded the governor, "to build highways, and the
Earthmen are taking care of that."
</p>
<p>
At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves
that they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for houses
and street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the new
highways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be made
yet.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The people
bought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highways
were constructed.
</p>
<p>
The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants
and began to manufacture Portland cement.
</p>
<p>
You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Of
course, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for either
tile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuff
made far better road surfacing.
</p>
<p>
The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.
</p>
<p>
The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, "I cannot
handle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the Merchandising
Council."
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such as
yours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strain
in the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal with
it. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them."
</p>
<p>
The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers to
Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling
him in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.
</p>
<p>
All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the
purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they
had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.
</p>
<p>
Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated
on their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was not
surprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down to
make room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, paved
with something called "blacktop" and jammed with an array of glittering
new automobiles.
</p>
<p>
An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now
that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached
with desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them and
they were the envied ones of Zur.
</p>
<p>
Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook hands
jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a
better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual
with genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed in
the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for
an indefinite sense of alienness about him.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur," boomed the Earthman, clapping
Zotul on the back. "Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you
straightened out in no time."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this
occasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.
</p>
<p>
Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been
made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.
</p>
<p>
"Once," he said formally, "the Masur fortune was the greatest in
the world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous Kalrab
Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater
reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and
bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone
is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and
all because of new things coming from Earth."
</p>
<p>
Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. "Why didn't you come
to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,
we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to
do right by the customer."
</p>
<p>
"Divinity witness," Zorin said, "that we ask only compensation for
damages."
</p>
<p>
Broderick shook his head. "It is not possible to replace an immense
fortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported your
trouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Do
you own an automobile?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?"
</p>
<p>
Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. "My wife Lania likes
the music," he explained. "I cannot afford the other things."
</p>
<p>
Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the
bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.
</p>
<p>
"To begin with," he said, "I am going to make you a gift of all these
luxuries you do not have." As Zotul made to protest, he cut him off
with a wave of his hand. "It is the least we can do for you. Pick a car
from the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things delivered
and installed in your home."
</p>
<p>
"To receive gifts," said Zotul, "incurs an obligation."
</p>
<p>
"None at all," beamed the Earthman cheerily. "Every item is given to
you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is
that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to
make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the
Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out
the full program takes time."
</p>
<p>
He chuckled deeply. "We of Earth have a saying about one of our
extremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,
but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the
motto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it
was no more than fair to pay transportation.
</p>
<p>
He said, "How much does the freight cost?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick told him.
</p>
<p>
"It may seem high," said the Earthman, "but remember that Earth is
sixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of the
merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering
the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible," said Zotul drably. "Not I and all my brothers together
have so much money any more."
</p>
<p>
"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you
credit!"
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Zotul skeptically.
</p>
<p>
"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the
rich," said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the
involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that
might have had a discouraging effect.
</p>
<p>
On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.
Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. "What must I do
to get credit?"
</p>
<p>
"Just sign this paper," said Broderick, "and you become part of our
Easy Payment Plan."
</p>
<p>
Zotul drew back. "I have five brothers. If I took all these things for
myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue."
</p>
<p>
"Here." Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. "Have each
of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is
all there is to it."
</p>
<p>
It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul
wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.
</p>
<p>
"I will talk it over with them," he said. "Give me the total so I will
have the figures."
</p>
<p>
The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul
pointed this out politely.
</p>
<p>
"Interest," Broderick explained. "A mere fifteen per cent. After all,
you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be
paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.
This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble."
</p>
<p>
"I see." Zotul puzzled over it sadly. "It is too much," he said. "Our
plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments."
</p>
<p>
"I have a surprise for you," smiled Broderick. "Here is a contract. You
will start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certain
parts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage local
manufacture to help bring prices down."
</p>
<p>
"We haven't the equipment."
</p>
<p>
"We will equip your plant," beamed Broderick. "It will require only
a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial
company."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,
won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter
interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.
These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.
</p>
<p>
The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the
Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.
</p>
<p>
For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the
new concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by a
terrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn from
the crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.
The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,
served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In the
winter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, though
they had gas-fired central heating.
</p>
<p>
About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electric
generators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood of
electrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,
batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had to
buy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?
</p>
<p>
The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.
They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electric
fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could
possibly sell them.
</p>
<p>
"We will be forty years paying it all off," exulted Zotul, "but
meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?"
</p>
<p>
But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.
The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The
Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because
it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's
unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.
Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.
</p>
<p>
The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The sets
were delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own and
maintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earth
had them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,
but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.
</p>
<p>
The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lush
business.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decade
and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this
backward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise was
slow, but it was extremely sure.
</p>
<p>
The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had less
money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television
kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the
pangs of impoverishment.
</p>
<p>
The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul
designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons
were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold
them for less.
</p>
<p>
The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any
more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.
</p>
<p>
"You got us into this," they said, emphasizing their bitterness with
fists. "Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some
contracts to continue operating."
</p>
<p>
Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.
Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.
Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.
</p>
<p>
Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hint
of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.
</p>
<p>
"So you can't pay," he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He
looked at Zotul coldly. "It is well you have come to us instead of
making it necessary for us to approach you through the courts."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what you mean," said Zotul.
</p>
<p>
"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything
attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are
attached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. We
will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your
pottery to us."
</p>
<p>
The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think of
beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was
somewhat comforted.
</p>
<p>
"To fail," said Koltan soberly, "is not a Masur attribute. Go to the
governor and tell him what we think of this business. The House of
Masur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it is
time for the government to do something for us."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene of
confusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application for
an interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. It
was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female
terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men
covetous and Zurian women envious.
</p>
<p>
"The governor will see you," she said sweetly. "He has been expecting
you."
</p>
<p>
"Me?" marveled Zotul.
</p>
<p>
She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governor
of Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with a
friendly smile.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again."
</p>
<p>
Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,
the Earthman.
</p>
<p>
"I—I came to see the governor," he said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
Broderick nodded agreeably. "I am the governor and I am well acquainted
with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down."
</p>
<p>
"I don't understand. The Earthmen...." Zotul paused, coloring. "We are
about to lose our plant."
</p>
<p>
"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away
from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and
richest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have
bought you out."
</p>
<p>
"Our government...."
</p>
<p>
"Your governments belong to us, too," said Broderick. "When they could
not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took
them over, just as we are taking you over."
</p>
<p>
"You mean," exclaimed Zotul, aghast, "that you Earthmen own everything
on Zur?"
</p>
<p>
"Even your armies."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
why
</i>
?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared
down moodily into the street.
</p>
<p>
"You don't know what an overcrowded world is like," he said. "A street
like this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossible
on Earth."
</p>
<p>
"But it's mobbed," protested Zotul. "It gave me a headache."
</p>
<p>
"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has
made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only
habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least
populous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in."
</p>
<p>
"And after that?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick smiled gently. "Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry
with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians
nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both."
</p>
<p>
Zotul sat in silent thought. "But you did not have to buy us out. You
had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could
have been yours alone." He stopped in alarm. "Or am I suggesting an
idea that didn't occur to you?"
</p>
<p>
"No," said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with
memory. "We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method
causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more
sure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job is
finished, we can repair the dislocations."
</p>
<p>
"At last I understand what you said about the tortoise."
</p>
<p>
"Slow but sure." Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on the
shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,
but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur
are equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we had
to break down your caste system."
</p>
<p>
Zotul's eyes widened. "And that is why my brothers did not beat me when
I failed!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you and
your brothers to sign?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Zotul. "I am ready."
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) capitalism\n(B) the printing press\n(C) metal, copper wire, and other goods\n(D) destruction of the caste system",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Business -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Extrasolar planets -- Fiction"
} |
51129 | The story implies that ____ is responsible for fueling capitalism and colonialism?
Choices:
(A) knowledge
(B) industrialism
(C) greediness
(D) globalization | [
"C",
"greediness"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gift From Earth
</h1>
<p>
By MANLY BANISTER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by KOSSIN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Except for transportation, it was absolutely
<br/>
free ... but how much would the freight cost?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is an outrage," said Koltan of the House of Masur, "that the
Earthmen land among the Thorabians!"
</p>
<p>
Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he
was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.
</p>
<p>
At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in his
dotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to the
Pottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and
he knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldest
and Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, their
treasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last in
the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.
</p>
<p>
"Behold, my sons," said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. "What are
these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength
and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may
come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the
fame and fortune of the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"It
<i>
is
</i>
a damned imposition," agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's
philosophical attitude. "They could have landed just as easily here in
Lor."
</p>
<p>
"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy," said Singula, whose mind ran
rather to matters of financial aspect, "and leave us the grease."
</p>
<p>
By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,
which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were panting
to get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, a
very scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept his
own counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enough
for him. He would report when the time was ripe.
</p>
<p>
"Doubtless," said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference
was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his
elders, "the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building
that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only means
of transport."
</p>
<p>
Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret
conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.
The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,
remember your position in the family."
</p>
<p>
Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.
</p>
<p>
"Listen to the boy," said the aged father. "There is more wisdom in his
head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of
the clay."
</p>
<p>
Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him
a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough
thing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated in
their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they
did.
</p>
<p>
Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought
about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way
of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could
figure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation of
his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of
course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange
metal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of the
city, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all of
tile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all the
people to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had much
too quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much to
be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.
</p>
<p>
The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of
Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all
Zurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, in
effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,
for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a
whaling for it.
</p>
<p>
There was also some talk going around about agreements made between
the Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard one
thing one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less a
newspaper, was unknown on Zur.
</p>
<p>
Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,
none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had
tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is
always an "anti" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed
happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.
</p>
<p>
Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of ships
arrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur was
practically acrawl with Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called
"corporations"—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. The
object of the visit was trade.
</p>
<p>
In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zurian
city of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it took
some time for the news to spread.
</p>
<p>
The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the
pottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing an
aluminum pot at him.
</p>
<p>
"What is that thing?" he asked curiously.
</p>
<p>
"A pot. I bought it at the market."
</p>
<p>
"Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend my
substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I
say!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The pretty young wife laughed at him. "Up to your ears in clay, no
wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen
are selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old clay
pots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break when
dropped."
</p>
<p>
"What good is it?" asked Zotul, interested. "How will it hold heat,
being so light?"
</p>
<p>
"The Earthmen don't cook as we do," she explained patiently. "There is
a paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will have
to design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a new
type of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why do
you need a whole new stove for one little pot?"
</p>
<p>
"A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltan
will have to produce the new stove because all the housewives are
buying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthman
said so."
</p>
<p>
"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go
back to cooking with your old ones."
</p>
<p>
"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so
cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you
will have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to use
them."
</p>
<p>
After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul
stamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that would
accommodate the terrestrial pots very well.
</p>
<p>
And Koltan put the model into production.
</p>
<p>
"Orders already are pouring in like mad," he said the next day. "It
was wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I am
sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to
do well by us."
</p>
<p>
The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up with
the demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than a
million had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting the
hundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in every
land.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.
One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had ever
dreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust of
the Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured from
it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its
scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by
the novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorian
language—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of the
brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.
</p>
<p>
Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enough
in value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set up
telegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.
Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every major
city on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyed
the instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the business
of the House of Masur continued to look up.
</p>
<p>
"As I have always said from the beginning," chortled Director Koltan,
"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and
especially for the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"You didn't think so at first," Zotul pointed out, and was immediately
sorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for his
unthinkable impertinence.
</p>
<p>
It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their
production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per
cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves
greatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; but
their business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots from
Earth.
</p>
<p>
About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made
their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the
newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for
everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.
What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They
destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.
</p>
<p>
The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of
Masur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltan
called an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of his
senile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old man
might still have a little wit left that could be helpful.
</p>
<p>
"Note," Koltan announced in a shaky voice, "that the Earthmen undermine
our business," and he read off the figures.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," said Zotul, "it is a good thing also, as you said before,
and will result in something even better for us."
</p>
<p>
Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly
subsided.
</p>
<p>
"They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferior
terrestrial junk," Koltan went on bitterly. "It is only the glamor that
sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their
eyes, we can be ruined."
</p>
<p>
The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the while
Father Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they got
nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
</p>
<p>
"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom
of your trouble, but the
<i>
things
</i>
of Earth. Think of the telegraph and
the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.
The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these
newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are
intrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock to
buy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, you
might also have advertisements of your own."
</p>
<p>
Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertising
from the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by the
advertisements of the Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the
brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several
things had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortal
rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had
procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which
they found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. What
they did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discovered
in the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, working
under supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oil
regions to every major and minor city on Zur.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the first
terrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business in
gas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove business
was gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gas
at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the
brothers Masur.
</p>
<p>
The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making an
energetic protest to the governor of Lor.
</p>
<p>
At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmen
for a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it and
departed from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House of
Masur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed that
much new building was taking place and wondered what it was.
</p>
<p>
"Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure," said Koltan
blackly.
</p>
<p>
In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radio
receiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron was
loaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and other
radio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with the
natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with
commercials.
</p>
<p>
Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or
they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.
</p>
<p>
"I think," the governor told them, "that you gentlemen have not
paused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to be
modern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doing
all in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing a
great, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed in
ten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know they
are even bringing
<i>
autos
</i>
to Zur!"
</p>
<p>
The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of these
hitherto unheard-of vehicles.
</p>
<p>
"It only remains," concluded the governor, "to build highways, and the
Earthmen are taking care of that."
</p>
<p>
At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves
that they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for houses
and street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the new
highways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be made
yet.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The people
bought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highways
were constructed.
</p>
<p>
The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants
and began to manufacture Portland cement.
</p>
<p>
You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Of
course, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for either
tile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuff
made far better road surfacing.
</p>
<p>
The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.
</p>
<p>
The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, "I cannot
handle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the Merchandising
Council."
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such as
yours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strain
in the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal with
it. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them."
</p>
<p>
The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers to
Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling
him in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.
</p>
<p>
All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the
purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they
had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.
</p>
<p>
Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated
on their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was not
surprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down to
make room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, paved
with something called "blacktop" and jammed with an array of glittering
new automobiles.
</p>
<p>
An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now
that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached
with desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them and
they were the envied ones of Zur.
</p>
<p>
Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook hands
jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a
better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual
with genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed in
the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for
an indefinite sense of alienness about him.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur," boomed the Earthman, clapping
Zotul on the back. "Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you
straightened out in no time."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this
occasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.
</p>
<p>
Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been
made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.
</p>
<p>
"Once," he said formally, "the Masur fortune was the greatest in
the world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous Kalrab
Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater
reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and
bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone
is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and
all because of new things coming from Earth."
</p>
<p>
Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. "Why didn't you come
to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,
we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to
do right by the customer."
</p>
<p>
"Divinity witness," Zorin said, "that we ask only compensation for
damages."
</p>
<p>
Broderick shook his head. "It is not possible to replace an immense
fortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported your
trouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Do
you own an automobile?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?"
</p>
<p>
Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. "My wife Lania likes
the music," he explained. "I cannot afford the other things."
</p>
<p>
Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the
bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.
</p>
<p>
"To begin with," he said, "I am going to make you a gift of all these
luxuries you do not have." As Zotul made to protest, he cut him off
with a wave of his hand. "It is the least we can do for you. Pick a car
from the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things delivered
and installed in your home."
</p>
<p>
"To receive gifts," said Zotul, "incurs an obligation."
</p>
<p>
"None at all," beamed the Earthman cheerily. "Every item is given to
you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is
that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to
make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the
Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out
the full program takes time."
</p>
<p>
He chuckled deeply. "We of Earth have a saying about one of our
extremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,
but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the
motto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it
was no more than fair to pay transportation.
</p>
<p>
He said, "How much does the freight cost?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick told him.
</p>
<p>
"It may seem high," said the Earthman, "but remember that Earth is
sixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of the
merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering
the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible," said Zotul drably. "Not I and all my brothers together
have so much money any more."
</p>
<p>
"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you
credit!"
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Zotul skeptically.
</p>
<p>
"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the
rich," said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the
involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that
might have had a discouraging effect.
</p>
<p>
On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.
Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. "What must I do
to get credit?"
</p>
<p>
"Just sign this paper," said Broderick, "and you become part of our
Easy Payment Plan."
</p>
<p>
Zotul drew back. "I have five brothers. If I took all these things for
myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue."
</p>
<p>
"Here." Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. "Have each
of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is
all there is to it."
</p>
<p>
It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul
wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.
</p>
<p>
"I will talk it over with them," he said. "Give me the total so I will
have the figures."
</p>
<p>
The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul
pointed this out politely.
</p>
<p>
"Interest," Broderick explained. "A mere fifteen per cent. After all,
you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be
paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.
This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble."
</p>
<p>
"I see." Zotul puzzled over it sadly. "It is too much," he said. "Our
plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments."
</p>
<p>
"I have a surprise for you," smiled Broderick. "Here is a contract. You
will start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certain
parts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage local
manufacture to help bring prices down."
</p>
<p>
"We haven't the equipment."
</p>
<p>
"We will equip your plant," beamed Broderick. "It will require only
a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial
company."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,
won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter
interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.
These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.
</p>
<p>
The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the
Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.
</p>
<p>
For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the
new concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by a
terrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn from
the crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.
The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,
served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In the
winter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, though
they had gas-fired central heating.
</p>
<p>
About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electric
generators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood of
electrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,
batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had to
buy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?
</p>
<p>
The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.
They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electric
fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could
possibly sell them.
</p>
<p>
"We will be forty years paying it all off," exulted Zotul, "but
meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?"
</p>
<p>
But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.
The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The
Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because
it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's
unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.
Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.
</p>
<p>
The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The sets
were delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own and
maintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earth
had them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,
but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.
</p>
<p>
The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lush
business.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decade
and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this
backward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise was
slow, but it was extremely sure.
</p>
<p>
The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had less
money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television
kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the
pangs of impoverishment.
</p>
<p>
The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul
designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons
were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold
them for less.
</p>
<p>
The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any
more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.
</p>
<p>
"You got us into this," they said, emphasizing their bitterness with
fists. "Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some
contracts to continue operating."
</p>
<p>
Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.
Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.
Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.
</p>
<p>
Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hint
of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.
</p>
<p>
"So you can't pay," he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He
looked at Zotul coldly. "It is well you have come to us instead of
making it necessary for us to approach you through the courts."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what you mean," said Zotul.
</p>
<p>
"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything
attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are
attached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. We
will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your
pottery to us."
</p>
<p>
The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think of
beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was
somewhat comforted.
</p>
<p>
"To fail," said Koltan soberly, "is not a Masur attribute. Go to the
governor and tell him what we think of this business. The House of
Masur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it is
time for the government to do something for us."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene of
confusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application for
an interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. It
was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female
terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men
covetous and Zurian women envious.
</p>
<p>
"The governor will see you," she said sweetly. "He has been expecting
you."
</p>
<p>
"Me?" marveled Zotul.
</p>
<p>
She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governor
of Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with a
friendly smile.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again."
</p>
<p>
Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,
the Earthman.
</p>
<p>
"I—I came to see the governor," he said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
Broderick nodded agreeably. "I am the governor and I am well acquainted
with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down."
</p>
<p>
"I don't understand. The Earthmen...." Zotul paused, coloring. "We are
about to lose our plant."
</p>
<p>
"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away
from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and
richest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have
bought you out."
</p>
<p>
"Our government...."
</p>
<p>
"Your governments belong to us, too," said Broderick. "When they could
not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took
them over, just as we are taking you over."
</p>
<p>
"You mean," exclaimed Zotul, aghast, "that you Earthmen own everything
on Zur?"
</p>
<p>
"Even your armies."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
why
</i>
?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared
down moodily into the street.
</p>
<p>
"You don't know what an overcrowded world is like," he said. "A street
like this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossible
on Earth."
</p>
<p>
"But it's mobbed," protested Zotul. "It gave me a headache."
</p>
<p>
"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has
made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only
habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least
populous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in."
</p>
<p>
"And after that?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick smiled gently. "Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry
with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians
nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both."
</p>
<p>
Zotul sat in silent thought. "But you did not have to buy us out. You
had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could
have been yours alone." He stopped in alarm. "Or am I suggesting an
idea that didn't occur to you?"
</p>
<p>
"No," said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with
memory. "We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method
causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more
sure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job is
finished, we can repair the dislocations."
</p>
<p>
"At last I understand what you said about the tortoise."
</p>
<p>
"Slow but sure." Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on the
shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,
but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur
are equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we had
to break down your caste system."
</p>
<p>
Zotul's eyes widened. "And that is why my brothers did not beat me when
I failed!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you and
your brothers to sign?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Zotul. "I am ready."
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) knowledge\n(B) industrialism\n(C) greediness\n(D) globalization",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Business -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Extrasolar planets -- Fiction"
} |
51053 | Why does Roger allude to Tristan and Isolde when confronting his wife and Cass Gordon?
Choices:
(A) He knows that Cass Gordon and his wife will both be transported to the fourth dimension.
(B) He knows that his wife will ultimately choose him over Cass Gordon.
(C) He knows that Cass Gordon and his wife will never get to be together.
(D) He knows that his wife will ultimately choose Cass Gordon over him. | [
"D",
"He knows that his wife will ultimately choose Cass Gordon over him."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
JUDAS RAM
</h1>
<p>
BY SAM MERWIN, Jr.
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by JAMES VINCENT
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1950.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
The house was furnished with all
<br/>
luxuries, including women. If it only
<br/>
had a lease that could be broken—
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Roger Tennant, crossing the lawn, could see two of the three wings
of the house, which radiated spoke-like from its heptagonal central
portion. The wing on the left was white, with slim square pillars,
reminiscent of scores of movie sets of the Deep South. That on the
right was sundeck solar-house living-machine modern, something like a
montage of shoeboxes. The wing hidden by the rest of the house was, he
knew, spired, gabled and multicolored, like an ancient building in
pre-Hitler Cracow.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Dana was lying under a tree near the door, stretched out on a sort
of deck chair with her eyes closed. She wore a golden gown, long and
close-fitting and slit up the leg like the gown of a Chinese woman.
Above it her comely face was sullen beneath its sleek cocoon of auburn
hair.
</p>
<p>
She opened her eyes at his approach and regarded him with nothing like
favor. Involuntarily he glanced down at the tartan shorts that were his
only garment to make sure that they were on properly. They were. He had
thought them up in a moment of utter boredom and they were extremely
comfortable. However, the near-Buchanan tartan did not crease or even
wrinkle when he moved. Their captors had no idea of how a woven design
should behave.
</p>
<p>
"Waiting for me?" Tennant asked the girl.
</p>
<p>
She said, "I'd rather be dead. Maybe I am. Maybe we're all dead and
this is Hell."
</p>
<p>
He stood over her and looked down until she turned away her reddening
face. He said, "So it's going to be you again, Dana. You'll be the
first to come back for a second run."
</p>
<p>
"Don't flatter yourself," she replied angrily. She sat up, pushed
back her hair, got to her feet a trifle awkwardly because of the
tight-fitting tubular gown. "If I could do anything about it...."
</p>
<p>
"But you can't," he told her. "They're too clever."
</p>
<p>
"Is this crop rotation or did you send for me?" she asked cynically.
"If you did, I wish you hadn't. You haven't asked about your son."
</p>
<p>
"I don't even want to think about him," said Tennant. "Let's get
on with it." He could sense the restless stirring of the woman
within Dana, just as he could feel the stirring toward her within
himself—desire that both of them loathed because it was implanted
within them by their captors.
</p>
<p>
They walked toward the house.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It didn't look like a prison—or a cage. Within the dome of the
barrier, it looked more like a well-kept if bizarre little country
estate. There was clipped lawn, a scattering of trees, even a clear
little brook that chattered unending annoyance at the small stones
which impeded its flow.
</p>
<p>
But the lawn was not of grass—it was of a bright green substance that
might have been cellophane but wasn't, and it sprouted from a fabric
that might have been canvas but was something else. The trees looked
like trees, only their trunks were bark all the way through—except
that it was not bark. The brook was practically water, but the small
stones over which it flowed were of no earthly mineral.
</p>
<p>
They entered the house, which had no roof, continued to move beneath a
sky that glowed with light which did not come from a sun or moon. It
might have been a well-kept if bizarre little country estate, but it
wasn't. It was a prison, a cage.
</p>
<p>
The other two women were sitting in the heptagonal central hall.
Eudalia, who had borne twin girls recently, was lying back, newly thin
and dark of skin and hair, smoking a scentless cigarette. A tall woman,
thirtyish, she wore a sort of shimmering green strapless evening gown.
Tennant wondered how she maintained it in place, for despite her recent
double motherhood, she was almost flat of bosom. He asked her how she
was feeling.
</p>
<p>
"Okay, I guess," she said. "The way they manage it, there's nothing
to it." She had a flat, potentially raucous voice. Eudalia had been
a female foreman in a garment-cutting shop before being captured and
brought through.
</p>
<p>
"Good," he said. "Glad to hear it." He felt oddly embarrassed. He
turned to Olga, broad, blonde and curiously vital, who sat perfectly
still, regarding him over the pregnant swell of her dirndl-clad waist.
Olga had been a waitress in a mining town hash-house near Scranton.
</p>
<p>
Tennant wanted to put an encouraging hand on her shoulder, to say
something that might cheer her up, for she was by far the youngest of
the three female captives, barely nineteen. But with the eyes of the
other two, especially Dana, upon him, he could not.
</p>
<p>
"I guess I wasn't cut out to be a Turk," he said. "I don't feel at ease
in a harem, even when it's supposedly my own."
</p>
<p>
"You're not doing so badly," Dana replied acidly.
</p>
<p>
"Lay off—he can't help it," said Eudalia unexpectedly. "He doesn't
like it any better than we do."
</p>
<p>
"But he doesn't have to—have them," objected Olga. She had a trace of
Polish accent that was not unpleasant. In fact, Tennant thought, only
her laughter was unpleasant, a shrill, uncontrolled burst of staccato
sound that jarred him to his heels. Olga had not laughed of late,
however. She was too frightened.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Let's get the meal ordered," said Dana and they were all silent,
thinking of what they wanted to eat but would not enjoy when it came.
Tennant finished with his order, then got busy with his surprise.
</p>
<p>
It arrived before the meal, materializing against one of the seven
walls of the roofless chamber. It was a large cabinet on slender
straight legs that resembled dark polished wood. Tennant went to it,
opened a hingeless door and pushed a knob on the inner surface. At once
the air was hideous with the acerate harmony of a singing commercial....
</p>
... so go soak your head,
be it gold, brown or red,
in Any-tone Shampoo!
<p>
A disc jockey's buoyant tones cut in quickly as the final
<i>
ooooo
</i>
faded. "This is Grady Martin, your old night-owl, coming to you with
your requests over Station WZZX, Manhattan. Here's a wire from Theresa
McManus and the girls in the family entrance of Conaghan's Bar and
Grill on West...."
</p>
<p>
Tennant watched the girls as a sweet-voiced crooner began to ply
an unfamiliar love lyric to a melody whose similarity to a thousand
predecessors doomed it to instant success.
</p>
<p>
Olga sat up straight, her pale blue eyes round with utter disbelief.
She looked at the radio, at Tennant, at the other two women, then back
at the machine. She murmured something in Polish that was inaudible,
but her expression showed that it must have been wistful.
</p>
<p>
Eudalia grinned at Tennant and, rising, did a sort of tap dance to the
music, then whirled back into her chair, green dress ashimmer, and sank
into it just to listen.
</p>
<p>
Dana stood almost in the center of the room, carmine-tipped fingers
clasped beneath the swell of her breasts. She might have been listening
to Brahms or Debussy. Her eyes glowed with the salty brilliance of
emotion and she was almost beautiful.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Rog!
</i>
" she cried softly when the music stopped. "A radio and WZZX! Is
it—are they—real?"
</p>
<p>
"As real as you or I," he told her. "It took quite a bit of doing,
getting them to put a set together. And I wasn't sure that radio would
get through. TV doesn't seem to. Somehow it brings things closer...."
</p>
<p>
Olga got up quite suddenly, went to the machine and, after frowning at
it for a moment, tuned in another station from which a Polish-speaking
announcer was followed by polka music. She leaned against the wall,
resting one smooth forearm on the top of the machine. Her eyes closed
and she swayed a little in time to the polka beat.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Tennant caught Dana looking at him and there was near approval in her
expression—approval that faded quickly as soon as she caught his gaze
upon her. The food arrived then and they sat down at the round table to
eat it.
</p>
<p>
Tennant's meat looked like steak, it felt like steak, but, lacking the
aroma of steak, it was almost tasteless. This was so with all of their
foods, with their cigarettes, with everything in their prison—or their
cage. Their captors were utterly without a human conception of smell,
living, apparently, in a world without odor at all.
</p>
<p>
Dana said suddenly, "I named the boy Tom, after somebody I hate almost
as much as I hate you."
</p>
<p>
Eudalia laid down her fork with a clatter and regarded Dana
disapprovingly. "Why take it out on Rog?" she asked bluntly. "He didn't
ask to come here any more than we did. He's got a wife back home. Maybe
you want him to fall in love with you? Maybe you're jealous because
he doesn't? Well, maybe he can't! And maybe it wouldn't work, the way
things are arranged here."
</p>
<p>
"Thanks, Eudalia," said Tennant. "I think I can defend myself. But
she's right, Dana. We're as helpless as—laboratory animals. They have
the means to make us do whatever they want."
</p>
<p>
"Rog," said Dana, looking suddenly scared, "I'm sorry I snapped at you.
I know it's not your fault. I'm—
<i>
changing
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
He shook his head. "No, Dana, you're not changing. You're adapting. We
all are. We seem to be in a universe of different properties as well as
different dimensions. We're adjusting. I can do a thing or two myself
that seem absolutely impossible."
</p>
<p>
"Are we really in the fourth dimension?" Dana asked. Of the three of
them, she alone had more than a high-school education.
</p>
<p>
"We may be in the eleventh for all I know," he told her. "But I'll
settle for the fourth—a fourth dimension in space, if that makes
scientific sense, because we don't seem to have moved in time. I wasn't
sure of that, though, till we got the radio."
</p>
<p>
"Why haven't they brought more of us through?" Eudalia asked, tamping
out ashes in a tray that might have been silver.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure," he said thoughtfully. "I think it's hard for them. They
have a hell of a time bringing anyone through alive, and lately they
haven't brought anyone through—not alive."
</p>
<p>
"Why do they do it—the other way, I mean?" asked Dana.
</p>
<p>
Tennant shrugged. "I don't know. I've been thinking about it. I suppose
it's because they're pretty human."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Human!
</i>
" Dana was outraged. "Do you call it human to—"
</p>
<p>
"Hold on," he said. "They pass through their gateway to Earth at
considerable danger and, probably, expense of some kind. Some of them
don't come back. They kill those of us who put up a fight. Those who
don't—or can't—they bring back with them. Live or dead, we're just
laboratory specimens."
</p>
<p>
"Maybe," Eudalia conceded doubtfully. Then her eyes blazed. "But the
things they do—stuffing people, mounting their heads, keeping them on
display in their—their whatever they live in. You call that human,
Rog?"
</p>
<p>
"Were you ever in a big-game hunter's trophy room?" Tennant asked
quietly. "Or in a Museum of Natural History? A zoo? A naturalist's lab?
Or even, maybe, photographed as a baby on a bear-skin rug?"
</p>
<p>
"I was," said Olga. "But that's not the same thing."
</p>
<p>
"Of course not," he agreed. "In the one instance,
<i>
we're
</i>
the hunters,
the breeders, the trophy collectors. In the other"—he shrugged—"we're
the trophies."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There was a long silence. They finished eating and then Dana stood up
and said, "I'm going out on the lawn for a while." She unzipped her
golden gown, stepped out of it to reveal a pair of tartan shorts that
matched his, and a narrow halter.
</p>
<p>
"You thought those up while we ate," he said. It annoyed him to be
copied, though he did not know why. She laughed at him silently, tossed
her auburn hair back from her face and went out of the roofless house,
holding the gold dress casually over her bare arm.
</p>
<p>
Eudalia took him to the nursery. He was irritated now in another,
angrier way. The infants, protected by cellophane-like coverlets, were
asleep.
</p>
<p>
"They never cry," the thin woman told him. "But they grow—God, how
they grow!"
</p>
<p>
"Good," said Tennant, fighting down his anger. He kissed her, held
her close, although neither of them felt desire at the moment. Their
captors had seen to that; it wasn't Eudalia's turn. Tennant said, "I
wish I could do something about this. I hate seeing Dana so bitter and
Olga so scared. It isn't their fault."
</p>
<p>
"And it's not yours," insisted Eudalia. "Don't let them make you think
it is."
</p>
<p>
"I'll try not to," he said and stopped, realizing the family party was
over. He had felt the inner tug of command, said good-by to the women
and returned to his smaller compound within its own barrier dome.
</p>
<p>
Then came the invisible aura of strain in the air, the shimmering
illusion of heat that was not heat, that was prelude to his
teleportation ... if that were the word. It was neither pleasant nor
unpleasant; it
<i>
was
</i>
, that was all.
</p>
<p>
He called it the training hall, not because it looked like a training
hall but because that was its function. It didn't actually look like
anything save some half-nourished dream a surrealist might have
discarded as too nightmarish for belief.
</p>
<p>
As in all of this strange universe, excepting the dome-cages in
which the captives were held, the training hall followed no rules of
three-dimensional space. One wall looked normal for perhaps a third of
its length, then it simply wasn't for a bit. It came back farther on
at an impossible angle. Yet, walking along it, touching it, it felt
perfectly smooth and continuously straight.
</p>
<p>
The opposite wall resembled a diagonal cross-section of an asymmetrical
dumbbell—that was the closest Tennant could come to it in words. And
it, too, felt straight. The floor looked like crystal smashed by some
cosmic impact, yet it had reason. He
<i>
knew
</i>
this even though no reason
was apparent to his three-dimensional vision. The ceiling, where he
could see it, was beyond description.
</p>
<p>
The captor Tennant called
<i>
Opal
</i>
came in through a far corner of
the ceiling. He—if it was a he—was not large, although this,
Tennant knew, meant nothing; Opal might extend thousands of yards in
some unseen direction. He had no regular shape and much of him was
iridescent and shot with constantly changing colors. Hence the name
Opal.
</p>
<p>
Communication was telepathic. Tennant could have yodeled or yelled
or sung
<i>
Mississippi Mud
</i>
and Opal would have shown no reaction. Yet
Tennant suspected that the captors could hear somewhere along the
auditory scale, just as perhaps they could smell, although not in any
human sense.
</p>
<p>
<i>
You will approach without use of your appendages.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The command was as clear as if it had been spoken aloud. Tennant took a
deep breath. He thought of the space beside Opal. It took about three
seconds and he was there, having spanned a distance of some ninety
feet. He was getting good at it.
</p>
<p>
Dog does trick, he thought.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He went through the entire routine at Opal's bidding. When at last
he was allowed to relax, he wondered, not for the first time, if he
weren't mastering some of the alleged Guru arts. At once he felt
probing investigation. Opal, like the rest of the captors, was as
curious as a cat—or a human being.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Tennant sat against a wall, drenched with sweat. There would be endless
repetition before his workout was done. On Earth, dogs were said to be
intellectually two-dimensional creatures. He wondered if they felt this
helpless futility when their masters taught them to heel, to point, to
retrieve.
</p>
<p>
Some days later, the training routine was broken. He felt a sudden stir
of near-sick excitement as he received the thought:
</p>
<p>
<i>
Now you are ready. We are going through at last.
</i>
</p>
<p>
Opal was nervous, so much so that he revealed more than he intended.
Or perhaps that was his intent; Tennant could never be sure. They were
going through to Tennant's own dimension. He wondered briefly just what
his role was to be.
</p>
<p>
He had little time to speculate before Opal seemed to envelop him.
There was the blurring wrench of forced teleportation and they were in
another room, a room which ended in a huge irregular passage that might
have been the interior of a giant concertina—or an old-fashioned kodak.
</p>
<p>
He stood before a kidney-shaped object over whose jagged surface
colors played constantly. From Opal's thoughts it appeared to be some
sort of ultradimensional television set, but to Tennant it was as
incomprehensible as an oil painting to an animal.
</p>
<p>
Opal was annoyed that Tennant could make nothing of it. Then came the
thought:
</p>
<p>
<i>
What cover must your body have not to be conspicuous?
</i>
</p>
<p>
Tennant wondered, cynically, what would happen if he were to demand
a costume of mediaeval motley, complete with Pied Piper's flute. He
received quick reproof that made his head ring as from a blow.
</p>
<p>
He asked Opal where and when they were going, was informed that
he would soon emerge on Earth where he had left it. That told him
everything but the date and season. Opal, like the rest of the captors,
seemed to have no understanding of time in a human sense.
</p>
<p>
Waiting, Tennant tried not to think of his wife, of the fact that he
hadn't seen her in—was it more than a year and a half on Earth? He
could have controlled his heartbeat with one of his new powers, but
that might have made Opal suspicious. He should be somewhat excited.
He allowed himself to be, though he obscured the reasons. He was going
to see his wife again ... and maybe he could trick his way into not
returning.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The maid who opened the door for him was new, although her eyes were
old. But she recognized him and stood aside to let him enter. There
must, he thought, still be pictures of him around. He wondered how
Agatha could afford a servant.
</p>
<p>
"Is Mrs. Tennant in?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
She shook her head and fright made twin stoplights of the rouge on her
cheeks as she shut the door behind him. He went into the living room,
directly to the long silver cigarette box on the coffee table. It was
proof of homecoming to fill his lungs with smoke he could
<i>
smell
</i>
. He
took another drag, saw the maid still in the doorway, staring.
</p>
<p>
"There's no need for fright," he told her. "I believe I still own this
house." Then, "When do you expect Mrs. Tennant?"
</p>
<p>
"She just called. She's on her way home from the club."
</p>
<p>
Still looking frightened, she departed for the rear of the house.
Tennant stared after her puzzledly until the kitchen door swung shut
behind her. The club? What club?
</p>
<p>
He shrugged, returned to the feeling of comfort that came from being
back here, about to see Agatha again, hold her close in no more than a
few minutes. And stay, his mind began to add eagerly, but he pushed the
thought down where Opal could not detect it.
</p>
<p>
He took another deep, lung-filling drag on his cigarette, looked around
the room that was so important a part of his life. The three women back
there would be in a ghastly spot. He felt like a heel for wanting to
leave them there, then knew that he would try somehow to get them out.
Not, of course, anything that would endanger his remaining with Agatha;
the only way his captors would get him back would be as a taxidermist's
specimen.
</p>
<p>
He realized, shocked and scared, that his thoughts of escape had
slipped past his mental censor, and he waited apprehensively for Opal
to strike. Nothing happened and he warily relaxed. Opal wasn't tapping
his thoughts. Because he felt sure of his captive ... or because he
couldn't on Earth?
</p>
<p>
It was like being let out of a cage. Tennant grinned at the bookcase;
the ebony-and-ivory elephants that Agatha had never liked were gone,
but he'd get them back or another pair. The credenza had been replaced
by a huge and ugly television console. That, he resolved, would go down
in the cellar rumpus room, where its bleached modernity wouldn't clash
with the casual antiquity of the living room.
</p>
<p>
Agatha would complain, naturally, but his being back would make up for
any amount of furniture shifting. He imagined her standing close to
him, her lovely face lifted to be kissed, and his heart lurched like an
adolescent's. This hunger was real, not implanted. Everything would be
real ... his love for her, the food he ate, the things he touched, his
house, his life....
</p>
<p>
<i>
Your wife and a man are approaching the house.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The thought message from Opal crumbled his illusion of freedom. He sank
down in a chair, trying to refuse to listen to the rest of the command:
</p>
<p>
<i>
You are to bring the man through the gateway with you. We want another
live male.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Tennant shook his head, stiff and defiant in his chair. The punishment,
when it came, was more humiliating than a slap across a dog's snout.
Opal had been too interested in the next lab specimen to bother about
his thoughts—that was why he had been free to think of escape.
</p>
<p>
Tennant closed his eyes, willed himself to the front window. Now that
he had mastered teleportation, it was incredible how much easier it was
in his own world. He had covered the two miles from the gateway to the
house in a mere seven jumps, the distance to the window in an instant.
But there was no pleasure in it, only a confirmation of his captor's
power over him.
</p>
<p>
He was not free of them. He understood all too well what they wanted
him to do; he was to play the Judas goat ... or rather the Judas ram,
leading another victim to the fourth-dimensional pen.
</p>
<p>
Grim, he watched the swoop of headlights in the driveway and returned
to the coffee table, lit a fresh cigarette.
</p>
<p>
The front door was flung open and his diaphragm tightened at the
remembered sound of Agatha's throaty laugh ... and tightened further
when it was followed by a deeper rumbling laugh. Sudden fear made the
cigarette shake in his fingers.
</p>
<p>
"... Don't be such a stuffed-shirt, darling." Agatha's mocking
sweetness rang alarm-gongs in Tennant's memory. "Charley wasn't making
a grab for
<i>
me
</i>
. He'd had one too many and only wanted a little fun.
Really, darling, you seem to think that a girl...."
</p>
<p>
Her voice faded out as she saw Tennant standing there. She was wearing
a white strapless gown, had a blue-red-and-gold Mandarin jacket slung
hussar-fashion over her left shoulder. She looked even sleeker, better
groomed, more assured than his memory of her.
</p>
<p>
"I'm no stuffed-shirt and you know it." Cass' tone was peevish. "But
your idea of fun, Agatha, is pretty damn...."
</p>
<p>
It was his turn to freeze. Unbelieving, Tennant studied his successor.
Cass Gordon—the
<i>
man
</i>
, the ex-halfback whose bulk was beginning to get
out of hand, but whose inherent aggressive grace had not yet deserted
him. The
<i>
man
</i>
, that was all—unless one threw in the little black
mustache and the smooth salesman's manner.
</p>
<p>
"You know, Cass," Tennant said quietly, "I never for a moment dreamed
it would be you."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Roger!
</i>
" Agatha found her voice. "You're
<i>
alive
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
"Roger," repeated Tennant viciously. He felt sick with disgust. Maybe
he should have expected a triangle, but somehow he hadn't. And here
it was, with all of them going through their paces like a trio of
tent-show actors. He said, "For God's sake, sit down."
</p>
<p>
Agatha did so hesitantly. Her huge dark eyes, invariably clear
and limpid no matter how much she had drunk, flickered toward him
furtively. She said defensively, "I had detectives looking for you for
six months. Where have you been, Rog? Smashing up the car like that
and—disappearing! I've been out of my mind."
</p>
<p>
"Sorry," said Tennant. "I've had my troubles, too." Agatha was scared
stiff—of him. Probably with reason. He looked again at Cass Gordon and
found that he suddenly didn't care. She couldn't say it was loneliness.
Women have waited longer than eighteen months. He would have if his
captors had let him.
</p>
<p>
"Where in hell
<i>
have
</i>
you been, Rog?" Gordon's tone was almost
parental. "I don't suppose it's news to you, but there was a lot of
suspicion directed your way while that crazy killer was operating
around here. Agatha and I managed to clear you."
</p>
<p>
"Decent of you," said Tennant. He got up, crossed to the cabinet that
served as a bar. It was fully equipped—with more expensive liquor, he
noticed, than he had ever been able to afford. He poured a drink of
brandy, waited for the others to fill their glasses.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Agatha looked at him over the rim of hers. "Tell us, Rog. We have a
right to know. I do, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"One question first," he said. "What about those killings? Have there
been any lately?"
</p>
<p>
"Not for over a year," Cass told him. "They never did get the devil who
skinned those bodies and removed the heads."
</p>
<p>
So, Tennant thought, they hadn't used the gateway. Not since they had
brought the four of them through, not since they had begun to train him
for his Judas ram duties.
</p>
<p>
Agatha was asking him if he had been abroad.
</p>
<p>
"In a way," he replied unemotionally. "Sorry if I've worried you,
Agatha, but my life has been rather—indefinite, since I—left."
</p>
<p>
He was standing no more than four inches from this woman he had desired
desperately for six years, and he no longer wanted her. He was acutely
conscious of her perfume. It wrapped them both like an exotic blanket,
and it repelled him. He studied the firm clear flesh of her cheek and
chin, the arch of nostril, the carmine fullness of lower lip, the
swell of bosom above low-cut gown. And he no longer wanted any of it or
of her. Cass Gordon—
</p>
<p>
It didn't have to be anybody at all. For it to be Cass Gordon was
revolting.
</p>
<p>
"Rog," she said and her voice trembled, "what are we going to do? What
do you
<i>
want
</i>
to do?"
</p>
<p>
Take her back? He smiled ironically; she wouldn't know what that meant.
It would serve her right, but maybe there was another way.
</p>
<p>
"I don't know about you," he said, "but I suspect we're in the same
boat. I also have other interests."
</p>
<p>
"You louse!" said Cass Gordon, arching rib cage and nostrils. "If you
try to make trouble for Agatha, I can promise...."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
What
</i>
can you promise?" demanded Tennant. When Gordon's onset
subsided in mumbles, he added, "Actually, I don't think I'm capable of
making more than a fraction of the trouble for either of you that you
both are qualified to make for yourselves."
</p>
<p>
He lit a cigarette, inhaled. "Relax. I'm not planning revenge. After
this evening, I plan to vanish for good. Of course, Agatha, that
offers you a minor nuisance. You will have to wait six years to marry
Cass—seven years if the maid who let me in tonight talks. That's the
law, isn't it, Cass? You probably had it all figured out."
</p>
<p>
"You bastard," said Cass. "You dirty bastard! You know what a wait like
that could do to us."
</p>
<p>
"Tristan and Isolde," said Tennant, grinning almost happily. "Well,
I've had my little say. Now I'm off again. Cass, would you give me a
lift? I have a conveyance of sorts a couple of miles down the road."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He needed no telepathic powers to read the thoughts around him then. He
heard Agatha's quick intake of breath, saw the split-second look she
exchanged with Cass. He turned away, knowing that she was imploring her
lover to do something,
<i>
anything
</i>
, as long as it was safe.
</p>
<p>
Deliberately, Tennant poured himself a second drink. This might be
easier and pleasanter than he had expected. They deserved some of the
suffering he had had and there was a chance that they might get it.
</p>
<p>
Tennant knew now why he was the only male human the captors had been
able to take alive. Apparently, thanks to the rain-slick road, he had
run the sedan into a tree at the foot of the hill beyond the river. He
had been sitting there, unconscious, ripe fruit on their doorstep. They
had simply picked him up.
</p>
<p>
Otherwise, apparently, men were next to impossible for them to capture.
All they could do was kill them and bring back their heads and hides
as trophies. With women it was different—perhaps the captors' weapons,
whatever they were, worked more efficiently on females. A difference in
body chemistry or psychology, perhaps.
</p>
<p>
More than once, during his long training with Opal, Tennant had sent
questing thoughts toward his captor, asking why they didn't simply set
up the gateway in some town or city and take as many humans as they
wanted.
</p>
<p>
Surprisingly there had been a definite fear reaction. As nearly as he
could understand, it had been like asking an African pygmy, armed with
a blowgun, to set up shop in the midst of a herd of wild elephants. It
simply wasn't feasible—and furthermore he derived an impression of the
tenuosity as well as the immovability of the gateway itself.
</p>
<p>
They could be hurt, even killed by humans in a three-dimensional world.
How? Tennant did not know. Perhaps as a man can cut finger or even
throat on the edge of a near-two-dimensional piece of paper. It took
valor for them to hunt men in the world of men. In that fact lay a key
to their character—if such utterly alien creatures could be said to
have character.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He knows that Cass Gordon and his wife will both be transported to the fourth dimension.\n(B) He knows that his wife will ultimately choose him over Cass Gordon.\n(C) He knows that Cass Gordon and his wife will never get to be together.\n(D) He knows that his wife will ultimately choose Cass Gordon over him.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Short stories; Prisons -- Fiction; PS"
} |
20046 | What is the author's central point about the increased frequency of expletive use in western society?
Choices:
(A) It represents mass disillusionment in ideals that were once central to a well-functioning society
(B) It will inevitably result in an increase in crime and socially unacceptable behaviors
(C) It has no correlation with crime but a positive correlation with acceptance of the taboo
(D) It will bring about a new era of creativity and innovation in the years to come | [
"C",
"It has no correlation with crime but a positive correlation with acceptance of the taboo"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Maledict<I>oratory</I><br/><br/> The high costs of low<br/>language.<br/><br/> Sunday, Jan. 14, 1996: A<br/>day that will live in--well, not infamy, exactly. Blasphemy would be closer to<br/>it.<br/><br/> Early that afternoon, the<br/>Pittsburgh Steelers defeated the Indianapolis Colts to win the American<br/>Football Conference championship. Linebacker Greg Lloyd, accepting the trophy<br/>in front of a national television audience, responded with enthusiasm. "Let's<br/>see if we can bring this damn thing back here next year," he said, "along with<br/>the [expletive] Super Bowl."<br/><br/> A few<br/>hours later, Michael Irvin of the Dallas Cowboys offered this spirited defense<br/>of his coach on TV after his team won the National Football Conference title:<br/>"Nobody deserves it more than Barry Switzer. He took all of this [expletive]<br/>."<br/><br/> Iwatched those episodes, and, incongruous as it may sound,<br/>I thought of Kenneth Tynan. Britain's great postwar drama critic was no fan of<br/>American football, but he was a fan of swearing. Thirty years earlier, almost<br/>to the week, Tynan was interviewed on BBC television in his capacity as<br/>literary director of Britain's National Theater and asked if he would allow the<br/>theater to present a play in which sex took place on stage. "Certainly," he<br/>replied. "I think there are very few rational people in this world to whom the<br/>word '[expletive]' is particularly diabolical or revolting or totally<br/>forbidden."<br/><br/> It turned out there were a<br/>few more than Tynan thought. Within 24 hours, resolutions had been introduced<br/>in the House of Commons calling for his prosecution on charges of obscenity,<br/>for his removal as a theater official, and for censure of the network for<br/>allowing an obscene word to go out on the airwaves. Tynan escaped punishment,<br/>but he acquired a public reputation for tastelessness that he carried for the<br/>rest his life. To much of ordinary Britain, he became the man who had said<br/>"[expletive]" on the BBC.<br/><br/> Neither<br/>Greg Lloyd nor Michael Irvin was so stigmatized. "It's live television," NBC<br/>Vice President Ed Markey said, rationalizing the outbursts. "It's an emotional<br/>moment. These things happen." Irvin wasn't about to let that stand. "I knew<br/>exactly what I was saying," he insisted later. "Those of you who can't believe<br/>I said it--believe it."<br/><br/> Swearing isn't the only public act that Western<br/>civilization condones today but didn't 30 years ago. But it is one of the most<br/>interesting. It is everywhere, impossible to avoid or tune out.<br/><br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am sitting in a meeting at the office, talking with a colleague about a<br/>business circumstance that may possibly go against us. "In that case, we're<br/>[expletive] ," he says. Five years ago, he would have said "screwed." Twenty<br/>years ago, he would have said, "We're in big trouble." Societal tolerance of<br/>profanity requires us to increase our dosage as time goes on.<br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am walking along a suburban street, trailing a class of pre-schoolers who<br/>are linked to each other by a rope. A pair of teen-agers passes us in the other<br/>direction. By the time they have reached the end of the line of children, they<br/>have tossed off a whole catalog of obscenities I did not even hear until I was<br/>well into adolescence, let alone use in casual conversation on a public street.<br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am talking to a distinguished professor of public policy about a<br/>foundation grant. I tell her something she wasn't aware of before. In 1965, the<br/>appropriate response was "no kidding." In 1996, you do not say "no kidding." It<br/>is limp and ineffectual. If you are surprised at all, you say what she says:<br/>"No shit."<br/><br/> <br/><br/> What word is taboo in middle-class America in 1996? There<br/>are a couple of credible candidates: The four-letter word for "vagina" remains<br/>off-limits in polite conversation (although that has more to do with feminism<br/>than with profanity), and the slang expression for those who engage in oral sex<br/>with males is not yet acceptable by the standards of office-meeting<br/>etiquette.<br/><br/> But aside from a few<br/>exceptions, the supply of genuinely offensive language has dwindled almost to<br/>nothing as the 20th century comes to an end; the currency of swearing has been<br/>inflated to the brink of worthlessness. When almost anything can be said in<br/>public, profanity ceases to exist in any meaningful way at all.<br/><br/> That<br/>most of the forbidden words of the 1950s are no longer forbidden will come as<br/>news to nobody: The steady debasement of the common language is only one of<br/>many social strictures that have loosened from the previous generation to the<br/>current. What is important is that profanity served a variety of<br/>purposes for a long time in Western culture. It does not serve those purposes<br/>any more.<br/><br/> What purposes? There are a couple of plausible answers. One<br/>of them is emotional release. Robert Graves, who wrote a book in the 1920s<br/>called The Future of Swearing , thought that profanity was the adult<br/>replacement for childhood tears. There comes a point in life, he wrote, when<br/>"wailing is rightly discouraged, and groans are also considered a signal of<br/>extreme weakness. Silence under suffering is usually impossible." So one<br/>reaches back for a word one does not normally use, and utters it without undue<br/>embarrassment or guilt. And one feels better--even stimulated.<br/><br/> The anthropologist Ashley<br/>Montagu, whose Anatomy of Swearing , published in 1967, is the definitive<br/>modern take on the subject, saw profanity as a safety valve rather than a<br/>stimulant, a verbal substitute for physical aggression. When someone swears,<br/>Montagu wrote, "potentially noxious energy is converted into a form that<br/>renders it comparatively innocuous."<br/><br/> One<br/>could point out, in arguing against the safety-valve theory, that as America<br/>has grown more profane in the past 30 years, it has also grown more violent,<br/>not less. But this is too simple. It isn't just the supply of dirty words that<br/>matters, it's their emotive power. If they have lost that power through<br/>overuse, it's perfectly plausible to say that their capacity to deter<br/>aggressive behavior has weakened as well.<br/><br/> But there is something else important to say about<br/>swearing--that it represents the invocation of those ideas a society considers<br/>powerful, awesome, and a little scary.<br/><br/> I'm not sure there is an<br/>easy way to convey to anybody under 30, for example, the sheer emotive force<br/>that the word "[expletive]" possessed in the urban childhood culture of 40<br/>years ago. It was the verbal link to a secret act none of us understood but<br/>that was known to carry enormous consequences in the adult world. It was the<br/>embodiment of both pleasure and danger. It was not a word or an idea to mess<br/>with. When it was used, it was used, as Ashley Montagu said, "sotto<br/>voce , like a smuggler cautiously making his way across a forbidden<br/>frontier."<br/><br/> In that<br/>culture, the word "[expletive]" was not only obscene, it was profane, in the<br/>original sense: It took an important idea in vain. Profanity can be an act of<br/>religious defiance, but it doesn't have to be. The Greeks tempted fate by<br/>invoking the names of their superiors on Mount Olympus; they also swore upon<br/>everyday objects whose properties they respected but did not fully understand.<br/>"By the Cabbage!" Socrates is supposed to have said in moments of stress, and<br/>that was for good reason. He believed that cabbage cured hangovers, and as<br/>such, carried sufficient power and mystery to invest any moment with the<br/>requisite emotional charge.<br/><br/> These days, none of us believes in cabbage in the way<br/>Socrates did, or in the gods in the way most Athenians did. Most Americans tell<br/>poll-takers that they believe in God, but few of them in a way that would make<br/>it impossible to take His name in vain: That requires an Old Testament piety<br/>that disappeared from American middle-class life a long time ago.<br/><br/> Nor do we believe in sex<br/>any more the way most American children and millions of adults believed in it a<br/>generation ago: as an act of profound mystery and importance that one did not<br/>engage in, or discuss, or even invoke, without a certain amount of excitement<br/>and risk. We have trivialized and routinized sex to the point where it just<br/>doesn't carry the emotional freight it carried in the schoolyards and bedrooms<br/>of the 1950s.<br/><br/> Many<br/>enlightened people consider this to be a great improvement over a society in<br/>which sex generated not only emotion and power, but fear. For the moment, I<br/>wish to insist only on this one point: When sexuality loses its power to awe,<br/>it loses its power to create genuine swearing. When we convert it into a casual<br/>form of recreation, we shouldn't be surprised to hear linebackers using the<br/>word "[expletive]" on national television.<br/><br/> To profane something, in other words, one must believe in<br/>it. The cheapening of profanity in modern America represents, more than<br/>anything else, the crumbling of belief. There are very few ideas left at this<br/>point that are awesome or frightening enough for us to enforce a taboo against<br/>them.<br/><br/> The instinctive response<br/>of most educated people to the disappearance of any taboo is to applaud it, but<br/>this is wrong. Healthy societies need a decent supply of verbal taboos and<br/>prohibitions, if only as yardsticks by which ordinary people can measure and<br/>define themselves. By violating these taboos over and over, some succeed in<br/>defining themselves as rebels. Others violate them on special occasions to<br/>derive an emotional release. Forbidden language is one of the ways we remind<br/>children that there are rules to everyday life, and consequences for breaking<br/>them. When we forget this principle, or cease to accept it, it is not just our<br/>language that begins to fray at the edges.<br/><br/> What do we do about it?<br/>Well, we could pass a law against swearing. Mussolini actually did that. He<br/>decreed that trains and buses, in addition to running on time, had to carry<br/>signs that read "Non bestemmiare per l'onore d'Italia." ("Do not swear for the<br/>honor of Italy.") The commuters of Rome reacted to those signs exactly as you<br/>would expect: They cursed them.<br/><br/> What Mussolini could not<br/>do, I am reasonably sure that American governments of the 1990s cannot do, nor<br/>would I wish it. I merely predict that sometime in the coming generation,<br/>profanity will return in a meaningful way. It served too many purposes for too<br/>many years of American life to disappear on a permanent basis. We need it.<br/><br/> And so I am reasonably<br/>sure that when my children have children, there will once again be words so<br/>awesome that they cannot be uttered without important consequences. This will<br/>not only represent a new stage of linguistic evolution, it will be a token of<br/>moral revival. What the dirty words will be, God only knows.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) It represents mass disillusionment in ideals that were once central to a well-functioning society\n(B) It will inevitably result in an increase in crime and socially unacceptable behaviors\n(C) It has no correlation with crime but a positive correlation with acceptance of the taboo\n(D) It will bring about a new era of creativity and innovation in the years to come",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20017 | Of the films reviewed, which one received the most positive criticism?
Choices:
(A) There's Something About Mary
(B) Unmade Beds
(C) The Slums of Beverly Hills
(D) The Avengers (new version) | [
"C",
"The Slums of Beverly Hills"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Dirty Laundry<br/><br/> Now and then, a documentary<br/>film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern<br/>the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a<br/>documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How<br/>much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're<br/>striving, at least in theory, to capture?<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade Beds , Nicholas<br/>Barker's " 'real life' feature film," has proudly worn its mongrel status as a<br/>"directed" documentary of single life in the big city, employing, in the face<br/>of criticism, what amounts to a cackling-punk defiance. The movie tracks four<br/>aging New Yorkers--two men, two women--through their lonely dating rituals, in<br/>the process depicting a universe of lusty, coupled-up haves and downcast,<br/>excluded have-nots, all viewed Rear Window -style through rectangular<br/>openings in the massive apartment houses in which they reside.<br/><br/> This is<br/>not cinema <br/> vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The<br/>director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates,<br/>followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and<br/>dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film "an exercise in<br/>mendacity," Barker goes on, "I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters<br/>and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate<br/>larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two<br/>weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded<br/>to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In<br/>part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and<br/>commentary ("I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really<br/>don't want to have anything to do with it"--a New York publicist), it threatens<br/>to become a cause <br/> célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater<br/>near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of<br/>"difficult" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing.<br/>Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak<br/>show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the<br/>Puritan kind; it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard<br/>pervert people's lives in the name of "larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Those<br/>truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch<br/>lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were<br/>to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature<br/>might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger<br/>dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is<br/>very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however,<br/>Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains<br/>about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males.<br/><br/> <br/>Michael turns out to be the film's most<br/>sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy<br/>54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind<br/>dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are "mutts." Sounding like one<br/>of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco ,<br/>Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in<br/>the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose<br/>pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a<br/>pathetic little loser--a mutt.<br/><br/> Aimee, on<br/>the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds.<br/>Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside<br/>bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her<br/>thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly<br/>the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has<br/>always been fat--and she's "OK with it," and a man just has to accept it. This<br/>is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if<br/>you call them back? If you express too much interest? "Or," the viewer thinks,<br/>"if you're 225 pounds?"<br/><br/> The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous<br/>exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a<br/>Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money<br/>and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too<br/>difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks ("I'm up to two dicks<br/>a day"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks.<br/>Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article)<br/>is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint.<br/>Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their<br/>dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them<br/>for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and<br/>steps into the shower and soaps up.<br/><br/> Barker<br/>might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has<br/>robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't<br/>thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your<br/>eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed<br/>like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection.<br/>The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You<br/>can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and<br/>elaborately lighted) and reminding them, "In this scene she points out that you<br/>should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action."<br/><br/> <br/>Call me square, but I find this antithetical to<br/>the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before<br/>going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his<br/>material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels<br/>prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not<br/>go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for<br/>$10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial,<br/>following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was<br/>"true to her character." But what separates documentary from fiction is that<br/>real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished<br/>characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of<br/>her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary<br/>filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected<br/>patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than<br/>the one they set out to portray.<br/><br/> So what are Barker's "larger<br/>dramatic truths"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people<br/>fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and,<br/>in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably,<br/>that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to<br/>regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to<br/>see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger<br/>dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together<br/>and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to<br/>the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and<br/>then, hey, he's a documentarian.<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade<br/>Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its<br/>subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and<br/>the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that<br/>you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you.<br/>Anything to keep from turning into one of those people.<br/><br/> The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two<br/>genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue.<br/>Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd<br/>juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic<br/>upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being<br/>shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP<br/>code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them<br/>to be educated in the best schools. ("Furniture's temporary; education is<br/>permanent.") It's a major omission, then, that we never see those schools or<br/>the kids' interaction with their stable, well-to-do Beverly Hills counterparts.<br/>We can't tell if the father is, on some weird level, justified in his fervor,<br/>or whether he's screwing up his children--subjecting them to humiliation and<br/>robbing them of a sense of permanence--for no reason. Jenkins hasn't quite<br/>figured out how to shape her narrative, which is full of episodes that are<br/>there because they actually happened but that don't have a payoff. I almost<br/>wish she'd included more voice-over narration, more commentary on the things<br/>that, as a filmmaker, she hasn't learned to bring out.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's<br/>exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of<br/>'70s fashions and decor. The father, to obtain financial support from his<br/>wealthy brother (Carl Reiner), volunteers to take in his vaguely schizzy,<br/>dipsomaniacal niece (Marisa Tomei). She and her cousin compare breasts, play<br/>with vibrators, and talk in pig Latinish gibberish, but Jenkins never lets the<br/>proceedings get too sentimental: The whimsy is always cut with an acidic<br/>awareness of the family's desperation. "Are we middle-class now?" ask the<br/>children, hopefully, before another crisis sends them back into their van,<br/>cruising past the movie stars' mansions, in the mean streets of Beverly<br/>Hills.<br/><br/> <br/>Grading on the steep curve established by<br/>summer blockbuster seasons past, these have turned out to be a pretty good few<br/>months at the movies. Even the commercial swill ( Deep Impact ,<br/>Armageddon , The Mask of Zorro , Small Soldiers , Snake<br/>Eyes , Halloween: H20 ) has been of a high grade, and Saving<br/>Private Ryan and Return to Paradise were Vitalis slaps in the kisser<br/>for people woozy from all the warm weather escapism. Out of Sight was<br/>tender and charming, as was, in its gross-out way, There's Something About<br/>Mary . And, on the indie front, The Opposite of Sex , Buffalo<br/>66 , and Pi have proved that there's still commercial life after<br/>Sundance. Sure, we had stinkers, but even Godzilla was fun to jeer at.<br/>And there's something reassuring about the fact that The Avengers is so<br/>rotten: proof yet again that people with piles of money can hire wizard<br/>production designers but can't fake class.<br/><br/> I don't know who the<br/>credited screenwriter, Don MacPherson, is, but it's unlikely that he has ever<br/>seen an episode of the old Avengers , let alone sussed out the source of<br/>its appeal. Opening with a slapstick sequence of agent John Steed (Ralph<br/>Fiennes) doing kung fu, the film shifts to a scene in which he meets Mrs. Peel<br/>(Uma Thurman) while sitting naked in a sauna with only a newspaper to cover his<br/>private parts. The series was erotic in a way only prim English humor can be:<br/>The Old Boy Steed was capable of throwing a punch and bonking someone with his<br/>bowler, but he left the karate kicking to his liberated, leather-suited distaff<br/>associate. Here their roles have been witlessly muddled, and MacPherson's idea<br/>of banter is to have the pair complete each other's clichés.<br/><br/> Whereas the original Steed,<br/>Patrick Macnee, was to the English Men's Club born, Fiennes is an eternal<br/>caddie. The willowy Thurman looks great in her outfits, but it's ever more<br/>apparent that she isn't much of an actress--at least, not a trained one--and<br/>her attempts at insouciance are embarrassingly arch. As the eccentric master<br/>villain who controls the weather, even Sean Connery is flat-out terrible,<br/>acting high on the hog. To think Connery once found the Bond films so far<br/>beneath him! When he sputters lines like "Time to die!" one imagines Dr. No,<br/>Goldfinger, and Blofeld snickering in the wings.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) There's Something About Mary\n(B) Unmade Beds\n(C) The Slums of Beverly Hills\n(D) The Avengers (new version)",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20061 | What positive critique does the film reviewer offer for "Elizabeth"? juicy melodrama
Choices:
(A) It relies on juxtaposition-based cinematography that makes for a compelling theatrical performance
(B) It takes necessary liberties with history's version of Elizabeth's reign to make her story more interesting to movie-goers
(C) It takes the best aspects of both Jacobean and Shakespearean interpretations of Elizabeth I and combines them into one melodramatic depiction
(D) It is the best interpretation of Elizabeth I's ascent to the throne and subsequent reign | [
"A",
"It relies on juxtaposition-based cinematography that makes for a compelling theatrical performance"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Warrior Queens<br/><br/> <br/> Elizabeth is a lurid<br/>paraphrase of the old Groucho Marx line about Doris Day: "I knew the Virgin<br/>Queen before she was a virgin." As the movie tells it, she was a sylvan,<br/>redheaded princess (Cate Blanchett) given to gamboling with her fella (Joseph<br/>Fiennes) between periods of internment in the Tower of London on charges of<br/>conspiring to overthrow her half-sister, the heatedly Catholic Queen Mary<br/>(Kathy Burke). The daughter of the second wife of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and<br/>therefore dubbed a bastard by the papists, the Protestant Elizabeth ascends the<br/>throne to find the air still thick with smoke from roasted heretics, a team of<br/>skulking Catholics plotting her assassination, and a council of advisers<br/>(lords, bishops, sundry old boys) who snigger openly at the prospect of taking<br/>orders from a woman. Only a strategic marriage to a Spaniard or a Frenchman<br/>will mollify all factions, her advisers insist, but the pickings prove dismal.<br/>(Her French suitor enjoys wearing dresses.) After skulls are smashed, throats<br/>slit, and bosoms skewered in the name of Christ, Elizabeth decides to: a)<br/>"unsex" herself and become a symbol--the Virgin Queen, married only to England;<br/>and b) entertain dissenting opinions exclusively from those whose heads are<br/>affixed to spikes.<br/><br/> You can't<br/>be both a queenly queen and a womanly woman, says the script (by Michael<br/>Hirst)--at least not in 1554. (The director, Shekhar Kapur, made the same point<br/>in his grim 1994 Indian epic The Bandit Queen , against a backdrop of<br/>scrubby plains along the Ganges.) Is this feminist take historically accurate?<br/>Probably, although the evidence suggests that Elizabeth had developed a head<br/>for stratagems earlier in life (her position had been precarious since the<br/>beheading of her mother) and came to the throne with few girlish illusions<br/>about How Things Work in a barbarous state.<br/><br/> That said, the movie's approach makes for juicy melodrama.<br/>The tone of Elizabeth comes nearer to the nihilistic relish of Jacobeans<br/>such as John Ford and John Webster than to the more sorrowful horror of the<br/>Elizabethan dramatists Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare. It's even closer to<br/>a Jacobean drama of our own age: The Godfather (1972), which it emulates<br/>by cutting back-and-forth between queen and courtiers in prayer and the roundup<br/>and slaughter of Catholics on their privies, in bed with their mistresses, and<br/>so on. Their severed heads look on, wide-eyed, as Elizabeth directs her hair to<br/>be shorn--images of her girlhood flashing by as her locks rain down--and then<br/>walks weightily to her throne, now a chalk-faced gorgon.<br/><br/> With all<br/>due respect to Blanchett, Bette Davis, and Glenda Jackson, my favorite<br/>Elizabeth I remains Miranda Richardson's capricious, baby-talking psychopath on<br/>the BBC comedy Blackadder II . (Casting about for a new lord high<br/>executioner, she mews to Rowan Atkinson, "There are thousands of Catholics<br/>simply dying to have their heads sneaked off --and there's no one to<br/>organize it.") But Blanchett comes in a close second, pulling off the<br/>transition from hapless young woman to coolly ruthless monarch with uncommon<br/>subtlety. Gradually expunging all empathy from her moist, pink eyes and<br/>permitting her visage to ossify, she gives this carnival of carnage an<br/>awe-inspiring center.<br/><br/> <br/>A more subversive sort of queen is on display<br/>in Velvet Goldmine , Todd Haynes' musical fantasia on the early '70s era<br/>of "glam" or "glitter" rock. Here the monarch is a David Bowie-esque singer<br/>called Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) and his spidery, space-age alter ego,<br/>Maxwell Demon. The movie opens with a spaceship depositing an infant Oscar<br/>Wilde on the stoop of a Dublin townhouse. Then it skips ahead to track a jade<br/>pin (it signifies hedonistic liberation) from the custody of a young Wilde to a<br/>swishy fringe creature called Jack Fairy to the regal Slade, a bisexual<br/>superstar who carries the news to all the young dudes. After that, we're in an<br/>Orwellian 1984 that's presided over by a vaguely fascist president and by arena<br/>rockers who serve as propagandists for a repressively conformist state.<br/>Whatever happened to Brian Slade, the glitter kids, the visionary<br/>exhibitionists and gleeful poseurs? Borrowing its framework from Citizen<br/>Kane , the movie follows a reporter (Christian Bale) assigned to reconstruct<br/>Slade's life and solve the mystery of his whereabouts.<br/><br/> Whatever you make of<br/>Velvet Goldmine (opinions have ranged from rapturous to casually<br/>dismissive), it's like no other musical ever made. It's determinedly swirling,<br/>discursive, elliptical. Now the story is told by an omniscient narrator, now a<br/>TV reporter, now a participant. Now it's flashing back, now forward. Every<br/>other line of dialogue is a cue for one of its dazzling numbers, largely covers<br/>of songs by Brian Eno, Bryan Ferry, and T. Rex. The narrative is a challenge to<br/>keep up with, but then, great artists often invent their own syntax. In the<br/>'80s, Haynes employed Barbie dolls to depict the rise and wasting away from<br/>anorexia of the singer Karen Carpenter. Lucky audiences who caught<br/>Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story (it was shelved when Richard<br/>Carpenter served the producers with an order to cease and desist exhibition)<br/>began by laughing at this elaborately posed, soft-rock femme, only to discover<br/>by the climax that the cultural forces that were eating at her (and that kept<br/>her from eating) had grown heartbreakingly palpable. Poison (1991),<br/>Haynes' Genêt-inspired exploration of transgression, didn't overcome its own<br/>artiness. But Safe (1995), the story of a Reagan-era housewife (Julianne<br/>Moore) convinced that her environment is poisoning her, is an entrancing<br/>meditation on the power of culture to crush the individual. Despite its ironic<br/>detachment, the film draws you into its heroine's sickly state: Breathing<br/>oxygen from a canister inside a high-tech igloo, she dwindles to nearly<br/>nothing, the modern incarnation of the Incredible Shrinking Man.<br/><br/> (It was<br/>partly my passion for Haynes' films that led me to accept a job offer from his<br/>indefatigable producer Christine Vachon last year to collaborate on a<br/>nuts-and-bolts book about producing, Shooting To Kill . So my review of<br/>Velvet Goldmine --like my review of<br/>Vachon's other recent release, Happiness --should be read as the work of<br/>a partisan. But not a blind partisan.)<br/><br/> In Velvet Goldmine , Haynes sets out to demonstrate<br/>the power of popular music to change people's lives--to tell them it's OK to<br/>fashion themselves into anything they please. The core of the movie turns out<br/>not to be the Bowie figure but the journalist, Arthur Stuart, who was a witness<br/>to the events he's now reconstructing. Bale is such an expressive performer<br/>that Stuart's remembrance of things past attains a Proustian intensity. To him,<br/>Slade was a sexual messiah. I've never seen a more vivid distillation of rock's<br/>allure than the scene in which he reverently opens the new Brian Slade<br/>album--its centerfold image is a lithe, naked, green-tinged Maxwell<br/>Demon--slips the vinyl out of its paper jacket and, after gingerly setting the<br/>LP on the turntable, props a chair under the doorknob to keep the<br/>uncomprehending world at bay.<br/><br/> But if Haynes wants Velvet<br/>Goldmine to be an anthem to the principles Bowie once embodied--the embrace<br/>of artifice and the smashing of conventional sexual roles--he also wants to<br/>portray the rocker as a hollow opportunist who abandoned glam and bisexuality<br/>for the life of a corporate superstar, throwing in his lot with the forces of<br/>repression. That's a lot to cover. An actor of stature might have bridged these<br/>two impulses, but the beautiful, brazenly slim-hipped Rhys-Meyers doesn't make<br/>his lines sound as if he's thinking them up on the spot, and Slade's<br/>self-destructive passion for Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor), the film's fuzzy, sweet<br/>Iggy Pop figure, seems less an emotional imperative than a thematic one.<br/><br/> A case can<br/>be made that Velvet Goldmine isn't fully filled in, and that Haynes, who<br/>has never shaken off his background as a semiotics major, has made a movie<br/>that's all signifiers. I sometimes found myself wishing he would let the<br/>picture catch its breath, that the performers would stop coming at me in<br/>stroboscopic flashes. But then I'd be swept up in the sinuous motion of his<br/>filmmaking, in the elation of watching point of view passed like a baton from<br/>hand to hand, in the liberating force of his language and soundtrack. Velvet<br/>Goldmine might seem like a collection of baubles, but those baubles are<br/>strung.<br/><br/> <br/>Is Brad Pitt the worst actor on earth? The case<br/>could be made, and Meet Joe Black could serve as Exhibit A. Pitt plays<br/>two roles in this seven course schlockfest. He's (briefly) a slick but<br/>wholesome yuppie and then (interminably) Death, who takes over the young man's<br/>body when he's thumped by a couple of cars in the movie's most promising<br/>moment. Bleached so blond that he looks like an irradiated android, Pitt expels<br/>all expression from his face and all tone from his voice. He speaks very, very<br/>slowly. The stunt half-works, at least until he's supposed to undergo an inner<br/>transformation and acquire human emotions--whereupon his face remains just as<br/>blank. Pitt's conception of the role is an idée fixe by someone who<br/>doesn't appear to have an idée in his head.<br/><br/> Martin<br/>Brest, the director, is known for shooting a ton of footage and then "finding"<br/>his films in the editing room. What do you suppose he "found" when he<br/>scrutinized these miles of celluloid with Pitt doing nothing and taking his<br/>sweet time doing it? The first adaptation of this story (originally a play) was<br/>the 1934 Death Takes a Holiday , which came in at a perky 78 minutes. A<br/>conceit this fragile needs to whiz along to keep our disbelief in suspension,<br/>but Meet Joe Black grinds on for three hours (longer than either<br/>Beloved or Saving Private Ryan ), and Pitt acts as if he has<br/>leased the screen by the year.<br/><br/> Anthony Hopkins plays the zillionaire communications baron<br/>whom Death enlists in the hope of understanding the human condition--an odd<br/>choice for a tour guide, since most people's condition doesn't involve personal<br/>helicopters, sprawling mansions on Long Island Sound, or Manhattan apartments<br/>that sport Olympic-size swimming pools. Four screenwriters, among them the<br/>great Bo Goldman ( Melvin and Howard , 1980; Shoot the Moon , 1982),<br/>labored on this moldy script, which features characters who ask questions that<br/>begin "Am I to understand that ...?" and a corporate villain who directs<br/>another character to "wake up and smell the thorns." It apparently never<br/>occurred to even one of these overpaid scribes to eliminate Hopkins' rueful<br/>realization that he'd "never write the great American novel"--no kidding, given<br/>his flagrantly Welsh accent.<br/><br/> Actually, Hopkins gives this<br/>humanistic magnate considerable weight, so that whether or not Death takes him<br/>before he can stop to smell the roses and make amends to his neglected children<br/>becomes a matter of some suspense. The rest of the cast works with equal<br/>fortitude, especially Jeffrey Tambor (Hank "Hey now!" Kingsley on The Larry<br/>Sanders Show ) as Hopkins' milksop son-in-law and Marcia Gay Harden as his<br/>party planning, perpetually wilting elder daughter. As the younger daughter,<br/>the dark eyed, spaghetti thin Claire Forlani has to carry the picture's bathos<br/>on her exquisite shoulders. Her tremulous thoroughbred act wears thin, but it's<br/>hardly her fault: She has to emote like mad opposite a black pit of death--or<br/>is that the Black Death of Pitt?<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) It relies on juxtaposition-based cinematography that makes for a compelling theatrical performance\n(B) It takes necessary liberties with history's version of Elizabeth's reign to make her story more interesting to movie-goers\n(C) It takes the best aspects of both Jacobean and Shakespearean interpretations of Elizabeth I and combines them into one melodramatic depiction\n(D) It is the best interpretation of Elizabeth I's ascent to the throne and subsequent reign",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20043 | Dole's quote would have been perceived as _________________if it had included included the exclamation points from his tone?
Choices:
(A) less impartial
(B) more inflammatory
(C) less dignified
(D) more misguided | [
"B",
"more inflammatory"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Dole vs. the <I>Times</I><br/><br/> For several weeks now,<br/>pundits have debated how Bob Dole would exit the stage. Would he depart on a<br/>negative note about his opponent or a positive one about himself? Would he<br/>leave with anger or with humor? In the past several days, the issue has been<br/>settled. Dole, it appears, will end his political career raging against the<br/>New York Times .<br/><br/> Dole's spat with the gray<br/>lady went public on Thursday, Oct. 24. In New Orleans, Dole charged the paper<br/>with ignoring a story about a Miami drug dealer who got invited to the White<br/>House. "This is a disgrace," Dole insisted. "I doubt if you even read it in the<br/>New York Times . They probably put it in the want ads. They don't put any<br/>anti-Clinton stories in the New York Times . Only anti-Dole stories in<br/>the New York Times ." Dole repeated his attack for the next five days.<br/>"We are not going to let the media steal this election," he told a crowd in<br/>Dallas on Friday. "This country belongs to the people, not the New York<br/>Times ." On Saturday, in Visalia, Calif., he added, "I know that with a<br/>crowd this size, the New York Times will write not many people showed<br/>up, but the other papers will get it right."<br/><br/> On Sunday<br/>(the day the Times endorsed Clinton), Dole called the paper "the<br/>apologist for President Clinton for the last four years and an arm of the<br/>Democratic National Committee." In a CNN interview broadcast Monday, Dole said<br/>the Times "might as well be part of the Democratic Party. ... They<br/>hammer us on a daily basis. We make a major speech, they bury it back on<br/>section D. They put a front-page story that, well, Bob Dole and Jack Kemp<br/>didn't get along together 12 years ago." On Tuesday, Dole was still at it,<br/>referring to the 28 words of the 10th Amendment, and quipping, "That's about<br/>what I got in the New York Times today."<br/><br/> The Times has reacted to this assault by<br/>highhandedly quoting everything and explaining none of it, leaving its readers<br/>baffled as to why the Republican nominee is so upset at the paper. In fact,<br/>Dole's fury at the Times is hardly news to those who work at the paper.<br/>According to Katharine Seelye, who has covered Dole since the beginning of his<br/>campaign, the complaints date from December 1995, when Dole staff members first<br/>protested that she had misunderstood the candidate's position on abortion. The<br/>real bitterness, however, began in May, when the paper played what Dole aides<br/>billed as a major address about welfare on Page 19 of the business section.<br/>Since then, campaign honchos have peppered the paper's reporters and editors<br/>with constant phone calls and letters complaining about unfair treatment.<br/><br/> Reporters traveling with Dole<br/>caught a glimpse of the enmity Oct. 9, when Nelson Warfield, Dole's press<br/>secretary, staged a public confrontation with Seelye. The candidate, Warfield<br/>told reporters waiting to board the campaign plane, had just come from an<br/>appearance on G. Gordon Liddy's radio show. Why, Seelye asked, weren't<br/>reporters told about the appearance in advance? According to reporters present,<br/>Warfield snapped that it wouldn't make any difference because the Times<br/>would get the story wrong anyway. Then, on the plane, Warfield walked back to<br/>the press section and grandly served Seelye with a copy of a letter from<br/>Communications Director John Buckley to her boss, Times Washington<br/>Editor Andrew Rosenthal.<br/><br/> That<br/>letter, which has fallen into the hands of Slate, protests Seelye's coverage of<br/>a speech the previous day. Dole, in New Jersey, had talked about Clinton being<br/>AWOL in the drug war. "Where has he been for four years? How many hundreds of<br/>thousands of young people started drugs?" Dole said. "Three million have<br/>started smoking while he was playing around with smoking and all this stuff<br/>finally in an election year." Seelye's front-page story reported that "Mr. Dole<br/>accused the President of 'playing around' while the drug war raged out of<br/>control." Buckley complains that the story "could lead the reader to believe<br/>that Dole was talking about a very different kind of 'playing<br/>around'--something he did not say, and something he would not say." The letter<br/>continues: "Since May, I have been pointing out to you a problem we see with<br/>the accuracy and understanding of context revealed in Kit's reporting," going<br/>on to assert that "Seelye has misquoted Dole on numerous occasions and done so<br/>in a manner that distorted the accuracy of her assertions and your<br/>coverage."<br/><br/> <br/>No Dole staff would be quoted by name for this<br/>story, but speaking on background, a senior campaign official elaborated upon<br/>the complaint. "They've just done a miserable job throughout this campaign,"<br/>the official said. "The coverage of Dole has been excessively bitchy from day<br/>one, in addition to having a number of extraordinary factual problems." With<br/>Seelye, the official says, the problem is "not being able to transcribe a tape<br/>accurately." With Adam Nagourney, the Times ' other reporter covering<br/>Dole full time since the summer, "the problem is an incredible focus on the<br/>little picture as opposed to the big picture." As an example, the official<br/>cites a September story in which Nagourney lumped together Dole's fall from a<br/>platform in Chico, Calif., and his mistaken reference to the "Brooklyn" Dodgers<br/>as "a rough stretch of politicking." Other than those two episodes, the<br/>official says, Dole actually had a great week. The campaign's complaint extends<br/>to unequal treatment--a nine-part series on Clinton's record, which the<br/>official describes as "the softest portrait since they invented black<br/>velvet"--and the Times perpetually underestimating the size of Dole<br/>crowds. "Clinton even gets better photographs," the official contends.<br/><br/> <br/>Rosenthal, who has direct responsibility for campaign coverage at the<br/>Times , professes bewilderment at these complaints. "We don't make<br/>editorial judgments based on disposition to be tough on Bob Dole or nice to Bob<br/>Dole," he says. On the specifics, Rosenthal says that the Times ran an<br/>editor's note acknowledging that it shouldn't have truncated the "playing<br/>around" quote. He points out that the Times ran its story on the Miami<br/>drug dealer who visited the White House the same day Dole accused the paper of<br/>not covering it. As for the nine-part series on Clinton, Rosenthal says it is<br/>the long-standing practice of the paper to do a lengthy series on the<br/>incumbent's record. "If Dole wins and runs again in 2000, he will get nine-part<br/>series too," he says.<br/><br/> <br/>"Ithink we have been tough on him," Seelye<br/>says. This stems, however, not from any bias, she says, but from the campaign's<br/>own internal problems. Dole's campaign has been especially "porous," with aides<br/>emulating the proverbial seafaring rats. This is true enough--in recent days<br/>ex-strategist Don Sipple has trashed the campaign on the record. But there's<br/>another point, too. Contrary to Buckley's charge that she misquotes Dole,<br/>Seelye routinely makes Dole look ridiculous by quoting him all too accurately,<br/>depicting him in what one colleague calls a "cinema verité " style.<br/>Famous for going over and over her tape recordings on the campaign plane,<br/>Seelye manages to get every Dole mumble, repetition, and verbal miscue down.<br/>For instance, in her Oct. 26 story reporting Dole's attack on the Times ,<br/>Seelye writes:<br/><br/> "In Phoenix on Friday night,<br/>he had a delightful time drawing out his vowels as he described financial<br/>contributions to the Clinton campaign. "From Indoneeesia," he said. "Yeah. From<br/>INdiaaaaah. Some fellow named Gandhi out there. He owes $10,000 in back taxes,<br/>but he found $300,000 to give to the Clinton campaign. And now Gandhi is<br/>gaaaawn. Gaaaaandhi, gone gone gone. They can't find him."<br/><br/> Two days later, she quoted<br/>Dole in another story: "They've turned the White House into something else, I<br/>don't know what it is. It's the animal house! It's the animal house!" Most<br/>reporters would write, Bob Dole yesterday compared the White House to an<br/>"animal house," sparing the exclamation points, and making him sound at least<br/>compos mentis.<br/><br/> But though<br/>unflattering, Seelye's Mametizing of Bob Dole can hardly be called unfair. It<br/>is not as if the Times cleans up Clinton's quotes; the president simply<br/>observes the rules of syntax most of the time. Something similar may be<br/>happening with the pictures. After four years, Clinton has learned how to avoid<br/>looking unpresidential. He no longer allows himself to be photographed wearing<br/>too-short running shorts, and he avoids pulling faces in public. Dole, who is<br/>simply less photogenic, is an easier victim for picture editors--who, like<br/>their editorial counterparts, have a strong bias against dullness. Take, for<br/>instance, the two pictures shown above. The front-page picture the Times<br/>ran the day after the second presidential debate does make Dole look like a<br/>decomposing monster. But unlike the picture in the Washington Post the<br/>same day, it captures the spirit of the event, with Dole grimly taking the<br/>offensive and Clinton watching warily but standing aside from the attacks.<br/><br/> <br/>Dole sounds absurd when he alleges that the<br/>paper that broke Whitewater and the story of the first lady's commodities<br/>trades has not been aggressive in pursuing Clinton scandals. All sorts of<br/>potential Dole scandals have been soft-pedaled by the media, including the<br/>Times , because he is so far behind. It's true that coverage of Clinton<br/>on the campaign trail has been somewhat softer than the coverage of Dole, as<br/>even other Times reporters acknowledge. But the explanation is<br/>institutional, not ideological. The press, as many have complained,<br/>overemphasizes the "horse race" aspect of politics. As a side effect of that<br/>disease, reporters have excessive respect for a well-run campaign. (In 1988,<br/>Republican George Bush benefited from this phenomenon.) A cruder reality is<br/>that reporters need to have a relationship with Clinton after Tuesday.<br/><br/> None of these factors,<br/>though, is unique to the Times . So why is Dole singling it out? Dole's<br/>attacks on the Times have the appearance of being an exercise in<br/>populist demagogy. In one of his great cue-card reading remarks, Dole tried to<br/>explain his recent attacks on CNN the other night by saying, "I like the media.<br/>They don't like them in the South." But this pat explanation doesn't entirely<br/>make sense. Red meat for right-wing crowds doesn't help Dole with the centrist<br/>voters he would need to turn around in order to make the miraculous happen. And<br/>in fact, according to a senior Dole aide, the attacks are heartfelt on the<br/>candidate's part. Dole has been going after the Times over the<br/>objections of advisers who have been telling him there's no percentage in<br/>picking fights with the press.<br/><br/> But if Dole is attacking the<br/>Times because he is truly furious and not because he thinks it will help<br/>him get elected, what is he so angry about? The answer, I think, is that there<br/>has always been a Nixonian streak in Bob Dole, by which I mean a part of him<br/>which feels shut out of the closed circle of the Eastern establishment. At the<br/>Republican convention, Dole blasted the Clinton administration as a "corps of<br/>the elite who never grew up, never did anything real, never sacrificed, never<br/>suffered, and never learned." That phrase recalled an attack he made on the<br/>press long ago, in the days of Watergate, when he accused the Washington<br/>Post of being in bed with George McGovern. "There is a cultural and social<br/>affinity between the McGovernites and the Post executives and editors,"<br/>Dole said then. "They belong to the same elite: They can be found living<br/>cheek-by-jowl in the same exclusive chic neighborhoods, and hob-nobbing at the<br/>same Georgetown parties." The deeper story here isn't whether Dole was wrongly<br/>shunted onto D19 when he ought to have been on A1. It's his feelings, as he<br/>says goodbye to politics, about the people who get to decide.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) less impartial\n(B) more inflammatory\n(C) less dignified \n(D) more misguided",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
50969 | What is ironic about Taphetta's contempt for mating among species?
Choices:
(A) Taphetta can only survive if they mate with another species
(B) Taphetta is actually jealous about other species' ability to intermix
(C) Taphetta is likely a result of mating among species
(D) Taphetta is biologically unable to mate with other species | [
"D",
"Taphetta is biologically unable to mate with other species "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
BIG ANCESTOR
</h1>
<p>
By F. L. WALLACE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic
<br/>
race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on a
package. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked under
his wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neck
was flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, only
his head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen long
though narrower ribbons.
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly good
imitation of speech. "Yes, I've heard the legend."
</p>
<p>
"It's more than a legend," said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction was
not unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenient
speculation and nothing more. "There are at least a hundred kinds of
humans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as many
widely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout the
ages before space travel—
<i>
and yet each planetary race can interbreed
with a minimum of ten others
</i>
! That's more than a legend—one hell of a
lot more!"
</p>
<p>
"It is impressive," admitted Taphetta. "But I find it mildly
distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my
species."
</p>
<p>
"That's because you're unique," said Halden. "Outside of your own
world, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, and
that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole
exception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it's
accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human
development.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around the
beginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though on
Emmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.
And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There's
a corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able to
breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with
Meredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility may
extend to Kelburn."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. "But I thought it was
proved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was an
unbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years."
</p>
<p>
"You're thinking of Earth," said Halden. "Humans require a certain kind
of planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on a
hundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on a
few of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there was
actually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionists
stretched their theories to cover the facts they had.
</p>
<p>
"But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before the
Stone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to conclude
that Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is now
found. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughout
this section of the Milky Way."
</p>
<p>
"And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed across
thousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,"
commented Taphetta dryly. "It seems an unnecessary simplification."
</p>
<p>
"Can you think of a better explanation?" asked Kelburn.
</p>
<p>
"Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not the
result of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races are
involved, and
<i>
only
</i>
the human race."
</p>
<p>
"I can't think of a better explanation." Taphetta rearranged his
ribbons. "Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theories
about himself."
</p>
<p>
It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous
though not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization as
high as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there were
others—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever got
together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.
</p>
<p>
Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could be
very useful. A clear statement of their position was essential in
helping him make up his mind. "You've heard of the adjacency mating
principle?" asked Sam Halden.
</p>
<p>
"Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men."
</p>
<p>
"We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory is
that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.
We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary
race F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G is
fertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatever
their positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, but
was a little further along. When we project back into time those star
systems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certain
pattern. Kelburn can explain it to you."
</p>
<p>
The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The color
change was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that he
was interested.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Kelburn went to the projector. "It would be easier if we knew all the
stars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portion
of it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past."
</p>
<p>
He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. "We're
looking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it is
today and here are the human systems." He pressed another control and,
for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.
There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. "The whole Milky
Way is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remain
together, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when we
calculate the positions of stars in the past."
</p>
<p>
Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stopped
the motion.
</p>
<p>
"Two hundred thousand years ago," he said.
</p>
<p>
There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairly
equal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn't
close, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rustled. "The math is accurate?"
</p>
<p>
"As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem."
</p>
<p>
"And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
"To the best of our knowledge," said Kelburn. "And whereas there are
humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate
with those they were adjacent to
<i>
two hundred thousand years ago
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,"
murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. "Is that the only era that
satisfies the calculations?"
</p>
<p>
"Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get something
that might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover a
representative section of territory," said Kelburn. "However, we have
other ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no other
mammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.
The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got the
time right."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. "And you think that where the two
ends of the curve cross is your original home?"
</p>
<p>
"We think so," said Kelburn. "We've narrowed it down to several cubic
light-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were a
fast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of our
exploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding it
this trip."
</p>
<p>
"It seems I must decide quickly." The Ribboneer glanced out the
visionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.
"Do you mind if I ask other questions?"
</p>
<p>
"Go ahead," Kelburn invited sardonically. "But if it's not math, you'd
better ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition."
</p>
<p>
Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburn
was the most advanced human type present, but while there were
differences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn't
as great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained in
the fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher or
lower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. And
there was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions and
this was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated some
respect.
</p>
<p>
The Ribboneer shifted his attention. "Aside from the sudden illness of
your pilot, why did you ask for me?"
</p>
<p>
"We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't give
him. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's four
months to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and told
us that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. We
have men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the region
we're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer to
have an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigational
ability."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. "I had other
plans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergency
such as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what are
the incentives?"
</p>
<p>
Sam Halden coughed. "The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied the
Ribboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a per
cent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of the
profits from any discoveries we may make."
</p>
<p>
"I'm complimented that you like our contract so well," said Taphetta,
"but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,
you'll take my contract. I came prepared." He extended a tightly bound
roll that he had kept somewhere on his person.
</p>
<p>
They glanced at one another as Halden took it.
</p>
<p>
"You can read it if you want," offered Taphetta. "But it will take
you all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid that
I'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearly
everywhere in this sector—places men have never been."
</p>
<p>
There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, the
integrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.
</p>
<p>
"Good." Taphetta crinkled. "Send it to the ship; they'll forward it
for me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me." He rubbed his
ribbons together. "Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine the
region toward which we're heading."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair and
an equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking his
eyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in the
mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had
been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of
his place in the human hierarchy.
</p>
<p>
Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,
wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just how
long and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never given
much thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easy
to see why.
</p>
<p>
Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to the
biologist. "The pilot doesn't like our air."
</p>
<p>
"Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows more
about these things than I do."
</p>
<p>
"More than a man?" Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failed
to smile, added plaintively, "I did try to change it, but he still
complains."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Halden took a deep breath. "Seems all right to me."
</p>
<p>
"To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathes
through a million tubes scattered over his body."
</p>
<p>
It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that his
evolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no sense
less complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higher
humans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren't
prepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon's
reaction was quite typical.
</p>
<p>
"If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it," said
Halden. "Do anything you can to give it to him."
</p>
<p>
"Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could do
something about it."
</p>
<p>
"Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing
<i>
I
</i>
can do." Halden paused
thoughtfully. "Is there something wrong with the plants?"
</p>
<p>
"In a way, I guess, and yet not really."
</p>
<p>
"What is it, some kind of toxic condition?"
</p>
<p>
"The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down as
fast as they grow."
</p>
<p>
"Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.
Use them."
</p>
<p>
"It's an animal," said Firmon. "We tried poison and got a few, but now
they won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. The
animals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one that
way."
</p>
<p>
Halden glowered at the man. "How long has this been going on?"
</p>
<p>
"About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them."
</p>
<p>
It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the ship
was a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.
</p>
<p>
"Tell me what you know about it," said Halden.
</p>
<p>
"They're little things." Firmon held out his hands to show how small.
"I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty of
places to hide." He looked up defensively. "This is an old ship with
new equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we can
do except rebuild the ship from the hull inward."
</p>
<p>
Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any place
just to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and crevices
everywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.
</p>
<p>
They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals down
because there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use of
weapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they were
trying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.
</p>
<p>
Sam Halden got up. "I'll take a look and see what I can do."
</p>
<p>
"I'll come along and help," said Meredith, untwining her legs and
leaning against him. "Your mistress ought to have some sort of
privileges."
</p>
<p>
Halden started. So she
<i>
knew
</i>
that the crew was calling her that!
Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn't
said it. It didn't help the situation at all.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,
he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legs
were folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably on
the seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were never
quite still.
</p>
<p>
He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. "The hydroponics tech
tells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it."
</p>
<p>
Halden shrugged. "We've got to have better air. It might work."
</p>
<p>
"Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!"
</p>
<p>
"Neither do we."
</p>
<p>
The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. "What kind of creatures are they?"
</p>
<p>
"I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a small
four-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. A
typical pest."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rustled. "Have you found out how it got on?"
</p>
<p>
"It was probably brought in with the supplies," said the biologist.
"Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a half
a dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it had
access to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hard
radiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both are
possibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It's
developed a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other things
it detects and avoids, even electronic traps."
</p>
<p>
"Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it's
smarter?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to be
so hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait's
strong enough."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I don't like," said Taphetta, curling. "Let me think it
over while I ask questions." He turned to Emmer. "I'm curious about
humans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypothetical
ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, but
nonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised a
stubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggy
hands through shaggier hair.
</p>
<p>
"I can speak with some authority," he rumbled. "I was born on a world
with the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins of
their camp."
</p>
<p>
"I don't question your authority," crinkled Taphetta. "To me, all
humans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If you
are an archeologist, that's enough for me." He paused and flicked his
speech ribbons. "Camp, did you say?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. "You've never seen any pictures?
Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, and
we'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my world
was one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughing
it, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-story
structures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways were
forty feet high."
</p>
<p>
"Very large," agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he was
impressed. "What did you find in the ruins?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing," said Emmer. "There were buildings there and that was all,
not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covered
a route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than five
thousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of."
</p>
<p>
"A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life," mused Taphetta.
"But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different from
ours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do know
they were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, because
they visited so many of that type, yet different from it because they
never stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big and
long-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.
Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planet
they needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendously
advanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germ
plasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of us
did."
</p>
<p>
"This special planet sounds strange," murmured Taphetta.
</p>
<p>
"Not really," said Emmer. "Fifty human races reached space travel
independently and those who did were scattered equally among early and
late species. It's well known that individuals among my people are
often as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole we
don't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're as
advanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in the
planets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is."
</p>
<p>
"What happened to those who didn't develop space travel?" asked
Taphetta.
</p>
<p>
"We helped them," said Emmer.
</p>
<p>
And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically late
or early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold of
atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing
for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually
aggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselves
aloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, it
was tacitly assumed, such a destiny?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta changed his questioning. "What do you expect to gain from this
discovery of the unknown ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
It was Halden who answered him. "There's the satisfaction of knowing
where we came from."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," rustled the Ribboneer. "But a lot of money and equipment
was required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educational
institutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectual
curiosity."
</p>
<p>
"Cultural discoveries," rumbled Emmer. "How did our ancestors live?
When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more than
physiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Things
that were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span."
</p>
<p>
"No doubt," said Taphetta. "An archeologist would be interested in
cultural discoveries."
</p>
<p>
"Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advanced
civilization," added Halden. "A faster-than-light drive, and we've
achieved that only within the last thousand years."
</p>
<p>
"But I think we have a better one than they did," said the Ribboneer.
"There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,
but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?"
</p>
<p>
Halden nodded. "Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,
working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves and
produced us. They
<i>
were
</i>
master biologists."
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," said Taphetta. "I never paid much attention to your
fantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've built
up a convincing case." He raised his head, speech ribbons curling
fractionally and ceaselessly. "I don't like to, but we'll have to risk
using bait for your pest."
</p>
<p>
He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot's
consent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had been
bothering him vaguely. "What's the difference between the Ribboneer
contract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal."
</p>
<p>
"To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover as
much as you think you will. The difference is this:
<i>
My
</i>
terms don't
permit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholding
anything. Halden examined his own attitudes.
<i>
He
</i>
hadn't intended, but
could he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?
He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquired
would have to be shared.
</p>
<p>
That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind of
technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could
improve itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a start
that could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Why do we have to watch it on the screen?" asked Meredith, glancing
up. "I'd rather be in hydroponics."
</p>
<p>
Halden shrugged. "They may or may not be smarter than planetbound
animals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near."
</p>
<p>
Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen with
it, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to the
two crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was a
miniature keyboard.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
When they nodded, Halden said: "Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise at
a minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate them
exactly."
</p>
<p>
At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shape
crept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before coming
forward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the open
floor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.
</p>
<p>
Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up the
side of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it began
nibbling what it could reach.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was another
shape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small one
retreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leaped
and the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught up
and mauled the other unmercifully.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last it
backed off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.
Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything within
reach, it climbed into the branches.
</p>
<p>
The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began dragging
itself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made no
noise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurrying
away, still within range of the screen.
</p>
<p>
Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on top
and there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffed
around and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten as
it snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recent
defeat.
</p>
<p>
This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped and
landed on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animal
heard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumping
the last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.
</p>
<p>
The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a paw
flickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat of
the charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.
The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stopped
moving.
</p>
<p>
The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of its
foe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had been
found—
<i>
and laid it down
</i>
.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became too
bright for anything to be visible.
</p>
<p>
"Go in and get them," said Halden. "We don't want the pests to find out
that the bodies aren't flesh."
</p>
<p>
"It was realistic enough," said Meredith as the crewmen shut off their
machines and went out. "Do you think it will work?"
</p>
<p>
"It might. We had an audience."
</p>
<p>
"Did we? I didn't notice." Meredith leaned back. "Were the puppets
exactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?"
</p>
<p>
"The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don't
have to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,
they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it."
</p>
<p>
"What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by a
creature without real hands?"
</p>
<p>
"That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—and
they'll never get away from the trap to try."
</p>
<p>
"Very good. I never thought of that," said Meredith, coming closer. "I
like the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think of
marrying you."
</p>
<p>
"Primitive," he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knew
that, in relation to her, he was
<i>
not
</i>
advanced.
</p>
<p>
"It's almost a curse, isn't it?" She laughed and took the curse away by
leaning provocatively against him. "But barbaric lovers are often nice."
</p>
<p>
Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. To
her, I'm merely a passionate savage.
</p>
<p>
They went to his cabin.
</p>
<p>
She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, she
wasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionately
long and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,
except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that made
the difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visual
development, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color on
the violet end of the spectrum.
</p>
<p>
She settled back and looked at him. "It might be fun living with you on
primeval Earth."
</p>
<p>
He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced as
her own world. She had something else in mind.
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I will, though. We might have children."
</p>
<p>
"Would it be wrong?" he asked. "I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn't
have subhuman monsters."
</p>
<p>
"It would be a step up—for you." Under her calm, there was tension.
It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to the
surface now. "Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I make
them start lower than I am?"
</p>
<p>
The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,
it governed personal relations between races that were united against
non-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.
</p>
<p>
"I haven't asked you to marry me," he said bluntly.
</p>
<p>
"Because you're afraid I'd refuse."
</p>
<p>
It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter a
permanent union.
</p>
<p>
"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?" demanded Halden.
</p>
<p>
"Love," she said gloomily. "Physical attraction. But I can't let it
lead me astray."
</p>
<p>
"Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientific
about it, he'd give you children of the higher type."
</p>
<p>
"Kelburn." It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. "I don't
like him and he wouldn't marry me."
</p>
<p>
"He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.
There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's race
had a body like hers and she knew it.
</p>
<p>
"Racially, there should be a chance," she said. "Actually, Kelburn and
I would be infertile."
</p>
<p>
"Can you be sure?" he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to act
unconcerned.
</p>
<p>
"How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis?" she asked, an oblique
smile narrowing her eyes. "I know we can't."
</p>
<p>
His face felt anesthetized. "Did you have to tell me that?"
</p>
<p>
She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reaction
was purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the flesh
give when his knuckles struck it.
</p>
<p>
She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she took
it away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in front
of it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.
</p>
<p>
"You've broken my nose," she said factually. "I'll have to stop the
blood and pain."
</p>
<p>
She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. She
closed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped back
and looked at herself critically.
</p>
<p>
"It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have it
healed by morning."
</p>
<p>
She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly across
the bridge. Then she came over to him.
</p>
<p>
"I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me."
</p>
<p>
He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,
invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he still
feel that attraction to her?
</p>
<p>
"Try Emmer," he suggested tiredly. "He'll find you irresistible, and
he's even more savage than I am."
</p>
<p>
"Is he?" She smiled enigmatically. "Maybe, in a biological sense. Too
much, though. You're just right."
</p>
<p>
He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing what
Emmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside of
the physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—what
advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,
nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the
higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he
wanted her.
</p>
<p>
"I do think I love you," she said. "And if love's enough, I may marry
you in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose children
I have." She wriggled into his arms.
</p>
<p>
The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was not
completely her fault. Besides....
</p>
<p>
Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superior
children—and they might be his.
</p>
<p>
He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Were
they all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slime
toward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,
<i>
through
</i>
—everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward and
upward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his anger
was turned.
</p>
<p>
"Careful of the nose," she said, pressing against him. "You've already
broken it once."
</p>
<p>
He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Taphetta can only survive if they mate with another species\n(B) Taphetta is actually jealous about other species' ability to intermix\n(C) Taphetta is likely a result of mating among species\n(D) Taphetta is biologically unable to mate with other species ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Human beings -- Origin -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; PS"
} |
50969 | What is the governing principle that classifies the characters in the story?
Choices:
(A) ancestral bloodline
(B) physical biology
(C) galactic prevalence
(D) intellectual status | [
"A",
"ancestral bloodline"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
BIG ANCESTOR
</h1>
<p>
By F. L. WALLACE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic
<br/>
race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on a
package. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked under
his wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neck
was flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, only
his head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen long
though narrower ribbons.
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly good
imitation of speech. "Yes, I've heard the legend."
</p>
<p>
"It's more than a legend," said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction was
not unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenient
speculation and nothing more. "There are at least a hundred kinds of
humans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as many
widely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout the
ages before space travel—
<i>
and yet each planetary race can interbreed
with a minimum of ten others
</i>
! That's more than a legend—one hell of a
lot more!"
</p>
<p>
"It is impressive," admitted Taphetta. "But I find it mildly
distasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to my
species."
</p>
<p>
"That's because you're unique," said Halden. "Outside of your own
world, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, and
that's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the sole
exception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it's
accidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of human
development.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around the
beginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though on
Emmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.
And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There's
a corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able to
breed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile with
Meredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility may
extend to Kelburn."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. "But I thought it was
proved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was an
unbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years."
</p>
<p>
"You're thinking of Earth," said Halden. "Humans require a certain kind
of planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on a
hundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on a
few of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there was
actually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionists
stretched their theories to cover the facts they had.
</p>
<p>
"But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before the
Stone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to conclude
that Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is now
found. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughout
this section of the Milky Way."
</p>
<p>
"And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed across
thousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,"
commented Taphetta dryly. "It seems an unnecessary simplification."
</p>
<p>
"Can you think of a better explanation?" asked Kelburn.
</p>
<p>
"Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not the
result of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races are
involved, and
<i>
only
</i>
the human race."
</p>
<p>
"I can't think of a better explanation." Taphetta rearranged his
ribbons. "Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theories
about himself."
</p>
<p>
It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerous
though not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization as
high as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there were
others—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever got
together—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.
</p>
<p>
Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could be
very useful. A clear statement of their position was essential in
helping him make up his mind. "You've heard of the adjacency mating
principle?" asked Sam Halden.
</p>
<p>
"Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men."
</p>
<p>
"We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory is
that humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.
We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetary
race F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G is
fertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatever
their positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, but
was a little further along. When we project back into time those star
systems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certain
pattern. Kelburn can explain it to you."
</p>
<p>
The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The color
change was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that he
was interested.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Kelburn went to the projector. "It would be easier if we knew all the
stars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portion
of it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past."
</p>
<p>
He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. "We're
looking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it is
today and here are the human systems." He pressed another control and,
for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.
There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. "The whole Milky
Way is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remain
together, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when we
calculate the positions of stars in the past."
</p>
<p>
Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stopped
the motion.
</p>
<p>
"Two hundred thousand years ago," he said.
</p>
<p>
There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairly
equal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn't
close, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rustled. "The math is accurate?"
</p>
<p>
"As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem."
</p>
<p>
"And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
"To the best of our knowledge," said Kelburn. "And whereas there are
humans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always mate
with those they were adjacent to
<i>
two hundred thousand years ago
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
"The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,"
murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. "Is that the only era that
satisfies the calculations?"
</p>
<p>
"Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get something
that might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover a
representative section of territory," said Kelburn. "However, we have
other ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no other
mammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.
The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got the
time right."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. "And you think that where the two
ends of the curve cross is your original home?"
</p>
<p>
"We think so," said Kelburn. "We've narrowed it down to several cubic
light-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were a
fast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of our
exploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding it
this trip."
</p>
<p>
"It seems I must decide quickly." The Ribboneer glanced out the
visionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.
"Do you mind if I ask other questions?"
</p>
<p>
"Go ahead," Kelburn invited sardonically. "But if it's not math, you'd
better ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition."
</p>
<p>
Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburn
was the most advanced human type present, but while there were
differences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn't
as great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained in
the fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher or
lower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. And
there was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions and
this was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated some
respect.
</p>
<p>
The Ribboneer shifted his attention. "Aside from the sudden illness of
your pilot, why did you ask for me?"
</p>
<p>
"We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't give
him. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's four
months to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and told
us that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. We
have men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the region
we're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer to
have an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigational
ability."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. "I had other
plans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergency
such as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what are
the incentives?"
</p>
<p>
Sam Halden coughed. "The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied the
Ribboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a per
cent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of the
profits from any discoveries we may make."
</p>
<p>
"I'm complimented that you like our contract so well," said Taphetta,
"but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,
you'll take my contract. I came prepared." He extended a tightly bound
roll that he had kept somewhere on his person.
</p>
<p>
They glanced at one another as Halden took it.
</p>
<p>
"You can read it if you want," offered Taphetta. "But it will take
you all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid that
I'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearly
everywhere in this sector—places men have never been."
</p>
<p>
There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, the
integrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.
</p>
<p>
"Good." Taphetta crinkled. "Send it to the ship; they'll forward it
for me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me." He rubbed his
ribbons together. "Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine the
region toward which we're heading."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair and
an equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking his
eyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in the
mating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet had
been inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware of
his place in the human hierarchy.
</p>
<p>
Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,
wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just how
long and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never given
much thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easy
to see why.
</p>
<p>
Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to the
biologist. "The pilot doesn't like our air."
</p>
<p>
"Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows more
about these things than I do."
</p>
<p>
"More than a man?" Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failed
to smile, added plaintively, "I did try to change it, but he still
complains."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Halden took a deep breath. "Seems all right to me."
</p>
<p>
"To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathes
through a million tubes scattered over his body."
</p>
<p>
It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that his
evolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no sense
less complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higher
humans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren't
prepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon's
reaction was quite typical.
</p>
<p>
"If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it," said
Halden. "Do anything you can to give it to him."
</p>
<p>
"Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could do
something about it."
</p>
<p>
"Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing
<i>
I
</i>
can do." Halden paused
thoughtfully. "Is there something wrong with the plants?"
</p>
<p>
"In a way, I guess, and yet not really."
</p>
<p>
"What is it, some kind of toxic condition?"
</p>
<p>
"The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down as
fast as they grow."
</p>
<p>
"Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.
Use them."
</p>
<p>
"It's an animal," said Firmon. "We tried poison and got a few, but now
they won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. The
animals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one that
way."
</p>
<p>
Halden glowered at the man. "How long has this been going on?"
</p>
<p>
"About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them."
</p>
<p>
It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the ship
was a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.
</p>
<p>
"Tell me what you know about it," said Halden.
</p>
<p>
"They're little things." Firmon held out his hands to show how small.
"I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty of
places to hide." He looked up defensively. "This is an old ship with
new equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we can
do except rebuild the ship from the hull inward."
</p>
<p>
Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any place
just to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and crevices
everywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.
</p>
<p>
They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals down
because there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use of
weapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they were
trying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.
</p>
<p>
Sam Halden got up. "I'll take a look and see what I can do."
</p>
<p>
"I'll come along and help," said Meredith, untwining her legs and
leaning against him. "Your mistress ought to have some sort of
privileges."
</p>
<p>
Halden started. So she
<i>
knew
</i>
that the crew was calling her that!
Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn't
said it. It didn't help the situation at all.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,
he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legs
were folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably on
the seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were never
quite still.
</p>
<p>
He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. "The hydroponics tech
tells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it."
</p>
<p>
Halden shrugged. "We've got to have better air. It might work."
</p>
<p>
"Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!"
</p>
<p>
"Neither do we."
</p>
<p>
The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. "What kind of creatures are they?"
</p>
<p>
"I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a small
four-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. A
typical pest."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta rustled. "Have you found out how it got on?"
</p>
<p>
"It was probably brought in with the supplies," said the biologist.
"Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a half
a dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it had
access to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hard
radiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both are
possibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It's
developed a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other things
it detects and avoids, even electronic traps."
</p>
<p>
"Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it's
smarter?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to be
so hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait's
strong enough."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I don't like," said Taphetta, curling. "Let me think it
over while I ask questions." He turned to Emmer. "I'm curious about
humans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypothetical
ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, but
nonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised a
stubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggy
hands through shaggier hair.
</p>
<p>
"I can speak with some authority," he rumbled. "I was born on a world
with the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins of
their camp."
</p>
<p>
"I don't question your authority," crinkled Taphetta. "To me, all
humans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If you
are an archeologist, that's enough for me." He paused and flicked his
speech ribbons. "Camp, did you say?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. "You've never seen any pictures?
Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, and
we'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my world
was one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughing
it, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-story
structures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways were
forty feet high."
</p>
<p>
"Very large," agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he was
impressed. "What did you find in the ruins?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing," said Emmer. "There were buildings there and that was all,
not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covered
a route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than five
thousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of."
</p>
<p>
"A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life," mused Taphetta.
"But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?"
</p>
<p>
"Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different from
ours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do know
they were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, because
they visited so many of that type, yet different from it because they
never stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big and
long-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.
Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planet
they needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendously
advanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germ
plasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of us
did."
</p>
<p>
"This special planet sounds strange," murmured Taphetta.
</p>
<p>
"Not really," said Emmer. "Fifty human races reached space travel
independently and those who did were scattered equally among early and
late species. It's well known that individuals among my people are
often as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole we
don't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're as
advanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in the
planets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is."
</p>
<p>
"What happened to those who didn't develop space travel?" asked
Taphetta.
</p>
<p>
"We helped them," said Emmer.
</p>
<p>
And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically late
or early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold of
atomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thing
for non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actually
aggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselves
aloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, it
was tacitly assumed, such a destiny?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Taphetta changed his questioning. "What do you expect to gain from this
discovery of the unknown ancestor?"
</p>
<p>
It was Halden who answered him. "There's the satisfaction of knowing
where we came from."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," rustled the Ribboneer. "But a lot of money and equipment
was required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educational
institutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectual
curiosity."
</p>
<p>
"Cultural discoveries," rumbled Emmer. "How did our ancestors live?
When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more than
physiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Things
that were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span."
</p>
<p>
"No doubt," said Taphetta. "An archeologist would be interested in
cultural discoveries."
</p>
<p>
"Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advanced
civilization," added Halden. "A faster-than-light drive, and we've
achieved that only within the last thousand years."
</p>
<p>
"But I think we have a better one than they did," said the Ribboneer.
"There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,
but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?"
</p>
<p>
Halden nodded. "Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,
working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves and
produced us. They
<i>
were
</i>
master biologists."
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," said Taphetta. "I never paid much attention to your
fantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've built
up a convincing case." He raised his head, speech ribbons curling
fractionally and ceaselessly. "I don't like to, but we'll have to risk
using bait for your pest."
</p>
<p>
He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot's
consent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had been
bothering him vaguely. "What's the difference between the Ribboneer
contract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal."
</p>
<p>
"To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover as
much as you think you will. The difference is this:
<i>
My
</i>
terms don't
permit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race."
</p>
<p>
Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholding
anything. Halden examined his own attitudes.
<i>
He
</i>
hadn't intended, but
could he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?
He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquired
would have to be shared.
</p>
<p>
That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind of
technical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that could
improve itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a start
that could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Why do we have to watch it on the screen?" asked Meredith, glancing
up. "I'd rather be in hydroponics."
</p>
<p>
Halden shrugged. "They may or may not be smarter than planetbound
animals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near."
</p>
<p>
Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen with
it, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to the
two crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was a
miniature keyboard.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
When they nodded, Halden said: "Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise at
a minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate them
exactly."
</p>
<p>
At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shape
crept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before coming
forward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the open
floor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.
</p>
<p>
Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up the
side of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it began
nibbling what it could reach.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was another
shape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small one
retreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leaped
and the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught up
and mauled the other unmercifully.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last it
backed off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.
Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything within
reach, it climbed into the branches.
</p>
<p>
The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began dragging
itself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made no
noise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurrying
away, still within range of the screen.
</p>
<p>
Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on top
and there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffed
around and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten as
it snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recent
defeat.
</p>
<p>
This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped and
landed on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animal
heard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumping
the last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.
</p>
<p>
The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a paw
flickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat of
the charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.
The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stopped
moving.
</p>
<p>
The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of its
foe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had been
found—
<i>
and laid it down
</i>
.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became too
bright for anything to be visible.
</p>
<p>
"Go in and get them," said Halden. "We don't want the pests to find out
that the bodies aren't flesh."
</p>
<p>
"It was realistic enough," said Meredith as the crewmen shut off their
machines and went out. "Do you think it will work?"
</p>
<p>
"It might. We had an audience."
</p>
<p>
"Did we? I didn't notice." Meredith leaned back. "Were the puppets
exactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?"
</p>
<p>
"The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don't
have to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,
they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it."
</p>
<p>
"What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by a
creature without real hands?"
</p>
<p>
"That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—and
they'll never get away from the trap to try."
</p>
<p>
"Very good. I never thought of that," said Meredith, coming closer. "I
like the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think of
marrying you."
</p>
<p>
"Primitive," he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knew
that, in relation to her, he was
<i>
not
</i>
advanced.
</p>
<p>
"It's almost a curse, isn't it?" She laughed and took the curse away by
leaning provocatively against him. "But barbaric lovers are often nice."
</p>
<p>
Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. To
her, I'm merely a passionate savage.
</p>
<p>
They went to his cabin.
</p>
<p>
She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, she
wasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionately
long and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,
except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that made
the difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visual
development, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color on
the violet end of the spectrum.
</p>
<p>
She settled back and looked at him. "It might be fun living with you on
primeval Earth."
</p>
<p>
He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced as
her own world. She had something else in mind.
</p>
<p>
"I don't think I will, though. We might have children."
</p>
<p>
"Would it be wrong?" he asked. "I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn't
have subhuman monsters."
</p>
<p>
"It would be a step up—for you." Under her calm, there was tension.
It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to the
surface now. "Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I make
them start lower than I am?"
</p>
<p>
The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,
it governed personal relations between races that were united against
non-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.
</p>
<p>
"I haven't asked you to marry me," he said bluntly.
</p>
<p>
"Because you're afraid I'd refuse."
</p>
<p>
It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter a
permanent union.
</p>
<p>
"Why did you ever have anything to do with me?" demanded Halden.
</p>
<p>
"Love," she said gloomily. "Physical attraction. But I can't let it
lead me astray."
</p>
<p>
"Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientific
about it, he'd give you children of the higher type."
</p>
<p>
"Kelburn." It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. "I don't
like him and he wouldn't marry me."
</p>
<p>
"He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.
There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's race
had a body like hers and she knew it.
</p>
<p>
"Racially, there should be a chance," she said. "Actually, Kelburn and
I would be infertile."
</p>
<p>
"Can you be sure?" he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to act
unconcerned.
</p>
<p>
"How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis?" she asked, an oblique
smile narrowing her eyes. "I know we can't."
</p>
<p>
His face felt anesthetized. "Did you have to tell me that?"
</p>
<p>
She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reaction
was purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the flesh
give when his knuckles struck it.
</p>
<p>
She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she took
it away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in front
of it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.
</p>
<p>
"You've broken my nose," she said factually. "I'll have to stop the
blood and pain."
</p>
<p>
She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. She
closed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped back
and looked at herself critically.
</p>
<p>
"It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have it
healed by morning."
</p>
<p>
She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly across
the bridge. Then she came over to him.
</p>
<p>
"I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me."
</p>
<p>
He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,
invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he still
feel that attraction to her?
</p>
<p>
"Try Emmer," he suggested tiredly. "He'll find you irresistible, and
he's even more savage than I am."
</p>
<p>
"Is he?" She smiled enigmatically. "Maybe, in a biological sense. Too
much, though. You're just right."
</p>
<p>
He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing what
Emmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside of
the physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—what
advantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,
nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with the
higher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet he
wanted her.
</p>
<p>
"I do think I love you," she said. "And if love's enough, I may marry
you in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose children
I have." She wriggled into his arms.
</p>
<p>
The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was not
completely her fault. Besides....
</p>
<p>
Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superior
children—and they might be his.
</p>
<p>
He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Were
they all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slime
toward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,
<i>
through
</i>
—everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward and
upward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his anger
was turned.
</p>
<p>
"Careful of the nose," she said, pressing against him. "You've already
broken it once."
</p>
<p>
He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) ancestral bloodline\n(B) physical biology\n(C) galactic prevalence\n(D) intellectual status",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Human beings -- Origin -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; PS"
} |
51494 | Why shouldn't Purnie stop time?
Choices:
(A) Small children who stop time, may not live to regret it.
(B) Purnie may be abducted if the animals know he can stop time.
(C) Purnie may not be able to get time going again.
(D) Stopping time consumes massive amounts of energy. | [
"D",
"Stopping time consumes massive amounts of energy."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
BEACH SCENE
</h1>
<p>
By MARSHALL KING
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It was a fine day at the beach
<br/>
for Purnie's game—but his new
<br/>
friends played very rough!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could run
no more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped with
delight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see the
ocean at last.
</p>
<p>
When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. No
sign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutiny
of brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from going
to the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.
</p>
<p>
"On your mark!" he shouted to the rippling stream and its orange
whirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending that
some object might try to get a head start. "Get set!" he challenged
the thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. "Stop!"
He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purple
clouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonder
how tall the trees really were.
</p>
<p>
His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:
the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpools
had stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,
its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and the
heavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls and
nimbi.
</p>
<p>
With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purnie
hurried toward the ocean.
</p>
<p>
If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much to
see and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seen
the wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from his
brothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he could
remember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,
as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though he
were already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs to
play on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comical
three-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and many
kinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.
</p>
<p>
He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved this
day just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't this
his fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, and
even for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies and
wouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!
</p>
<p>
"I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see!" As he passed one of
the many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he took
care not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. When
Purnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures he
met—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that as
soon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not far
off, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what was
clearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that he
had been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeying
far from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that an
hour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.
He chose to ignore the negative maxim that "small children who stop
time without an adult being present, may not live to regret it."
</p>
<p>
He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friends
when they learned of his brave journey.
</p>
<p>
The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough to
gather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunch
during this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along a
dozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.
</p>
<p>
He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!
</p>
<p>
He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his "Hurrah!" came
out as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled waves
awaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers along
the shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having already
exploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smooth
orange curls waiting to start that action.
</p>
<p>
And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora were
frozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie had
heard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothers
in school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down the
beach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facing
the spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eight
more, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interrupted
animation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thin
nothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comical
tripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careers
of munching seaweed.
</p>
<p>
"Hi there!" Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered that
he himself was "dead" to the living world: he was still in a zone of
time-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world would
continue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Hi there!" he called again; but now his mental attitude was that he
expected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded by
activity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tasted
the dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friends
continue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.
</p>
<p>
He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brook
picked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumed
their leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued their
pollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of their
delicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not been
interrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performed
with continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,
not the world around him.
</p>
<p>
He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet the
tripons who, to him, had just come to life.
</p>
<p>
"I can stand on my head!" He set down his lunch and balanced himself
bottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him in
position. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had ever
done, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left its
mark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.
</p>
<p>
The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching long
enough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to its
repast.
</p>
<p>
Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything at
once. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glided
to a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first of
the two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual "Hi
there!" when he heard them making sounds of their own.
</p>
<p>
"... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makes
seventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!"
</p>
<p>
"My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell are
you going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back in
San Diego?"
</p>
<p>
"Hi there, wanna play?" Purnie's invitation got nothing more than
startled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.
He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,
tagging along at their heels. "I've got my lunch, want some?"
</p>
<p>
"Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking at
the scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for this
expedition just to give your flunkies a vacation."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself in
their heels.
</p>
<p>
"All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it's
your money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But you
hired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's just
what I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safety
of the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home."
</p>
<p>
"Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em to
bring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in the
ocean with a three-legged ostrich!"
</p>
<p>
"Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twenty
minutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to find
wild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint little
creatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the men
look around a minute or two before we stake out your claim."
</p>
<p>
"Bah! Bunch of damn children."
</p>
<p>
As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. "Benson,
will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me!" Purnie shrieked with
joy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this position
he got an upside down view of them walking away.
</p>
<p>
He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?
What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, three
more of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparently
trying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held out
his lunch. "Want some?" No response.
</p>
<p>
Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten and
went down to where they had stopped further along the beach.
</p>
<p>
"Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in the
vicinity. He's trying to locate it now."
</p>
<p>
"There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to make
you so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, I
believe."
</p>
<p>
"Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I've
discovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about that
flag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque."
</p>
<p>
"All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and his
claim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Lively
now!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, the
first two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.
</p>
<p>
"Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for the
base of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.
</p>
<p>
"Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too high
to carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works will
slide down on top of us."
</p>
<p>
"Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to be
solid. It's got to stand at least—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this with
the flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up a
flag."
</p>
<p>
"There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements set
down by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say it
represents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flags
is the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call it
sentiment if you will."
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before."
</p>
<p>
"Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?
What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering."
</p>
<p>
"Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrow
system so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually own
the people who are foolish enough to buy land on them."
</p>
<p>
"I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!
It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give your
space ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good money
into a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away from
thirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?"
</p>
<p>
"I imagine you'll triple your money in six months."
</p>
<p>
When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested in
the strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, and
as they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering to
himself, content to be in their company.
</p>
<p>
He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to see
the remainder of the group running toward them.
</p>
<p>
"Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with the
scintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!"
</p>
<p>
"How about that, Miles?"
</p>
<p>
"This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.
Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. "Can you do this?"
He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderful
noises, and he felt most satisfied.
</p>
<p>
"Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This little
chuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!"
</p>
<p>
"Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do you
suppose—"
</p>
<p>
By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hard
put to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: he
stood on one leg.
</p>
<p>
"Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
"Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—"
</p>
<p>
"This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!"
</p>
<p>
"With my crew as witness, I officially protest—"
</p>
<p>
"Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,
they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands of
these creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn fools
on Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors
<i>
flocking
</i>
to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off or
doesn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may be
great danger to the crew—"
</p>
<p>
"Now look here! You had planned to put
<i>
mineral
</i>
specimens in a lead
box, so what's the difference? Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
"He'll die."
</p>
<p>
"I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, and
what's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this day
had brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,
the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circle
happily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of their
own tricks.
</p>
<p>
He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle stepped
back and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.
Purnie sat up to watch the show.
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has no
intention of running away."
</p>
<p>
"Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling what
powers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope."
</p>
<p>
"I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes."
</p>
<p>
"All right, careful now with that line."
</p>
<p>
"Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed the
imploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't know
what he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as he
wiggled in anticipation.
</p>
<p>
He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knew
it, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He was
surprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.
Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want to
protect himself.
</p>
<p>
He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, their
attention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that he
had not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.
</p>
<p>
"Wait!" He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran back
into the little crowd. "I've got my lunch, want some?"
</p>
<p>
The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,
and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.
He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within a
few feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was about
to push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard a
deafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.
</p>
<p>
"Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!"
</p>
<p>
"There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that's
all. Now pick him up."
</p>
<p>
The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.
What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward him
again, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use this
power carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split second
following the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in all
directions to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it had
ordered the stoppage of time.
</p>
<p>
The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hung
motionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way in
transverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie dragged
himself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability to
understand.
</p>
<p>
As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at first
to not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done something
wrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,
he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who had
in his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from one
end; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.
He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made a
hissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.
Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, true
to its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loud
explosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie had
stopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and its
three legs drawn up into a squatting position.
</p>
<p>
Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,
torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this ocean
country! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beach
animals.
</p>
<p>
Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friends
with a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playing
with them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fit
into. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start the
long walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew he
didn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. His
fatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had already
abused this faculty.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood in
open-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on the
spot where Purnie had been standing.
</p>
<p>
"My God, he's—he's gone."
</p>
<p>
Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in his
hand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.
"All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. What
did you do with him?"
</p>
<p>
The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, for
to them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure of
was that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping around
in front of them, and the next moment he was gone.
</p>
<p>
"Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?"
</p>
<p>
"Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll be damned!"
</p>
<p>
"Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now that
you've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way."
</p>
<p>
"Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about that
fuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about that
gun!"
</p>
<p>
Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at his
friends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.
Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the short
distance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified at
the spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals below
filled him with hysteria.
</p>
<p>
The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.
Others were pinned down on the sand.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't mean it!" Purnie screamed. "I'm sorry! Can't you hear?" He
hopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic and
shame. "Get up! Please get up!" He was horrified by the moans reaching
his ears from the beach. "You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?
Please get up." He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he have
done this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,
tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring it
about.
</p>
<p>
The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.
The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding of
death.
</p>
<p>
"Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?"
</p>
<p>
"I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going to
drown!"
</p>
<p>
"Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?"
</p>
<p>
"The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of us
here in the water—"
</p>
<p>
"Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's—" His sounds were cut off by a
wavelet gently rolling over his head.
</p>
<p>
Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of the
animals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregarding
the consequences, he ordered time to stop.
</p>
<p>
Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then he
tugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie worked
slowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as far
as his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their condition
of life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way until
he started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,
where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. The
hand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among the
logs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.
</p>
<p>
It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.
</p>
<p>
Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim after
another until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, he
started unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.
He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sitting
position, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.
Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue into
a new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed the
chaotic scene before him.
</p>
<p>
At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away from
him.
</p>
<p>
He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period of
time-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... without
him. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,
he knew he must first resume time.
</p>
<p>
Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and then
to consider if this were the moment to start time before it was too
late. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of the
knoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.
</p>
<p>
Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he ordered
time to resume, nothing happened.
</p>
<p>
His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he died
the oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But he
wanted to see them safe.
</p>
<p>
He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no
<i>
urging
</i>
time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,
first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. He
had to take one viewpoint or the other.
</p>
<p>
Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind took
command....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomach
and pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled over
Purnie as sounds came from the animal.
</p>
<p>
"What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!
What's happening?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're either
crazy or those damn logs are alive!"
</p>
<p>
"It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,
we're both cracking."
</p>
<p>
"I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.
I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they're
piled up over there!"
</p>
<p>
"Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? Captain
Benson!"
</p>
<p>
"Are you men all right?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes sir, but—"
</p>
<p>
"Who saw exactly what happened?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—"
</p>
<p>
"I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up the
others and get out of here while time is on our side."
</p>
<p>
"But what happened, Captain?"
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so old
they're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It would
take super-human energy to move one of those things."
</p>
<p>
"I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are so
busy eating seaweed—"
</p>
<p>
"All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can't
walk. Where's Forbes?"
</p>
<p>
"He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Or
laughing. I can't tell which."
</p>
<p>
"We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You all
right?"
</p>
<p>
"Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'll
do anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see that
little trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!"
</p>
<p>
"See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or one
of us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be along
shortly."
</p>
<p>
"Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible
for this. Hee-hee!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?
</p>
<p>
He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,
where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moons
he saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two and
three, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around the
curving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear far
behind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.
</p>
<p>
"Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?"
</p>
<p>
"It's possible, but we're not."
</p>
<p>
"I wish I could be sure."
</p>
<p>
"See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?"
</p>
<p>
"I still can't believe it."
</p>
<p>
"He'll never be the same."
</p>
<p>
"Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed back
there?"
</p>
<p>
"You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of us
suddenly—"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. But I mean beside that."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up."
</p>
<p>
"But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly of
myself."
</p>
<p>
"Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw him
too."
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Got
him in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devil
come back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped under
those logs?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't do
him any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'm
still a little shaky."
</p>
<p>
"Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.
I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.
You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone."
</p>
<p>
"No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked."
</p>
<p>
"That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw through
glazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it was
nearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by now
had become familiar.
</p>
<p>
"Where are you?"
</p>
<p>
Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he was
beyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when he
returned.
</p>
<p>
"We've made a terrible mistake. We—" The sounds faded in and out on
Purnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in different
directions. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scattered
logs and peer around and under them.
</p>
<p>
"If you're hurt I'd like to help!" The twin moons were high in the sky
now, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a double
shadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watched
the creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction of
the others.
</p>
<p>
Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. The
beach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmering
white square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnie
ever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Small children who stop time, may not live to regret it.\n(B) Purnie may be abducted if the animals know he can stop time.\n(C) Purnie may not be able to get time going again.\n(D) Stopping time consumes massive amounts of energy.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; Extraterrestrial beings -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
50766 | Why doesn't Caswell expect the Watashaw sewing club to grow astronomically?
Choices:
(A) Caswell has underestimated the female population of Watashaw.
(B) Caswell has underestimated the popularity of sewing.
(C) Caswell has underestimated the ingenuity of the club members.
(D) Caswell thinks only women enjoy sewing. | [
"C",
"Caswell has underestimated the ingenuity of the club members."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
The Snowball Effect
</h1>
<p>
By KATHERINE MacLEAN
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Tack power drives on a sewing circle and
<br/>
you can needle the world into the darndest mess!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"All right," I said, "what
<i>
is
</i>
sociology good for?"
</p>
<p>
Wilton Caswell, Ph.D., was head of my Sociology Department, and right
then he was mad enough to chew nails. On the office wall behind him
were three or four framed documents in Latin that were supposed to be
signs of great learning, but I didn't care at that moment if he papered
the walls with his degrees. I had been appointed dean and president
to see to it that the university made money. I had a job to do, and I
meant to do it.
</p>
<p>
He bit off each word with great restraint: "Sociology is the study of
social institutions, Mr. Halloway."
</p>
<p>
I tried to make him understand my position. "Look, it's the big-money
men who are supposed to be contributing to the support of this college.
To them, sociology sounds like socialism—nothing can sound worse than
that—and an institution is where they put Aunt Maggy when she began
collecting Wheaties in a stamp album. We can't appeal to them that way.
Come on now." I smiled condescendingly, knowing it would irritate him.
"What are you doing that's worth anything?"
</p>
<p>
He glared at me, his white hair bristling and his nostrils dilated
like a war horse about to whinny. I can say one thing for them—these
scientists and professors always keep themselves well under control.
He had a book in his hand and I was expecting him to throw it, but he
spoke instead:
</p>
<p>
"This department's analysis of institutional accretion, by the use of
open system mathematics, has been recognized as an outstanding and
valuable contribution to—"
</p>
<p>
The words were impressive, whatever they meant, but this still didn't
sound like anything that would pull in money. I interrupted, "Valuable
in what way?"
</p>
<p>
He sat down on the edge of his desk thoughtfully, apparently recovering
from the shock of being asked to produce something solid for his
position, and ran his eyes over the titles of the books that lined his
office walls.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sociology has been valuable to business in initiating worker
efficiency and group motivation studies, which they now use in
management decisions. And, of course, since the depression, Washington
has been using sociological studies of employment, labor and standards
of living as a basis for its general policies of—"
</p>
<p>
I stopped him with both raised hands. "Please, Professor Caswell! That
would hardly be a recommendation. Washington, the New Deal and the
present Administration are somewhat touchy subjects to the men I have
to deal with. They consider its value debatable, if you know what I
mean. If they got the idea that sociology professors are giving advice
and guidance—No, we have to stick to brass tacks and leave Washington
out of this. What, specifically, has the work of this specific
department done that would make it as worthy to receive money as—say,
a heart disease research fund?"
</p>
<p>
He began to tap the corner of his book absently on the desk, watching
me. "Fundamental research doesn't show immediate effects, Mr. Halloway,
but its value is recognized."
</p>
<p>
I smiled and took out my pipe. "All right, tell me about it. Maybe I'll
recognize its value."
</p>
<p>
Prof. Caswell smiled back tightly. He knew his department was at stake.
The other departments were popular with donors and pulled in gift
money by scholarships and fellowships, and supported their professors
and graduate students by research contracts with the government
and industry. Caswell had to show a way to make his own department
popular—or else. I couldn't fire him directly, of course, but there
are ways of doing it indirectly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He laid down his book and ran a hand over his ruffled hair.
"Institutions—organizations, that is—" his voice became more
resonant; like most professors, when he had to explain something he
instinctively slipped into his platform lecture mannerisms, and began
to deliver an essay—"have certain tendencies built into the way they
happen to have been organized, which cause them to expand or contract
without reference to the needs they were founded to serve."
</p>
<p>
He was becoming flushed with the pleasure of explaining his subject.
"All through the ages, it has been a matter of wonder and dismay
to men that a simple organization—such as a church to worship in,
or a delegation of weapons to a warrior class merely for defense
against an outside enemy—will either grow insensately and extend its
control until it is a tyranny over their whole lives, or, like other
organizations set up to serve a vital need, will tend to repeatedly
dwindle and vanish, and have to be painfully rebuilt.
</p>
<p>
"The reason can be traced to little quirks in the way they were
organized, a matter of positive and negative power feedbacks. Such
simple questions as, 'Is there a way a holder of authority in this
organization can use the power available to him to increase his power?'
provide the key. But it still could not be handled until the complex
questions of interacting motives and long-range accumulations of minor
effects could somehow be simplified and formulated. In working on the
problem, I found that the mathematics of open system, as introduced
to biology by Ludwig von Bertalanffy and George Kreezer, could be
used as a base that would enable me to develop a specifically social
mathematics, expressing the human factors of intermeshing authority and
motives in simple formulas.
</p>
<p>
"By these formulations, it is possible to determine automatically the
amount of growth and period of life of any organization. The UN, to
choose an unfortunate example, is a shrinker type organization. Its
monetary support is not in the hands of those who personally benefit
by its governmental activities, but, instead, in the hands of those
who would personally lose by any extension and encroachment of its
authority on their own. Yet by the use of formula analysis—"
</p>
<p>
"That's theory," I said. "How about proof?"
</p>
<p>
"My equations are already being used in the study of limited-size
Federal corporations. Washington—"
</p>
<p>
I held up my palm again. "Please, not that nasty word again. I mean,
where else has it been put into operation? Just a simple demonstration,
something to show that it works, that's all."
</p>
<p>
He looked away from me thoughtfully, picked up the book and began to
tap it on the desk again. It had some unreadable title and his name on
it in gold letters. I got the distinct impression again that he was
repressing an urge to hit me with it.
</p>
<p>
He spoke quietly. "All right, I'll give you a demonstration. Are you
willing to wait six months?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly, if you can show me something at the end of that time."
</p>
<p>
Reminded of time, I glanced at my watch and stood up.
</p>
<p>
"Could we discuss this over lunch?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"I wouldn't mind hearing more, but I'm having lunch with some
executors of a millionaire's will. They have to be convinced that by,
'furtherance of research into human ills,' he meant that the money
should go to research fellowships for postgraduate biologists at the
university, rather than to a medical foundation."
</p>
<p>
"I see you have your problems, too," Caswell said, conceding me
nothing. He extended his hand with a chilly smile. "Well, good
afternoon, Mr. Halloway. I'm glad we had this talk."
</p>
<p>
I shook hands and left him standing there, sure of his place in the
progress of science and the respect of his colleagues, yet seething
inside because I, the president and dean, had boorishly demanded that
he produce something tangible.
</p>
<p>
I frankly didn't give a hoot if he blew his lid. My job isn't easy.
For a crumb of favorable publicity and respect in the newspapers and
an annual ceremony in a silly costume, I spend the rest of the year
going hat in hand, asking politely for money at everyone's door,
like a well-dressed panhandler, and trying to manage the university
on the dribble I get. As far as I was concerned, a department had to
support itself or be cut down to what student tuition pays for, which
is a handful of over-crowded courses taught by an assistant lecturer.
Caswell had to make it work or get out.
</p>
<p>
But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to hear what he was
going to do for a demonstration.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At lunch, three days later, while we were waiting for our order, he
opened a small notebook. "Ever hear of feedback effects?"
</p>
<p>
"Not enough to have it clear."
</p>
<p>
"You know the snowball effect, though."
</p>
<p>
"Sure, start a snowball rolling downhill and it grows."
</p>
<p>
"Well, now—" He wrote a short line of symbols on a blank page and
turned the notebook around for me to inspect it. "Here's the formula
for the snowball process. It's the basic general growth formula—covers
everything."
</p>
<p>
It was a row of little symbols arranged like an algebra equation. One
was a concentric spiral going up, like a cross-section of a snowball
rolling in snow. That was a growth sign.
</p>
<p>
I hadn't expected to understand the equation, but it was almost as
clear as a sentence. I was impressed and slightly intimidated by it.
He had already explained enough so that I knew that, if he was right,
here was the growth of the Catholic Church and the Roman Empire, the
conquests of Alexander and the spread of the smoking habit and the
change and rigidity of the unwritten law of styles.
</p>
<p>
"Is it really as simple as that?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"You notice," he said, "that when it becomes too heavy for the cohesion
strength of snow, it breaks apart. Now in human terms—"
</p>
<p>
The chops and mashed potatoes and peas arrived.
</p>
<p>
"Go on," I urged.
</p>
<p>
He was deep in the symbology of human motives and the equations of
human behavior in groups. After running through a few different
types of grower and shrinker type organizations, we came back to the
snowball, and decided to run the test by making something grow.
</p>
<p>
"You add the motives," he said, "and the equation will translate them
into organization."
</p>
<p>
"How about a good selfish reason for the ins to drag others into the
group—some sort of bounty on new members, a cut of their membership
fee?" I suggested uncertainly, feeling slightly foolish. "And maybe a
reason why the members would lose if any of them resigned, and some
indirect way they could use to force each other to stay in."
</p>
<p>
"The first is the chain letter principle," he nodded. "I've got
that. The other...." He put the symbols through some mathematical
manipulation so that a special grouping appeared in the middle of the
equation. "That's it."
</p>
<p>
Since I seemed to have the right idea, I suggested some more, and he
added some, and juggled them around in different patterns. We threw
out a few that would have made the organization too complicated, and
finally worked out an idyllically simple and deadly little organization
setup where joining had all the temptation of buying a sweepstakes
ticket, going in deeper was as easy as hanging around a race track, and
getting out was like trying to pull free from a Malayan thumb trap. We
put our heads closer together and talked lower, picking the best place
for the demonstration.
</p>
<p>
"Abington?"
</p>
<p>
"How about Watashaw? I have some student sociological surveys of it
already. We can pick a suitable group from that."
</p>
<p>
"This demonstration has got to be convincing. We'd better pick a little
group that no one in his right mind would expect to grow."
</p>
<p>
"There should be a suitable club—"
</p>
<p>
Picture Professor Caswell, head of the Department of Sociology, and
with him the President of the University, leaning across the table
toward each other, sipping coffee and talking in conspiratorial tones
over something they were writing in a notebook.
</p>
<p>
That was us.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Ladies," said the skinny female chairman of the Watashaw Sewing
Circle. "Today we have guests." She signaled for us to rise, and we
stood up, bowing to polite applause and smiles. "Professor Caswell, and
Professor Smith." (My alias.) "They are making a survey of the methods
and duties of the clubs of Watashaw."
</p>
<p>
We sat down to another ripple of applause and slightly wider smiles,
and then the meeting of the Watashaw Sewing Circle began. In five
minutes I began to feel sleepy.
</p>
<p>
There were only about thirty people there, and it was a small room, not
the halls of Congress, but they discussed their business of collecting
and repairing second hand clothing for charity with the same endless
boring parliamentary formality.
</p>
<p>
I pointed out to Caswell the member I thought would be the natural
leader, a tall, well-built woman in a green suit, with conscious
gestures and a resonant, penetrating voice, and then went into a
half doze while Caswell stayed awake beside me and wrote in his
notebook. After a while the resonant voice roused me to attention for
a moment. It was the tall woman holding the floor over some collective
dereliction of the club. She was being scathing.
</p>
<p>
I nudged Caswell and murmured, "Did you fix it so that a shover has a
better chance of getting into office than a non-shover?"
</p>
<p>
"I think there's a way they could find for it," Caswell whispered back,
and went to work on his equation again. "Yes, several ways to bias the
elections."
</p>
<p>
"Good. Point them out tactfully to the one you select. Not as if
she'd use such methods, but just as an example of the reason why only
<i>
she
</i>
can be trusted with initiating the change. Just mention all the
personal advantages an unscrupulous person could have."
</p>
<p>
He nodded, keeping a straight and sober face as if we were exchanging
admiring remarks about the techniques of clothes repairing, instead of
conspiring.
</p>
<p>
After the meeting, Caswell drew the tall woman in the green suit
aside and spoke to her confidentially, showing her the diagram of
organization we had drawn up. I saw the responsive glitter in the
woman's eyes and knew she was hooked.
</p>
<p>
We left the diagram of organization and our typed copy of the new
bylaws with her and went off soberly, as befitted two social science
experimenters. We didn't start laughing until our car passed the town
limits and began the climb for University Heights.
</p>
<p>
If Caswell's equations meant anything at all, we had given that sewing
circle more growth drives than the Roman Empire.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four months later I had time out from a very busy schedule to wonder
how the test was coming along. Passing Caswell's office, I put my head
in. He looked up from a student research paper he was correcting.
</p>
<p>
"Caswell, about that sewing club business—I'm beginning to feel the
suspense. Could I get an advance report on how it's coming?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not following it. We're supposed to let it run the full six
months."
</p>
<p>
"But I'm curious. Could I get in touch with that woman—what's her
name?"
</p>
<p>
"Searles. Mrs. George Searles."
</p>
<p>
"Would that change the results?"
</p>
<p>
"Not in the slightest. If you want to graph the membership rise, it
should be going up in a log curve, probably doubling every so often."
</p>
<p>
I grinned. "If it's not rising, you're fired."
</p>
<p>
He grinned back. "If it's not rising, you won't have to fire me—I'll
burn my books and shoot myself."
</p>
<p>
I returned to my office and put in a call to Watashaw.
</p>
<p>
While I was waiting for the phone to be answered, I took a piece of
graph paper and ruled it off into six sections, one for each month.
After the phone had rung in the distance for a long time, a servant
answered with a bored drawl:
</p>
<p>
"Mrs. Searles' residence."
</p>
<p>
I picked up a red gummed star and licked it.
</p>
<p>
"Mrs. Searles, please."
</p>
<p>
"She's not in just now. Could I take a message?"
</p>
<p>
I placed the star at the thirty line in the beginning of the first
section. Thirty members they'd started with.
</p>
<p>
"No, thanks. Could you tell me when she'll be back?"
</p>
<p>
"Not until dinner. She's at the meetin'."
</p>
<p>
"The sewing club?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir, not that thing. There isn't any Sewing club any more, not
for a long time. She's at the Civic Welfare meeting."
</p>
<p>
Somehow I hadn't expected anything like that.
</p>
<p>
"Thank you," I said and hung up, and after a moment noticed I was
holding a box of red gummed stars in my hand. I closed it and put it
down on top of the graph of membership in the sewing circle. No more
members....
</p>
<p>
Poor Caswell. The bet between us was ironclad. He wouldn't let me
back down on it even if I wanted to. He'd probably quit before I put
through the first slow move to fire him. His professional pride would
be shattered, sunk without a trace. I remembered what he said about
shooting himself. It had seemed funny to both of us at the time,
but.... What a mess
<i>
that
</i>
would make for the university.
</p>
<p>
I had to talk to Mrs. Searles. Perhaps there was some outside reason
why the club had disbanded. Perhaps it had not just died.
</p>
<p>
I called back. "This is Professor Smith," I said, giving the alias I
had used before. "I called a few minutes ago. When did you say Mrs.
Searles will return?"
</p>
<p>
"About six-thirty or seven o'clock."
</p>
<p>
Five hours to wait.
</p>
<p>
And what if Caswell asked me what I had found out in the meantime? I
didn't want to tell him anything until I had talked it over with that
woman Searles first.
</p>
<p>
"Where is this Civic Welfare meeting?"
</p>
<p>
She told me.
</p>
<p>
Five minutes later, I was in my car, heading for Watashaw, driving
considerably faster than my usual speed and keeping a careful watch for
highway patrol cars as the speedometer climbed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The town meeting hall and theater was a big place, probably with lots
of small rooms for different clubs. I went in through the center door
and found myself in the huge central hall where some sort of rally was
being held. A political-type rally—you know, cheers and chants, with
bunting already down on the floor, people holding banners, and plenty
of enthusiasm and excitement in the air. Someone was making a speech up
on the platform. Most of the people there were women.
</p>
<p>
I wondered how the Civic Welfare League could dare hold its meeting at
the same time as a political rally that could pull its members away.
The group with Mrs. Searles was probably holding a shrunken and almost
memberless meeting somewhere in an upper room.
</p>
<p>
There probably was a side door that would lead upstairs.
</p>
<p>
While I glanced around, a pretty girl usher put a printed bulletin in
my hand, whispering, "Here's one of the new copies." As I attempted to
hand it back, she retreated. "Oh, you can keep it. It's the new one.
Everyone's supposed to have it. We've just printed up six thousand
copies to make sure there'll be enough to last."
</p>
<p>
The tall woman on the platform had been making a driving, forceful
speech about some plans for rebuilding Watashaw's slum section. It
began to penetrate my mind dimly as I glanced down at the bulletin in
my hands.
</p>
<p>
"Civic Welfare League of Watashaw. The United Organization of Church
and Secular Charities." That's what it said. Below began the rules of
membership.
</p>
<p>
I looked up. The speaker, with a clear, determined voice and conscious,
forceful gestures, had entered the homestretch of her speech, an appeal
to the civic pride of all citizens of Watashaw.
</p>
<p>
"With a bright and glorious future—potentially without poor and
without uncared-for ill—potentially with no ugliness, no vistas which
are not beautiful—the best people in the best planned town in the
country—the jewel of the United States."
</p>
<p>
She paused and then leaned forward intensely, striking her clenched
hand on the speaker's stand with each word for emphasis.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
All we need is more members. Now get out there and recruit!
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
I finally recognized Mrs. Searles, as an answering sudden blast of
sound half deafened me. The crowd was chanting at the top of its lungs:
"Recruit! Recruit!"
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Searles stood still at the speaker's table and behind her,
seated in a row of chairs, was a group that was probably the board of
directors. It was mostly women, and the women began to look vaguely
familiar, as if they could be members of the sewing circle.
</p>
<p>
I put my lips close to the ear of the pretty usher while I turned over
the stiff printed bulletin on a hunch. "How long has the League been
organized?" On the back of the bulletin was a constitution.
</p>
<p>
She was cheering with the crowd, her eyes sparkling. "I don't know,"
she answered between cheers. "I only joined two days ago. Isn't it
wonderful?"
</p>
<p>
I went into the quiet outer air and got into my car with my skin
prickling. Even as I drove away, I could hear them. They were singing
some kind of organization song with the tune of "Marching through
Georgia."
</p>
<p>
Even at the single glance I had given it, the constitution looked
exactly like the one we had given the Watashaw Sewing Circle.
</p>
<p>
All I told Caswell when I got back was that the sewing circle had
changed its name and the membership seemed to be rising.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Next day, after calling Mrs. Searles, I placed some red stars on my
graph for the first three months. They made a nice curve, rising more
steeply as it reached the fourth month. They had picked up their first
increase in membership simply by amalgamating with all the other types
of charity organizations in Watashaw, changing the club name with each
fusion, but keeping the same constitution—the constitution with the
bright promise of advantages as long as there were always new members
being brought in.
</p>
<p>
By the fifth month, the League had added a mutual baby-sitting service
and had induced the local school board to add a nursery school to the
town service, so as to free more women for League activity. But charity
must have been completely organized by then, and expansion had to be in
other directions.
</p>
<p>
Some real estate agents evidently had been drawn into the whirlpool
early, along with their ideas. The slum improvement plans began to
blossom and take on a tinge of real estate planning later in the month.
</p>
<p>
The first day of the sixth month, a big two page spread appeared in
the local paper of a mass meeting which had approved a full-fledged
scheme for slum clearance of Watashaw's shack-town section, plus plans
for rehousing, civic building, and rezoning.
<i>
And
</i>
good prospects
for attracting some new industries to the town, industries which had
already been contacted and seemed interested by the privileges offered.
</p>
<p>
And with all this, an arrangement for securing and distributing to the
club members
<i>
alone
</i>
most of the profit that would come to the town in
the form of a rise in the price of building sites and a boom in the
building industry. The profit distributing arrangement was the same one
that had been built into the organization plan for the distribution
of the small profits of membership fees and honorary promotions. It
was becoming an openly profitable business. Membership was rising more
rapidly now.
</p>
<p>
By the second week of the sixth month, news appeared in the local paper
that the club had filed an application to incorporate itself as the
Watashaw Mutual Trade and Civic Development Corporation, and all the
local real estate promoters had finished joining en masse. The Mutual
Trade part sounded to me as if the Chamber of Commerce was on the point
of being pulled in with them, ideas, ambitions and all.
</p>
<p>
I chuckled while reading the next page of the paper, on which a local
politician was reported as having addressed the club with a long
flowery oration on their enterprise, charity, and civic spirit. He
had been made an honorary member. If he allowed himself to be made a
<i>
full
</i>
member with its contractual obligations and its lures, if the
politicians went into this, too....
</p>
<p>
I laughed, filing the newspaper with the other documents on the
Watashaw test. These proofs would fascinate any businessman with the
sense to see where his bread was buttered. A businessman is constantly
dealing with organizations, including his own, and finding them either
inert, cantankerous, or both. Caswell's formula could be a handle to
grasp them with. Gratitude alone would bring money into the university
in carload lots.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The end of the sixth month came. The test was over and the end reports
were spectacular. Caswell's formulas were proven to the hilt.
</p>
<p>
After reading the last newspaper reports, I called him up.
</p>
<p>
"Perfect, Wilt,
<i>
perfect
</i>
! I can use this Watashaw thing to get you so
many fellowships and scholarships and grants for your department that
you'll think it's snowing money!"
</p>
<p>
He answered somewhat disinterestedly, "I've been busy working with
students on their research papers and marking tests—not following the
Watashaw business at all, I'm afraid. You say the demonstration went
well and you're satisfied?"
</p>
<p>
He was definitely putting on a chill. We were friends now, but
obviously he was still peeved whenever he was reminded that I had
doubted that his theory could work. And he was using its success to
rub my nose in the realization that I had been wrong. A man with a
string of degrees after his name is just as human as anyone else. I had
needled him pretty hard that first time.
</p>
<p>
"I'm satisfied," I acknowledged. "I was wrong. The formulas work
beautifully. Come over and see my file of documents on it if you want a
boost for your ego. Now let's see the formula for stopping it."
</p>
<p>
He sounded cheerful again. "I didn't complicate that organization
with negatives. I wanted it to
<i>
grow
</i>
. It falls apart naturally when
it stops growing for more than two months. It's like the great stock
boom before an economic crash. Everyone in it is prosperous as long as
the prices just keep going up and new buyers come into the market, but
they all knew what would happen if it stopped growing. You remember, we
built in as one of the incentives that the members know they are going
to lose if membership stops growing. Why, if I tried to stop it now,
they'd cut my throat."
</p>
<p>
I remembered the drive and frenzy of the crowd in the one early meeting
I had seen. They probably would.
</p>
<p>
"No," he continued. "We'll just let it play out to the end of its
tether and die of old age."
</p>
<p>
"When will that be?"
</p>
<p>
"It can't grow past the female population of the town. There are only
so many women in Watashaw, and some of them don't like sewing."
</p>
<p>
The graph on the desk before me began to look sinister. Surely Caswell
must have made some provision for—
</p>
<p>
"You underestimate their ingenuity," I said into the phone. "Since they
wanted to expand, they didn't stick to sewing. They went from general
charity to social welfare schemes to something that's pretty close to
an incorporated government. The name is now the Watashaw Mutual Trade
and Civic Development Corporation, and they're filing an application
to change it to Civic Property Pool and Social Dividend, membership
contractual, open to all. That social dividend sounds like a Technocrat
climbed on the band wagon, eh?"
</p>
<p>
While I spoke, I carefully added another red star to the curve above
the thousand member level, checking with the newspaper that still lay
open on my desk. The curve was definitely some sort of log curve now,
growing more rapidly with each increase.
</p>
<p>
"Leaving out practical limitations for a moment, where does the formula
say it will stop?" I asked.
</p>
<p>
"When you run out of people to join it. But after all, there are only
so many people in Watashaw. It's a pretty small town."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"They've opened a branch office in New York," I said carefully into the
phone, a few weeks later.
</p>
<p>
With my pencil, very carefully, I extended the membership curve from
where it was then.
</p>
<p>
After the next doubling, the curve went almost straight up and off the
page.
</p>
<p>
Allowing for a lag of contagion from one nation to another, depending
on how much their citizens intermingled, I'd give the rest of the world
about twelve years.
</p>
<p>
There was a long silence while Caswell probably drew the same graph
in his own mind. Then he laughed weakly. "Well, you asked me for a
demonstration."
</p>
<p>
That was as good an answer as any. We got together and had lunch in a
bar, if you can call it lunch. The movement we started will expand by
hook or by crook, by seduction or by bribery or by propaganda or by
conquest, but it will expand. And maybe a total world government will
be a fine thing—until it hits the end of its rope in twelve years or
so.
</p>
<p>
What happens then, I don't know.
</p>
<p>
But I don't want anyone to pin that on me. From now on, if anyone asks
me, I've never heard of Watashaw.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Caswell has underestimated the female population of Watashaw.\n(B) Caswell has underestimated the popularity of sewing.\n(C) Caswell has underestimated the ingenuity of the club members.\n(D) Caswell thinks only women enjoy sewing.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Short stories; Science fiction; Universities and colleges -- Fiction; Sociology -- Fiction; United States -- Fiction; PS"
} |
51337 | Why doesn't Martin explain the flaw in the plan to the cousins?
Choices:
(A) Martin resents the cousins for taking Ninian away from him.
(B) They have been very generous. Martin is afraid they'll leave, and he won't be wealthy anymore.
(C) Martin does not want the future generations to turn out like his descendants.
(D) Martin finds the cousins very irritating. If they can't figure it out, why should he explain it? | [
"C",
"Martin does not want the future generations to turn out like his descendants."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE MAN OUTSIDE
</h1>
<p>
By EVELYN E. SMITH
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
No one, least of all Martin, could dispute
<br/>
that a man's life should be guarded by his
<br/>
kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's mother
disappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a way
of disappearing around those parts and the kids were often better
off without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it this
good while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martin
had never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides of
soldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country in
successive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no trouble
that way.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story
about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really
was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell
him to call her "
<i>
Aunt Ninian
</i>
"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd
been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought
maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little
too crazy for that.
</p>
<p>
He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer
with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry
instead of mopping up the floor with him.
</p>
<p>
"But I can't understand," he would say, keeping his face straight. "Why
do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin
Conrad?"
</p>
<p>
"Because he's coming to kill you."
</p>
<p>
"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing."
</p>
<p>
Ninian sighed. "He's dissatisfied with the current social order and
killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.
You wouldn't understand."
</p>
<p>
"You're damn right. I
<i>
don't
</i>
understand. What's it all about in
straight gas?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, just don't ask any questions," Ninian said petulantly. "When you
get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the
way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he
knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to
think it was disgusting.
</p>
<p>
"So if you don't like it, clean it up," he suggested.
</p>
<p>
She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
</p>
<p>
"Hire a maid, then!" he jeered.
</p>
<p>
And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean up
the place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face in
the streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demanding
to know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knew
how to give them the cold shoulder.
</p>
<p>
One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been coming
to school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes very
regularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that and
she went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick and
would make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing so
hard inside.
</p>
<p>
But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and
hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin
had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step
without hearing "Fancy Pants!" yelled after him.
</p>
<p>
Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people
thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little
better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There
were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the
same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty
dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.
</p>
<p>
"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical
application to go by," she told him.
</p>
<p>
He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out
wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what
she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a
spectator.
</p>
<p>
When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,
Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that
mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where
intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.
</p>
<p>
"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in," she
declared. "Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here."
</p>
<p>
And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who
came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle
Raymond.
</p>
<p>
From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and
Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many
more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play
with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents
would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if
a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be
something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as
conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she
was supposed to know better than he did.
</p>
<p>
He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,
warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by
more luxury than he knew what to do with.
</p>
<p>
The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. There
were tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And every
inch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the walls
were mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the time
and a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, for
Ninian didn't know much about meals.
</p>
<p>
The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with a
neat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.
</p>
<p>
Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other
kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given
him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd
nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged
and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all
she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if
respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.
</p>
<p>
From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.
They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry
out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,
in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a
world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the
government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to
think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than
actually doing anything with the hands.
</p>
<p>
In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;
everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear
pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was
no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of
normal living.
</p>
<p>
It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of
them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.
They came from the future.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had
promised five years before.
</p>
<p>
"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an
idealist," Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.
</p>
<p>
Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim and
rather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocery
store or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersized
and he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wear
glasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,
and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future having
carefully eradicated all current vulgarities.
</p>
<p>
"And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploiting
the not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets," Raymond
continued. "Which
<i>
is
</i>
distressing—though, of course, it's not as
if they were people. Besides, the government has been talking about
passing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,
and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,
Conrad is so impatient."
</p>
<p>
"I thought, in your world, machines did all the work," Martin suggested.
</p>
<p>
"I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one!" Raymond
snapped. "We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.
But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the same
people ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred odd
years of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He continued more mildly: "However, even you ought to be able to
understand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.
All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on those
worlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all that
expensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, how
would they manage to live?"
</p>
<p>
"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how
do
<i>
you
</i>
live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for
you," Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the
past and think in the future.
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult," Raymond said, "but
if you will persist in these childish interruptions—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of
his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated
young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and
considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And
he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the
lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more
frightening—his race had lost something vital.
</p>
<p>
Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,
Raymond went on blandly: "Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to
feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for
the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we
might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling
guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his
great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held
accountable for his great-grandfather."
</p>
<p>
"How about a great-great-grandchild?" Martin couldn't help asking.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Raymond flushed a delicate pink. "Do you want to hear the rest of this
or don't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I do!" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for
himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.
</p>
<p>
"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time
transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally
officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to
be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always
desperate for a fresh topic of conversation."
</p>
<p>
Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'
assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back
in time and "eliminate!" their common great-grandfather. In that way,
there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never
get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem," Martin observed.
</p>
<p>
Raymond looked annoyed. "It's the
<i>
adolescent
</i>
way," he said, "to do
away with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a whole
society in order to root out a single injustice?"
</p>
<p>
"Not if it were a good one otherwise."
</p>
<p>
"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps
he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such
matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea
of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather
was such a
<i>
good
</i>
man, you know." Raymond's expressive upper lip
curled. "So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of
his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty
worthless character."
</p>
<p>
"That would be me, I suppose," Martin said quietly.
</p>
<p>
Raymond turned a deep rose. "Well, doesn't that just go to prove you
mustn't believe everything you hear?" The next sentence tumbled out in
a rush. "I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other
cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it
was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you." He
beamed at Martin.
</p>
<p>
The boy smiled slowly. "Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in
<i>
eliminating
</i>
me, then none of you would exist, would you?"
</p>
<p>
Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. "Well, you didn't really
suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer
altruism, did you?" he asked, turning on the charm which all the
cousins possessed to a consternating degree.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long
ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.
</p>
<p>
"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's
assistants," Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,
"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Induced
</i>
, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the
use of the iron maiden.
</p>
<p>
"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you
night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made
our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here
we are!"
</p>
<p>
"I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. "After all," he pointed
out defensively, "whatever our motives, it has turned into a good
thing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporary
conveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more you
could ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Of
course Ninian
<i>
was
</i>
a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where any
little thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that our
era has completely disposed of the mercantiles—"
</p>
<p>
"What did you do with them?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
But Raymond rushed on: "Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,
we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.
Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,
the more eccentricity you can get away with. And," he added, "I might
as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this
wretched historical stint."
</p>
<p>
"So Ninian's going," said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel
curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a
remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for
him.
</p>
<p>
"Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend in
exile," Raymond explained, "even though our life spans are a bit longer
than yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoat
government." He looked inquisitively at Martin. "You're not going to
go all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?"
</p>
<p>
"No...." Martin said hesitantly. "Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But we
aren't very close, so it won't make a real difference." That was the
sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.
</p>
<p>
Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew you weren't a sloppy
sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,
you know."
</p>
<p>
Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring
of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. "How do you plan to
protect me when he comes?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course," Raymond said
with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's
combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no
doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. "And we've got a
rather elaborate burglar alarm system."
</p>
<p>
Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring
which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was
dubious. "Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
house
</i>
,
but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
time
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"Never fear—it has a temporal radius," Raymond replied. "Factory
guarantee and all that."
</p>
<p>
"Just to be on the safe side," Martin said, "I think I'd better have
one of those guns, too."
</p>
<p>
"A splendid idea!" enthused Raymond. "I was just about to think of that
myself!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at
her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful
at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding
him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the
cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and
that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the
very last.
</p>
<p>
Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. The
site proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half a
dozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whether
this had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because his
descendants were exceedingly inept planners.
</p>
<p>
Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly as
Martin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possible
convenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,
carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the man
from the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,
Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had become
dulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—"architecturally
dreadful, of course," Raymond had said, "but so hilariously
typical"—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-level
aquarium.
</p>
<p>
"How about a moat?" Martin suggested when they first came. "It seems to
go with a castle."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?" Raymond asked, amused.
</p>
<p>
"No," Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, "but it would make the place
seem safer somehow."
</p>
<p>
The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more
nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that
stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because
several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with
the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,
until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.
</p>
<p>
During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the
higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably
arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At
least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of
their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy
such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of
entertainment.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin," Raymond
commented as he took his place at the head of the table, "because,
unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one
just—well, drifts along happily."
</p>
<p>
"Ours is a wonderful world," Grania sighed at Martin. "I only wish we
could take you there. I'm sure you would like it."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be a fool, Grania!" Raymond snapped. "Well, Martin, have you
made up your mind what you want to be?"
</p>
<p>
Martin affected to think. "A physicist," he said, not without malice.
"Or perhaps an engineer."
</p>
<p>
There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.
</p>
<p>
"Can't do that," Ives said. "Might pick up some concepts from us. Don't
know how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.
Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you might
invent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans from
particularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous."
</p>
<p>
"Might mess up our time frightfully," Bartholomew contributed, "though,
to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how."
</p>
<p>
"I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all over
again, Bart!" Raymond said impatiently. "Well, Martin?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you suggest?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
"How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.
Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead of
their times."
</p>
<p>
"Furthermore," Ottillie added, "one more artist couldn't make much
difference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages."
</p>
<p>
Martin couldn't hold back his question. "What was I, actually, in that
other time?"
</p>
<p>
There was a chilly silence.
</p>
<p>
"Let's not talk about it, dear," Lalage finally said. "Let's just be
thankful we've saved you from
<i>
that
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent
second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first
rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost
purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was
fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and
walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for
the sake of an ideal.
</p>
<p>
But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty
pictures.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the
descendants
<i>
cousin
</i>
—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his
responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged
to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received
critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest
sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not
interested.
</p>
<p>
"Takes time," Ives tried to reassure him. "One day they'll be buying
your pictures, Martin. Wait and see."
</p>
<p>
Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martin
as an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other young
man failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was a
change of air and scenery.
</p>
<p>
"'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't invented
space travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.
Tourists always like ruins best, anyway."
</p>
<p>
So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,
which Martin christened
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. They traveled about from sea
to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making
trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the
nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the
same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous
museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.
</p>
<p>
The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,
largely because they could spend so much time far away from the
contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So
they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although
there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through
time.
</p>
<p>
More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, because
they came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboard
ship, giving each other parties and playing an
<i>
avant-garde
</i>
form of
shuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usually
ended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another of
having got advance information about the results.
</p>
<p>
Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only
when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though
they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court
his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone
together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come
from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely
accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth
proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people
left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly
interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue
of their distinguished ancestry.
</p>
<p>
"Rather feudal, isn't it?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberately
planned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.
Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had been
deported.
</p>
<p>
"Not only natives livin' on the other worlds," Ives said as the two
of them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanse
of some ocean or other. "People, too. Mostly lower classes, except
for officials and things. With wars and want and suffering," he added
regretfully, "same as in your day.... Like now, I mean," he corrected
himself. "Maybe it
<i>
is
</i>
worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planets
for us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.
Bombed. Very thorough job."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,
even.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong," Ives said, after
a pause. "Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the
people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—" he smiled
shamefacedly—"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,
could I?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose not," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except
Conrad, and even he—" Ives looked out over the sea. "Must be a better
way out than Conrad's," he said without conviction. "And everything
will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,
if it doesn't." He glanced wistfully at Martin.
</p>
<p>
"I hope so," said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he
couldn't even seem to care.
</p>
<p>
During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin
had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost
wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.
But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....
</p>
<p>
He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize
the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have
been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one
bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from
the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to
take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was
buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the
continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.
</p>
<p>
A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were
dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond
read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical
cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy
about the entire undertaking.
</p>
<p>
"He died for all of us," Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over
Ives, "so his death was not in vain."
</p>
<p>
But Martin disagreed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The ceaseless voyaging began again.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to every
ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After
a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin
came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell
apart as the different oceans.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in
his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only
the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust
their elders.
</p>
<p>
As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest
in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port
for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that
era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,
and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see
the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and
sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes
that his other work lacked.
</p>
<p>
When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit
somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,
he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this
journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was
purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the
cousin's utter disgust.
</p>
<p>
"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you
do," the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were
scraping bottom now—advised.
</p>
<p>
Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be
disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither
purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.
However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives
and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer
understand.
</p>
<p>
"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?" Martin idly asked
the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.
</p>
<p>
The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. "Conrad's
a very shrewd fellow," he whispered. "He's biding his time—waiting
until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating
member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would
ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one
conversation, anyhow.
</p>
<p>
"When he does show up, I'll protect you," the cousin vowed, touching
his ray gun. "You haven't a thing to worry about."
</p>
<p>
Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. "I
have every confidence in you," he told his descendant. He himself had
given up carrying a gun long ago.
</p>
<p>
There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hid
out in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fuel
and man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a long
time.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
roamed the seas restlessly, with her load of
passengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. She
bore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Martin resents the cousins for taking Ninian away from him.\n(B) They have been very generous. Martin is afraid they'll leave, and he won't be wealthy anymore.\n(C) Martin does not want the future generations to turn out like his descendants.\n(D) Martin finds the cousins very irritating. If they can't figure it out, why should he explain it?",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Time travel -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction"
} |
51337 | How did Ninian, Raymond, and the other cousins go back in time?
Choices:
(A) They bribed the assistant for the plans and blackmailed or tortured someone to build the time transmitter for them.
(B) Professor Farkas' assistant sent them back in time using the time transmitter after they gave him a bribe.
(C) They bribed the assistant for the plans and hired a gadget enthusiast to build the time transmitter for them.
(D) Professor Farkas sent them back in time with the time transmitter. | [
"A",
"They bribed the assistant for the plans and blackmailed or tortured someone to build the time transmitter for them."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE MAN OUTSIDE
</h1>
<p>
By EVELYN E. SMITH
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
No one, least of all Martin, could dispute
<br/>
that a man's life should be guarded by his
<br/>
kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's mother
disappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a way
of disappearing around those parts and the kids were often better
off without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it this
good while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martin
had never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides of
soldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country in
successive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no trouble
that way.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story
about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really
was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell
him to call her "
<i>
Aunt Ninian
</i>
"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd
been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought
maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little
too crazy for that.
</p>
<p>
He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer
with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry
instead of mopping up the floor with him.
</p>
<p>
"But I can't understand," he would say, keeping his face straight. "Why
do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin
Conrad?"
</p>
<p>
"Because he's coming to kill you."
</p>
<p>
"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing."
</p>
<p>
Ninian sighed. "He's dissatisfied with the current social order and
killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.
You wouldn't understand."
</p>
<p>
"You're damn right. I
<i>
don't
</i>
understand. What's it all about in
straight gas?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, just don't ask any questions," Ninian said petulantly. "When you
get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the
way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he
knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to
think it was disgusting.
</p>
<p>
"So if you don't like it, clean it up," he suggested.
</p>
<p>
She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
</p>
<p>
"Hire a maid, then!" he jeered.
</p>
<p>
And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean up
the place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face in
the streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demanding
to know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knew
how to give them the cold shoulder.
</p>
<p>
One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been coming
to school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes very
regularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that and
she went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick and
would make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing so
hard inside.
</p>
<p>
But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and
hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin
had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step
without hearing "Fancy Pants!" yelled after him.
</p>
<p>
Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people
thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little
better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There
were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the
same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty
dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.
</p>
<p>
"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical
application to go by," she told him.
</p>
<p>
He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out
wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what
she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a
spectator.
</p>
<p>
When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,
Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that
mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where
intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.
</p>
<p>
"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in," she
declared. "Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here."
</p>
<p>
And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who
came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle
Raymond.
</p>
<p>
From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and
Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many
more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play
with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents
would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if
a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be
something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as
conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she
was supposed to know better than he did.
</p>
<p>
He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,
warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by
more luxury than he knew what to do with.
</p>
<p>
The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. There
were tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And every
inch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the walls
were mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the time
and a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, for
Ninian didn't know much about meals.
</p>
<p>
The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with a
neat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.
</p>
<p>
Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other
kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given
him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd
nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged
and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all
she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if
respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.
</p>
<p>
From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.
They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry
out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,
in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a
world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the
government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to
think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than
actually doing anything with the hands.
</p>
<p>
In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;
everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear
pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was
no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of
normal living.
</p>
<p>
It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of
them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.
They came from the future.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had
promised five years before.
</p>
<p>
"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an
idealist," Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.
</p>
<p>
Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim and
rather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocery
store or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersized
and he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wear
glasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,
and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future having
carefully eradicated all current vulgarities.
</p>
<p>
"And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploiting
the not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets," Raymond
continued. "Which
<i>
is
</i>
distressing—though, of course, it's not as
if they were people. Besides, the government has been talking about
passing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,
and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,
Conrad is so impatient."
</p>
<p>
"I thought, in your world, machines did all the work," Martin suggested.
</p>
<p>
"I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one!" Raymond
snapped. "We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.
But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the same
people ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred odd
years of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He continued more mildly: "However, even you ought to be able to
understand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.
All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on those
worlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all that
expensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, how
would they manage to live?"
</p>
<p>
"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how
do
<i>
you
</i>
live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for
you," Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the
past and think in the future.
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult," Raymond said, "but
if you will persist in these childish interruptions—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of
his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated
young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and
considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And
he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the
lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more
frightening—his race had lost something vital.
</p>
<p>
Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,
Raymond went on blandly: "Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to
feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for
the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we
might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling
guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his
great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held
accountable for his great-grandfather."
</p>
<p>
"How about a great-great-grandchild?" Martin couldn't help asking.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Raymond flushed a delicate pink. "Do you want to hear the rest of this
or don't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I do!" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for
himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.
</p>
<p>
"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time
transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally
officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to
be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always
desperate for a fresh topic of conversation."
</p>
<p>
Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'
assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back
in time and "eliminate!" their common great-grandfather. In that way,
there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never
get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem," Martin observed.
</p>
<p>
Raymond looked annoyed. "It's the
<i>
adolescent
</i>
way," he said, "to do
away with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a whole
society in order to root out a single injustice?"
</p>
<p>
"Not if it were a good one otherwise."
</p>
<p>
"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps
he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such
matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea
of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather
was such a
<i>
good
</i>
man, you know." Raymond's expressive upper lip
curled. "So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of
his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty
worthless character."
</p>
<p>
"That would be me, I suppose," Martin said quietly.
</p>
<p>
Raymond turned a deep rose. "Well, doesn't that just go to prove you
mustn't believe everything you hear?" The next sentence tumbled out in
a rush. "I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other
cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it
was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you." He
beamed at Martin.
</p>
<p>
The boy smiled slowly. "Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in
<i>
eliminating
</i>
me, then none of you would exist, would you?"
</p>
<p>
Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. "Well, you didn't really
suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer
altruism, did you?" he asked, turning on the charm which all the
cousins possessed to a consternating degree.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long
ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.
</p>
<p>
"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's
assistants," Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,
"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Induced
</i>
, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the
use of the iron maiden.
</p>
<p>
"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you
night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made
our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here
we are!"
</p>
<p>
"I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. "After all," he pointed
out defensively, "whatever our motives, it has turned into a good
thing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporary
conveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more you
could ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Of
course Ninian
<i>
was
</i>
a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where any
little thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that our
era has completely disposed of the mercantiles—"
</p>
<p>
"What did you do with them?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
But Raymond rushed on: "Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,
we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.
Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,
the more eccentricity you can get away with. And," he added, "I might
as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this
wretched historical stint."
</p>
<p>
"So Ninian's going," said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel
curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a
remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for
him.
</p>
<p>
"Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend in
exile," Raymond explained, "even though our life spans are a bit longer
than yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoat
government." He looked inquisitively at Martin. "You're not going to
go all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?"
</p>
<p>
"No...." Martin said hesitantly. "Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But we
aren't very close, so it won't make a real difference." That was the
sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.
</p>
<p>
Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew you weren't a sloppy
sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,
you know."
</p>
<p>
Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring
of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. "How do you plan to
protect me when he comes?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course," Raymond said
with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's
combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no
doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. "And we've got a
rather elaborate burglar alarm system."
</p>
<p>
Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring
which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was
dubious. "Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
house
</i>
,
but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
time
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"Never fear—it has a temporal radius," Raymond replied. "Factory
guarantee and all that."
</p>
<p>
"Just to be on the safe side," Martin said, "I think I'd better have
one of those guns, too."
</p>
<p>
"A splendid idea!" enthused Raymond. "I was just about to think of that
myself!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at
her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful
at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding
him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the
cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and
that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the
very last.
</p>
<p>
Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. The
site proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half a
dozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whether
this had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because his
descendants were exceedingly inept planners.
</p>
<p>
Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly as
Martin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possible
convenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,
carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the man
from the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,
Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had become
dulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—"architecturally
dreadful, of course," Raymond had said, "but so hilariously
typical"—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-level
aquarium.
</p>
<p>
"How about a moat?" Martin suggested when they first came. "It seems to
go with a castle."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?" Raymond asked, amused.
</p>
<p>
"No," Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, "but it would make the place
seem safer somehow."
</p>
<p>
The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more
nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that
stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because
several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with
the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,
until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.
</p>
<p>
During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the
higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably
arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At
least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of
their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy
such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of
entertainment.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin," Raymond
commented as he took his place at the head of the table, "because,
unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one
just—well, drifts along happily."
</p>
<p>
"Ours is a wonderful world," Grania sighed at Martin. "I only wish we
could take you there. I'm sure you would like it."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be a fool, Grania!" Raymond snapped. "Well, Martin, have you
made up your mind what you want to be?"
</p>
<p>
Martin affected to think. "A physicist," he said, not without malice.
"Or perhaps an engineer."
</p>
<p>
There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.
</p>
<p>
"Can't do that," Ives said. "Might pick up some concepts from us. Don't
know how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.
Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you might
invent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans from
particularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous."
</p>
<p>
"Might mess up our time frightfully," Bartholomew contributed, "though,
to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how."
</p>
<p>
"I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all over
again, Bart!" Raymond said impatiently. "Well, Martin?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you suggest?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
"How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.
Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead of
their times."
</p>
<p>
"Furthermore," Ottillie added, "one more artist couldn't make much
difference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages."
</p>
<p>
Martin couldn't hold back his question. "What was I, actually, in that
other time?"
</p>
<p>
There was a chilly silence.
</p>
<p>
"Let's not talk about it, dear," Lalage finally said. "Let's just be
thankful we've saved you from
<i>
that
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent
second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first
rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost
purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was
fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and
walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for
the sake of an ideal.
</p>
<p>
But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty
pictures.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the
descendants
<i>
cousin
</i>
—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his
responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged
to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received
critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest
sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not
interested.
</p>
<p>
"Takes time," Ives tried to reassure him. "One day they'll be buying
your pictures, Martin. Wait and see."
</p>
<p>
Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martin
as an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other young
man failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was a
change of air and scenery.
</p>
<p>
"'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't invented
space travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.
Tourists always like ruins best, anyway."
</p>
<p>
So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,
which Martin christened
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. They traveled about from sea
to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making
trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the
nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the
same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous
museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.
</p>
<p>
The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,
largely because they could spend so much time far away from the
contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So
they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although
there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through
time.
</p>
<p>
More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, because
they came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboard
ship, giving each other parties and playing an
<i>
avant-garde
</i>
form of
shuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usually
ended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another of
having got advance information about the results.
</p>
<p>
Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only
when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though
they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court
his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone
together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come
from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely
accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth
proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people
left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly
interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue
of their distinguished ancestry.
</p>
<p>
"Rather feudal, isn't it?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberately
planned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.
Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had been
deported.
</p>
<p>
"Not only natives livin' on the other worlds," Ives said as the two
of them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanse
of some ocean or other. "People, too. Mostly lower classes, except
for officials and things. With wars and want and suffering," he added
regretfully, "same as in your day.... Like now, I mean," he corrected
himself. "Maybe it
<i>
is
</i>
worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planets
for us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.
Bombed. Very thorough job."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,
even.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong," Ives said, after
a pause. "Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the
people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—" he smiled
shamefacedly—"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,
could I?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose not," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except
Conrad, and even he—" Ives looked out over the sea. "Must be a better
way out than Conrad's," he said without conviction. "And everything
will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,
if it doesn't." He glanced wistfully at Martin.
</p>
<p>
"I hope so," said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he
couldn't even seem to care.
</p>
<p>
During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin
had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost
wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.
But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....
</p>
<p>
He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize
the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have
been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one
bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from
the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to
take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was
buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the
continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.
</p>
<p>
A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were
dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond
read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical
cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy
about the entire undertaking.
</p>
<p>
"He died for all of us," Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over
Ives, "so his death was not in vain."
</p>
<p>
But Martin disagreed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The ceaseless voyaging began again.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to every
ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After
a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin
came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell
apart as the different oceans.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in
his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only
the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust
their elders.
</p>
<p>
As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest
in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port
for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that
era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,
and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see
the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and
sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes
that his other work lacked.
</p>
<p>
When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit
somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,
he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this
journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was
purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the
cousin's utter disgust.
</p>
<p>
"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you
do," the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were
scraping bottom now—advised.
</p>
<p>
Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be
disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither
purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.
However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives
and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer
understand.
</p>
<p>
"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?" Martin idly asked
the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.
</p>
<p>
The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. "Conrad's
a very shrewd fellow," he whispered. "He's biding his time—waiting
until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating
member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would
ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one
conversation, anyhow.
</p>
<p>
"When he does show up, I'll protect you," the cousin vowed, touching
his ray gun. "You haven't a thing to worry about."
</p>
<p>
Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. "I
have every confidence in you," he told his descendant. He himself had
given up carrying a gun long ago.
</p>
<p>
There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hid
out in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fuel
and man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a long
time.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
roamed the seas restlessly, with her load of
passengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. She
bore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They bribed the assistant for the plans and blackmailed or tortured someone to build the time transmitter for them.\n(B) Professor Farkas' assistant sent them back in time using the time transmitter after they gave him a bribe.\n(C) They bribed the assistant for the plans and hired a gadget enthusiast to build the time transmitter for them.\n(D) Professor Farkas sent them back in time with the time transmitter.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Time travel -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction"
} |
51337 | Why does Martin prefer to live on the yacht?
Choices:
(A) Martin is used to being isolated now. The people on land live in a different world than he does.
(B) The people on land were always at war. Martin wants no part of it.
(C) The people on land are too different from the cousins. Living on the yacht avoids questions from locals.
(D) Martin thinks being on the ocean will make it harder for Conrad to find him. | [
"A",
"Martin is used to being isolated now. The people on land live in a different world than he does."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
THE MAN OUTSIDE
</h1>
<p>
By EVELYN E. SMITH
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
No one, least of all Martin, could dispute
<br/>
that a man's life should be guarded by his
<br/>
kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's mother
disappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a way
of disappearing around those parts and the kids were often better
off without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it this
good while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martin
had never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides of
soldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country in
successive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no trouble
that way.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that story
about her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she really
was his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tell
him to call her "
<i>
Aunt Ninian
</i>
"? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'd
been around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thought
maybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a little
too crazy for that.
</p>
<p>
He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was safer
with Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cry
instead of mopping up the floor with him.
</p>
<p>
"But I can't understand," he would say, keeping his face straight. "Why
do you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousin
Conrad?"
</p>
<p>
"Because he's coming to kill you."
</p>
<p>
"Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing."
</p>
<p>
Ninian sighed. "He's dissatisfied with the current social order and
killing you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.
You wouldn't understand."
</p>
<p>
"You're damn right. I
<i>
don't
</i>
understand. What's it all about in
straight gas?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, just don't ask any questions," Ninian said petulantly. "When you
get older, someone will explain the whole thing to you."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things the
way they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people he
knew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed to
think it was disgusting.
</p>
<p>
"So if you don't like it, clean it up," he suggested.
</p>
<p>
She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
</p>
<p>
"Hire a maid, then!" he jeered.
</p>
<p>
And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean up
the place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face in
the streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demanding
to know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knew
how to give them the cold shoulder.
</p>
<p>
One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been coming
to school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes very
regularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that and
she went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick and
would make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing so
hard inside.
</p>
<p>
But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out and
hired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martin
had to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a step
without hearing "Fancy Pants!" yelled after him.
</p>
<p>
Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these people
thought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as little
better than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. There
were an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly the
same way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really pretty
dumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.
</p>
<p>
"It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practical
application to go by," she told him.
</p>
<p>
He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming out
wrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see what
she'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of a
spectator.
</p>
<p>
When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,
Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses that
mushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly where
intensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.
</p>
<p>
"This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in," she
declared. "Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here."
</p>
<p>
And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man who
came to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him Uncle
Raymond.
</p>
<p>
From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives and
Bartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and many
more—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to play
with the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parents
would have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that if
a one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must be
something pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just as
conspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; she
was supposed to know better than he did.
</p>
<p>
He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,
warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded by
more luxury than he knew what to do with.
</p>
<p>
The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. There
were tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And every
inch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the walls
were mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the time
and a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, for
Ninian didn't know much about meals.
</p>
<p>
The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with a
neat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.
</p>
<p>
Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having other
kids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't given
him enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'd
nearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd hugged
and kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done all
she could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and if
respectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.
</p>
<p>
From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.
They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carry
out a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,
in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—a
world of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in the
government service or the essential professions. And they seemed to
think even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better than
actually doing anything with the hands.
</p>
<p>
In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;
everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wear
pretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There was
no devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants of
normal living.
</p>
<p>
It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot of
them were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.
They came from the future.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian had
promised five years before.
</p>
<p>
"The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's an
idealist," Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.
</p>
<p>
Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim and
rather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocery
store or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersized
and he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wear
glasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,
and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future having
carefully eradicated all current vulgarities.
</p>
<p>
"And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploiting
the not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets," Raymond
continued. "Which
<i>
is
</i>
distressing—though, of course, it's not as
if they were people. Besides, the government has been talking about
passing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,
and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,
Conrad is so impatient."
</p>
<p>
"I thought, in your world, machines did all the work," Martin suggested.
</p>
<p>
"I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one!" Raymond
snapped. "We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.
But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the same
people ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred odd
years of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He continued more mildly: "However, even you ought to be able to
understand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.
All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on those
worlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all that
expensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, how
would they manage to live?"
</p>
<p>
"How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, how
do
<i>
you
</i>
live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now for
you," Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in the
past and think in the future.
</p>
<p>
"I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult," Raymond said, "but
if you will persist in these childish interruptions—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any of
his descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivated
young people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking and
considerable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. And
he had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of the
lot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—more
frightening—his race had lost something vital.
</p>
<p>
Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,
Raymond went on blandly: "Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself to
feel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been for
the fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, we
might never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feeling
guilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for his
great-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be held
accountable for his great-grandfather."
</p>
<p>
"How about a great-great-grandchild?" Martin couldn't help asking.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Raymond flushed a delicate pink. "Do you want to hear the rest of this
or don't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I do!" Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together for
himself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.
</p>
<p>
"Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the time
transmitter. Those government scientists are so infernally
officious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed to
be hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is always
desperate for a fresh topic of conversation."
</p>
<p>
Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'
assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go back
in time and "eliminate!" their common great-grandfather. In that way,
there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would never
get to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem," Martin observed.
</p>
<p>
Raymond looked annoyed. "It's the
<i>
adolescent
</i>
way," he said, "to do
away with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a whole
society in order to root out a single injustice?"
</p>
<p>
"Not if it were a good one otherwise."
</p>
<p>
"Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhaps
he built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into such
matters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the idea
of eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfather
was such a
<i>
good
</i>
man, you know." Raymond's expressive upper lip
curled. "So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid of
his great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a pretty
worthless character."
</p>
<p>
"That would be me, I suppose," Martin said quietly.
</p>
<p>
Raymond turned a deep rose. "Well, doesn't that just go to prove you
mustn't believe everything you hear?" The next sentence tumbled out in
a rush. "I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the other
cousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided it
was our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you." He
beamed at Martin.
</p>
<p>
The boy smiled slowly. "Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in
<i>
eliminating
</i>
me, then none of you would exist, would you?"
</p>
<p>
Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. "Well, you didn't really
suppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheer
altruism, did you?" he asked, turning on the charm which all the
cousins possessed to a consternating degree.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned long
ago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.
</p>
<p>
"We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor's
assistants," Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,
"and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Induced
</i>
, Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to the
use of the iron maiden.
</p>
<p>
"Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded you
night and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we made
our counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and here
we are!"
</p>
<p>
"I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. "After all," he pointed
out defensively, "whatever our motives, it has turned into a good
thing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporary
conveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more you
could ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Of
course Ninian
<i>
was
</i>
a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where any
little thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that our
era has completely disposed of the mercantiles—"
</p>
<p>
"What did you do with them?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
But Raymond rushed on: "Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,
we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.
Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,
the more eccentricity you can get away with. And," he added, "I might
as well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through this
wretched historical stint."
</p>
<p>
"So Ninian's going," said Martin, wondering why the news made him feel
curiously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in a
remote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, for
him.
</p>
<p>
"Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend in
exile," Raymond explained, "even though our life spans are a bit longer
than yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoat
government." He looked inquisitively at Martin. "You're not going to
go all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?"
</p>
<p>
"No...." Martin said hesitantly. "Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But we
aren't very close, so it won't make a real difference." That was the
sad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.
</p>
<p>
Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew you weren't a sloppy
sentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,
you know."
</p>
<p>
Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirring
of alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. "How do you plan to
protect me when he comes?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course," Raymond said
with modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child's
combination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had no
doubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. "And we've got a
rather elaborate burglar alarm system."
</p>
<p>
Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiring
which, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he was
dubious. "Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
house
</i>
,
but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this
<i>
time
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"Never fear—it has a temporal radius," Raymond replied. "Factory
guarantee and all that."
</p>
<p>
"Just to be on the safe side," Martin said, "I think I'd better have
one of those guns, too."
</p>
<p>
"A splendid idea!" enthused Raymond. "I was just about to think of that
myself!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears at
her own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillful
at understanding his descendants, far better than they at understanding
him. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on the
cheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right and
that she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at the
very last.
</p>
<p>
Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. The
site proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half a
dozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whether
this had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because his
descendants were exceedingly inept planners.
</p>
<p>
Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly as
Martin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possible
convenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,
carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the man
from the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,
Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had become
dulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—"architecturally
dreadful, of course," Raymond had said, "but so hilariously
typical"—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-level
aquarium.
</p>
<p>
"How about a moat?" Martin suggested when they first came. "It seems to
go with a castle."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Do you think a moat could stop Conrad?" Raymond asked, amused.
</p>
<p>
"No," Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, "but it would make the place
seem safer somehow."
</p>
<p>
The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and more
nervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor that
stood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, because
several times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept with
the ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,
until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.
</p>
<p>
During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for the
higher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitably
arose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. At
least twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one of
their vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoy
such occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms of
entertainment.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin," Raymond
commented as he took his place at the head of the table, "because,
unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, one
just—well, drifts along happily."
</p>
<p>
"Ours is a wonderful world," Grania sighed at Martin. "I only wish we
could take you there. I'm sure you would like it."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be a fool, Grania!" Raymond snapped. "Well, Martin, have you
made up your mind what you want to be?"
</p>
<p>
Martin affected to think. "A physicist," he said, not without malice.
"Or perhaps an engineer."
</p>
<p>
There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.
</p>
<p>
"Can't do that," Ives said. "Might pick up some concepts from us. Don't
know how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.
Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you might
invent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans from
particularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous."
</p>
<p>
"Might mess up our time frightfully," Bartholomew contributed, "though,
to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how."
</p>
<p>
"I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all over
again, Bart!" Raymond said impatiently. "Well, Martin?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you suggest?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
"How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.
Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead of
their times."
</p>
<p>
"Furthermore," Ottillie added, "one more artist couldn't make much
difference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages."
</p>
<p>
Martin couldn't hold back his question. "What was I, actually, in that
other time?"
</p>
<p>
There was a chilly silence.
</p>
<p>
"Let's not talk about it, dear," Lalage finally said. "Let's just be
thankful we've saved you from
<i>
that
</i>
!"
</p>
<p>
So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competent
second-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve first
rank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almost
purely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel was
fear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor and
walk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him for
the sake of an ideal.
</p>
<p>
But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were pretty
pictures.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call the
descendants
<i>
cousin
</i>
—next assumed guardianship. Ives took his
responsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arranged
to have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings received
critical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modest
sale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were not
interested.
</p>
<p>
"Takes time," Ives tried to reassure him. "One day they'll be buying
your pictures, Martin. Wait and see."
</p>
<p>
Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martin
as an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other young
man failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was a
change of air and scenery.
</p>
<p>
"'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't invented
space travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.
Tourists always like ruins best, anyway."
</p>
<p>
So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,
which Martin christened
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. They traveled about from sea
to ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and making
trips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; the
nearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much the
same as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormous
museum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.
</p>
<p>
The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,
largely because they could spend so much time far away from the
contemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. So
they never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
. He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, although
there was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler through
time.
</p>
<p>
More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, because
they came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboard
ship, giving each other parties and playing an
<i>
avant-garde
</i>
form of
shuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usually
ended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another of
having got advance information about the results.
</p>
<p>
Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them only
when not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, though
they were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't court
his society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alone
together; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had come
from. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirely
accurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earth
proper, but that was because there were only a couple of million people
left on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highly
interbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtue
of their distinguished ancestry.
</p>
<p>
"Rather feudal, isn't it?" Martin asked.
</p>
<p>
Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberately
planned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.
Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had been
deported.
</p>
<p>
"Not only natives livin' on the other worlds," Ives said as the two
of them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanse
of some ocean or other. "People, too. Mostly lower classes, except
for officials and things. With wars and want and suffering," he added
regretfully, "same as in your day.... Like now, I mean," he corrected
himself. "Maybe it
<i>
is
</i>
worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planets
for us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.
Bombed. Very thorough job."
</p>
<p>
"Oh," Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,
even.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong," Ives said, after
a pause. "Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting the
people—I expect you could call them people—there. Still—" he smiled
shamefacedly—"couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,
could I?"
</p>
<p>
"I suppose not," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
"Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, except
Conrad, and even he—" Ives looked out over the sea. "Must be a better
way out than Conrad's," he said without conviction. "And everything
will work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,
if it doesn't." He glanced wistfully at Martin.
</p>
<p>
"I hope so," said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; he
couldn't even seem to care.
</p>
<p>
During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martin
had gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almost
wished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.
But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....
</p>
<p>
He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realize
the basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would have
been Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego one
bitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor from
the future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough to
take a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body was
buried in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of the
continent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.
</p>
<p>
A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All were
dressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymond
read the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clerical
cousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffy
about the entire undertaking.
</p>
<p>
"He died for all of us," Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy over
Ives, "so his death was not in vain."
</p>
<p>
But Martin disagreed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The ceaseless voyaging began again.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to every
ocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. After
a while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousin
came to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tell
apart as the different oceans.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times in
his life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Only
the young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trust
their elders.
</p>
<p>
As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interest
in the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched port
for fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in that
era than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,
and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to see
the sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—and
sometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapes
that his other work lacked.
</p>
<p>
When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visit
somewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,
he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to this
journey. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked was
purpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to the
cousin's utter disgust.
</p>
<p>
"Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as you
do," the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants were
scraping bottom now—advised.
</p>
<p>
Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could be
disillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neither
purpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.
However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ives
and felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longer
understand.
</p>
<p>
"Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time?" Martin idly asked
the current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.
</p>
<p>
The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. "Conrad's
a very shrewd fellow," he whispered. "He's biding his time—waiting
until we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I see," Martin said.
</p>
<p>
He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulating
member of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he would
ever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than one
conversation, anyhow.
</p>
<p>
"When he does show up, I'll protect you," the cousin vowed, touching
his ray gun. "You haven't a thing to worry about."
</p>
<p>
Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. "I
have every confidence in you," he told his descendant. He himself had
given up carrying a gun long ago.
</p>
<p>
There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hid
out in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fuel
and man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a long
time.
<i>
The Interregnum
</i>
roamed the seas restlessly, with her load of
passengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. She
bore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Martin is used to being isolated now. The people on land live in a different world than he does.\n(B) The people on land were always at war. Martin wants no part of it.\n(C) The people on land are too different from the cousins. Living on the yacht avoids questions from locals.\n(D) Martin thinks being on the ocean will make it harder for Conrad to find him.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Time travel -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction"
} |
51203 | What does Ben seem to fear, more than anything else?
Choices:
(A) The law, and atoning for his crime.
(B) Losing his position and the chance to fly spaceships.
(C) The dead man, and the way he persists in his mind.
(D) Maggie and her husband, and the position they've put him in. | [
"B",
"Losing his position and the chance to fly spaceships. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Coffin for Jacob
</h1>
<p>
By EDWARD W. LUDWIG
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
With never a moment to rest, the pursuit
<br/>
through space felt like a game of hounds
<br/>
and hares ... or was it follow the leader?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the
Blast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.
</p>
<p>
His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian gin
mill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose
ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.
</p>
<p>
Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco
smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here and
there, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,
Martians or Venusians.
</p>
<p>
Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that it
was the dead man's hand.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Coma esta, senor?
</i>
" a small voice piped. "
<i>
Speken die Deutsch?
Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
Ben looked down.
</p>
<p>
The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was like
a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn
skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.
</p>
<p>
"I'm American," Ben muttered.
</p>
<p>
"Ah,
<i>
buena
</i>
! I speak English
<i>
tres
</i>
fine,
<i>
senor
</i>
. I have Martian
friend, she
<i>
tres
</i>
pretty and
<i>
tres
</i>
fat. She weigh almost eighty
pounds,
<i>
monsieur
</i>
. I take you to her,
<i>
si
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
Ben shook his head.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He thought,
<i>
I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opium
or your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'd
bring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.
</i>
</p>
<p>
"It is deal,
<i>
monsieur
</i>
? Five dollars or twenty
<i>
keelis
</i>
for visit
Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not buying."
</p>
<p>
The dirty-faced kid shrugged. "Then I show you to good table,—
<i>
tres
bien
</i>
. I do not charge you,
<i>
senor
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for
resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and
through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed
Earthmen—merchant spacemen.
</p>
<p>
They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian
marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed
tombstones.
</p>
<p>
Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO
2
-breathing
Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.
</p>
<p>
They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.
They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes
unblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heard
they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.
</p>
<p>
Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's Security
Police. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club
against the stone booths.
</p>
<p>
<i>
Keep walking
</i>
, Ben told himself.
<i>
You look the same as anyone else
here. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.
</p>
<p>
"Here we are,
<i>
monsieur
</i>
," piped the Martian boy. "A
<i>
tres
</i>
fine table.
Close in the shadows."
</p>
<p>
Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?
Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.
</p>
<p>
He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.
</p>
<p>
The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large for
their spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings of
their
<i>
cirillas
</i>
or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spider
legs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it still
seemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices and
forgotten grandeur.
</p>
<p>
For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead
man. He thought,
<i>
What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, in
a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?
Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,
felt the challenge of new worlds?
</i>
</p>
<p>
He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinese
waiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over the
faces of the Inn's other occupants.
</p>
<p>
<i>
You've got to find him
</i>
, he thought.
<i>
You've got to find the man with
the red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby and
about forty and he hated spacemen.
</p>
<p>
His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outside
Luna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much a
part of Ben as sight in his eyes.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips
spitting whiskey-slurred curses.
</p>
<p>
Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist
thudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in the
whiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would trickle
from a corner of the gaping mouth.
</p>
<p>
You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him or
ignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from a
memory that has burned into your mind.
</p>
<p>
It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands had
been successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.
He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobb
plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.
</p>
<p>
"Spacemen," he muttered, "are getting like flies. Everywhere, all you
see's spacemen."
</p>
<p>
He was a neatly dressed civilian.
</p>
<p>
Ben smiled. "If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here."
</p>
<p>
"The name's Cobb." The man hiccoughed. "Spacemen in their white monkey
suits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're a
little tin god." He downed a shot of whiskey.
</p>
<p>
Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,
crimson-braided uniform of the
<i>
Odyssey's
</i>
junior astrogation officer.
He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shining
uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.
</p>
<p>
He'd sought long for that key.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'
death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the night
sky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd ground
his first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on
the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his
collection of astronomy and rocketry books.
</p>
<p>
At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from Boys
Town No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, among
the grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends who
understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the
U. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.
</p>
<p>
And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the
<i>
Odyssey
</i>
—the first ship, it
was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps
beyond.
</p>
<p>
Cobb was persistent: "Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.
What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?"
</p>
<p>
<i>
The guy's drunk
</i>
, Ben thought. He took his drink and moved three
stools down the bar.
</p>
<p>
Cobb followed. "You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't like
people to call you a sucker."
</p>
<p>
Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm and
held him there.
</p>
<p>
"Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'll
be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!"
</p>
<p>
Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly and
without warning, it welled up into savage fury.
</p>
<p>
His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shocked
horror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge of
the bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of
life.
</p>
<p>
He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.
</p>
<p>
Ben knew that he was dead.
</p>
<p>
Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,
a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.
</p>
<p>
He ran.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world
of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.
</p>
<p>
At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He saw
that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of the
city.
</p>
<p>
He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.
A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shone
above him through Luna City's transparent dome.
</p>
<p>
He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.
Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.
</p>
<p>
<i>
You can do two things
</i>
, he thought.
</p>
<p>
<i>
You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.
That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntary
manslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in
prison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want new
men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class
jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'd
get the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and by
peeking through electric fences of spaceports.
</i>
</p>
<p>
<i>
Or—
</i>
</p>
<p>
There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen who
operated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren't
outlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.
</p>
<p>
And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the
souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Their
headquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular and
fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be a
red-bearded giant.
</p>
<p>
<i>
So
</i>
, Ben reflected,
<i>
you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.
You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your
name. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with your
duty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from
Earth.
</i>
</p>
<p>
After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant
second, to destroy a man's life and his dream?
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last
flight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of new
personnel even more so.
</p>
<p>
Ben Curtis made it to Venus.
</p>
<p>
There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that the
memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him
as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.
</p>
<p>
But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead
voice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways
obscure the dead face?
</p>
<p>
So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,
and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.
</p>
<p>
"You look for someone,
<i>
senor
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
He jumped. "Oh. You still here?"
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Oui.
</i>
" The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. "I
keep you company on your first night in Hoover City,
<i>
n'est-ce-pas
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"This isn't my first night here," Ben lied. "I've been around a while."
</p>
<p>
"You are spacemen?"
</p>
<p>
Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. "Here. Take off, will
you?"
</p>
<p>
Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. "
<i>
Ich danke, senor.
</i>
You
know why city is called Hoover City?"
</p>
<p>
Ben didn't answer.
</p>
<p>
"They say it is because after women come, they want first thing a
thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,
<i>
monsieur
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Ai-yee
</i>
, I go. You keep listen to good Martian music."
</p>
<p>
The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.
</p>
<p>
Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade of
faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloon
faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and
occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there a
face with a red beard.
</p>
<p>
A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one of
a dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.
</p>
<p>
He needed help.
</p>
<p>
But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. A
reward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? The
Martian kid, perhaps?
</p>
<p>
Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of
white. He tensed.
</p>
<p>
Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.
</p>
<p>
His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.
</p>
<p>
And then he saw another and another and another.
</p>
<p>
Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a
wheel with Ben as their focal point.
</p>
<p>
<i>
You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,
realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been
turned on.
</p>
<p>
The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding
wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.
</p>
<p>
Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements and
a chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were like
tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.
</p>
<p>
Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,
falling.
</p>
<p>
The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.
</p>
<p>
A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk with
feline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remained
undisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in
Ben's direction.
</p>
<p>
"Curtis!" one of the policemen yelled. "You're covered! Hold it!"
</p>
<p>
Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into
which the musicians had disappeared.
</p>
<p>
A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed air
escaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wall
ahead of him crumbled.
</p>
<p>
He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the
mildly stunning neuro-clubs.
</p>
<p>
Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.
<i>
Another second
</i>
, his brain screamed.
<i>
Just another second—
</i>
</p>
<p>
Or would the exits be guarded?
</p>
<p>
He heard the hiss.
</p>
<p>
It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just a
slight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to be
growing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tiny
needle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzing
mortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle of
his body.
</p>
<p>
He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd have
fifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind and
body overpowered him.
</p>
<p>
In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice
yell, "Turn on the damn lights!"
</p>
<p>
Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized that
someone had seized it.
</p>
<p>
A soft feminine voice spoke to him. "You're wounded? They hit you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes." His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.
</p>
<p>
"You want to escape—even now?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"You may die if you don't give yourself up."
</p>
<p>
"No, no."
</p>
<p>
He tried to stumble toward the exit.
</p>
<p>
"All right then. Not that way. Here, this way."
</p>
<p>
Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlight
flicked on.
</p>
<p>
Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. A
door closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from his
vision—if he still had vision.
</p>
<p>
"You're sure?" the voice persisted.
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure," Ben managed to say.
</p>
<p>
"I have no antidote. You may die."
</p>
<p>
His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,
massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain
within half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread to
heart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effective
weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender
at once.
</p>
<p>
"Anti ... anti ..." The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced
from his throat. "No ... I'm sure ... sure."
</p>
<p>
He didn't hear the answer or anything else.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return to
consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black
nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.
</p>
<p>
He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,
hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and
sensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed to
transfer itself to his own body.
</p>
<p>
For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt welded
shut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave way
to a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hovered
constantly above him—a face, he supposed.
</p>
<p>
He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was
a deep, staccato grunting.
</p>
<p>
But he heard someone say, "Don't try to talk." It was the same gentle
voice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. "Don't talk. Just lie still and
rest. Everything'll be all right."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Everything all right
</i>
, he thought dimly.
</p>
<p>
There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. There
were periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware of
things. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen
mask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blankets
swathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and
he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.
</p>
<p>
Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring
mist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:
</p>
<p>
"Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food." Or, "Close your
eyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Better
</i>
, he'd think.
<i>
Getting better....
</i>
</p>
<p>
At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. The
mist brightened, then dissolved.
</p>
<p>
He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless
walls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of his
aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.
</p>
<p>
Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.
</p>
<p>
"You are better?" the kind voice asked.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five
and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking
pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the
same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her
straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and
drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.
</p>
<p>
"I—I am better," he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. "I
am going to live?"
</p>
<p>
"You will live."
</p>
<p>
He thought for a moment. "How long have I been here?"
</p>
<p>
"Nine days."
</p>
<p>
"You took care of me?" He noted the deep, dark circles beneath her
sleep-robbed eyes.
</p>
<p>
She nodded.
</p>
<p>
"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"Why?"
</p>
<p>
Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen mask
in readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.
</p>
<p>
"Why?" he asked again.
</p>
<p>
"It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow."
</p>
<p>
A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.
"Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?"
</p>
<p>
He lay back then, panting, exhausted.
</p>
<p>
"You have nothing to worry about," the girl said softly. Her cool hand
touched his hot forehead. "Rest. We'll talk later."
</p>
<p>
His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.
</p>
<p>
When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There was
light outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noon
or afternoon—or on what planet.
</p>
<p>
He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines of
green-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only a
translucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set on
the edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterless
void.
</p>
<p>
The girl entered the room.
</p>
<p>
"Hi," she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were less
prominent. Her face was relaxed.
</p>
<p>
She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him rise
to a sitting position.
</p>
<p>
"Where are we?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Venus."
</p>
<p>
"We're not in Hoover City?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
He looked at her, wondering. "You won't tell me?"
</p>
<p>
"Not yet. Later, perhaps."
</p>
<p>
"Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She shrugged. "We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in the
city, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—these
can be had for a price."
</p>
<p>
"You'll tell me your name?"
</p>
<p>
"Maggie."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you save me?"
</p>
<p>
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Because you're a good astrogator."
</p>
<p>
His own eyes widened. "How did you know that?"
</p>
<p>
She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. "I know everything about you,
Lieutenant Curtis."
</p>
<p>
"How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—"
</p>
<p>
"I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,
you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduated
from the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.
Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in a
class of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 in
History of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?"
</p>
<p>
Fascinated, Ben nodded.
</p>
<p>
"You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the
<i>
Odyssey
</i>
.
You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroom
fight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, a
pre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder and
escape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.
You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group of
spacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in the
Blast Inn."
</p>
<p>
He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. "I—don't
get it."
</p>
<p>
"There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, we
have many friends."
</p>
<p>
He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.
</p>
<p>
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happy
because you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon."
</p>
<p>
"Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walk
again."
</p>
<p>
She lowered her gaze. "I hope you'll be able to."
</p>
<p>
"But you don't think I will, do you?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.
Rest."
</p>
<p>
He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.
</p>
<p>
"Just one more question," he almost whispered.
</p>
<p>
"Yes?"
</p>
<p>
"The man I killed—did he have a wife?"
</p>
<p>
She hesitated. He thought,
<i>
Damn it, of all the questions, why did I
ask that?
</i>
</p>
<p>
Finally she said, "He had a wife."
</p>
<p>
"Children?"
</p>
<p>
"Two. I don't know their ages."
</p>
<p>
She left the room.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,
his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.
</p>
<p>
He sat straight up, his chest heaving.
</p>
<p>
The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a
merchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatly
trimmed
<i>
red beard
</i>
!
</p>
<p>
Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped into
restless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through his
brain.
</p>
<p>
The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyes
accused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.
</p>
<p>
And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached
down and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands and
knees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was a
chilling wail in his ears.
</p>
<p>
His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voice
screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,
the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping
relentlessly toward him.
</p>
<p>
He awoke still screaming....
</p>
<p>
A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, a
question already formed in his mind.
</p>
<p>
She came and at once he asked, "Who is the man with the red beard?"
</p>
<p>
She smiled. "I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You
<i>
were
</i>
looking for him, weren't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Who is he?"
</p>
<p>
She sat on the chair beside him.
</p>
<p>
"My husband," she said softly.
</p>
<p>
He began to understand. "And your husband needs an astrogator? That's
why you saved me?"
</p>
<p>
"We need all the good men we can get."
</p>
<p>
"Where is he?"
</p>
<p>
She cocked her head in mock suspicion. "Somewhere between Mercury and
Pluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When his
ship returns, I'll be going to him."
</p>
<p>
"Why aren't you with him now?"
</p>
<p>
"He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've been
studying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau of
Investigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know how
we operate?"
</p>
<p>
He told her the tales he'd heard.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She nodded. "There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and a
dozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.
The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years ago
after we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,
but with almost every advance in space, someone dies."
</p>
<p>
"Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is only
a temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I might
as well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one."
</p>
<p>
"Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group is
wanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just people
like yourself and Jacob."
</p>
<p>
"Jacob? Your husband?"
</p>
<p>
She laughed. "Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?
Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of a
grizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either."
</p>
<p>
She lit a cigarette. "Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond the
frontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not even
to Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejects
who couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They know
nothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships to
frontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies."
</p>
<p>
"Don't the authorities object?"
</p>
<p>
"Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here to
search the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carry
cargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that's
scarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether it
comes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives mining
it, that's our business."
</p>
<p>
She pursed her lips. "But if they guessed how strong we are or that we
have friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.
There probably would be a crackdown."
</p>
<p>
Ben scowled. "What happens if there
<i>
is
</i>
a crackdown? And what will you
do when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can't
ignore you then."
</p>
<p>
"Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them
to Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll be
pushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suited
boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It
<i>
could
</i>
be us, you
know—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. You
can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make up
your own."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ben stiffened. "And that's why you want me for an astrogator."
</p>
<p>
Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. "If you want to come—and if you get
well." She looked at him strangely.
</p>
<p>
"Suppose—" He fought to find the right words. "Suppose I got well and
decided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let me
go?"
</p>
<p>
Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,
then fear. "I don't know. That would be up to Jacob."
</p>
<p>
He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched his
hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion
that had coursed through her.
</p>
<p>
"The only thing that matters, really," she murmured, "is your walking
again. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?"
</p>
<p>
"Okay," he said.
</p>
<p>
When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.
</p>
<p>
He was like two people, he thought.
</p>
<p>
Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one single
starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.
</p>
<p>
He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she
was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:
</p>
<p>
"A Space Officer Is Honest" "A Space Officer Is Loyal." "A Space
Officer Is Dutiful."
</p>
<p>
Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,
mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it
prisoner for half a million years.
</p>
<p>
Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,
would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) The law, and atoning for his crime. \n(B) Losing his position and the chance to fly spaceships. \n(C) The dead man, and the way he persists in his mind. \n(D) Maggie and her husband, and the position they've put him in. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Fugitives from justice -- Fiction; Venus (Planet) -- Fiction; PS; Space travelers -- Fiction; Science fiction"
} |
51092 | Who was Sally in relation to Milly in the story?
Choices:
(A) Her great-grandmother
(B) Her grandmother
(C) Her mother
(D) Herself in a past life. | [
"B",
"Her grandmother "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
RATTLE OK
</h1>
<p>
By HARRY WARNER, JR.
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by FINLAY
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1956.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
What better way to use a time machine than
<br/>
to handle department store complaints? But
<br/>
pleasing a customer should have its limits!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Christmas party at the Boston branch of Hartshorne-Logan was
threatening to become more legendary than usual this Christmas.
</p>
<p>
The farm machinery manager had already collapsed. When he slid under
the table containing the drinks, Miss Pringle, who sold millinery, had
screamed: "He'll drown!"
</p>
<p>
One out of every three dirty stories started by party attendees had
remained unfinished, because each had reminded someone else of another
story.
</p>
<p>
The recently developed liquors which affected the bloodstream three
times faster had driven away twinges of conscience about untrimmed
trees and midnight church services.
</p>
<p>
The star salesman for mankies and the gentleman who was in charge of
the janitors were putting on a display of Burmese foot-wrestling in
one corner of the general office. The janitor foreman weighed fifty
pounds less than the Burma gentleman, who was the salesman's customary
opponent. So the climax of one tactic did not simply overturn the
foreman. He glided through the air, crashing with a very loud thump
against the wall.
</p>
<p>
He wasn't hurt. But the impact knocked the hallowed portrait of H. H.
Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. It tinkled imposingly as its
glass splintered against the floor.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise caused a temporary lull in the gaiety. Several employes even
felt a passing suspicion that things might be getting out of hand.
</p>
<p>
"It's all in the spirit of good, clean fun!" cried Mr. Hawkins, the
assistant general manager. Since he was the highest executive present,
worries vanished. Everyone felt fine. There was a scurry to shove the
broken glass out of sight and to turn more attention to another type of
glasses.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins himself, acting by reflex, attempted to return the portrait
to its place until new glass could be obtained. But the fall had sprung
the frame at one corner and it wouldn't hang straight.
</p>
<p>
"We'd better put old H. H. away for safekeeping until after the
holiday," he told a small, blonde salesclerk who was beneath his
attention on any working day.
</p>
<p>
With the proper mixture of respect and bonhommie, he lifted the heavy
picture out of its frame. A yellowed envelope slipped to the floor as
the picture came free. Hawkins rolled the picture like a scroll and put
it into a desk drawer, for later attention. Then he looked around for a
drink that would make him feel even better.
</p>
<p>
A sorting clerk in the mail order department wasn't used to liquor. She
picked up the envelope and looked around vaguely for the mail-opening
machine.
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Milly, you aren't working!" someone shouted at her. "Have
another!"
</p>
<p>
Milly snapped out of it. She giggled, suppressed a ladylike belch and
returned to reality. Looking at the envelope, she said: "Oh, I see.
They must have stuck it in to tighten the frame. Gee, it's old."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins had refreshed himself. He decided that he liked Milly's
voice. To hear more of it, he said to her: "I'll bet that's been in
there ever since the picture was framed. There's a company legend that
that picture was put up the day this branch opened, eighty years ago."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't know the company ever used buff envelopes like this." Milly
turned it over in her hands. The ancient glue crackled as she did so.
The flap popped open and an old-fashioned order blank fell out.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins' eyes widened. He bent, reached painfully over his potbelly
and picked up the order form.
</p>
<p>
"This thing has never been processed!" Raising his voice, he shouted
jovially, "Hey, people! You're all fired! Here's an order that
Hartshorne-Logan never filled! We can't have such carelessness. This
poor woman has waited eighty years for her merchandise!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Milly was reading aloud the scrawled words on the order form:
</p>
<p>
"Best electric doorbell. Junior detective kit. Disposable sacks for
vacuum cleaner. Dress for three-year-old girl." She turned to the
assistant general manager, struck with an idea for the first time in
her young life. "Let's fill this order right now!"
</p>
<p>
"The poor woman must be dead by now," he objected, secretly angry
that he hadn't thought of such a fine party stunt himself. Then he
brightened. "Unless—" he said it loud enough for the employes to scent
a great proposal and the room grew quiet—"unless we broke the rules
just once and used the time warp on a big mission!"
</p>
<p>
There was a silence. Finally, from an anonymous voice in one corner:
"Would the warp work over eighty years? We were always told that it
must be used only for complaints within three days."
</p>
<p>
"Then let's find out!" Mr. Hawkins downed the rest of his drink and
pulled a batch of keys from his pocket. "Someone scoot down to the
warehouse. Tell the watchman that it's on my authority. Hunt up the
stuff that's on the order. Get the best of everything. Ignore the
catalogue numbers—they've changed a hundred times in all these years."
</p>
<p>
Milly was still deciphering the form. Now she let out a little squeal
of excitement.
</p>
<p>
"Look, Mr. Hawkins! The name on this order—it's my great-grandmother!
Isn't that wonderful? I was just a little girl when she died. I can
barely remember her as a real old woman. But I remember that my
grandmother never bought anything from Hartshorne-Logan because of some
trouble her mother had once with the firm. My mother didn't want me to
come to work here because of that."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins put his arm around Milly in a way that he intended to
look fatherly. It didn't. "Well, now. Since it's your relative, let's
thrill the old girl. We wouldn't have vacuum sacks any more. So we'll
substitute a manky!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann Hartley was returning from mailing the letter when she found the
large parcel on her doorstep. She put her hands on her hips and stared
pugnaciously at the bundle.
</p>
<p>
"The minute I write a letter to complain about you, you turn up!" she
told the parcel. She nudged her toe peevishly against the brown paper
wrappings that were tied with a half-transparent twine she had never
seen before.
</p>
<p>
The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to
the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. But
the familiar RATTLE OK sticker was pasted onto the box, indicating to
the delivery man that the contents would make a rattling sound and
therefore hadn't been broken in shipment.
</p>
<p>
Ann sighed and picked up her bundle. With a last look at the lovely
spring afternoon and the quiet suburban landscape, she went into the
house.
</p>
<p>
Two-year-old Sally heard the box rattling. She waddled up on chubby
legs and grabbed her mother's skirt. "Want!" she said decisively.
</p>
<p>
"Your dress ought to be here," Ann said. She found scissors in her
sewing box, tossed a cushion onto the floor, sat on it, and began to
open the parcel.
</p>
<p>
"Now I'll have to write another letter to explain that they should
throw away my letter of complaint," she told her daughter. "And by the
time they get my second letter, they'll have answered my first letter.
Then they'll write again." Out of consideration for Sally, she omitted
the expletives that she wanted to add.
</p>
<p>
The translucent cord was too tough for the scissors. Ann was about to
hunt for a razor blade when Sally clutched at an intersection of the
cord and yanked. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were
alive. The paper wrappings flapped open.
</p>
<p>
"There!" Sally said.
</p>
<p>
Ann repressed an irrational urge to slap her daughter. Instead, she
tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. A
slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the
dress and shook it into a freely hanging position. Then she groaned.
</p>
<p>
It was green and she had ordered blue. It didn't remotely resemble
the dress she had admired from the Hartshorne-Logan catalogue
illustration. Moreover, the shoulders were lumpier than any small
girl's dress should be.
</p>
<p>
But Sally was delighted. "Mine!" she shrilled, grabbing for the dress.
</p>
<p>
"It's probably the wrong size, too," Ann said, pulling off Sally's
dress to try it on. "Let's find as many things to complain about as we
can."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The dress fitted precisely, except for the absurd shoulder bumps. Sally
was radiant for a moment. Then her small face sobered and she started
to look vacantly at the distant wall.
</p>
<p>
"We'll have to send it back," Ann said, "and get the one we ordered."
</p>
<p>
She tried to take it off, but the child squawked violently. Ann grabbed
her daughter's arms, held them above her head and pulled at the dress.
It seemed to be stuck somewhere. When Ann released the child's arms to
loosen the dress, Sally squirmed away. She took one step forward, then
began to float three inches above the ground. She landed just before
she collided with the far wall.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Sally looked scared until she saw her mother's face. Then she squealed
in delight.
</p>
<p>
Ann's legs were rubber. She was shaking her head and wobbling
uncertainly toward her daughter when the door opened behind her.
</p>
<p>
"It's me," her husband said. "Slow day at the office, so I came home
early."
</p>
<p>
"Les! I'm going crazy or something. Sally just—"
</p>
<p>
Sally crouched to jump at her father. Before she could leap, he grabbed
her up bodily and hugged her. Then he saw the box.
</p>
<p>
"Your order's here? Good. What's this thing?" He was looking at a small
box he had pulled from the carton. Its lid contained a single word:
MANKY. The box rattled when he shook it.
</p>
<p>
Les pulled off the lid and found inside a circular, shiny metal object.
A triangular trio of jacks stuck out from one end.
</p>
<p>
"Is this the doorbell? I've never seen a plug like this. And there's no
wire."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Ann said. "Les, listen. A minute ago, Sally—"
</p>
<p>
He peered into the box for an instruction sheet, uselessly. "They must
have made a mistake. It looks like some kind of farm equipment."
</p>
<p>
He tossed the manky onto the hassock and delved into the carton again.
Sally was still in his arms.
</p>
<p>
"That's the doorbell, I think," he said, looking at the next object. It
had a lovely, tubular shape, a half-dozen connecting rods and a plug
for a wall socket.
</p>
<p>
"That's funny," Ann mused, her mind distracted from Sally for a moment.
"It looks terribly expensive. Maybe they sent door chimes instead of
the doorbell."
</p>
<p>
The bottom of the carton contained the detective outfit that they had
ordered for their son. Ann glanced at its glaringly lithographed cover
and said: "Les, about Sally. Put her down a minute and watch what she
does."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Les stared at his wife and put the child onto the rug. Sally began to
walk, then rose and again floated, this time toward the hassock on
which the manky lay.
</p>
<p>
His jaw dropped. "My God! Ann, what—"
</p>
<p>
Ann was staring, too, but not at her daughter. "Les! The hassock! It
used to be brown!"
</p>
<p>
The hassock was a livid shade of green. A neon, demanding, screaming
green that clashed horribly with the soft browns and reds in which Ann
had furnished the room.
</p>
<p>
"That round thing must be leaking," Les said. "But did you see Sally
when she—"
</p>
<p>
Ann's frazzled nerves carried a frantic order to her muscles. She
jumped up, strode to the hassock and picked up the manky with two
fingers. She tossed it to Les. Immediately, she regretted her action.
</p>
<p>
"Drop it!" she yelled. "Maybe it'll turn you green, too!"
</p>
<p>
Les kicked the hassock into the hall closet, tossed the manky in after
it and shut the door firmly. As the door closed, he saw the entire
interior of the dark closet brighten into a wet-lettuce green.
</p>
<p>
When he turned back to Ann, she was staring at her left hand. The
wedding band that Les had put there a dozen years ago was a brilliant
green, shedding its soft glow over the finger up to the first knuckle.
</p>
<p>
Ann felt the scream building up inside her. She opened her mouth to let
it out, then put her hand in front of her mouth to keep it in, finally
jerked the hand away to prevent the glowing ring from turning her front
teeth green.
</p>
<p>
She collapsed into Les's arms, babbling incomprehensibly.
</p>
<p>
He said: "It's all right. There must be balloons or something in the
shoulders of that dress. I'll tie a paperweight to Sally's dress and
that'll hold her down until we undress her. Don't worry. And that green
dye or whatever it is will wash off."
</p>
<p>
Ann immediately felt better. She put her hands behind her back, pulled
off her ring and slipped it into her apron pocket. Les was sentimental
about her removing it.
</p>
<p>
"I'll get dinner," she said, trying to keep her voice on an even keel.
"Maybe you'd better start a letter to Hartshorne-Logan. Let's go into
the kitchen, Sally."
</p>
<p>
Ann strode resolutely toward the rear of the house. She kept her eyes
determinedly off the tinge of green that was showing through the apron
pocket and didn't dare look back at her daughter's unsettling means of
propulsion.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A half-hour later, when the meal was almost ready, two things happened:
Bob came home from school through the back door and a strange voice
said from the front of the house, "Don't answer the front door."
</p>
<p>
Ann stared at her son. He stared back at her, the detective outfit
under his arm.
</p>
<p>
She went into the front room. Her husband was standing with fists on
hips, looking at the front door, chuckling. "Neatest trick I've seen
in a long time. That voice you heard was the new doorbell. I put it up
while you were in the kitchen. Did you hear what happened when old lady
Burnett out there pushed the button?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh. Something like those name cards with something funny printed on
them, like 'Another hour shot.' Well, if there's a little tape in there
repeating that message, you'd better shut that part off. It might get
boring after a while. And it might insult someone."
</p>
<p>
Ann went to the door and turned the knob. The door didn't open. The
figure of Mrs. Burnett, half-visible through the heavy curtain, shifted
impatiently on the porch.
</p>
<p>
Les yanked at the doorknob. It didn't yield for him, either. He looked
up at the doorbell, which he had installed just above the upper part
of the door frame.
</p>
<p>
"Queer," he said. "That isn't in contact with the door itself. I don't
see how it can keep the door from opening."
</p>
<p>
Ann put her mouth close to the glass, shouting: "Won't you come to the
back door, Mrs. Burnett? This one is stuck."
</p>
<p>
"I just wanted to borrow some sugar," the woman cried from the porch.
"I realize that I'm a terrible bother." But she walked down the front
steps and disappeared around the side of the house.
</p>
<p>
"Don't open the back door." The well-modulated voice from the small
doorbell box threatened to penetrate every corner of the house. Ann
looked doubtfully at her husband's lips. They weren't moving.
</p>
<p>
"If this is ventriloquism—" she began icily.
</p>
<p>
"I'll have to order another doorbell just like this one, for the
office," Les said. "But you'd better let the old girl in. No use
letting her get peeved."
</p>
<p>
The back door was already open, because it was a warm day. The screen
door had no latch, held closed by a simple spring. Ann pushed it open
when Mrs. Burnett waddled up the three back steps, and smiled at her
neighbor.
</p>
<p>
"I'm so sorry you had to walk around the house. It's been a rather
hectic day in an awful lot of ways."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Something seemed to impede Mrs. Burnett as she came to the threshold.
She frowned and shoved her portly frame against something invisible.
It apparently yielded abruptly, because she staggered forward into
the kitchen, nearly falling. She stared grimly at Ann and looked
suspiciously behind her.
</p>
<p>
"The children have some new toys," Ann improvised hastily. "Sally is
so excited over a new dress that she's positively feverish. Let's see
now—it was sugar that you want, wasn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"I already have it," Bob said, handing a filled cup to his mother.
The boy turned back to the detective set which he had spread over the
kitchen table.
</p>
<p>
"Excitement isn't good for me," Mrs. Burnett said testily. "I've had a
lot of troubles in my life. I like peace and quiet."
</p>
<p>
"Your husband is better?"
</p>
<p>
"Worse. I'm sure I don't know why everything happens to me." Mrs.
Burnett edged toward the hall, trying to peer into the front of the
house. Ann stood squarely in front of the door leading to the hall.
Defeated, Mrs. Burnett left. A muffled volley of handclapping, mixed
with a few faint cheers, came from the doorbell-box when she crossed
the threshold.
</p>
<p>
Ann went into the hall to order Les to disconnect the doorbell. She
nearly collided with him, coming in the other direction.
</p>
<p>
"Where did this come from?" Les held a small object in the palm of
his hand, keeping it away from his body. A few drops of something
unpleasant were dripping from his fingers. The object looked remarkably
like a human eyeball. It was human-size, complete with pupil, iris and
rather bloodshot veins.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, that's mine," Bob said. "You know, this is a funny detective kit.
That was in it. But there aren't instructions on how it works."
</p>
<p>
"Well, put it away," Ann told Bob sharply. "It's slimy."
</p>
<p>
Les laid the eyeball on the table and walked away. The eyeball rolled
from the smooth, level table, bounced twice when it hit the floor, then
rolled along, six inches behind him. He turned and kicked at it. The
eyeball rolled nimbly out of the path of the kick.
</p>
<p>
"Les, I think we've made poor Mrs. Burnett angry," Ann said. "She's so
upset over her poor husband's health and she thinks we're insulting
her."
</p>
<p>
Les didn't hear her. He strode to the detective set, followed at a safe
distance by the eyeball, and picked up the box.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, watch out!" Bob cried. A small flashlight fell from the box,
landed on its side and its bulb flashed on, throwing a pencil of light
across Les's hands.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Bob retrieved the flashlight and turned it off while Les glanced
through an instruction booklet, frowning.
</p>
<p>
"This toy is too complicated for a ten-year-old boy," Les told his
wife. "I don't know why you ordered such a thing." He tossed the
booklet into the empty box.
</p>
<p>
"I'm going to return it, if you don't smudge it up," she replied. "Look
at the marks you made on the instructions." The black finger-marks
stood out clearly against the shiny, coated paper.
</p>
<p>
Les looked at his hands. "I didn't do it," he said, pressing his clean
fingertips against the kitchen table.
</p>
<p>
Black fingerprints, a full set of them, stood out against the sparkling
polished table's surface.
</p>
<p>
"I think the Detectolite did it," Bob said. "The instructions say
you've got to be very careful with it, because its effects last for a
long time."
</p>
<p>
Les began scrubbing his hands vigorously at the sink. Ann watched him
silently, until she saw his fingerprints appear on the faucet, the soap
and the towel. She began to yell at him for making such a mess, when
Sally floated into the kitchen. The girl was wearing a nightgown.
</p>
<p>
"My God!" Ann forgot her tongue before the children. "She got out of
that dress herself. Where did she get that nightgown?"
</p>
<p>
Ann fingered the garment. She didn't recognize it as a nightgown. But
in cut and fold, it was suspiciously like the dress that had arrived in
the parcel. Her heart sank.
</p>
<p>
She picked up the child, felt the hot forehead, and said: "Les, I think
it's the same dress. It must change color or something when it's time
for a nap. It seems impossible, but—" She shrugged mutely. "And I
think Sally's running a temperature. I'm going to put her to bed."
</p>
<p>
She looked worriedly into the reddened eyes of the small girl, who
whimpered on the way to the bedroom. Ann carried her up the stairs,
keeping her balance with difficulty, as Sally threatened to pop upward
out of her arms.
</p>
<p>
The whole family decided that bed might be a good idea, soon after
dinner. When the lights went out, the house seemed to be nearly normal.
Les put on a pair of gloves and threw a pillowcase over the eyeball.
Bob rigged up trestles to warn visitors from the front porch. Ann
put small wads of cotton into her ears, because she didn't like the
rhythmic rattle, soft but persistent, that emerged from the hall
closet where the manky sat. Sally was whining occasionally in her sleep.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When daylight entered her room, Sally's nightgown had turned back into
the new dress. But the little girl was too sick to get out of bed.
She wasn't hungry, her nose was running, and she had a dry cough. Les
called the doctor before going to work.
</p>
<p>
The only good thing about the morning for Ann was the fact that the
manky had quieted down some time in the night. After she got Bob to
school, she gingerly opened the closet door. The manky was now glowing
a bright pink and seemed slightly larger. Deep violet lettering stood
out on its side:
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Today is Wednesday. For obvious reasons, the manky will not operate
today.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
The mailman brought a letter from Hartshorne-Logan. Ann stared stupidly
at the envelope, until she realized that this wasn't an impossibly
quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have
crossed in the mail her complaint about the non-arrival of the order.
She tore open the envelope and read:
</p>
<p>
"We regret to inform you that your order cannot be filled until the
balance you owe us has been reduced. From the attached form, you will
readily ascertain that the payment of $87.56 will enable you to resume
the purchasing of merchandise on credit. We shall fill your recent
order as soon...."
</p>
<p>
Ann crumpled the letter and threw it into the imitation fireplace,
knowing perfectly well that it would need to be retrieved for Les after
work tonight. She had just decided to call Hartshorne-Logan's complaint
department when the phone rang.
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid I must ask you to come down to the school, Mrs. Morris," a
voice said. "Your son is in trouble. He claims that it's connected with
something that his parents gave him."
</p>
<p>
"My son?" Ann asked incredulously. "Bob?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. It's a little gadget that looks like a water pistol. Your son
insists that he didn't know it would make clothing transparent. He
claims it was just accident that he tried it out when he was walking
by the gym during calisthenics. We've had to call upon every family
in the neighborhood for blankets. Bob has always been a good boy and
we believe that we can expel him quietly without newspaper publicity
involving his name, if you'll—"
</p>
<p>
"I'll be right down," Ann said. "I mean I won't be right down. I've got
a sick baby here. Don't do anything till I telephone my husband. And
I'm sorry for Bob. I mean I'm sorry for the girls, and for the boys,
too. I'm sorry for—for everything. Good-by."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Just as she hung up the telephone, the doorbell rang. It rang with a
normal buzz, then began to play soft music. Ann opened the door without
difficulty, to admit Dr. Schwartz.
</p>
<p>
"You aren't going to believe me, Doctor," Ann said while he took the
child's temperature, "but we can't get that dress off Sally."
</p>
<p>
"Kids are stubborn sometimes." Dr. Schwartz whistled softly when he
looked at the thermometer. "She's pretty sick. I want a blood count
before I try to move her. Let me undress her."
</p>
<p>
Sally had been mumbling half-deliriously. She made no effort to resist
as the doctor picked her up. But when he raised a fold of the dress and
began to pull it back, she screamed.
</p>
<p>
The doctor dropped the dress and looked in perplexity at the point
where it touched Sally's skin.
</p>
<p>
"It's apparently an allergy to some new kind of material. But I don't
understand why the dress won't come off. It's not stuck tight."
</p>
<p>
"Don't bother trying," Ann said miserably. "Just cut it off."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Schwartz pulled scissors from his bag and clipped at a sleeve. When
he had cut it to the shoulder, he gently began to peel back the edges
of the cloth. Sally writhed and kicked, then collapsed in a faint. The
physician smoothed the folds hastily back into place.
</p>
<p>
He looked helpless as he said to Ann: "I don't know quite what to do.
The flesh starts to hemorrhage when I pull at the cloth. She'd bleed to
death if I yanked it off. But it's such an extreme allergy that it may
kill her, if we leave it in contact with the skin."
</p>
<p>
The manky's rattle suddenly began rhythmically from the lower part of
the house. Ann clutched the side of the chair, trying to keep herself
under control. A siren wailed somewhere down the street, grew louder
rapidly, suddenly going silent at the peak of its crescendo.
</p>
<p>
Dr. Schwartz glanced outside the window. "An ambulance. Looks as if
they're stopping here."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no," Ann breathed. "Something's happened to Les."
</p>
<p>
"It sure will," Les said grimly, walking into the bedroom. "I won't
have a job if I can't get this stuff off my fingers. Big black
fingerprints on everything I touch. I can't handle correspondence or
shake hands with customers. How's the kid? What's the ambulance doing
out front?"
</p>
<p>
"They're going to the next house down the street," the physician said.
"Has there been sickness there?"
</p>
<p>
Les held up his hands, palms toward the doctor. "What's wrong with me?
My fingers look all right. But they leave black marks on everything I
touch."
</p>
<p>
The doctor looked closely at the fingertips. "Every human has natural
oil on the skin. That's how detectives get results with their
fingerprint powder. But I've never heard of nigrification, in this
sense. Better not try to commit any crimes until you've seen a skin
specialist."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann was peering through the window, curious about the ambulance despite
her own troubles. She saw two attendants carry Mr. Burnett, motionless
and white, on a stretcher from the house next door into the ambulance.
A third member of the crew was struggling with a disheveled Mrs.
Burnett at the door. Shrieks that sounded like "Murder!" came sharply
through the window.
</p>
<p>
"I know those bearers," Dr. Schwartz said. He yanked the window open.
"Hey, Pete! What's wrong?"
</p>
<p>
The front man with the stretcher looked up. "I don't know. This guy's
awful sick. I think his wife is nuts."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Burnett had broken free. She dashed halfway down the sidewalk,
gesticulating wildly to nobody in particular.
</p>
<p>
"It's murder!" she screamed. "Murder again! He's been poisoned! He's
going to die! It means the electric chair!"
</p>
<p>
The orderly grabbed her again. This time he stuffed a handkerchief into
her mouth to quiet her.
</p>
<p>
"Come back to this house as soon as you deliver him," Dr. Schwartz
shouted to the men. "We've got a very sick child up here."
</p>
<p>
"I was afraid this would happen," Les said. "The poor woman already has
lost three husbands. If this one is sick, it's no wonder she thinks
that somebody is poisoning him."
</p>
<p>
Bob stuck his head around the bedroom door. His mother stared
unbelievingly for a moment, then advanced on him threateningly.
Something in his face restrained her, just as she was about to start
shaking him.
</p>
<p>
"I got something important to tell you," Bob said rapidly, ready to
duck. "I snuck out of the principal's office and came home. I got to
tell you what I did."
</p>
<p>
"I heard all about what you did," Ann said, advancing again. "And
you're not going to slip away from me."
</p>
<p>
"Give me a chance to explain something. Downstairs. So he won't hear,"
Bob ended in a whisper, nodding toward the doctor.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann looked doubtfully at Les, then followed Bob down the stairs. The
doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: "Don't answer me,
don't answer me, don't go to the door."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you do it?" Ann asked Bob, her anger suddenly slumping into
weary sadness. "People will suspect you of being a sex maniac for the
rest of your life. You can't possibly explain—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't bother about the girls' clothing," Bob said, "because it was
only an accident. The really important thing is something else I did
before I left the house."
</p>
<p>
Les, cursing softly, hurried past them on the way to answer the
knocking. He ignored the doorbell's pleas.
</p>
<p>
"I forgot about it," Bob continued, "when that ray gun accidentally
went off. Then when they put me in the principal's office, I had time
to think, and I remembered. I put some white stuff from the detective
kit into that sugar we lent Mrs. Burnett last night. I just wanted to
see what would happen. I don't know exactly what effect—"
</p>
<p>
"He put stuff in the sugar?" A deep, booming voice came from the front
of the house. Mother and son looked through the hall. A policeman stood
on the threshold of the front door. "I heard that! The woman next door
claims that her husband is poisoned. Young man, I'm going to put you
under arrest."
</p>
<p>
The policeman stepped over the threshold. A blue flash darted from
the doorbell box, striking him squarely on the chest. The policeman
staggered back, sitting down abruptly on the porch. A scent of ozone
drifted through the house.
</p>
<p>
"Close the door, close the door," the doorbell was chanting urgently.
</p>
<p>
"Where's that ambulance?" Dr. Schwartz yelled from the top of the
steps. "The child's getting worse."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Her great-grandmother \n(B) Her grandmother \n(C) Her mother\n(D) Herself in a past life. ",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Short stories; Science fiction; Time travel -- Fiction; Department stores -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction"
} |
51092 | What was Ann’s first complaint with the dress she ordered for Sally?
Choices:
(A) It was much to small for the child.
(B) The shoulders were lumpier than a small girl’s dress should be.
(C) It was the incorrect color.
(D) It was much too large for the small child. | [
"C",
"It was the incorrect color. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
RATTLE OK
</h1>
<p>
By HARRY WARNER, JR.
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by FINLAY
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1956.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
What better way to use a time machine than
<br/>
to handle department store complaints? But
<br/>
pleasing a customer should have its limits!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The Christmas party at the Boston branch of Hartshorne-Logan was
threatening to become more legendary than usual this Christmas.
</p>
<p>
The farm machinery manager had already collapsed. When he slid under
the table containing the drinks, Miss Pringle, who sold millinery, had
screamed: "He'll drown!"
</p>
<p>
One out of every three dirty stories started by party attendees had
remained unfinished, because each had reminded someone else of another
story.
</p>
<p>
The recently developed liquors which affected the bloodstream three
times faster had driven away twinges of conscience about untrimmed
trees and midnight church services.
</p>
<p>
The star salesman for mankies and the gentleman who was in charge of
the janitors were putting on a display of Burmese foot-wrestling in
one corner of the general office. The janitor foreman weighed fifty
pounds less than the Burma gentleman, who was the salesman's customary
opponent. So the climax of one tactic did not simply overturn the
foreman. He glided through the air, crashing with a very loud thump
against the wall.
</p>
<p>
He wasn't hurt. But the impact knocked the hallowed portrait of H. H.
Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. It tinkled imposingly as its
glass splintered against the floor.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The noise caused a temporary lull in the gaiety. Several employes even
felt a passing suspicion that things might be getting out of hand.
</p>
<p>
"It's all in the spirit of good, clean fun!" cried Mr. Hawkins, the
assistant general manager. Since he was the highest executive present,
worries vanished. Everyone felt fine. There was a scurry to shove the
broken glass out of sight and to turn more attention to another type of
glasses.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins himself, acting by reflex, attempted to return the portrait
to its place until new glass could be obtained. But the fall had sprung
the frame at one corner and it wouldn't hang straight.
</p>
<p>
"We'd better put old H. H. away for safekeeping until after the
holiday," he told a small, blonde salesclerk who was beneath his
attention on any working day.
</p>
<p>
With the proper mixture of respect and bonhommie, he lifted the heavy
picture out of its frame. A yellowed envelope slipped to the floor as
the picture came free. Hawkins rolled the picture like a scroll and put
it into a desk drawer, for later attention. Then he looked around for a
drink that would make him feel even better.
</p>
<p>
A sorting clerk in the mail order department wasn't used to liquor. She
picked up the envelope and looked around vaguely for the mail-opening
machine.
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Milly, you aren't working!" someone shouted at her. "Have
another!"
</p>
<p>
Milly snapped out of it. She giggled, suppressed a ladylike belch and
returned to reality. Looking at the envelope, she said: "Oh, I see.
They must have stuck it in to tighten the frame. Gee, it's old."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins had refreshed himself. He decided that he liked Milly's
voice. To hear more of it, he said to her: "I'll bet that's been in
there ever since the picture was framed. There's a company legend that
that picture was put up the day this branch opened, eighty years ago."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't know the company ever used buff envelopes like this." Milly
turned it over in her hands. The ancient glue crackled as she did so.
The flap popped open and an old-fashioned order blank fell out.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins' eyes widened. He bent, reached painfully over his potbelly
and picked up the order form.
</p>
<p>
"This thing has never been processed!" Raising his voice, he shouted
jovially, "Hey, people! You're all fired! Here's an order that
Hartshorne-Logan never filled! We can't have such carelessness. This
poor woman has waited eighty years for her merchandise!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Milly was reading aloud the scrawled words on the order form:
</p>
<p>
"Best electric doorbell. Junior detective kit. Disposable sacks for
vacuum cleaner. Dress for three-year-old girl." She turned to the
assistant general manager, struck with an idea for the first time in
her young life. "Let's fill this order right now!"
</p>
<p>
"The poor woman must be dead by now," he objected, secretly angry
that he hadn't thought of such a fine party stunt himself. Then he
brightened. "Unless—" he said it loud enough for the employes to scent
a great proposal and the room grew quiet—"unless we broke the rules
just once and used the time warp on a big mission!"
</p>
<p>
There was a silence. Finally, from an anonymous voice in one corner:
"Would the warp work over eighty years? We were always told that it
must be used only for complaints within three days."
</p>
<p>
"Then let's find out!" Mr. Hawkins downed the rest of his drink and
pulled a batch of keys from his pocket. "Someone scoot down to the
warehouse. Tell the watchman that it's on my authority. Hunt up the
stuff that's on the order. Get the best of everything. Ignore the
catalogue numbers—they've changed a hundred times in all these years."
</p>
<p>
Milly was still deciphering the form. Now she let out a little squeal
of excitement.
</p>
<p>
"Look, Mr. Hawkins! The name on this order—it's my great-grandmother!
Isn't that wonderful? I was just a little girl when she died. I can
barely remember her as a real old woman. But I remember that my
grandmother never bought anything from Hartshorne-Logan because of some
trouble her mother had once with the firm. My mother didn't want me to
come to work here because of that."
</p>
<p>
Mr. Hawkins put his arm around Milly in a way that he intended to
look fatherly. It didn't. "Well, now. Since it's your relative, let's
thrill the old girl. We wouldn't have vacuum sacks any more. So we'll
substitute a manky!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann Hartley was returning from mailing the letter when she found the
large parcel on her doorstep. She put her hands on her hips and stared
pugnaciously at the bundle.
</p>
<p>
"The minute I write a letter to complain about you, you turn up!" she
told the parcel. She nudged her toe peevishly against the brown paper
wrappings that were tied with a half-transparent twine she had never
seen before.
</p>
<p>
The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to
the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. But
the familiar RATTLE OK sticker was pasted onto the box, indicating to
the delivery man that the contents would make a rattling sound and
therefore hadn't been broken in shipment.
</p>
<p>
Ann sighed and picked up her bundle. With a last look at the lovely
spring afternoon and the quiet suburban landscape, she went into the
house.
</p>
<p>
Two-year-old Sally heard the box rattling. She waddled up on chubby
legs and grabbed her mother's skirt. "Want!" she said decisively.
</p>
<p>
"Your dress ought to be here," Ann said. She found scissors in her
sewing box, tossed a cushion onto the floor, sat on it, and began to
open the parcel.
</p>
<p>
"Now I'll have to write another letter to explain that they should
throw away my letter of complaint," she told her daughter. "And by the
time they get my second letter, they'll have answered my first letter.
Then they'll write again." Out of consideration for Sally, she omitted
the expletives that she wanted to add.
</p>
<p>
The translucent cord was too tough for the scissors. Ann was about to
hunt for a razor blade when Sally clutched at an intersection of the
cord and yanked. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were
alive. The paper wrappings flapped open.
</p>
<p>
"There!" Sally said.
</p>
<p>
Ann repressed an irrational urge to slap her daughter. Instead, she
tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. A
slightly crushed thin cardboard box lay on top. Ann pulled out the
dress and shook it into a freely hanging position. Then she groaned.
</p>
<p>
It was green and she had ordered blue. It didn't remotely resemble
the dress she had admired from the Hartshorne-Logan catalogue
illustration. Moreover, the shoulders were lumpier than any small
girl's dress should be.
</p>
<p>
But Sally was delighted. "Mine!" she shrilled, grabbing for the dress.
</p>
<p>
"It's probably the wrong size, too," Ann said, pulling off Sally's
dress to try it on. "Let's find as many things to complain about as we
can."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The dress fitted precisely, except for the absurd shoulder bumps. Sally
was radiant for a moment. Then her small face sobered and she started
to look vacantly at the distant wall.
</p>
<p>
"We'll have to send it back," Ann said, "and get the one we ordered."
</p>
<p>
She tried to take it off, but the child squawked violently. Ann grabbed
her daughter's arms, held them above her head and pulled at the dress.
It seemed to be stuck somewhere. When Ann released the child's arms to
loosen the dress, Sally squirmed away. She took one step forward, then
began to float three inches above the ground. She landed just before
she collided with the far wall.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Sally looked scared until she saw her mother's face. Then she squealed
in delight.
</p>
<p>
Ann's legs were rubber. She was shaking her head and wobbling
uncertainly toward her daughter when the door opened behind her.
</p>
<p>
"It's me," her husband said. "Slow day at the office, so I came home
early."
</p>
<p>
"Les! I'm going crazy or something. Sally just—"
</p>
<p>
Sally crouched to jump at her father. Before she could leap, he grabbed
her up bodily and hugged her. Then he saw the box.
</p>
<p>
"Your order's here? Good. What's this thing?" He was looking at a small
box he had pulled from the carton. Its lid contained a single word:
MANKY. The box rattled when he shook it.
</p>
<p>
Les pulled off the lid and found inside a circular, shiny metal object.
A triangular trio of jacks stuck out from one end.
</p>
<p>
"Is this the doorbell? I've never seen a plug like this. And there's no
wire."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Ann said. "Les, listen. A minute ago, Sally—"
</p>
<p>
He peered into the box for an instruction sheet, uselessly. "They must
have made a mistake. It looks like some kind of farm equipment."
</p>
<p>
He tossed the manky onto the hassock and delved into the carton again.
Sally was still in his arms.
</p>
<p>
"That's the doorbell, I think," he said, looking at the next object. It
had a lovely, tubular shape, a half-dozen connecting rods and a plug
for a wall socket.
</p>
<p>
"That's funny," Ann mused, her mind distracted from Sally for a moment.
"It looks terribly expensive. Maybe they sent door chimes instead of
the doorbell."
</p>
<p>
The bottom of the carton contained the detective outfit that they had
ordered for their son. Ann glanced at its glaringly lithographed cover
and said: "Les, about Sally. Put her down a minute and watch what she
does."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Les stared at his wife and put the child onto the rug. Sally began to
walk, then rose and again floated, this time toward the hassock on
which the manky lay.
</p>
<p>
His jaw dropped. "My God! Ann, what—"
</p>
<p>
Ann was staring, too, but not at her daughter. "Les! The hassock! It
used to be brown!"
</p>
<p>
The hassock was a livid shade of green. A neon, demanding, screaming
green that clashed horribly with the soft browns and reds in which Ann
had furnished the room.
</p>
<p>
"That round thing must be leaking," Les said. "But did you see Sally
when she—"
</p>
<p>
Ann's frazzled nerves carried a frantic order to her muscles. She
jumped up, strode to the hassock and picked up the manky with two
fingers. She tossed it to Les. Immediately, she regretted her action.
</p>
<p>
"Drop it!" she yelled. "Maybe it'll turn you green, too!"
</p>
<p>
Les kicked the hassock into the hall closet, tossed the manky in after
it and shut the door firmly. As the door closed, he saw the entire
interior of the dark closet brighten into a wet-lettuce green.
</p>
<p>
When he turned back to Ann, she was staring at her left hand. The
wedding band that Les had put there a dozen years ago was a brilliant
green, shedding its soft glow over the finger up to the first knuckle.
</p>
<p>
Ann felt the scream building up inside her. She opened her mouth to let
it out, then put her hand in front of her mouth to keep it in, finally
jerked the hand away to prevent the glowing ring from turning her front
teeth green.
</p>
<p>
She collapsed into Les's arms, babbling incomprehensibly.
</p>
<p>
He said: "It's all right. There must be balloons or something in the
shoulders of that dress. I'll tie a paperweight to Sally's dress and
that'll hold her down until we undress her. Don't worry. And that green
dye or whatever it is will wash off."
</p>
<p>
Ann immediately felt better. She put her hands behind her back, pulled
off her ring and slipped it into her apron pocket. Les was sentimental
about her removing it.
</p>
<p>
"I'll get dinner," she said, trying to keep her voice on an even keel.
"Maybe you'd better start a letter to Hartshorne-Logan. Let's go into
the kitchen, Sally."
</p>
<p>
Ann strode resolutely toward the rear of the house. She kept her eyes
determinedly off the tinge of green that was showing through the apron
pocket and didn't dare look back at her daughter's unsettling means of
propulsion.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A half-hour later, when the meal was almost ready, two things happened:
Bob came home from school through the back door and a strange voice
said from the front of the house, "Don't answer the front door."
</p>
<p>
Ann stared at her son. He stared back at her, the detective outfit
under his arm.
</p>
<p>
She went into the front room. Her husband was standing with fists on
hips, looking at the front door, chuckling. "Neatest trick I've seen
in a long time. That voice you heard was the new doorbell. I put it up
while you were in the kitchen. Did you hear what happened when old lady
Burnett out there pushed the button?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh. Something like those name cards with something funny printed on
them, like 'Another hour shot.' Well, if there's a little tape in there
repeating that message, you'd better shut that part off. It might get
boring after a while. And it might insult someone."
</p>
<p>
Ann went to the door and turned the knob. The door didn't open. The
figure of Mrs. Burnett, half-visible through the heavy curtain, shifted
impatiently on the porch.
</p>
<p>
Les yanked at the doorknob. It didn't yield for him, either. He looked
up at the doorbell, which he had installed just above the upper part
of the door frame.
</p>
<p>
"Queer," he said. "That isn't in contact with the door itself. I don't
see how it can keep the door from opening."
</p>
<p>
Ann put her mouth close to the glass, shouting: "Won't you come to the
back door, Mrs. Burnett? This one is stuck."
</p>
<p>
"I just wanted to borrow some sugar," the woman cried from the porch.
"I realize that I'm a terrible bother." But she walked down the front
steps and disappeared around the side of the house.
</p>
<p>
"Don't open the back door." The well-modulated voice from the small
doorbell box threatened to penetrate every corner of the house. Ann
looked doubtfully at her husband's lips. They weren't moving.
</p>
<p>
"If this is ventriloquism—" she began icily.
</p>
<p>
"I'll have to order another doorbell just like this one, for the
office," Les said. "But you'd better let the old girl in. No use
letting her get peeved."
</p>
<p>
The back door was already open, because it was a warm day. The screen
door had no latch, held closed by a simple spring. Ann pushed it open
when Mrs. Burnett waddled up the three back steps, and smiled at her
neighbor.
</p>
<p>
"I'm so sorry you had to walk around the house. It's been a rather
hectic day in an awful lot of ways."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Something seemed to impede Mrs. Burnett as she came to the threshold.
She frowned and shoved her portly frame against something invisible.
It apparently yielded abruptly, because she staggered forward into
the kitchen, nearly falling. She stared grimly at Ann and looked
suspiciously behind her.
</p>
<p>
"The children have some new toys," Ann improvised hastily. "Sally is
so excited over a new dress that she's positively feverish. Let's see
now—it was sugar that you want, wasn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"I already have it," Bob said, handing a filled cup to his mother.
The boy turned back to the detective set which he had spread over the
kitchen table.
</p>
<p>
"Excitement isn't good for me," Mrs. Burnett said testily. "I've had a
lot of troubles in my life. I like peace and quiet."
</p>
<p>
"Your husband is better?"
</p>
<p>
"Worse. I'm sure I don't know why everything happens to me." Mrs.
Burnett edged toward the hall, trying to peer into the front of the
house. Ann stood squarely in front of the door leading to the hall.
Defeated, Mrs. Burnett left. A muffled volley of handclapping, mixed
with a few faint cheers, came from the doorbell-box when she crossed
the threshold.
</p>
<p>
Ann went into the hall to order Les to disconnect the doorbell. She
nearly collided with him, coming in the other direction.
</p>
<p>
"Where did this come from?" Les held a small object in the palm of
his hand, keeping it away from his body. A few drops of something
unpleasant were dripping from his fingers. The object looked remarkably
like a human eyeball. It was human-size, complete with pupil, iris and
rather bloodshot veins.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, that's mine," Bob said. "You know, this is a funny detective kit.
That was in it. But there aren't instructions on how it works."
</p>
<p>
"Well, put it away," Ann told Bob sharply. "It's slimy."
</p>
<p>
Les laid the eyeball on the table and walked away. The eyeball rolled
from the smooth, level table, bounced twice when it hit the floor, then
rolled along, six inches behind him. He turned and kicked at it. The
eyeball rolled nimbly out of the path of the kick.
</p>
<p>
"Les, I think we've made poor Mrs. Burnett angry," Ann said. "She's so
upset over her poor husband's health and she thinks we're insulting
her."
</p>
<p>
Les didn't hear her. He strode to the detective set, followed at a safe
distance by the eyeball, and picked up the box.
</p>
<p>
"Hey, watch out!" Bob cried. A small flashlight fell from the box,
landed on its side and its bulb flashed on, throwing a pencil of light
across Les's hands.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Bob retrieved the flashlight and turned it off while Les glanced
through an instruction booklet, frowning.
</p>
<p>
"This toy is too complicated for a ten-year-old boy," Les told his
wife. "I don't know why you ordered such a thing." He tossed the
booklet into the empty box.
</p>
<p>
"I'm going to return it, if you don't smudge it up," she replied. "Look
at the marks you made on the instructions." The black finger-marks
stood out clearly against the shiny, coated paper.
</p>
<p>
Les looked at his hands. "I didn't do it," he said, pressing his clean
fingertips against the kitchen table.
</p>
<p>
Black fingerprints, a full set of them, stood out against the sparkling
polished table's surface.
</p>
<p>
"I think the Detectolite did it," Bob said. "The instructions say
you've got to be very careful with it, because its effects last for a
long time."
</p>
<p>
Les began scrubbing his hands vigorously at the sink. Ann watched him
silently, until she saw his fingerprints appear on the faucet, the soap
and the towel. She began to yell at him for making such a mess, when
Sally floated into the kitchen. The girl was wearing a nightgown.
</p>
<p>
"My God!" Ann forgot her tongue before the children. "She got out of
that dress herself. Where did she get that nightgown?"
</p>
<p>
Ann fingered the garment. She didn't recognize it as a nightgown. But
in cut and fold, it was suspiciously like the dress that had arrived in
the parcel. Her heart sank.
</p>
<p>
She picked up the child, felt the hot forehead, and said: "Les, I think
it's the same dress. It must change color or something when it's time
for a nap. It seems impossible, but—" She shrugged mutely. "And I
think Sally's running a temperature. I'm going to put her to bed."
</p>
<p>
She looked worriedly into the reddened eyes of the small girl, who
whimpered on the way to the bedroom. Ann carried her up the stairs,
keeping her balance with difficulty, as Sally threatened to pop upward
out of her arms.
</p>
<p>
The whole family decided that bed might be a good idea, soon after
dinner. When the lights went out, the house seemed to be nearly normal.
Les put on a pair of gloves and threw a pillowcase over the eyeball.
Bob rigged up trestles to warn visitors from the front porch. Ann
put small wads of cotton into her ears, because she didn't like the
rhythmic rattle, soft but persistent, that emerged from the hall
closet where the manky sat. Sally was whining occasionally in her sleep.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When daylight entered her room, Sally's nightgown had turned back into
the new dress. But the little girl was too sick to get out of bed.
She wasn't hungry, her nose was running, and she had a dry cough. Les
called the doctor before going to work.
</p>
<p>
The only good thing about the morning for Ann was the fact that the
manky had quieted down some time in the night. After she got Bob to
school, she gingerly opened the closet door. The manky was now glowing
a bright pink and seemed slightly larger. Deep violet lettering stood
out on its side:
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Today is Wednesday. For obvious reasons, the manky will not operate
today.
</i>
"
</p>
<p>
The mailman brought a letter from Hartshorne-Logan. Ann stared stupidly
at the envelope, until she realized that this wasn't an impossibly
quick answer to the letter she had written yesterday. It must have
crossed in the mail her complaint about the non-arrival of the order.
She tore open the envelope and read:
</p>
<p>
"We regret to inform you that your order cannot be filled until the
balance you owe us has been reduced. From the attached form, you will
readily ascertain that the payment of $87.56 will enable you to resume
the purchasing of merchandise on credit. We shall fill your recent
order as soon...."
</p>
<p>
Ann crumpled the letter and threw it into the imitation fireplace,
knowing perfectly well that it would need to be retrieved for Les after
work tonight. She had just decided to call Hartshorne-Logan's complaint
department when the phone rang.
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid I must ask you to come down to the school, Mrs. Morris," a
voice said. "Your son is in trouble. He claims that it's connected with
something that his parents gave him."
</p>
<p>
"My son?" Ann asked incredulously. "Bob?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes. It's a little gadget that looks like a water pistol. Your son
insists that he didn't know it would make clothing transparent. He
claims it was just accident that he tried it out when he was walking
by the gym during calisthenics. We've had to call upon every family
in the neighborhood for blankets. Bob has always been a good boy and
we believe that we can expel him quietly without newspaper publicity
involving his name, if you'll—"
</p>
<p>
"I'll be right down," Ann said. "I mean I won't be right down. I've got
a sick baby here. Don't do anything till I telephone my husband. And
I'm sorry for Bob. I mean I'm sorry for the girls, and for the boys,
too. I'm sorry for—for everything. Good-by."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Just as she hung up the telephone, the doorbell rang. It rang with a
normal buzz, then began to play soft music. Ann opened the door without
difficulty, to admit Dr. Schwartz.
</p>
<p>
"You aren't going to believe me, Doctor," Ann said while he took the
child's temperature, "but we can't get that dress off Sally."
</p>
<p>
"Kids are stubborn sometimes." Dr. Schwartz whistled softly when he
looked at the thermometer. "She's pretty sick. I want a blood count
before I try to move her. Let me undress her."
</p>
<p>
Sally had been mumbling half-deliriously. She made no effort to resist
as the doctor picked her up. But when he raised a fold of the dress and
began to pull it back, she screamed.
</p>
<p>
The doctor dropped the dress and looked in perplexity at the point
where it touched Sally's skin.
</p>
<p>
"It's apparently an allergy to some new kind of material. But I don't
understand why the dress won't come off. It's not stuck tight."
</p>
<p>
"Don't bother trying," Ann said miserably. "Just cut it off."
</p>
<p>
Dr. Schwartz pulled scissors from his bag and clipped at a sleeve. When
he had cut it to the shoulder, he gently began to peel back the edges
of the cloth. Sally writhed and kicked, then collapsed in a faint. The
physician smoothed the folds hastily back into place.
</p>
<p>
He looked helpless as he said to Ann: "I don't know quite what to do.
The flesh starts to hemorrhage when I pull at the cloth. She'd bleed to
death if I yanked it off. But it's such an extreme allergy that it may
kill her, if we leave it in contact with the skin."
</p>
<p>
The manky's rattle suddenly began rhythmically from the lower part of
the house. Ann clutched the side of the chair, trying to keep herself
under control. A siren wailed somewhere down the street, grew louder
rapidly, suddenly going silent at the peak of its crescendo.
</p>
<p>
Dr. Schwartz glanced outside the window. "An ambulance. Looks as if
they're stopping here."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, no," Ann breathed. "Something's happened to Les."
</p>
<p>
"It sure will," Les said grimly, walking into the bedroom. "I won't
have a job if I can't get this stuff off my fingers. Big black
fingerprints on everything I touch. I can't handle correspondence or
shake hands with customers. How's the kid? What's the ambulance doing
out front?"
</p>
<p>
"They're going to the next house down the street," the physician said.
"Has there been sickness there?"
</p>
<p>
Les held up his hands, palms toward the doctor. "What's wrong with me?
My fingers look all right. But they leave black marks on everything I
touch."
</p>
<p>
The doctor looked closely at the fingertips. "Every human has natural
oil on the skin. That's how detectives get results with their
fingerprint powder. But I've never heard of nigrification, in this
sense. Better not try to commit any crimes until you've seen a skin
specialist."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann was peering through the window, curious about the ambulance despite
her own troubles. She saw two attendants carry Mr. Burnett, motionless
and white, on a stretcher from the house next door into the ambulance.
A third member of the crew was struggling with a disheveled Mrs.
Burnett at the door. Shrieks that sounded like "Murder!" came sharply
through the window.
</p>
<p>
"I know those bearers," Dr. Schwartz said. He yanked the window open.
"Hey, Pete! What's wrong?"
</p>
<p>
The front man with the stretcher looked up. "I don't know. This guy's
awful sick. I think his wife is nuts."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Burnett had broken free. She dashed halfway down the sidewalk,
gesticulating wildly to nobody in particular.
</p>
<p>
"It's murder!" she screamed. "Murder again! He's been poisoned! He's
going to die! It means the electric chair!"
</p>
<p>
The orderly grabbed her again. This time he stuffed a handkerchief into
her mouth to quiet her.
</p>
<p>
"Come back to this house as soon as you deliver him," Dr. Schwartz
shouted to the men. "We've got a very sick child up here."
</p>
<p>
"I was afraid this would happen," Les said. "The poor woman already has
lost three husbands. If this one is sick, it's no wonder she thinks
that somebody is poisoning him."
</p>
<p>
Bob stuck his head around the bedroom door. His mother stared
unbelievingly for a moment, then advanced on him threateningly.
Something in his face restrained her, just as she was about to start
shaking him.
</p>
<p>
"I got something important to tell you," Bob said rapidly, ready to
duck. "I snuck out of the principal's office and came home. I got to
tell you what I did."
</p>
<p>
"I heard all about what you did," Ann said, advancing again. "And
you're not going to slip away from me."
</p>
<p>
"Give me a chance to explain something. Downstairs. So he won't hear,"
Bob ended in a whisper, nodding toward the doctor.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ann looked doubtfully at Les, then followed Bob down the stairs. The
doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: "Don't answer me,
don't answer me, don't go to the door."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you do it?" Ann asked Bob, her anger suddenly slumping into
weary sadness. "People will suspect you of being a sex maniac for the
rest of your life. You can't possibly explain—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't bother about the girls' clothing," Bob said, "because it was
only an accident. The really important thing is something else I did
before I left the house."
</p>
<p>
Les, cursing softly, hurried past them on the way to answer the
knocking. He ignored the doorbell's pleas.
</p>
<p>
"I forgot about it," Bob continued, "when that ray gun accidentally
went off. Then when they put me in the principal's office, I had time
to think, and I remembered. I put some white stuff from the detective
kit into that sugar we lent Mrs. Burnett last night. I just wanted to
see what would happen. I don't know exactly what effect—"
</p>
<p>
"He put stuff in the sugar?" A deep, booming voice came from the front
of the house. Mother and son looked through the hall. A policeman stood
on the threshold of the front door. "I heard that! The woman next door
claims that her husband is poisoned. Young man, I'm going to put you
under arrest."
</p>
<p>
The policeman stepped over the threshold. A blue flash darted from
the doorbell box, striking him squarely on the chest. The policeman
staggered back, sitting down abruptly on the porch. A scent of ozone
drifted through the house.
</p>
<p>
"Close the door, close the door," the doorbell was chanting urgently.
</p>
<p>
"Where's that ambulance?" Dr. Schwartz yelled from the top of the
steps. "The child's getting worse."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It was much to small for the child. \n(B) The shoulders were lumpier than a small girl’s dress should be. \n(C) It was the incorrect color. \n(D) It was much too large for the small child. ",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "PS; Short stories; Science fiction; Time travel -- Fiction; Department stores -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction"
} |
50988 | Why was zarquil not played often by those in the area?
Choices:
(A) It was an illegal game.
(B) It was only played by Dutchmen.
(C) It was fabulously expensive.
(D) It was dangerous. | [
"A",
"It was an illegal game. "
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Bodyguard
</h1>
<p>
By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by CAVAT
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course
<br/>
a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that
<br/>
he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So did
the light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man in
the gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.
</p>
<p>
Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of the
humans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously and
arrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superior
to anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she was
accustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she was
almost ordinary-looking.
</p>
<p>
As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merely
amused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemably
hideous.
</p>
<p>
Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was a
short man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women were
in that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, though
not death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plastic
surgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.
</p>
<p>
The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over his
clothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a rather
ugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felt
he was, which was what mattered.
</p>
<p>
"Sorry, colleague," Gabe said lazily. "All my fault. You must let me
buy you a replacement." He gestured to the bartender. "Another of the
same for my fellow-man here."
</p>
<p>
The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a cloth
hastily supplied by the management.
</p>
<p>
"You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill," Gabe said, taking out
his wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to look
at them. "Here, have yourself a new suit on me."
<i>
You could use one
</i>
was implied.
</p>
<p>
And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,
was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had just
set before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard's
handsome face.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. "Don't do that," the
nondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removed
the glass from the little man's slackening grasp. "You wouldn't want to
go to jail because of him."
</p>
<p>
The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forces
now ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were too
strong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only to
smash back, and now it was too late for that.
</p>
<p>
Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. "So, it's you again?"
</p>
<p>
The man in the gray suit smiled. "Who else in any world would stand up
for you?"
</p>
<p>
"I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having you
around, of course," Gabriel added too quickly. "You do come in useful
at times, you know."
</p>
<p>
"So you don't mind having me around?" The nondescript man smiled again.
"Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running from
yourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?"
</p>
<p>
Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. "Come on, have a drink
with me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe you
something—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out."
</p>
<p>
"I drank with you once too often," the nondescript man said. "And
things worked out fine, didn't they? For you." His eyes studied the
other man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion of
bags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and were
not pleased with what they saw. "Watch yourself, colleague," he warned
as he left. "Soon you might not be worth the saving."
</p>
<p>
"Who was that, Gabe?" the girl asked.
</p>
<p>
He shrugged. "I never saw him before in my life." Of course, knowing
him, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then he
happened to have been telling the truth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotel
suite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, as
he watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out again
that night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted a
coin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,
reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond to
the letter combination
<i>
bodyguard
</i>
, he went out into the street.
</p>
<p>
If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would have
been nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no real
identification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one for
years.
</p>
<p>
The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. "Where to, fellow-man?"
the driver asked.
</p>
<p>
"I'm new in the parish," the other man replied and let it hang there.
</p>
<p>
"Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?"
</p>
<p>
But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.
</p>
<p>
"Games?" the driver finally asked, although he could guess what was
wanted by then. "Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?"
</p>
<p>
"Is there a good zarquil game in town?"
</p>
<p>
The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in the
teleview. A very ordinary face. "Look, colleague, why don't you commit
suicide? It's cleaner and quicker."
</p>
<p>
"I can't contact your attitude," the passenger said with a thin
smile. "Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time it
happens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at a
thrill-mill." He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, and
which the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.
</p>
<p>
"Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then?" The driver spat out of the
window. "If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of the
cab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...
anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em."
</p>
<p>
"But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of a
commission, wouldn't it?" the other man asked coolly.
</p>
<p>
"Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though."
</p>
<p>
"I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun."
</p>
<p>
"You're the dictator," the driver agreed sullenly.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
II
</p>
<p>
It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in no
condition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.
</p>
<p>
"Let me take the controls, honey," the light-haired girl urged, but he
shook his handsome head.
</p>
<p>
"Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty," he said thickly,
referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,
and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.
</p>
<p>
Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so that
when they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the little
town, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashed
on the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and a
short fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.
</p>
<p>
To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out onto
the dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined the
young man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't there
at all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem to
remember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a moment
before the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.
</p>
<p>
Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at him
speculatively. "My guardian angel," he mumbled—shock had sobered him
a little, but not enough. He sat up. "Guess I'm not hurt or you'd have
thrown me back in."
</p>
<p>
"And that's no joke," the fat man agreed.
</p>
<p>
The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recall
that he had not been alone. "How about Helen? She on course?"
</p>
<p>
"Seems to be," the fat man said. "You all right, miss?" he asked,
glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Mrs.
</i>
," Gabriel corrected. "Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Gabriel
Lockard," he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.
"Pretty bauble, isn't she?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard," the fat man said,
looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-up
from her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. "I hope
you'll be worthy of the name." The light given off by the flaming
car flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.
Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.
</p>
<p>
There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town the
lights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by the
newer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old and
beginning to slide downhill....
</p>
<p>
Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,
which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces and
his was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacket
closer about her chilly body. "Aren't you going to introduce your—your
friend to me, Gabe?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know who he is," Gabe said almost merrily, "except that he's
no friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I have a name." The fat man extracted an identification
card from his wallet and read it. "Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, and
Dominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retail
milgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeks
ago, and now he isn't ... anything."
</p>
<p>
"You saved our lives," the girl said. "I'd like to give you some token
of my—of our appreciation." Her hand reached toward her credit-carrier
with deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but only
casually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciation
held little gratitude.
</p>
<p>
The fat man shook his head without rancor. "I have plenty of money,
thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come," he addressed her husband,
"if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in the
future! Sometimes," he added musingly, "I almost wish you would let
something happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?"
</p>
<p>
Gabriel shivered. "I'll be careful," he vowed. "I promise—I'll be
careful."
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,
the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxi
driver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted the
commission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the others
had been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperate
or despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was known
colloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went from
one zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if you
could call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope it
extended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.
Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.
</p>
<p>
Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there were
many legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the word
implied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors so
deliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term of
"crimes against nature." Actually the phrase was more appropriate to
zarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonly
applied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well as
nature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;
otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make it
profitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair's
seventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alien
human beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets with
interstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy many
slaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to them
zarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.
Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never been
big money in musical chairs as such.
</p>
<p>
When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—as
they had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond the
law—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth court
could give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose life
spanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capital
punishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved the
terrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weapons
could kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expired
after a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, because
trade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace between
Vinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entrance
of apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.
</p>
<p>
The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales in
which the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted to
conduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.
But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulence
of the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olive
light hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That was
the trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of getting
involved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.
</p>
<p>
The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,
when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off into
darkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely to
have trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish knew
everybody else far too well.
</p>
<p>
The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive in
coming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventually
disaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemed
too logical for the man he was haunting.
</p>
<p>
However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off the
heli-driver and entered the zarquil house. "One?" the small green
creature in the slightly frayed robe asked.
</p>
<p>
"One," the fat man answered.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
III
</p>
<p>
The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright rays
from the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futile
patterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angular
features, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examine
Gabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. "Only
weighted out," he muttered, "he'll be all right. Whatever possessed you
two to come out to a place like this?"
</p>
<p>
"I really think Gabriel
<i>
must
</i>
be possessed...." the girl said, mostly
to herself. "I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to be
until he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.
It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"It does indeed," the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It was
growing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protect
them from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathable
and it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.
</p>
<p>
The girl looked closely at him. "You look different, but you
<i>
are
</i>
the
same man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And before
that the man in the gray suit? And before that...?"
</p>
<p>
The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. "Yes, I'm all of
them."
</p>
<p>
"Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are people
who go around changing their bodies like—like hats?" Automatically she
reached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-pale
hair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had not
been so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.
</p>
<p>
"But why do you do it?
<i>
Why!
</i>
Do you like it? Or is it because of
Gabriel?" She was growing a little frantic; there was menace here
and she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she was
included in its scope. "Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;
is that it?"
</p>
<p>
"Ask him."
</p>
<p>
"He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. I
didn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's what
we've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, I
think?"
</p>
<p>
There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and she
wondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- or
third- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make it
respond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But she
must not let herself think that way or she would find herself looking
for a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,
she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk so
casually.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on her
husband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken from
some animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely about
herself. The thin young man began to cough again.
</p>
<p>
Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat disk
of the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar ships
embarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehow
she could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in a
barren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man who
followed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three of
them would stay....
</p>
<p>
"If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him," she asked, "why then
do you keep helping him?"
</p>
<p>
"I am not helping
<i>
him
</i>
. And he knows that."
</p>
<p>
"You'll change again tonight, won't you?" she babbled. "You always
change after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able to
identify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there's
something about you that doesn't change."
</p>
<p>
"Too bad he got married," the young man said. "I could have followed
him for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me out
from the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway," he added, his voice
less impersonal, "for your sake."
</p>
<p>
She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, but
she would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly an
outsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she had
known Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspect
that he was even more closely involved than that.
</p>
<p>
"Why must you change again?" she persisted, obliquely approaching the
subject she feared. "You have a pretty good body there. Why run the
risk of getting a bad one?"
</p>
<p>
"This isn't a good body," he said. "It's diseased. Sure, nobody's
supposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medical
examination. But in the places to which your husband has been leading
me, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plenty
of foliage."
</p>
<p>
"How—long will it last you?"
</p>
<p>
"Four or five months, if I'm careful." He smiled. "But don't worry, if
that's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll be
expensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but then
it was tough on me too, wasn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"But how did you get into this ... pursuit?" she asked again. "And why
are you doing it?" People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockard
for fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly should
know him better than most.
</p>
<p>
"Ask your husband."
</p>
<p>
The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,
snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,
and stirred it with his toe. "I'd better call a cab—he might freeze to
death."
</p>
<p>
He signaled and a cab came.
</p>
<p>
"Tell him, when he comes to," he said to the girl as he and the driver
lifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, "that I'm
getting pretty tired of this." He stopped for a long spell of coughing.
"Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,
in the long run, be most beneficial for my face."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Sorry," the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfect
except for the slight dampening of the sibilants, "but I'm afraid you
cannot play."
</p>
<p>
"Why not?" The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.
</p>
<p>
"You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house."
</p>
<p>
"But I have plenty of money." The young man coughed. The Vinzz
shrugged. "I'll pay you twice the regular fee."
</p>
<p>
The green one shook his head. "Regrettably, I do mean what I say. This
game is really clean."
</p>
<p>
"In a town like this?"
</p>
<p>
"That is the reason we can afford to be honest." The Vinzz' tendrils
quivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement through
long, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. His
heavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have been
velvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swung
with him.
</p>
<p>
"We do a lot of business here," he said unnecessarily, for the whole
set-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was by
no means poor when it came to worldly goods. "Why don't you try another
town where they're not so particular?"
</p>
<p>
The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.
He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.
And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, he
wouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Was
he changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his own
discoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the fact
that none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?
Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in the
hazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some day
win another body that approached perfection as nearly as his original
casing had?
</p>
<p>
He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; he
would have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,
seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happened
and tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her that
the hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understand
how he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece of
information.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now they
detached, and the first approached the man once more. "There is, as it
happens, a body available for a private game," he lisped. "No questions
to be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in good
health."
</p>
<p>
The man hesitated. "But unable to pass the screening?" he murmured
aloud. "A criminal then."
</p>
<p>
The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.
</p>
<p>
"Male?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course," the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimate
standards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was the
curious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though it
kept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There had
also never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrials
exchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu or
biological impossibility, no one could tell.
</p>
<p>
It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had ever
been proved that an alien life-form had "desecrated" a human body,
Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity held
its self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despite
being unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It had
been undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active on
Terra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,
"Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em."
</p>
<p>
"It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to take
such a risk." The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How much?"
</p>
<p>
"Thirty thousand credits."
</p>
<p>
"Why, that's three times the usual rate!"
</p>
<p>
"The other will pay five times the usual rate."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, all right," the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrific
risk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, he
himself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for all
the crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;
tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing to
match the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably many
people who might find this one preferable. No identification in the
pockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that it
was a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a careful
student of the "wanted" fax that had decorated public buildings from
time immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that he
might one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one of
the men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, though
not an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom the
police had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capital
punishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and the
man in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,
nor whom the police intended to capture easily.
</p>
<p>
<i>
This might be a lucky break for me after all
</i>
, the new tenant thought,
as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obvious
rude health, was not a very comfortable fit.
<i>
I can do a lot with a
hulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybe
I'll be able to get away with it.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
IV
</p>
<p>
"Look, Gabe," the girl said, "don't try to fool me! I know you
too well. And I know you have that man's—the real Gabriel
Lockard's—body." She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as she
watched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.
</p>
<p>
Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshaven
chin. "That what he tell you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask you
whatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody he
obviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want to
see his body spoiled."
</p>
<p>
"It
<i>
is
</i>
a pretty good body, isn't it?" Gabe flexed softening muscles
and made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relieved
at having someone with whom to share his secret.
</p>
<p>
"Not as good as it must have been," the girl said, turning and looking
at him without admiration. "Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.
Gabe, why don't you...?"
</p>
<p>
"Give it back to him, eh?" Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be
<i>
his
</i>
wife then. That would be
nice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a little
more than you deserve?"
</p>
<p>
"I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe," she said truthfully enough, for
she hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. "Of course I'd
go with you," she went on, now knowing she lied, "when you got your ...
old body back."
</p>
<p>
<i>
Sure
</i>
, she thought,
<i>
I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses and
thrill-mills.
</i>
Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill only
once, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to go
with him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever wash
that experience from her mind or her body.
</p>
<p>
"You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?"
she went on. "You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,
does he?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to know!" he spat. "I wouldn't want it if I could get
it back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as he
looked in a mirror." He swung long legs over the side of his bed.
"Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what a
hulk I had!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, yes, I can," she said incautiously. "You must have had a body to
match your character. Pity you could only change one."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It was an illegal game. \n(B) It was only played by Dutchmen.\n(C) It was fabulously expensive. \n(D) It was dangerous.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Triangles (Interpersonal relations) -- Fiction; PS; Identity -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Science fiction"
} |
51433 | How does Ri feel about Extrone?
Choices:
(A) Ri thinks Extrone is the kind of ruler the system needs.
(B) Ri hates Extrone and is planning on killing him at the first opportunity.
(C) Ri is frightened that Extrone is going to kill him.
(D) Ri is frightened of Extrone, but he doesn't think Extrone will kill him. | [
"D",
"Ri is frightened of Extrone, but he doesn't think Extrone will kill him."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
HUNT the HUNTER
</h1>
<p>
BY KRIS NEVILLE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
Of course using live bait is the best
<br/>
way to lure dangerous alien animals ...
<br/>
unless it turns out that you are the bait!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"We're somewhat to the south, I think," Ri said, bending over the crude
field map. "That ridge," he pointed, "on our left, is right here." He
drew a finger down the map. "It was over here," he moved the finger,
"over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them."
</p>
<p>
Extrone asked, "Is there a pass?"
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. "I don't
know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the
ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. "I'd hate to lose a day
crossing the ridge," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. "Listen!"
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
Extrone raised his eyebrows.
</p>
<p>
This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.
</p>
<p>
"It is!" Ri said. "It's a farn beast, all right!"
</p>
<p>
Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. "I'm
glad we won't have to cross the ridge."
</p>
<p>
Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"We'll pitch camp right here, then," Extrone said. "We'll go after it
tomorrow." He looked at the sky. "Have the bearers hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. "You, there!" he called.
"Pitch camp, here!"
</p>
<p>
He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's
party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, "Be quick, now!"
And to Mia, "God almighty, he was getting mad." He ran a hand under his
collar. "It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd
hate to think of making him climb that ridge."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. "It's that damned pilot's
fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other
side. I told him so."
</p>
<p>
Ri shrugged hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he
wanted to get us in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side
of the ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for
us."
</p>
<p>
Ri cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe you're right."
</p>
<p>
"It's the Hunting Club he don't like."
</p>
<p>
"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast," Ri said. "At least,
then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody
else?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Mia looked at his companion. He spat. "What hurts most, he pays us for
it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less
than I pay my secretary."
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge."
</p>
<p>
"Hey, you!" Extrone called.
</p>
<p>
The two of them turned immediately.
</p>
<p>
"You two scout ahead," Extrone said. "See if you can pick up some
tracks."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their
shoulder straps and started off.
</p>
<p>
Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. "Let's
wait here," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in."
</p>
<p>
They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not
professional guides.
</p>
<p>
"We don't want to get too near," Ri said after toiling through the
forest for many minutes. "Without guns, we don't want to get near
enough for the farn beast to charge us."
</p>
<p>
They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.
</p>
<p>
"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him," Mia said. "But we go
it alone. Damn him."
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. "Hot.
By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we
were here."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "The first time,
<i>
we
</i>
weren't guides. We didn't notice it so
much then."
</p>
<p>
They fought a few yards more into the forest.
</p>
<p>
Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a
blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but
the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't ours!" Ri said. "This looks like it was made nearly a year
ago!"
</p>
<p>
Mia's eyes narrowed. "The military from Xnile?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't
think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we
leased from the Club. Except the one
<i>
he
</i>
brought."
</p>
<p>
"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?" Mia
asked. "You think it's their blast?"
</p>
<p>
"So?" Ri said. "But who are they?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was Mia's turn to shrug. "Whoever they were, they couldn't have been
hunters. They'd have kept the secret better."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't do so damned well."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't have a chance," Mia objected. "Everybody and his brother had
heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't
our fault Extrone found out."
</p>
<p>
"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of
us."
</p>
<p>
Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. "We should have shot our pilot,
too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told
Extrone we'd hunted this area."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that."
</p>
<p>
"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to
the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
I
</i>
didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
Ri's mouth twisted. "I didn't say you did."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia said in a hoarse whisper. "I just thought. Listen. To
hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,
too, when the hunt's over."
</p>
<p>
Ri licked his lips. "No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just
anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even
<i>
him
</i>
. And besides,
why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too
many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I hope you're right." They stood side by side, studying the
blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, "We better be getting back."
</p>
<p>
"What'll we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.
</p>
<p>
"It gets hotter at sunset," Ri said nervously.
</p>
<p>
"The breeze dies down."
</p>
<p>
"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There
must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this."
</p>
<p>
"There may be a pass," Mia said, pushing a vine away.
</p>
<p>
Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. "I guess that's it. If there were a lot
of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's
damned funny, when you think about it."
</p>
<p>
Mia looked up at the darkening sky. "We better hurry," he said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,
obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from the
outpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was the
blazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly over
Extrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settled
into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its
blasts.
</p>
<p>
Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat
disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.
</p>
<p>
Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking
officers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,
the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and
knees almost stiff.
</p>
<p>
"What in hell do you want?" Extrone asked.
</p>
<p>
They stopped a respectful distance away. "Sir...." one began.
</p>
<p>
"Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game?" Extrone
demanded, ominously not raising his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Sir," the lead officer said, "it's another alien ship. It was sighted
a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's face looked much too innocent. "How did it get there,
gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?"
</p>
<p>
"We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir."
</p>
<p>
"So?" Extrone mocked.
</p>
<p>
"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could
locate and destroy it."
</p>
<p>
Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned
away, in the direction of a resting bearer. "You!" he said. "Hey! Bring
me a drink!" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. "I'm
staying here."
</p>
<p>
The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. "But, sir...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone toyed with his beard. "About a year ago, gentlemen, there was
an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,
didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir."
</p>
<p>
"You'll destroy this one, too," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try a
long range bombardment, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone said, "To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.
And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you
can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. "You'll
lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.
I'm quite safe here, I think."
</p>
<p>
The bearer brought Extrone his drink.
</p>
<p>
"Get off," Extrone said quietly to the four officers.
</p>
<p>
Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.
Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the
tangle of forest.
</p>
<p>
Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,
casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot
breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.
</p>
<p>
Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,
listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to
his tent.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said, turning, startled. "Oh, you. Well?"
</p>
<p>
"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east."
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, "You killed one, I believe, on
<i>
your
</i>
trip?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shifted. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone held back the flap of the tent. "Won't you come in?" he asked
without any politeness whatever.
</p>
<p>
Ri obeyed the order.
</p>
<p>
The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,
costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The
floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly
and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the
left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.
They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was
electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to
the bed, sat down.
</p>
<p>
"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone narrowed his eyes. "I see by your eyes that you are
envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked away from his face.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have
never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't
<i>
seen
</i>
a farn beast."
</p>
<p>
Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's
glittering ones. "Few people have seen them, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?" Extrone questioned mildly. "I wouldn't say that. I understand
that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their
planets."
</p>
<p>
"I meant in our system, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course you did," Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his
sleeve with his forefinger. "I imagine these are the only farn beasts
in our system."
</p>
<p>
Ri waited uneasily, not answering.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Extrone said, "I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if
you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. "Yes, sir. It would
have been."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pursed his lips. "It wouldn't have been very considerate of you
to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to
come along as my guide."
</p>
<p>
"It was an honor, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. "If I had waited until it was
safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to
find such an illustrious guide."
</p>
<p>
"... I'm flattered, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said. "But you should have spoken to me about it,
when you discovered the farn beast in our own system."
</p>
<p>
"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,
sir...."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said dryly. "Like all of my subjects," he waved
his hand in a broad gesture, "the highest as well as the lowest slave,
know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best."
</p>
<p>
Ri squirmed, his face pale. "We do indeed love you, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone bent forward. "
<i>
Know
</i>
me and love me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir.
<i>
Know
</i>
you and love you, sir," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Get out!" Extrone said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It's frightening," Ri said, "to be that close to him."
</p>
<p>
Mia nodded.
</p>
<p>
The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,
were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and
bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a
central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.
</p>
<p>
"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what
we've read about."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. "You begin to
understand a lot of things, after seeing him."
</p>
<p>
Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.
</p>
<p>
"It makes you think," Mia added. He twitched. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid
he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,
me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us
first."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. "No. We have friends. We have
influence. He couldn't just like that—"
</p>
<p>
"He could say it was an accident."
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
"He can say anything," Mia insisted. "He can make people believe
anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it."
</p>
<p>
"It's getting cold," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.
Everybody would
<i>
know
</i>
we were lying. Everything they've come to
believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every
picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.
<i>
He
</i>
knows that."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia repeated intently. "This is important. Right now he
couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is
not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A
bearer overheard them talking. They don't
<i>
want
</i>
to overthrow him!"
</p>
<p>
Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.
</p>
<p>
"That's another lie," Mia continued. "That he protects the people from
the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were
<i>
ever
</i>
plotting
against him. Not even at first. I think they
<i>
helped
</i>
him, don't you
see?"
</p>
<p>
Ri whined nervously.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this," Mia said. "I see it like this. The Army
<i>
put
</i>
him in
power when the people were in rebellion against military rule."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ri swallowed. "We couldn't make the people believe that."
</p>
<p>
"No?" Mia challenged. "Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?
You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the
alien system!"
</p>
<p>
"The people won't support them," Ri answered woodenly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Think.
</i>
If he tells them to, they will. They trust him."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked around at the shadows.
</p>
<p>
"That explains a lot of things," Mia said. "I think the Army's been
preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why
Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from
learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep
them from exposing
<i>
him
</i>
to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled
like we were, so easy."
</p>
<p>
"No!" Ri snapped. "It was to keep the natural economic balance."
</p>
<p>
"You know that's not right."
</p>
<p>
Ri lay down on his bed roll. "Don't talk about it. It's not good to
talk like this. I don't even want to listen."
</p>
<p>
"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command
<i>
all
</i>
their loyalties.
To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.
He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to
tell the truth."
</p>
<p>
"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong."
</p>
<p>
Mia smiled twistedly. "How many has he already killed? How can we even
guess?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed sickly.
</p>
<p>
"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shuddered. "That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like
that."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.
The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,
uncontaminated.
</p>
<p>
And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the
flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around
the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.
</p>
<p>
"Breakfast!" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding
table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of
various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher
and a drinking mug.
</p>
<p>
Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his
conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with
water and spat on the ground.
</p>
<p>
"Lin!" he said.
</p>
<p>
His personal bearer came loping toward him.
</p>
<p>
"Have you read that manual I gave you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded. "Yes."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. "Very
ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for
guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,
twenty years ago, damn them."
</p>
<p>
Lin waited.
</p>
<p>
"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?"
</p>
<p>
"I believe they're carnivorous, sir."
</p>
<p>
"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only
information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of
course, two businessmen."
</p>
<p>
"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of
tearing a man—"
</p>
<p>
"An alien?" Extrone corrected.
</p>
<p>
"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an
alien to pieces, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed harshly. "It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?"
</p>
<p>
Lin's face remained impassive. "I guess it seems that way. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do," Extrone said. "But
you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin shrugged. "Maybe."
</p>
<p>
"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how
wonderful it feels to have people
<i>
all
</i>
afraid of you."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts, according to the manual...."
</p>
<p>
"You are very insistent on one subject."
</p>
<p>
"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I
was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of
aliens. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"All right," Extrone said, annoyed. "I'll be careful."
</p>
<p>
In the distance, a farn beast coughed.
</p>
<p>
Instantly alert, Extrone said, "Get the bearers! Have some of them cut
a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get
the hell over here!"
</p>
<p>
Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked
leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at
the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their
sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy
breathing.
</p>
<p>
Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank
deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made
oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.
</p>
<p>
Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen
fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks
for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the
tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.
</p>
<p>
Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a
powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained
fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a
folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered
two-way communication set.
</p>
<p>
Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,
arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to
Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.
</p>
<p>
When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers
slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,
he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,
reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.
</p>
<p>
"For you, sir," the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.
</p>
<p>
"Damn," Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. "It better be
important." He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The
bearer twiddled the dials.
</p>
<p>
"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother
me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't
you?"
</p>
<p>
"Blasted them right out of space," the voice crackled excitedly. "Right
in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir."
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!" Extrone
tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. "If they call back,
find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's
important."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and
perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.
</p>
<p>
Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among reclining
bearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.
"I located a spoor," he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. "About
a quarter ahead. It looks fresh."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes lit with passion.
</p>
<p>
Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. "There were two, I
think."
</p>
<p>
"Two?" Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. "You and I better go forward
and look at the spoor."
</p>
<p>
Lin said, "We ought to take protection, if you're going, too."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed. "This is enough." He gestured with the rifle and stood
up.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"One is enough in
<i>
my
</i>
camp."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone moved
agilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came to
the tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small watering
hole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
"This way," Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them started
off.
</p>
<p>
They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming more
alert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with a
restraining hand. "They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought to
bring up the column?"
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.
Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.
</p>
<p>
"They're moving away," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Damn!" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, and
fast, too."
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will track
down a man for as long as a day."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said, combing his beard. "Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?"
</p>
<p>
"Look," Extrone said. "If that's the case, why do we bother tracking
them? Why not make them come to us?"
</p>
<p>
"They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather have
surprise on our side."
</p>
<p>
"You don't seem to see what I mean," Extrone said. "
<i>
We
</i>
won't be
the—ah—the bait."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?"
</p>
<p>
"Let's get back to the column."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Extrone wants to see you," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.
"What's he want to see
<i>
me
</i>
for?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Lin said curtly.
</p>
<p>
Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously
at Lin's bare forearm. "Look," he whispered. "You know him. I have—a
little money. If you were able to ... if he wants," Ri gulped, "to
<i>
do
</i>
anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could...."
</p>
<p>
"You better come along," Lin said, turning.
</p>
<p>
Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,
ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where
Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded genially. "The farn beast hunter, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. "Tell me
what they look like," he said suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sir, they're ... uh...."
</p>
<p>
"Pretty frightening?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
you
</i>
weren't afraid of them, were you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. No, because...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone was smiling innocently. "Good. I want you to do something for
me."
</p>
<p>
"I ... I...." Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.
Lin's face was impassive.
</p>
<p>
"Of
<i>
course
</i>
you will," Extrone said genially. "Get me a rope, Lin. A
good, long, strong rope."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" Ri asked, terrified.
</p>
<p>
"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as
bait."
</p>
<p>
"No!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you
<i>
can
</i>
scream,
by the way?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"We could find a way to make you."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,
creeping toward his nose.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be safe," Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. "I'll
shoot the animal before it reaches you."
</p>
<p>
Ri gulped for air. "But ... if there should be more than one?"
</p>
<p>
Extrone shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"I—Look, sir. Listen to me." Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands
were trembling. "It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.
<i>
He
</i>
killed a farn beast before
<i>
I
</i>
did, sir. And last night—last
night, he—"
</p>
<p>
"He what?" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.
</p>
<p>
Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. "He said he ought to kill you, sir.
That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.
He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,
sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I
wouldn't...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone said, "Which one is he?"
</p>
<p>
"That one. Right over there."
</p>
<p>
"The one with his back to me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle
and said, "Here comes Lin with the rope, I see."
</p>
<p>
Ri was greenish. "You ... you...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone turned to Lin. "Tie one end around his waist."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. "You don't
want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything
should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone ordered.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. Please. Oh,
<i>
please
</i>
don't, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone said inexorably.
</p>
<p>
Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.
</p>
<p>
Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep
toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,
half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they
staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base
of a scaling tree.
</p>
<p>
"You will scream," Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed
across the water hole. "The farn beast will come from this direction, I
imagine."
</p>
<p>
Ri was almost slobbering in fear.
</p>
<p>
"Let me hear you scream," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
Ri moaned weakly.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to do better than that." Extrone inclined his head toward
a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Ri screamed.
</p>
<p>
"See that you keep it up that way," Extrone said. "That's the way I
want you to sound." He turned toward Lin. "We can climb this tree, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark
peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.
Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller
crotch.
</p>
<p>
Looking down, Extrone said, "Scream!" Then, to Lin, "You feel the
excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt."
</p>
<p>
"I feel it," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone chuckled. "You were with me on Meizque?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"That was something, that time." He ran his hand along the stock of the
weapon.
</p>
<p>
The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled
Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,
underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's
screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,
jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's
face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against
them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.
Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed nervously. "He must have heard."
</p>
<p>
"We're lucky to rouse one so fast," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. "I like
this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I
know."
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded.
</p>
<p>
"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"It's not
<i>
only
</i>
the killing," Lin echoed.
</p>
<p>
"You understand?" Extrone said. "How it is to wait, knowing in just a
minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going
to kill it?"
</p>
<p>
"I know," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too."
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again; nearer.
</p>
<p>
"It's a different one," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"How do you know?"
</p>
<p>
"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?"
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" Extrone shouted. "You, down there. There are two coming. Now
let's hear you really scream!"
</p>
<p>
Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether
tree, his eyes wide.
</p>
<p>
"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too," Extrone said.
"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them." He
opened his right hand. "Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it."
He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,
imprisoning the idea. "Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.
Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they
really will come to your bait."
</p>
<p>
Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.
</p>
<p>
"I've always liked to hunt," Extrone said. "More than anything else, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Lin spat toward the ground. "People should hunt because they have to.
For food. For safety."
</p>
<p>
"No," Extrone argued. "People should hunt for the love of hunting."
</p>
<p>
"Killing?"
</p>
<p>
"Hunting," Extrone repeated harshly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and
there was a noise of crackling underbrush.
</p>
<p>
"He's good bait," Extrone said. "He's fat enough and he knows how to
scream good."
</p>
<p>
Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully
eying the forest across from the watering hole.
</p>
<p>
Extrone began to tremble with excitement. "Here they come!"
</p>
<p>
The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his
lap.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,
swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.
Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs
behind them, rattling leaves.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Shoot!" Lin hissed. "For God's sake, shoot!"
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said. "Let's see what they do." He had not moved
the rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breath
beginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.
</p>
<p>
The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.
</p>
<p>
"Look!" Extrone cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"
</p>
<p>
Ri began to scream again.
</p>
<p>
Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin
waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing
a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.
</p>
<p>
"Watch! Watch!" Extrone cried gleefully.
</p>
<p>
And then the aliens sprang their trap.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Ri thinks Extrone is the kind of ruler the system needs.\n(B) Ri hates Extrone and is planning on killing him at the first opportunity.\n(C) Ri is frightened that Extrone is going to kill him.\n(D) Ri is frightened of Extrone, but he doesn't think Extrone will kill him.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "PS; Hunting stories; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
51433 | How does Lin feel about Extrone?
Choices:
(A) Mia is frightened of Extrone, but he doesn't think Extrone will kill him.
(B) Lin hates Extrone and is planning on killing him at the first opportunity.
(C) Lin thinks Extrone is the kind of ruler the system needs.
(D) Lin is frightened that Extrone is going to kill him. | [
"C",
"Lin thinks Extrone is the kind of ruler the system needs."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
HUNT the HUNTER
</h1>
<p>
BY KRIS NEVILLE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
Of course using live bait is the best
<br/>
way to lure dangerous alien animals ...
<br/>
unless it turns out that you are the bait!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"We're somewhat to the south, I think," Ri said, bending over the crude
field map. "That ridge," he pointed, "on our left, is right here." He
drew a finger down the map. "It was over here," he moved the finger,
"over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them."
</p>
<p>
Extrone asked, "Is there a pass?"
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. "I don't
know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the
ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. "I'd hate to lose a day
crossing the ridge," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. "Listen!"
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
Extrone raised his eyebrows.
</p>
<p>
This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.
</p>
<p>
"It is!" Ri said. "It's a farn beast, all right!"
</p>
<p>
Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. "I'm
glad we won't have to cross the ridge."
</p>
<p>
Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"We'll pitch camp right here, then," Extrone said. "We'll go after it
tomorrow." He looked at the sky. "Have the bearers hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. "You, there!" he called.
"Pitch camp, here!"
</p>
<p>
He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's
party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, "Be quick, now!"
And to Mia, "God almighty, he was getting mad." He ran a hand under his
collar. "It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd
hate to think of making him climb that ridge."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. "It's that damned pilot's
fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other
side. I told him so."
</p>
<p>
Ri shrugged hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he
wanted to get us in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side
of the ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for
us."
</p>
<p>
Ri cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe you're right."
</p>
<p>
"It's the Hunting Club he don't like."
</p>
<p>
"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast," Ri said. "At least,
then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody
else?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Mia looked at his companion. He spat. "What hurts most, he pays us for
it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less
than I pay my secretary."
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge."
</p>
<p>
"Hey, you!" Extrone called.
</p>
<p>
The two of them turned immediately.
</p>
<p>
"You two scout ahead," Extrone said. "See if you can pick up some
tracks."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their
shoulder straps and started off.
</p>
<p>
Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. "Let's
wait here," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in."
</p>
<p>
They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not
professional guides.
</p>
<p>
"We don't want to get too near," Ri said after toiling through the
forest for many minutes. "Without guns, we don't want to get near
enough for the farn beast to charge us."
</p>
<p>
They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.
</p>
<p>
"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him," Mia said. "But we go
it alone. Damn him."
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. "Hot.
By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we
were here."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "The first time,
<i>
we
</i>
weren't guides. We didn't notice it so
much then."
</p>
<p>
They fought a few yards more into the forest.
</p>
<p>
Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a
blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but
the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't ours!" Ri said. "This looks like it was made nearly a year
ago!"
</p>
<p>
Mia's eyes narrowed. "The military from Xnile?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't
think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we
leased from the Club. Except the one
<i>
he
</i>
brought."
</p>
<p>
"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?" Mia
asked. "You think it's their blast?"
</p>
<p>
"So?" Ri said. "But who are they?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was Mia's turn to shrug. "Whoever they were, they couldn't have been
hunters. They'd have kept the secret better."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't do so damned well."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't have a chance," Mia objected. "Everybody and his brother had
heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't
our fault Extrone found out."
</p>
<p>
"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of
us."
</p>
<p>
Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. "We should have shot our pilot,
too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told
Extrone we'd hunted this area."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that."
</p>
<p>
"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to
the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
I
</i>
didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
Ri's mouth twisted. "I didn't say you did."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia said in a hoarse whisper. "I just thought. Listen. To
hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,
too, when the hunt's over."
</p>
<p>
Ri licked his lips. "No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just
anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even
<i>
him
</i>
. And besides,
why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too
many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I hope you're right." They stood side by side, studying the
blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, "We better be getting back."
</p>
<p>
"What'll we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.
</p>
<p>
"It gets hotter at sunset," Ri said nervously.
</p>
<p>
"The breeze dies down."
</p>
<p>
"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There
must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this."
</p>
<p>
"There may be a pass," Mia said, pushing a vine away.
</p>
<p>
Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. "I guess that's it. If there were a lot
of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's
damned funny, when you think about it."
</p>
<p>
Mia looked up at the darkening sky. "We better hurry," he said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,
obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from the
outpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was the
blazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly over
Extrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settled
into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its
blasts.
</p>
<p>
Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat
disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.
</p>
<p>
Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking
officers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,
the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and
knees almost stiff.
</p>
<p>
"What in hell do you want?" Extrone asked.
</p>
<p>
They stopped a respectful distance away. "Sir...." one began.
</p>
<p>
"Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game?" Extrone
demanded, ominously not raising his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Sir," the lead officer said, "it's another alien ship. It was sighted
a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's face looked much too innocent. "How did it get there,
gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?"
</p>
<p>
"We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir."
</p>
<p>
"So?" Extrone mocked.
</p>
<p>
"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could
locate and destroy it."
</p>
<p>
Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned
away, in the direction of a resting bearer. "You!" he said. "Hey! Bring
me a drink!" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. "I'm
staying here."
</p>
<p>
The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. "But, sir...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone toyed with his beard. "About a year ago, gentlemen, there was
an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,
didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir."
</p>
<p>
"You'll destroy this one, too," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try a
long range bombardment, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone said, "To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.
And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you
can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. "You'll
lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.
I'm quite safe here, I think."
</p>
<p>
The bearer brought Extrone his drink.
</p>
<p>
"Get off," Extrone said quietly to the four officers.
</p>
<p>
Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.
Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the
tangle of forest.
</p>
<p>
Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,
casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot
breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.
</p>
<p>
Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,
listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to
his tent.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said, turning, startled. "Oh, you. Well?"
</p>
<p>
"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east."
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, "You killed one, I believe, on
<i>
your
</i>
trip?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shifted. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone held back the flap of the tent. "Won't you come in?" he asked
without any politeness whatever.
</p>
<p>
Ri obeyed the order.
</p>
<p>
The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,
costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The
floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly
and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the
left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.
They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was
electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to
the bed, sat down.
</p>
<p>
"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone narrowed his eyes. "I see by your eyes that you are
envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked away from his face.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have
never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't
<i>
seen
</i>
a farn beast."
</p>
<p>
Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's
glittering ones. "Few people have seen them, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?" Extrone questioned mildly. "I wouldn't say that. I understand
that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their
planets."
</p>
<p>
"I meant in our system, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course you did," Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his
sleeve with his forefinger. "I imagine these are the only farn beasts
in our system."
</p>
<p>
Ri waited uneasily, not answering.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Extrone said, "I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if
you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. "Yes, sir. It would
have been."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pursed his lips. "It wouldn't have been very considerate of you
to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to
come along as my guide."
</p>
<p>
"It was an honor, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. "If I had waited until it was
safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to
find such an illustrious guide."
</p>
<p>
"... I'm flattered, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said. "But you should have spoken to me about it,
when you discovered the farn beast in our own system."
</p>
<p>
"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,
sir...."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said dryly. "Like all of my subjects," he waved
his hand in a broad gesture, "the highest as well as the lowest slave,
know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best."
</p>
<p>
Ri squirmed, his face pale. "We do indeed love you, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone bent forward. "
<i>
Know
</i>
me and love me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir.
<i>
Know
</i>
you and love you, sir," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Get out!" Extrone said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It's frightening," Ri said, "to be that close to him."
</p>
<p>
Mia nodded.
</p>
<p>
The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,
were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and
bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a
central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.
</p>
<p>
"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what
we've read about."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. "You begin to
understand a lot of things, after seeing him."
</p>
<p>
Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.
</p>
<p>
"It makes you think," Mia added. He twitched. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid
he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,
me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us
first."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. "No. We have friends. We have
influence. He couldn't just like that—"
</p>
<p>
"He could say it was an accident."
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
"He can say anything," Mia insisted. "He can make people believe
anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it."
</p>
<p>
"It's getting cold," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.
Everybody would
<i>
know
</i>
we were lying. Everything they've come to
believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every
picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.
<i>
He
</i>
knows that."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia repeated intently. "This is important. Right now he
couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is
not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A
bearer overheard them talking. They don't
<i>
want
</i>
to overthrow him!"
</p>
<p>
Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.
</p>
<p>
"That's another lie," Mia continued. "That he protects the people from
the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were
<i>
ever
</i>
plotting
against him. Not even at first. I think they
<i>
helped
</i>
him, don't you
see?"
</p>
<p>
Ri whined nervously.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this," Mia said. "I see it like this. The Army
<i>
put
</i>
him in
power when the people were in rebellion against military rule."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ri swallowed. "We couldn't make the people believe that."
</p>
<p>
"No?" Mia challenged. "Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?
You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the
alien system!"
</p>
<p>
"The people won't support them," Ri answered woodenly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Think.
</i>
If he tells them to, they will. They trust him."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked around at the shadows.
</p>
<p>
"That explains a lot of things," Mia said. "I think the Army's been
preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why
Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from
learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep
them from exposing
<i>
him
</i>
to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled
like we were, so easy."
</p>
<p>
"No!" Ri snapped. "It was to keep the natural economic balance."
</p>
<p>
"You know that's not right."
</p>
<p>
Ri lay down on his bed roll. "Don't talk about it. It's not good to
talk like this. I don't even want to listen."
</p>
<p>
"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command
<i>
all
</i>
their loyalties.
To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.
He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to
tell the truth."
</p>
<p>
"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong."
</p>
<p>
Mia smiled twistedly. "How many has he already killed? How can we even
guess?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed sickly.
</p>
<p>
"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shuddered. "That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like
that."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.
The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,
uncontaminated.
</p>
<p>
And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the
flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around
the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.
</p>
<p>
"Breakfast!" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding
table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of
various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher
and a drinking mug.
</p>
<p>
Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his
conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with
water and spat on the ground.
</p>
<p>
"Lin!" he said.
</p>
<p>
His personal bearer came loping toward him.
</p>
<p>
"Have you read that manual I gave you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded. "Yes."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. "Very
ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for
guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,
twenty years ago, damn them."
</p>
<p>
Lin waited.
</p>
<p>
"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?"
</p>
<p>
"I believe they're carnivorous, sir."
</p>
<p>
"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only
information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of
course, two businessmen."
</p>
<p>
"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of
tearing a man—"
</p>
<p>
"An alien?" Extrone corrected.
</p>
<p>
"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an
alien to pieces, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed harshly. "It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?"
</p>
<p>
Lin's face remained impassive. "I guess it seems that way. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do," Extrone said. "But
you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin shrugged. "Maybe."
</p>
<p>
"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how
wonderful it feels to have people
<i>
all
</i>
afraid of you."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts, according to the manual...."
</p>
<p>
"You are very insistent on one subject."
</p>
<p>
"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I
was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of
aliens. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"All right," Extrone said, annoyed. "I'll be careful."
</p>
<p>
In the distance, a farn beast coughed.
</p>
<p>
Instantly alert, Extrone said, "Get the bearers! Have some of them cut
a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get
the hell over here!"
</p>
<p>
Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked
leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at
the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their
sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy
breathing.
</p>
<p>
Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank
deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made
oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.
</p>
<p>
Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen
fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks
for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the
tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.
</p>
<p>
Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a
powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained
fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a
folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered
two-way communication set.
</p>
<p>
Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,
arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to
Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.
</p>
<p>
When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers
slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,
he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,
reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.
</p>
<p>
"For you, sir," the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.
</p>
<p>
"Damn," Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. "It better be
important." He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The
bearer twiddled the dials.
</p>
<p>
"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother
me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't
you?"
</p>
<p>
"Blasted them right out of space," the voice crackled excitedly. "Right
in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir."
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!" Extrone
tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. "If they call back,
find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's
important."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and
perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.
</p>
<p>
Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among reclining
bearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.
"I located a spoor," he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. "About
a quarter ahead. It looks fresh."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes lit with passion.
</p>
<p>
Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. "There were two, I
think."
</p>
<p>
"Two?" Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. "You and I better go forward
and look at the spoor."
</p>
<p>
Lin said, "We ought to take protection, if you're going, too."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed. "This is enough." He gestured with the rifle and stood
up.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"One is enough in
<i>
my
</i>
camp."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone moved
agilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came to
the tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small watering
hole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
"This way," Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them started
off.
</p>
<p>
They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming more
alert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with a
restraining hand. "They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought to
bring up the column?"
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.
Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.
</p>
<p>
"They're moving away," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Damn!" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, and
fast, too."
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will track
down a man for as long as a day."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said, combing his beard. "Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?"
</p>
<p>
"Look," Extrone said. "If that's the case, why do we bother tracking
them? Why not make them come to us?"
</p>
<p>
"They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather have
surprise on our side."
</p>
<p>
"You don't seem to see what I mean," Extrone said. "
<i>
We
</i>
won't be
the—ah—the bait."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?"
</p>
<p>
"Let's get back to the column."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Extrone wants to see you," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.
"What's he want to see
<i>
me
</i>
for?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Lin said curtly.
</p>
<p>
Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously
at Lin's bare forearm. "Look," he whispered. "You know him. I have—a
little money. If you were able to ... if he wants," Ri gulped, "to
<i>
do
</i>
anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could...."
</p>
<p>
"You better come along," Lin said, turning.
</p>
<p>
Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,
ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where
Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded genially. "The farn beast hunter, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. "Tell me
what they look like," he said suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sir, they're ... uh...."
</p>
<p>
"Pretty frightening?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
you
</i>
weren't afraid of them, were you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. No, because...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone was smiling innocently. "Good. I want you to do something for
me."
</p>
<p>
"I ... I...." Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.
Lin's face was impassive.
</p>
<p>
"Of
<i>
course
</i>
you will," Extrone said genially. "Get me a rope, Lin. A
good, long, strong rope."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" Ri asked, terrified.
</p>
<p>
"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as
bait."
</p>
<p>
"No!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you
<i>
can
</i>
scream,
by the way?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"We could find a way to make you."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,
creeping toward his nose.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be safe," Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. "I'll
shoot the animal before it reaches you."
</p>
<p>
Ri gulped for air. "But ... if there should be more than one?"
</p>
<p>
Extrone shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"I—Look, sir. Listen to me." Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands
were trembling. "It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.
<i>
He
</i>
killed a farn beast before
<i>
I
</i>
did, sir. And last night—last
night, he—"
</p>
<p>
"He what?" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.
</p>
<p>
Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. "He said he ought to kill you, sir.
That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.
He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,
sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I
wouldn't...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone said, "Which one is he?"
</p>
<p>
"That one. Right over there."
</p>
<p>
"The one with his back to me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle
and said, "Here comes Lin with the rope, I see."
</p>
<p>
Ri was greenish. "You ... you...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone turned to Lin. "Tie one end around his waist."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. "You don't
want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything
should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone ordered.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. Please. Oh,
<i>
please
</i>
don't, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone said inexorably.
</p>
<p>
Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.
</p>
<p>
Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep
toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,
half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they
staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base
of a scaling tree.
</p>
<p>
"You will scream," Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed
across the water hole. "The farn beast will come from this direction, I
imagine."
</p>
<p>
Ri was almost slobbering in fear.
</p>
<p>
"Let me hear you scream," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
Ri moaned weakly.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to do better than that." Extrone inclined his head toward
a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Ri screamed.
</p>
<p>
"See that you keep it up that way," Extrone said. "That's the way I
want you to sound." He turned toward Lin. "We can climb this tree, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark
peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.
Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller
crotch.
</p>
<p>
Looking down, Extrone said, "Scream!" Then, to Lin, "You feel the
excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt."
</p>
<p>
"I feel it," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone chuckled. "You were with me on Meizque?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"That was something, that time." He ran his hand along the stock of the
weapon.
</p>
<p>
The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled
Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,
underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's
screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,
jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's
face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against
them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.
Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed nervously. "He must have heard."
</p>
<p>
"We're lucky to rouse one so fast," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. "I like
this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I
know."
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded.
</p>
<p>
"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"It's not
<i>
only
</i>
the killing," Lin echoed.
</p>
<p>
"You understand?" Extrone said. "How it is to wait, knowing in just a
minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going
to kill it?"
</p>
<p>
"I know," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too."
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again; nearer.
</p>
<p>
"It's a different one," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"How do you know?"
</p>
<p>
"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?"
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" Extrone shouted. "You, down there. There are two coming. Now
let's hear you really scream!"
</p>
<p>
Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether
tree, his eyes wide.
</p>
<p>
"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too," Extrone said.
"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them." He
opened his right hand. "Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it."
He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,
imprisoning the idea. "Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.
Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they
really will come to your bait."
</p>
<p>
Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.
</p>
<p>
"I've always liked to hunt," Extrone said. "More than anything else, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Lin spat toward the ground. "People should hunt because they have to.
For food. For safety."
</p>
<p>
"No," Extrone argued. "People should hunt for the love of hunting."
</p>
<p>
"Killing?"
</p>
<p>
"Hunting," Extrone repeated harshly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and
there was a noise of crackling underbrush.
</p>
<p>
"He's good bait," Extrone said. "He's fat enough and he knows how to
scream good."
</p>
<p>
Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully
eying the forest across from the watering hole.
</p>
<p>
Extrone began to tremble with excitement. "Here they come!"
</p>
<p>
The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his
lap.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,
swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.
Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs
behind them, rattling leaves.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Shoot!" Lin hissed. "For God's sake, shoot!"
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said. "Let's see what they do." He had not moved
the rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breath
beginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.
</p>
<p>
The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.
</p>
<p>
"Look!" Extrone cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"
</p>
<p>
Ri began to scream again.
</p>
<p>
Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin
waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing
a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.
</p>
<p>
"Watch! Watch!" Extrone cried gleefully.
</p>
<p>
And then the aliens sprang their trap.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Mia is frightened of Extrone, but he doesn't think Extrone will kill him.\n(B) Lin hates Extrone and is planning on killing him at the first opportunity.\n(C) Lin thinks Extrone is the kind of ruler the system needs.\n(D) Lin is frightened that Extrone is going to kill him.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Hunting stories; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
51433 | If Mia is wealthy enough to buy half the planet why is he Extrone's guide?
Choices:
(A) Extrone threatened to kill Mia's family if Mia didn't act as his guide.
(B) Extrone found out Mia had hunted farn beasts previously and demanded Mia act as his guide.
(C) Extrone kidnapped Mia, and is forcing Mia to act as his guide.
(D) Extrone is the sovereign, everyone must do as Extrone commands. | [
"D",
"Extrone is the sovereign, everyone must do as Extrone commands."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
HUNT the HUNTER
</h1>
<p>
BY KRIS NEVILLE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
Of course using live bait is the best
<br/>
way to lure dangerous alien animals ...
<br/>
unless it turns out that you are the bait!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"We're somewhat to the south, I think," Ri said, bending over the crude
field map. "That ridge," he pointed, "on our left, is right here." He
drew a finger down the map. "It was over here," he moved the finger,
"over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them."
</p>
<p>
Extrone asked, "Is there a pass?"
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. "I don't
know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the
ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. "I'd hate to lose a day
crossing the ridge," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. "Listen!"
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
Extrone raised his eyebrows.
</p>
<p>
This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.
</p>
<p>
"It is!" Ri said. "It's a farn beast, all right!"
</p>
<p>
Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. "I'm
glad we won't have to cross the ridge."
</p>
<p>
Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"We'll pitch camp right here, then," Extrone said. "We'll go after it
tomorrow." He looked at the sky. "Have the bearers hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. "You, there!" he called.
"Pitch camp, here!"
</p>
<p>
He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's
party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, "Be quick, now!"
And to Mia, "God almighty, he was getting mad." He ran a hand under his
collar. "It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd
hate to think of making him climb that ridge."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. "It's that damned pilot's
fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other
side. I told him so."
</p>
<p>
Ri shrugged hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he
wanted to get us in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side
of the ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for
us."
</p>
<p>
Ri cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe you're right."
</p>
<p>
"It's the Hunting Club he don't like."
</p>
<p>
"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast," Ri said. "At least,
then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody
else?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Mia looked at his companion. He spat. "What hurts most, he pays us for
it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less
than I pay my secretary."
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge."
</p>
<p>
"Hey, you!" Extrone called.
</p>
<p>
The two of them turned immediately.
</p>
<p>
"You two scout ahead," Extrone said. "See if you can pick up some
tracks."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their
shoulder straps and started off.
</p>
<p>
Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. "Let's
wait here," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in."
</p>
<p>
They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not
professional guides.
</p>
<p>
"We don't want to get too near," Ri said after toiling through the
forest for many minutes. "Without guns, we don't want to get near
enough for the farn beast to charge us."
</p>
<p>
They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.
</p>
<p>
"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him," Mia said. "But we go
it alone. Damn him."
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. "Hot.
By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we
were here."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "The first time,
<i>
we
</i>
weren't guides. We didn't notice it so
much then."
</p>
<p>
They fought a few yards more into the forest.
</p>
<p>
Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a
blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but
the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't ours!" Ri said. "This looks like it was made nearly a year
ago!"
</p>
<p>
Mia's eyes narrowed. "The military from Xnile?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't
think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we
leased from the Club. Except the one
<i>
he
</i>
brought."
</p>
<p>
"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?" Mia
asked. "You think it's their blast?"
</p>
<p>
"So?" Ri said. "But who are they?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was Mia's turn to shrug. "Whoever they were, they couldn't have been
hunters. They'd have kept the secret better."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't do so damned well."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't have a chance," Mia objected. "Everybody and his brother had
heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't
our fault Extrone found out."
</p>
<p>
"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of
us."
</p>
<p>
Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. "We should have shot our pilot,
too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told
Extrone we'd hunted this area."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that."
</p>
<p>
"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to
the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
I
</i>
didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
Ri's mouth twisted. "I didn't say you did."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia said in a hoarse whisper. "I just thought. Listen. To
hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,
too, when the hunt's over."
</p>
<p>
Ri licked his lips. "No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just
anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even
<i>
him
</i>
. And besides,
why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too
many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I hope you're right." They stood side by side, studying the
blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, "We better be getting back."
</p>
<p>
"What'll we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.
</p>
<p>
"It gets hotter at sunset," Ri said nervously.
</p>
<p>
"The breeze dies down."
</p>
<p>
"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There
must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this."
</p>
<p>
"There may be a pass," Mia said, pushing a vine away.
</p>
<p>
Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. "I guess that's it. If there were a lot
of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's
damned funny, when you think about it."
</p>
<p>
Mia looked up at the darkening sky. "We better hurry," he said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,
obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from the
outpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was the
blazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly over
Extrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settled
into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its
blasts.
</p>
<p>
Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat
disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.
</p>
<p>
Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking
officers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,
the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and
knees almost stiff.
</p>
<p>
"What in hell do you want?" Extrone asked.
</p>
<p>
They stopped a respectful distance away. "Sir...." one began.
</p>
<p>
"Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game?" Extrone
demanded, ominously not raising his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Sir," the lead officer said, "it's another alien ship. It was sighted
a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's face looked much too innocent. "How did it get there,
gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?"
</p>
<p>
"We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir."
</p>
<p>
"So?" Extrone mocked.
</p>
<p>
"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could
locate and destroy it."
</p>
<p>
Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned
away, in the direction of a resting bearer. "You!" he said. "Hey! Bring
me a drink!" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. "I'm
staying here."
</p>
<p>
The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. "But, sir...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone toyed with his beard. "About a year ago, gentlemen, there was
an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,
didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir."
</p>
<p>
"You'll destroy this one, too," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try a
long range bombardment, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone said, "To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.
And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you
can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. "You'll
lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.
I'm quite safe here, I think."
</p>
<p>
The bearer brought Extrone his drink.
</p>
<p>
"Get off," Extrone said quietly to the four officers.
</p>
<p>
Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.
Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the
tangle of forest.
</p>
<p>
Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,
casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot
breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.
</p>
<p>
Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,
listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to
his tent.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said, turning, startled. "Oh, you. Well?"
</p>
<p>
"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east."
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, "You killed one, I believe, on
<i>
your
</i>
trip?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shifted. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone held back the flap of the tent. "Won't you come in?" he asked
without any politeness whatever.
</p>
<p>
Ri obeyed the order.
</p>
<p>
The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,
costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The
floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly
and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the
left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.
They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was
electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to
the bed, sat down.
</p>
<p>
"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone narrowed his eyes. "I see by your eyes that you are
envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked away from his face.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have
never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't
<i>
seen
</i>
a farn beast."
</p>
<p>
Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's
glittering ones. "Few people have seen them, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?" Extrone questioned mildly. "I wouldn't say that. I understand
that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their
planets."
</p>
<p>
"I meant in our system, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course you did," Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his
sleeve with his forefinger. "I imagine these are the only farn beasts
in our system."
</p>
<p>
Ri waited uneasily, not answering.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Extrone said, "I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if
you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. "Yes, sir. It would
have been."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pursed his lips. "It wouldn't have been very considerate of you
to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to
come along as my guide."
</p>
<p>
"It was an honor, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. "If I had waited until it was
safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to
find such an illustrious guide."
</p>
<p>
"... I'm flattered, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said. "But you should have spoken to me about it,
when you discovered the farn beast in our own system."
</p>
<p>
"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,
sir...."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said dryly. "Like all of my subjects," he waved
his hand in a broad gesture, "the highest as well as the lowest slave,
know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best."
</p>
<p>
Ri squirmed, his face pale. "We do indeed love you, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone bent forward. "
<i>
Know
</i>
me and love me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir.
<i>
Know
</i>
you and love you, sir," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Get out!" Extrone said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It's frightening," Ri said, "to be that close to him."
</p>
<p>
Mia nodded.
</p>
<p>
The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,
were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and
bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a
central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.
</p>
<p>
"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what
we've read about."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. "You begin to
understand a lot of things, after seeing him."
</p>
<p>
Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.
</p>
<p>
"It makes you think," Mia added. He twitched. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid
he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,
me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us
first."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. "No. We have friends. We have
influence. He couldn't just like that—"
</p>
<p>
"He could say it was an accident."
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
"He can say anything," Mia insisted. "He can make people believe
anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it."
</p>
<p>
"It's getting cold," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.
Everybody would
<i>
know
</i>
we were lying. Everything they've come to
believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every
picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.
<i>
He
</i>
knows that."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia repeated intently. "This is important. Right now he
couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is
not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A
bearer overheard them talking. They don't
<i>
want
</i>
to overthrow him!"
</p>
<p>
Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.
</p>
<p>
"That's another lie," Mia continued. "That he protects the people from
the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were
<i>
ever
</i>
plotting
against him. Not even at first. I think they
<i>
helped
</i>
him, don't you
see?"
</p>
<p>
Ri whined nervously.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this," Mia said. "I see it like this. The Army
<i>
put
</i>
him in
power when the people were in rebellion against military rule."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ri swallowed. "We couldn't make the people believe that."
</p>
<p>
"No?" Mia challenged. "Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?
You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the
alien system!"
</p>
<p>
"The people won't support them," Ri answered woodenly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Think.
</i>
If he tells them to, they will. They trust him."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked around at the shadows.
</p>
<p>
"That explains a lot of things," Mia said. "I think the Army's been
preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why
Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from
learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep
them from exposing
<i>
him
</i>
to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled
like we were, so easy."
</p>
<p>
"No!" Ri snapped. "It was to keep the natural economic balance."
</p>
<p>
"You know that's not right."
</p>
<p>
Ri lay down on his bed roll. "Don't talk about it. It's not good to
talk like this. I don't even want to listen."
</p>
<p>
"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command
<i>
all
</i>
their loyalties.
To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.
He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to
tell the truth."
</p>
<p>
"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong."
</p>
<p>
Mia smiled twistedly. "How many has he already killed? How can we even
guess?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed sickly.
</p>
<p>
"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shuddered. "That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like
that."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.
The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,
uncontaminated.
</p>
<p>
And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the
flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around
the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.
</p>
<p>
"Breakfast!" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding
table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of
various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher
and a drinking mug.
</p>
<p>
Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his
conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with
water and spat on the ground.
</p>
<p>
"Lin!" he said.
</p>
<p>
His personal bearer came loping toward him.
</p>
<p>
"Have you read that manual I gave you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded. "Yes."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. "Very
ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for
guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,
twenty years ago, damn them."
</p>
<p>
Lin waited.
</p>
<p>
"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?"
</p>
<p>
"I believe they're carnivorous, sir."
</p>
<p>
"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only
information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of
course, two businessmen."
</p>
<p>
"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of
tearing a man—"
</p>
<p>
"An alien?" Extrone corrected.
</p>
<p>
"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an
alien to pieces, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed harshly. "It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?"
</p>
<p>
Lin's face remained impassive. "I guess it seems that way. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do," Extrone said. "But
you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin shrugged. "Maybe."
</p>
<p>
"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how
wonderful it feels to have people
<i>
all
</i>
afraid of you."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts, according to the manual...."
</p>
<p>
"You are very insistent on one subject."
</p>
<p>
"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I
was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of
aliens. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"All right," Extrone said, annoyed. "I'll be careful."
</p>
<p>
In the distance, a farn beast coughed.
</p>
<p>
Instantly alert, Extrone said, "Get the bearers! Have some of them cut
a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get
the hell over here!"
</p>
<p>
Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked
leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at
the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their
sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy
breathing.
</p>
<p>
Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank
deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made
oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.
</p>
<p>
Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen
fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks
for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the
tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.
</p>
<p>
Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a
powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained
fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a
folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered
two-way communication set.
</p>
<p>
Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,
arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to
Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.
</p>
<p>
When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers
slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,
he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,
reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.
</p>
<p>
"For you, sir," the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.
</p>
<p>
"Damn," Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. "It better be
important." He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The
bearer twiddled the dials.
</p>
<p>
"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother
me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't
you?"
</p>
<p>
"Blasted them right out of space," the voice crackled excitedly. "Right
in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir."
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!" Extrone
tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. "If they call back,
find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's
important."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and
perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.
</p>
<p>
Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among reclining
bearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.
"I located a spoor," he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. "About
a quarter ahead. It looks fresh."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes lit with passion.
</p>
<p>
Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. "There were two, I
think."
</p>
<p>
"Two?" Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. "You and I better go forward
and look at the spoor."
</p>
<p>
Lin said, "We ought to take protection, if you're going, too."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed. "This is enough." He gestured with the rifle and stood
up.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"One is enough in
<i>
my
</i>
camp."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone moved
agilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came to
the tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small watering
hole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
"This way," Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them started
off.
</p>
<p>
They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming more
alert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with a
restraining hand. "They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought to
bring up the column?"
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.
Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.
</p>
<p>
"They're moving away," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Damn!" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, and
fast, too."
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will track
down a man for as long as a day."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said, combing his beard. "Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?"
</p>
<p>
"Look," Extrone said. "If that's the case, why do we bother tracking
them? Why not make them come to us?"
</p>
<p>
"They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather have
surprise on our side."
</p>
<p>
"You don't seem to see what I mean," Extrone said. "
<i>
We
</i>
won't be
the—ah—the bait."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?"
</p>
<p>
"Let's get back to the column."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Extrone wants to see you," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.
"What's he want to see
<i>
me
</i>
for?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Lin said curtly.
</p>
<p>
Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously
at Lin's bare forearm. "Look," he whispered. "You know him. I have—a
little money. If you were able to ... if he wants," Ri gulped, "to
<i>
do
</i>
anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could...."
</p>
<p>
"You better come along," Lin said, turning.
</p>
<p>
Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,
ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where
Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded genially. "The farn beast hunter, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. "Tell me
what they look like," he said suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sir, they're ... uh...."
</p>
<p>
"Pretty frightening?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
you
</i>
weren't afraid of them, were you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. No, because...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone was smiling innocently. "Good. I want you to do something for
me."
</p>
<p>
"I ... I...." Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.
Lin's face was impassive.
</p>
<p>
"Of
<i>
course
</i>
you will," Extrone said genially. "Get me a rope, Lin. A
good, long, strong rope."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" Ri asked, terrified.
</p>
<p>
"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as
bait."
</p>
<p>
"No!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you
<i>
can
</i>
scream,
by the way?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"We could find a way to make you."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,
creeping toward his nose.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be safe," Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. "I'll
shoot the animal before it reaches you."
</p>
<p>
Ri gulped for air. "But ... if there should be more than one?"
</p>
<p>
Extrone shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"I—Look, sir. Listen to me." Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands
were trembling. "It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.
<i>
He
</i>
killed a farn beast before
<i>
I
</i>
did, sir. And last night—last
night, he—"
</p>
<p>
"He what?" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.
</p>
<p>
Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. "He said he ought to kill you, sir.
That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.
He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,
sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I
wouldn't...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone said, "Which one is he?"
</p>
<p>
"That one. Right over there."
</p>
<p>
"The one with his back to me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle
and said, "Here comes Lin with the rope, I see."
</p>
<p>
Ri was greenish. "You ... you...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone turned to Lin. "Tie one end around his waist."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. "You don't
want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything
should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone ordered.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. Please. Oh,
<i>
please
</i>
don't, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone said inexorably.
</p>
<p>
Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.
</p>
<p>
Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep
toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,
half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they
staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base
of a scaling tree.
</p>
<p>
"You will scream," Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed
across the water hole. "The farn beast will come from this direction, I
imagine."
</p>
<p>
Ri was almost slobbering in fear.
</p>
<p>
"Let me hear you scream," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
Ri moaned weakly.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to do better than that." Extrone inclined his head toward
a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Ri screamed.
</p>
<p>
"See that you keep it up that way," Extrone said. "That's the way I
want you to sound." He turned toward Lin. "We can climb this tree, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark
peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.
Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller
crotch.
</p>
<p>
Looking down, Extrone said, "Scream!" Then, to Lin, "You feel the
excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt."
</p>
<p>
"I feel it," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone chuckled. "You were with me on Meizque?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"That was something, that time." He ran his hand along the stock of the
weapon.
</p>
<p>
The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled
Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,
underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's
screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,
jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's
face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against
them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.
Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed nervously. "He must have heard."
</p>
<p>
"We're lucky to rouse one so fast," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. "I like
this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I
know."
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded.
</p>
<p>
"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"It's not
<i>
only
</i>
the killing," Lin echoed.
</p>
<p>
"You understand?" Extrone said. "How it is to wait, knowing in just a
minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going
to kill it?"
</p>
<p>
"I know," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too."
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again; nearer.
</p>
<p>
"It's a different one," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"How do you know?"
</p>
<p>
"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?"
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" Extrone shouted. "You, down there. There are two coming. Now
let's hear you really scream!"
</p>
<p>
Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether
tree, his eyes wide.
</p>
<p>
"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too," Extrone said.
"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them." He
opened his right hand. "Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it."
He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,
imprisoning the idea. "Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.
Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they
really will come to your bait."
</p>
<p>
Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.
</p>
<p>
"I've always liked to hunt," Extrone said. "More than anything else, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Lin spat toward the ground. "People should hunt because they have to.
For food. For safety."
</p>
<p>
"No," Extrone argued. "People should hunt for the love of hunting."
</p>
<p>
"Killing?"
</p>
<p>
"Hunting," Extrone repeated harshly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and
there was a noise of crackling underbrush.
</p>
<p>
"He's good bait," Extrone said. "He's fat enough and he knows how to
scream good."
</p>
<p>
Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully
eying the forest across from the watering hole.
</p>
<p>
Extrone began to tremble with excitement. "Here they come!"
</p>
<p>
The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his
lap.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,
swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.
Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs
behind them, rattling leaves.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Shoot!" Lin hissed. "For God's sake, shoot!"
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said. "Let's see what they do." He had not moved
the rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breath
beginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.
</p>
<p>
The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.
</p>
<p>
"Look!" Extrone cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"
</p>
<p>
Ri began to scream again.
</p>
<p>
Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin
waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing
a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.
</p>
<p>
"Watch! Watch!" Extrone cried gleefully.
</p>
<p>
And then the aliens sprang their trap.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Extrone threatened to kill Mia's family if Mia didn't act as his guide.\n(B) Extrone found out Mia had hunted farn beasts previously and demanded Mia act as his guide.\n(C) Extrone kidnapped Mia, and is forcing Mia to act as his guide.\n(D) Extrone is the sovereign, everyone must do as Extrone commands.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Hunting stories; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
51433 | Why isn't Extrone afraid of the aliens?
Choices:
(A) Extrone believes the aliens are inferior and incapable of launching a successful attack against him.
(B) Extrone is confident his armed forces will destroy the aliens before they are able to attack him.
(C) Extrone believes himself to be untouchable.
(D) The Ninth Fleet is the most decorated and undefeated force. They can protect Extrone from the aliens. | [
"B",
"Extrone is confident his armed forces will destroy the aliens before they are able to attack him."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
HUNT the HUNTER
</h1>
<p>
BY KRIS NEVILLE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
Of course using live bait is the best
<br/>
way to lure dangerous alien animals ...
<br/>
unless it turns out that you are the bait!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"We're somewhat to the south, I think," Ri said, bending over the crude
field map. "That ridge," he pointed, "on our left, is right here." He
drew a finger down the map. "It was over here," he moved the finger,
"over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them."
</p>
<p>
Extrone asked, "Is there a pass?"
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. "I don't
know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of the
ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. "I'd hate to lose a day
crossing the ridge," he said.
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. "Listen!"
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right up
ahead of us."
</p>
<p>
Extrone raised his eyebrows.
</p>
<p>
This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.
</p>
<p>
"It is!" Ri said. "It's a farn beast, all right!"
</p>
<p>
Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. "I'm
glad we won't have to cross the ridge."
</p>
<p>
Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
"We'll pitch camp right here, then," Extrone said. "We'll go after it
tomorrow." He looked at the sky. "Have the bearers hurry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. "You, there!" he called.
"Pitch camp, here!"
</p>
<p>
He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone's
party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, "Be quick, now!"
And to Mia, "God almighty, he was getting mad." He ran a hand under his
collar. "It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'd
hate to think of making him climb that ridge."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. "It's that damned pilot's
fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other
side. I told him so."
</p>
<p>
Ri shrugged hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he
wanted to get us in trouble."
</p>
<p>
"There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this side
of the ridge, too."
</p>
<p>
"That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in for
us."
</p>
<p>
Ri cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe you're right."
</p>
<p>
"It's the Hunting Club he don't like."
</p>
<p>
"I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast," Ri said. "At least,
then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebody
else?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Mia looked at his companion. He spat. "What hurts most, he pays us for
it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less
than I pay my secretary."
</p>
<p>
"Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge."
</p>
<p>
"Hey, you!" Extrone called.
</p>
<p>
The two of them turned immediately.
</p>
<p>
"You two scout ahead," Extrone said. "See if you can pick up some
tracks."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir," Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their
shoulder straps and started off.
</p>
<p>
Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. "Let's
wait here," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
"No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in."
</p>
<p>
They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not
professional guides.
</p>
<p>
"We don't want to get too near," Ri said after toiling through the
forest for many minutes. "Without guns, we don't want to get near
enough for the farn beast to charge us."
</p>
<p>
They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.
</p>
<p>
"He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him," Mia said. "But we go
it alone. Damn him."
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. "Hot.
By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time we
were here."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "The first time,
<i>
we
</i>
weren't guides. We didn't notice it so
much then."
</p>
<p>
They fought a few yards more into the forest.
</p>
<p>
Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a
blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but
the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't ours!" Ri said. "This looks like it was made nearly a year
ago!"
</p>
<p>
Mia's eyes narrowed. "The military from Xnile?"
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "They don't have any rockets this small. And I don't
think there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we
leased from the Club. Except the one
<i>
he
</i>
brought."
</p>
<p>
"The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?" Mia
asked. "You think it's their blast?"
</p>
<p>
"So?" Ri said. "But who are they?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was Mia's turn to shrug. "Whoever they were, they couldn't have been
hunters. They'd have kept the secret better."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't do so damned well."
</p>
<p>
"We didn't have a chance," Mia objected. "Everybody and his brother had
heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn't
our fault Extrone found out."
</p>
<p>
"I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of
us."
</p>
<p>
Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. "We should have shot our pilot,
too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told
Extrone we'd hunted this area."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't think a Club pilot would do that."
</p>
<p>
"After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to
the alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
I
</i>
didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking," Mia said.
</p>
<p>
Ri's mouth twisted. "I didn't say you did."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia said in a hoarse whisper. "I just thought. Listen. To
hell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,
too, when the hunt's over."
</p>
<p>
Ri licked his lips. "No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not just
anybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even
<i>
him
</i>
. And besides,
why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Too
many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself."
</p>
<p>
Mia said, "I hope you're right." They stood side by side, studying the
blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, "We better be getting back."
</p>
<p>
"What'll we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
"That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?"
</p>
<p>
They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.
</p>
<p>
"It gets hotter at sunset," Ri said nervously.
</p>
<p>
"The breeze dies down."
</p>
<p>
"It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. There
must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this."
</p>
<p>
"There may be a pass," Mia said, pushing a vine away.
</p>
<p>
Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. "I guess that's it. If there were a lot
of them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it's
damned funny, when you think about it."
</p>
<p>
Mia looked up at the darkening sky. "We better hurry," he said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,
obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from the
outpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was the
blazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly over
Extrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settled
into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its
blasts.
</p>
<p>
Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat
disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.
</p>
<p>
Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking
officers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,
the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and
knees almost stiff.
</p>
<p>
"What in hell do you want?" Extrone asked.
</p>
<p>
They stopped a respectful distance away. "Sir...." one began.
</p>
<p>
"Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game?" Extrone
demanded, ominously not raising his voice.
</p>
<p>
"Sir," the lead officer said, "it's another alien ship. It was sighted
a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's face looked much too innocent. "How did it get there,
gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?"
</p>
<p>
"We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir."
</p>
<p>
"So?" Extrone mocked.
</p>
<p>
"We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could
locate and destroy it."
</p>
<p>
Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned
away, in the direction of a resting bearer. "You!" he said. "Hey! Bring
me a drink!" He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. "I'm
staying here."
</p>
<p>
The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. "But, sir...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone toyed with his beard. "About a year ago, gentlemen, there was
an alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,
didn't you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. When we located it, sir."
</p>
<p>
"You'll destroy this one, too," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try a
long range bombardment, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone said, "To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.
And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And you
can't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway."
</p>
<p>
"That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. "You'll
lose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.
I'm quite safe here, I think."
</p>
<p>
The bearer brought Extrone his drink.
</p>
<p>
"Get off," Extrone said quietly to the four officers.
</p>
<p>
Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.
Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into the
tangle of forest.
</p>
<p>
Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,
casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hot
breath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.
</p>
<p>
Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,
listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap to
his tent.
</p>
<p>
"Sir?" Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said, turning, startled. "Oh, you. Well?"
</p>
<p>
"We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east."
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, "You killed one, I believe, on
<i>
your
</i>
trip?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shifted. "Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone held back the flap of the tent. "Won't you come in?" he asked
without any politeness whatever.
</p>
<p>
Ri obeyed the order.
</p>
<p>
The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,
costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. The
floor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatly
and smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to the
left of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.
They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light was
electric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed to
the bed, sat down.
</p>
<p>
"You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Extrone narrowed his eyes. "I see by your eyes that you are
envious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked away from his face.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I have
never killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't
<i>
seen
</i>
a farn beast."
</p>
<p>
Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone's
glittering ones. "Few people have seen them, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?" Extrone questioned mildly. "I wouldn't say that. I understand
that the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of their
planets."
</p>
<p>
"I meant in our system, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course you did," Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of his
sleeve with his forefinger. "I imagine these are the only farn beasts
in our system."
</p>
<p>
Ri waited uneasily, not answering.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," Extrone said, "I imagine they are. It would have been a shame if
you had killed the last one. Don't you think so?"
</p>
<p>
Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. "Yes, sir. It would
have been."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pursed his lips. "It wouldn't have been very considerate of you
to—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed to
come along as my guide."
</p>
<p>
"It was an honor, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. "If I had waited until it was
safe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able to
find such an illustrious guide."
</p>
<p>
"... I'm flattered, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said. "But you should have spoken to me about it,
when you discovered the farn beast in our own system."
</p>
<p>
"I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,
sir...."
</p>
<p>
"Of course," Extrone said dryly. "Like all of my subjects," he waved
his hand in a broad gesture, "the highest as well as the lowest slave,
know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best."
</p>
<p>
Ri squirmed, his face pale. "We do indeed love you, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone bent forward. "
<i>
Know
</i>
me and love me."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir.
<i>
Know
</i>
you and love you, sir," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Get out!" Extrone said.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"It's frightening," Ri said, "to be that close to him."
</p>
<p>
Mia nodded.
</p>
<p>
The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,
were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold and
bright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for a
central mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.
</p>
<p>
"To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—what
we've read about."
</p>
<p>
Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. "You begin to
understand a lot of things, after seeing him."
</p>
<p>
Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.
</p>
<p>
"It makes you think," Mia added. He twitched. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid
he'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,
me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill us
first."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. "No. We have friends. We have
influence. He couldn't just like that—"
</p>
<p>
"He could say it was an accident."
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said stubbornly.
</p>
<p>
"He can say anything," Mia insisted. "He can make people believe
anything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it."
</p>
<p>
"It's getting cold," Ri said.
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia pleaded.
</p>
<p>
"No," Ri said. "Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.
Everybody would
<i>
know
</i>
we were lying. Everything they've come to
believe would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, every
picture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.
<i>
He
</i>
knows that."
</p>
<p>
"Listen," Mia repeated intently. "This is important. Right now he
couldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army is
not against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. A
bearer overheard them talking. They don't
<i>
want
</i>
to overthrow him!"
</p>
<p>
Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.
</p>
<p>
"That's another lie," Mia continued. "That he protects the people from
the Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were
<i>
ever
</i>
plotting
against him. Not even at first. I think they
<i>
helped
</i>
him, don't you
see?"
</p>
<p>
Ri whined nervously.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this," Mia said. "I see it like this. The Army
<i>
put
</i>
him in
power when the people were in rebellion against military rule."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Ri swallowed. "We couldn't make the people believe that."
</p>
<p>
"No?" Mia challenged. "Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?
You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade the
alien system!"
</p>
<p>
"The people won't support them," Ri answered woodenly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Think.
</i>
If he tells them to, they will. They trust him."
</p>
<p>
Ri looked around at the shadows.
</p>
<p>
"That explains a lot of things," Mia said. "I think the Army's been
preparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's why
Extrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them from
learning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keep
them from exposing
<i>
him
</i>
to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooled
like we were, so easy."
</p>
<p>
"No!" Ri snapped. "It was to keep the natural economic balance."
</p>
<p>
"You know that's not right."
</p>
<p>
Ri lay down on his bed roll. "Don't talk about it. It's not good to
talk like this. I don't even want to listen."
</p>
<p>
"When the invasion starts, he'll have to command
<i>
all
</i>
their loyalties.
To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.
He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying to
tell the truth."
</p>
<p>
"You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong."
</p>
<p>
Mia smiled twistedly. "How many has he already killed? How can we even
guess?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed sickly.
</p>
<p>
"Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?"
</p>
<p>
Ri shuddered. "That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all like
that."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.
The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,
uncontaminated.
</p>
<p>
And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting the
flap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared around
the camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.
</p>
<p>
"Breakfast!" he shouted, and two bearers came running with a folding
table and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray of
various foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcher
and a drinking mug.
</p>
<p>
Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in his
conversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth with
water and spat on the ground.
</p>
<p>
"Lin!" he said.
</p>
<p>
His personal bearer came loping toward him.
</p>
<p>
"Have you read that manual I gave you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded. "Yes."
</p>
<p>
Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. "Very
ludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen for
guides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,
twenty years ago, damn them."
</p>
<p>
Lin waited.
</p>
<p>
"Now I can spit on them, which pleases me."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts are dangerous, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?"
</p>
<p>
"I believe they're carnivorous, sir."
</p>
<p>
"An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the only
information on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, of
course, two businessmen."
</p>
<p>
"They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable of
tearing a man—"
</p>
<p>
"An alien?" Extrone corrected.
</p>
<p>
"There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing an
alien to pieces, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed harshly. "It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?"
</p>
<p>
Lin's face remained impassive. "I guess it seems that way. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"Damned few people would dare go as far as you do," Extrone said. "But
you're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?"
</p>
<p>
Lin shrugged. "Maybe."
</p>
<p>
"I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know how
wonderful it feels to have people
<i>
all
</i>
afraid of you."
</p>
<p>
"The farn beasts, according to the manual...."
</p>
<p>
"You are very insistent on one subject."
</p>
<p>
"... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as I
was saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, of
aliens. Sir."
</p>
<p>
"All right," Extrone said, annoyed. "I'll be careful."
</p>
<p>
In the distance, a farn beast coughed.
</p>
<p>
Instantly alert, Extrone said, "Get the bearers! Have some of them cut
a path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to get
the hell over here!"
</p>
<p>
Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walked
leisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, at
the vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Their
sharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavy
breathing.
</p>
<p>
Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drank
deeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat made
oppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.
</p>
<p>
Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmen
fought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanks
for farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among the
tree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.
</p>
<p>
Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, a
powerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustained
fire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing a
folding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-powered
two-way communication set.
</p>
<p>
Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,
arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, to
Extrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.
</p>
<p>
When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearers
slump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,
he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,
reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.
</p>
<p>
"For you, sir," the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.
</p>
<p>
"Damn," Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. "It better be
important." He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. The
bearer twiddled the dials.
</p>
<p>
"Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell bother
me?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn't
you?"
</p>
<p>
"Blasted them right out of space," the voice crackled excitedly. "Right
in the middle of a radio broadcast, sir."
</p>
<p>
"I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting!" Extrone
tore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. "If they call back,
find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it's
important."
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, and
perspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.
</p>
<p>
Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among reclining
bearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.
"I located a spoor," he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. "About
a quarter ahead. It looks fresh."
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes lit with passion.
</p>
<p>
Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. "There were two, I
think."
</p>
<p>
"Two?" Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. "You and I better go forward
and look at the spoor."
</p>
<p>
Lin said, "We ought to take protection, if you're going, too."
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed. "This is enough." He gestured with the rifle and stood
up.
</p>
<p>
"I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"One is enough in
<i>
my
</i>
camp."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone moved
agilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came to
the tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small watering
hole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
"This way," Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them started
off.
</p>
<p>
They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming more
alert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with a
restraining hand. "They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought to
bring up the column?"
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.
Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.
</p>
<p>
"They're moving away," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"Damn!" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, and
fast, too."
</p>
<p>
"Eh?" Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
"They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will track
down a man for as long as a day."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said, combing his beard. "Wait a minute."
</p>
<p>
"Yes?"
</p>
<p>
"Look," Extrone said. "If that's the case, why do we bother tracking
them? Why not make them come to us?"
</p>
<p>
"They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather have
surprise on our side."
</p>
<p>
"You don't seem to see what I mean," Extrone said. "
<i>
We
</i>
won't be
the—ah—the bait."
</p>
<p>
"Oh?"
</p>
<p>
"Let's get back to the column."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Extrone wants to see you," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.
"What's he want to see
<i>
me
</i>
for?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," Lin said curtly.
</p>
<p>
Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervously
at Lin's bare forearm. "Look," he whispered. "You know him. I have—a
little money. If you were able to ... if he wants," Ri gulped, "to
<i>
do
</i>
anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could...."
</p>
<p>
"You better come along," Lin said, turning.
</p>
<p>
Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,
ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to where
Extrone was seated, petting his rifle.
</p>
<p>
Extrone nodded genially. "The farn beast hunter, eh?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. "Tell me
what they look like," he said suddenly.
</p>
<p>
"Well, sir, they're ... uh...."
</p>
<p>
"Pretty frightening?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
you
</i>
weren't afraid of them, were you?"
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. No, because...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone was smiling innocently. "Good. I want you to do something for
me."
</p>
<p>
"I ... I...." Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.
Lin's face was impassive.
</p>
<p>
"Of
<i>
course
</i>
you will," Extrone said genially. "Get me a rope, Lin. A
good, long, strong rope."
</p>
<p>
"What are you going to do?" Ri asked, terrified.
</p>
<p>
"Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out as
bait."
</p>
<p>
"No!"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you
<i>
can
</i>
scream,
by the way?"
</p>
<p>
Ri swallowed.
</p>
<p>
"We could find a way to make you."
</p>
<p>
There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,
creeping toward his nose.
</p>
<p>
"You'll be safe," Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. "I'll
shoot the animal before it reaches you."
</p>
<p>
Ri gulped for air. "But ... if there should be more than one?"
</p>
<p>
Extrone shrugged.
</p>
<p>
"I—Look, sir. Listen to me." Ri's lips were bloodless and his hands
were trembling. "It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.
<i>
He
</i>
killed a farn beast before
<i>
I
</i>
did, sir. And last night—last
night, he—"
</p>
<p>
"He what?" Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.
</p>
<p>
Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. "He said he ought to kill you, sir.
That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.
He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,
sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. I
wouldn't...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone said, "Which one is he?"
</p>
<p>
"That one. Right over there."
</p>
<p>
"The one with his back to me?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir."
</p>
<p>
Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifle
and said, "Here comes Lin with the rope, I see."
</p>
<p>
Ri was greenish. "You ... you...."
</p>
<p>
Extrone turned to Lin. "Tie one end around his waist."
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. "You don't
want to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anything
should happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone ordered.
</p>
<p>
"No, sir. Please. Oh,
<i>
please
</i>
don't, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Tie it," Extrone said inexorably.
</p>
<p>
Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.
</p>
<p>
Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steep
toward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,
half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that they
staked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the base
of a scaling tree.
</p>
<p>
"You will scream," Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointed
across the water hole. "The farn beast will come from this direction, I
imagine."
</p>
<p>
Ri was almost slobbering in fear.
</p>
<p>
"Let me hear you scream," Extrone said.
</p>
<p>
Ri moaned weakly.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to do better than that." Extrone inclined his head toward
a bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Ri screamed.
</p>
<p>
"See that you keep it up that way," Extrone said. "That's the way I
want you to sound." He turned toward Lin. "We can climb this tree, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, bark
peeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.
</p>
<p>
Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.
Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smaller
crotch.
</p>
<p>
Looking down, Extrone said, "Scream!" Then, to Lin, "You feel the
excitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt."
</p>
<p>
"I feel it," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone chuckled. "You were with me on Meizque?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes."
</p>
<p>
"That was something, that time." He ran his hand along the stock of the
weapon.
</p>
<p>
The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circled
Extrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,
underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri's
screams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.
</p>
<p>
Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,
jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone's
face. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed against
them, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.
Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.
</p>
<p>
Extrone laughed nervously. "He must have heard."
</p>
<p>
"We're lucky to rouse one so fast," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. "I like
this. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything I
know."
</p>
<p>
Lin nodded.
</p>
<p>
"The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killing
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"It's not
<i>
only
</i>
the killing," Lin echoed.
</p>
<p>
"You understand?" Extrone said. "How it is to wait, knowing in just a
minute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're going
to kill it?"
</p>
<p>
"I know," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too."
</p>
<p>
The farn beast coughed again; nearer.
</p>
<p>
"It's a different one," Lin said.
</p>
<p>
"How do you know?"
</p>
<p>
"Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?"
</p>
<p>
"Hey!" Extrone shouted. "You, down there. There are two coming. Now
let's hear you really scream!"
</p>
<p>
Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tether
tree, his eyes wide.
</p>
<p>
"There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too," Extrone said.
"Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them." He
opened his right hand. "Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it."
He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,
imprisoning the idea. "Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.
Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if they
really will come to your bait."
</p>
<p>
Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.
</p>
<p>
"I've always liked to hunt," Extrone said. "More than anything else, I
think."
</p>
<p>
Lin spat toward the ground. "People should hunt because they have to.
For food. For safety."
</p>
<p>
"No," Extrone argued. "People should hunt for the love of hunting."
</p>
<p>
"Killing?"
</p>
<p>
"Hunting," Extrone repeated harshly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, and
there was a noise of crackling underbrush.
</p>
<p>
"He's good bait," Extrone said. "He's fat enough and he knows how to
scream good."
</p>
<p>
Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfully
eying the forest across from the watering hole.
</p>
<p>
Extrone began to tremble with excitement. "Here they come!"
</p>
<p>
The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across his
lap.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,
swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.
Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubs
behind them, rattling leaves.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"Shoot!" Lin hissed. "For God's sake, shoot!"
</p>
<p>
"Wait," Extrone said. "Let's see what they do." He had not moved
the rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breath
beginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.
</p>
<p>
The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.
</p>
<p>
"Look!" Extrone cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"
</p>
<p>
Ri began to scream again.
</p>
<p>
Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Lin
waited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.
</p>
<p>
The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwing
a sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.
</p>
<p>
"Watch! Watch!" Extrone cried gleefully.
</p>
<p>
And then the aliens sprang their trap.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Extrone believes the aliens are inferior and incapable of launching a successful attack against him.\n(B) Extrone is confident his armed forces will destroy the aliens before they are able to attack him.\n(C) Extrone believes himself to be untouchable.\n(D) The Ninth Fleet is the most decorated and undefeated force. They can protect Extrone from the aliens.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Hunting stories; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
49165 | What happened to Wyatt and Carpenter?
Choices:
(A) They died when a rock slide crushed their vehicle while they were attempting the Brightside Crossing.
(B) They crossed the Brightside at aphelion.
(C) They disappeared after their ship set off for Mercury. They were on a mission to cross the Brightside.
(D) They disappeared when they attempted to cross the Brightside at perihelion. | [
"A",
"They died when a rock slide crushed their vehicle while they were attempting the Brightside Crossing."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="pb c000"/>
<h1 class="c001">
Brightside
<br/>
Crossing
</h1>
by Alan E. Nourse
<p class="drop-capa0_3_0_6 c003">
JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had had
a visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. He
had no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and there
were pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doorman
had flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousand
pardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave no
name. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back by
eight.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staring
about the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at the
Red Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few in
number. Across to the right was a group that Baron knew
vaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Over
near the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mapped
the first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baron
returned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back and
waited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his time
without justifying it.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and sat
down at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face held
no key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—but
he looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks and
forehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were still
healing.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’re
planning to attempt the Brightside.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can read
telecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are going
to make a Brightside Crossing.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“At perihelion?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Of course. When else?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a moment
without expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’re
not going to make the Crossing.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“The name is Claney,” said the stranger.
</p>
<p class="c004">
There was a silence. Then: “Claney?
<i>
Peter
</i>
Claney?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“That’s right.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of anger
gone. “Great balls of fire, man—
<i>
where have you been hiding?
</i>
We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck the
whole idea.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “My
friend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.
Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” His
fingers were trembling.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything you
want to hear.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“But you’ve
<i>
got
</i>
to. You’re the only man on Earth who’s
attempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And the
story you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need
<i>
details
</i>
. Where did your equipment fall down? Where did you
miscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed a
finger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?
Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’ve
got to know those things. If you can tell us, we can make
it across where your attempt failed—”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Of course we want to know. We
<i>
have
</i>
to know.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’t
do it and neither can you. No human beings will ever cross
the Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. You
can blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws in
both quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.
It was the
<i>
planet
</i>
that whipped us, that and the
<i>
Sun
</i>
. They’ll
whip you, too, if you try it.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Never,” said Baron.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
<p class="c004">
I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long as
I can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten when
Wyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,
I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and then
I was heartbroken when they just disappeared.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off without
proper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surface
conditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have made
a hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was a
terrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in the
Twilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into my
blood, sure as death.
</p>
<p class="c004">
But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you ever
know Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.
He was a major in the Interplanetary Service
for some years and hung onto the title after he gave up
his commission.
</p>
<p class="c004">
He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,
did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying for
the Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent five
years together up there doing some of the nastiest exploring
since the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on Vulcan
Crater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,
the sort of guy who always had things figured a little further
ahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tight
place. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,
with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kind
of personality that could take a crew of wild men and
make them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousand
miles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.
</p>
<p class="c004">
He contacted me in New York and he was very casual at
first. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking about
old times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’d
been out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,
and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of the
year—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing since
Venus and what my plans were.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
I told him one-thirty-five.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat on
you, at any rate. How do you take heat?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“No, I mean
<i>
real
</i>
heat.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might be
dangerous, too.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“What trip?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?
What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherous
heat, just to have some joker come along, use your data and
drum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-four
days later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsense
about it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to make
a Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. If
a man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,
<i>
nobody’s
</i>
got
Mercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared consider
it. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercury
turns on its axis in the same time that it wheels around
the Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.
That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottest
place in the Solar System, with one single exception: the
surface of the Sun itself.
</p>
<p class="c004">
It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learned
just
<i>
how
</i>
hellish and they never came back to tell about it. It
was a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebody
would cross it.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I wanted to be along.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
<p class="c004">
The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was the
obvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—a
rocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’s
crew sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housed
the Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten years
before.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,
of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d picked
Mercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that could
hold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. On
Mercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelion
and the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanent
installation with a human crew could survive at either
extreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone between
Brightside and Darkside offers something closer to survival
temperatures.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zone
is about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to
60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take that
much change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sun
for about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planet
to wheel around.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing something
about Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Lab
to make final preparations.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he said
so, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a week
briefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who had
arrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.
Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sanderson
had given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightside
was like.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—but
he’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to join
this trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care for
exploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followed
him around like a puppy.
</p>
<p class="c004">
It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was getting
in for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’re
liable to get awfully uneasy and none of them can
ever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone had
borrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies and
equipment all lined up when we got there, ready to check
and test.
</p>
<p class="c004">
We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money and
some government cash the Major had talked his way around—our
equipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designing
and testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.
We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,
with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,
and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then he
said, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a name
for climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’ve
probably heard of him.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’t
too happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,
isn’t he?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw the
line? We’ll need plenty of both.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“No. Are you worried?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry about
McIvers. We understood each other when I talked up the
trip to him and we’re going to need each other too much to
do any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.
“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll need
to cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson says
we should leave in three days.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’t
say much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. We
spent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such as
they were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from so
far out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. They
showed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, and
that was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outline
of our course.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“This range here,” the Major said as we crowded around
the board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. But
these to the south and west
<i>
could
</i>
be active. Seismograph
tracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worse
down toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surface
shifting.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constant
surface activity.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s no
doubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over the
Pole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee of
less activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we could
find a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”
</p>
<p class="c004">
It seemed that the more we considered the problem, the
further we got from a solution. We knew there were active
volcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, though
surface activity there was pretty much slowed down and
localized.
</p>
<p class="c004">
But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, as
well. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmospheric
flow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gases
had reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightside
millennia ago—but there was CO
2
, and nitrogen, and traces of
other heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfur
vapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where it
condensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sanderson
to estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals on
Brightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passage
that avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the final
analysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only way
we would find out what was happening where was to be there.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freight
rocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major and
I had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venus
in hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upset
about it, as though this were his usual way of doing things and
he couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.
</p>
<p class="c004">
He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurely
gray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,
sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.
And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doing
something with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of his
arrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we were
running the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,
Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything was
set for an early departure after we got some rest.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
<p class="c004">
“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signaling
the waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Of course.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables around
them. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a place
like this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the most
reliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’t
our big problem right then.
<i>
Equipment
</i>
worried us first and
<i>
route
</i>
next.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did you
have?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Each
one had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoid
the clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unit
and oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges every
eight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflecting
surface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. And
we had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure between
the two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at
770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cinders
if the suits failed somewhere.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“How about the Bugs?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting on
them too much for protection.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobility
and storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot of
forward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meant
that we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead air
between us and a surface temperature where lead flowed like
water and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools of
sulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glass
as he set it down on the tablecloth.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.
We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’m
getting to that.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
He settled back in his chair and continued.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
<p class="c004">
We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeast
with thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If we
could cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hit
Center exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closest
approach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part of
the planet at the hottest it ever gets.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizon
when we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every day
that Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day the
surface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the job
was only half done—we would still have to travel another
two thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sanderson
was to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,
approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.
</p>
<p class="c004">
That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross those
seventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matter
what terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous and
time-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knew
that.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.
“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we stripped
down for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, giving
you a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job of
dragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course pretty
closely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.
If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore ahead
on foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jack
and I were planning to change around. We figured he could
take the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,
Jack?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “It
doesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Does
it make any difference?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flank
Peter along with me. Right?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s going
to do the advance scouting?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the lead
Bug light as possible.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped down
to the frame and wheels.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the
<i>
advance
</i>
work.
You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—to
pick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”
He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort of
a hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout up
ahead?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major said
sharply.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Charts! I’m talking about
<i>
detail
</i>
work. We don’t need to
worry about the major topography. It’s the little faults you
can’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the charts
down excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and work
reconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.
I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan the
area closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.
Then—”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“No dice,” the Major broke in.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“But why not? We could save ourselves days!”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. When
we get to the Center, I want live men along with me. That
means we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Any
climber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one man
alone—any time, any place.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally he
gave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
“Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.
We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.
Got that?”
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me and
we nodded, too.
</p>
<p class="c004">
“All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,
let’s go.”
</p>
<p class="c004">
It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’ll
never forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without a
break, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that the
first few days would be the easiest and we were rested and
fresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast of
the Twilight Lab.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see the
Major and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tires
taking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,
Stone dragged the sledges.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain on
the big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanic
ash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow for
the first twenty miles.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking out
the track the early research teams had made out into the edge
of Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’s
little outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. We
were in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning to
bite.
</p>
<p class="c004">
We didn’t
<i>
feel
</i>
the heat so much those first days out. We
<i>
saw
</i>
it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-five
degrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watched
that glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, and
some nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We poured
sweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.
</p>
<p class="c004">
We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep period
came due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw up
a light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.
The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventy
degrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from the
forward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,
bulk gelatin, vitamins.
</p>
<p class="c004">
The Major measured water out with an iron hand, because
we’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.
We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologists
and psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interesting
reasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that it
happened to be so.
</p>
<p class="c004">
We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Our
eyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,
but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around looking
at each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer would
taste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothers
for one ice-cold bottle of beer.
</p>
<p class="c004">
After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings at
the wheel. We were moving down into desolation that made
Earth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.
Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,
with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filled
with a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurous
gases.
</p>
<p class="c004">
It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, but
the challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No one
had ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who had
tried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,
so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossed
the hardest way possible: overland, through anything the land
could throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Yet we knew that even the land might have been conquered
before, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold before
and won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The only
worse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sun
itself.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it would
get us. That was the bargain.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.
The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we moved
onto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south and
east. This range had shown no activity since the first landing
on Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were active
cones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; their
sides were shrouded with heavy ash.
</p>
<p class="c004">
We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,
sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across the
face of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The craters
rose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock and
rubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissing
from the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was gray
dust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and granite
ash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacherous
surface for the Bug’s pillow tires.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by the
sag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell it
from an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground to
a halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together with
light copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some more
until we were sure the surface would carry the machines. It
was cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,
at first.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed to
think so, too.
</p>
<p class="c004">
McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.
He talked too much, while we were resting or while we were
driving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thin
with repetition. He took to making side trips from the route
now and then, never far, but a little further each time.
</p>
<p class="c004">
Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter with
each stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, but
I figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensive
enough myself; I just managed to hide it better.
</p>
<p class="c004">
And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher in
the sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glare
filters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes ached
constantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at the
end of an eight-hour trek.
</p>
<p class="c004">
But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver the
penultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had driven
down a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of our
route and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when we
heard a sharp cry through our earphones.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat and
spotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from the
top of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering down
the gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousand
horrible pictures racing through our minds....
</p>
<p class="c004">
We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorge
and, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreck
of a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort that
hadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut in
the rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up the
middle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away were
two insulated suits with white bones gleaming through the
fiberglass helmets.
</p>
<p class="c004">
This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on
<i>
their
</i>
Brightside Crossing.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
<p class="c004">
On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.
It looked the same, but every now and then it
<i>
felt
</i>
different.
On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protest
from my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;
I gunned my motor and nothing happened.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,
thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs as
the wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment the
wheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to the
tractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked for
all the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of molten
lead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting into
an area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.
I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayed
McIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous for
the individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’t
like it.
</p>
<p class="c004">
One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinking
much about the others. I was worried about
<i>
me
</i>
, plenty
worried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.
It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get the
thought out of my mind.
</p>
<p class="c004">
It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back in
the Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on a
broad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—winding
back and forth in an effort to keep the machines on
solid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow haze
rising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I saw
a sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyond
a deep crack.
</p>
<p class="c004">
I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bug
forward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I moved
fifty yards to the left, then back to the right.
</p>
<p class="c004">
There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;
a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down across
a section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I could
feel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw the
ledge shift over a few feet.
</p>
<hr class="c005"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) They died when a rock slide crushed their vehicle while they were attempting the Brightside Crossing.\n(B) They crossed the Brightside at aphelion.\n(C) They disappeared after their ship set off for Mercury. They were on a mission to cross the Brightside.\n(D) They disappeared when they attempted to cross the Brightside at perihelion.",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Mercury (Planet) -- Fiction; Explorers -- Fiction"
} |
51202 | Why does Infield don a lightning rod at the beginning of the story?
Choices:
(A) He wants to infiltrate the fraternal club for the Cured in order to prevent Price's authoritarian rule, so he must blend in.
(B) It will protect him against lightning strikes and is meant as a Cure for his astraphobia.
(C) He wants to know what it feels like to be a Cured, and therefore he pretends to have a fear of thunder.
(D) He is tired of working as a psychiatrist at Infield & Morgan and wants to seek out new opportunities in the world of the Cured. | [
"C",
"He wants to know what it feels like to be a Cured, and therefore he pretends to have a fear of thunder."
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Name Your Symptom
</h1>
<p>
By JIM HARMON
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WEISS
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his
<br/>
head examined—assuming he had one left!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Henry Infield placed the insulated circlet on his head gently. The
gleaming rod extended above his head about a foot, the wires from it
leading down into his collar, along his spine and finally out his pants
leg to a short metallic strap that dragged on the floor.
</p>
<p>
Clyde Morgan regarded his partner. "Suppose—just suppose—you
<i>
were
</i>
serious about this, why not just the shoes?"
</p>
<p>
Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the
very thick rubber soles. "They might get soaked through."
</p>
<p>
Morgan took his foot off the chair behind the desk and sat down.
"Suppose they were soaked through and you were standing on a metal
plate—steps or a manhole cover—what good would your lightning rod do
you then?"
</p>
<p>
Infield shrugged slightly. "I suppose a man must take some chances."
</p>
<p>
Morgan said, "You can't do it, Henry. You're crossing the line. The
people we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If
you cross that line, you won't be able to treat people again."
</p>
<p>
The small man looked out the large window, blinking myopically at the
brassy sunlight. "That's just it, Clyde. There is a line between us,
a wall. How can we really understand the people who come to us, if we
hide on our side of the wall?"
</p>
<p>
Morgan shook his thick head, ruffling his thinning red hair. "I dunno,
Henry, but staying on our side is a pretty good way to keep sane and
that's quite an accomplishment these days."
</p>
<p>
Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. "That's the answer! The whole
world is going mad and we are just sitting back watching it hike
along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive
medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the
disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't
cure anything. Eventually the savage dies—just as all those sick
savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not
only the indications."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Morgan shifted his ponderous weight uneasily. "Now, Henry, it's no good
to talk like that. We psychiatrists can't turn back the clock. There
just aren't enough of us or enough time to give that old-fashioned
<i>
therapy
</i>
to all the sick people."
</p>
<p>
Infield leaned on the desk and glared. "I called myself a psychiatrist
once. But now I know we're semi-mechanics, semi-engineers,
semi-inventors, semi lots of other things, but certainly not even
semi-psychiatrists. A psychiatrist wouldn't give a foetic gyro to a man
with claustrophobia."
</p>
<p>
His mind went back to the first gyro ball he had ever issued; the
remembrance of his pride in the thing sickened him. Floating before
him in memory was the vertical hoop and the horizontal hoop, both of
shining steel-impervium alloy. Transfixed in the twin circles was the
face of the patient, slack with smiles and sweat. But his memory was
exaggerating the human element. The gyro actually passed over a man's
shoulder, through his legs, under his arms. Any time he felt the
walls creeping in to crush him, he could withdraw his head and limbs
into the circle and feel safe. Steel-impervium alloy could resist even
a nuclear explosion. The foetic gyro ball was worn day and night, for
life.
</p>
<p>
The sickness overcame him. He sat down on Morgan's desk. "That's just
one thing, the gyro ball. There are so many others, so many."
</p>
<p>
Morgan smiled. "You know, Henry, not all of our Cures are so—so—not
all are like that. Those Cures for mother complexes aren't even
obvious. If anybody does see that button in a patient's ear, it looks
like a hearing aid. Yet for a nominal sum, the patient is equipped to
hear the soothing recorded voice of his mother saying, 'It's all right,
everything's all right, Mommy loves you, it's all right....'"
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
is
</i>
everything all right?" Infield asked intensely. "Suppose
the patient is driving over one hundred on an icy road. He thinks
about slowing down, but there's the voice in his ear. Or suppose he's
walking down a railroad track and hears a train whistle—if he can hear
anything over that verbal pablum gushing in his ear."
</p>
<p>
Morgan's face stiffened. "You know as well as I do that those voices
are nearly subsonic. They don't cut a sense efficiency more than 23
per cent."
</p>
<p>
"At first, Clyde—only at first. But what about the severe case where
we have to burn a three-dimensional smiling mother-image on the eyes of
the patient with radiation? With that image over everything he sees and
with that insidious voice drumming in his head night and day, do you
mean to say that man's senses will only be impaired 23 per cent? Why,
he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later—and you know it.
The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell
or one of those inhuman lobotomies."
</p>
<p>
Morgan shrugged helplessly. "You're an idealist."
</p>
<p>
"You're damned right!" Infield slammed the door behind him.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main
stream of human traffic and tried to adjust to the second change in the
air. People didn't bathe very often these days.
</p>
<p>
He walked along, buffeted by the crowd, carried along in this
direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd
seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many "Cures" were not
readily apparent.
</p>
<p>
A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was
unable to keep from being pushed against Infield. He sounded out the
lightning rod, his face changing when he realized it must be some kind
of Cure. "Pardon me," he said warmly.
</p>
<p>
"Quite all right."
</p>
<p>
It was the first time in years that anyone had apologized to Infield
for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be
scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these
people, now that he had taken down the wall.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly something else was pushing against Infield, forcing the
air from his lungs. He stared down at the magnetic suction dart
clinging leechlike to his chest. Model Acrophobe 101-X, he catalogued
immediately. Description: safety belt. But his emotions didn't behave
so well. He was thoroughly terrified, heart racing, sweat glands
pumping. The impervium cable undulated vulgarly.
<i>
Some primitive fear
of snake symbols?
</i>
his mind wondered while panic crushed him.
</p>
<p>
"Uncouple that cable!" the shout rang out. It was not his own.
</p>
<p>
A clean-cut young man with mouse-colored hair was moving toward the
stubble-chinned, heavy-shouldered man quivering in the center of a web
of impervium cables stuck secure to the walls and windows of buildings
facing the street, the sidewalk, a mailbox, the lamp post and Infield.
</p>
<p>
Mouse-hair yelled hoarsely, "Uncouple it, Davies! Can't you see the
guy's got a lightning rod? You're grounding him!
</p>
<p>
"I can't," Davies groaned. "I'm scared!"
</p>
<p>
Halfway down the twenty feet of cable, Mouse-hair grabbed on. "I'm
holding it. Release it, you hear?"
</p>
<p>
Davies fumbled for the broad belt around his thickening middle. He
jabbed the button that sent a negative current through the cable. The
magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had
been alive and now was killed. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
After breathing deeply for a few moments, he looked up to see Davies
releasing and drawing all his darts into his belt, making it resemble a
Hydra-sized spiked dog collar. Mouse-hair stood by tensely as the crowd
disassembled.
</p>
<p>
"This isn't the first time you've pulled something like this, Davies,"
he said. "You weren't too scared to release that cable. You just don't
care about other people's feelings. This is
<i>
official
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Mouse-hair drove a fast, hard right into the soft blue flesh of Davies'
chin. The big man fell silently.
</p>
<p>
The other turned to Infield. "He was unconscious on his feet," he
explained. "He never knew he fell."
</p>
<p>
"What did you mean by that punch being official?" Infield asked while
trying to arrange his feelings into the comfortable, familiar patterns.
</p>
<p>
The young man's eyes almost seemed to narrow, although his face didn't
move; he merely radiated narrowed eyes. "How long have you been Cured?"
</p>
<p>
"Not—not long," Infield evaded.
</p>
<p>
The other glanced around the street. He moistened his lips and spoke
slowly. "Do you think you might be interested in joining a fraternal
organization of the Cured?"
</p>
<p>
Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing
out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the "Cured" developed in
isolation! "Yes, I think I might. I owe you a drink for helping me out.
How about it?"
</p>
<p>
The man's face paled so fast, Infield thought for an instant that he
was going to faint. "All right. I'll risk it." He touched the side of
his face away from the psychiatrist.
</p>
<p>
Infield shifted around, trying to see that side of his benefactor,
but couldn't manage it in good grace. He wondered if the fellow was
sporting a Mom-voice hearing aid and was afraid of raising her ire. He
cleared his throat, noticing the affectation of it. "My name's Infield."
</p>
<p>
"Price," the other answered absently. "George Price. I suppose they
have liquor at the Club. We can have a
<i>
drink
</i>
there, I guess."
</p>
<p>
Price set the direction and Infield fell in at his side. "Look, if you
don't drink, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. It was just a suggestion."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Under the mousy hair, Price's strong features were beginning to gleam
moistly. "You are lucky in one way, Mr. Infield. People take one look
at your Cure and don't ask you to go walking in the rain. But even
after seeing
<i>
this
</i>
, some people still ask me to have a drink."
<i>
This
</i>
was revealed, as he turned his head, to be a small metal cube above his
left ear.
</p>
<p>
Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like
it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was.
</p>
<p>
"It's a cure for alcoholism," Price told him. "It runs a constant blood
check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit."
</p>
<p>
"What happens if you take one too many?"
</p>
<p>
Price looked off as if at something not particularly interesting, but
more interesting than what he was saying. "It drives a needle into my
temple and kills me."
</p>
<p>
The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed
to save lives, not endanger them.
</p>
<p>
"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?" he
demanded angrily.
</p>
<p>
"I did," Price said. "I used to be a psychiatrist. I was always good
in shop. This is a pretty effective mechanism, if I say so myself. It
can't be removed without causing my death and it's indestructible.
Impervium-shielded, you see."
</p>
<p>
Price probably would never get crazed enough for liquor to kill
himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly
shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with
death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his
legs; in a fire, though, he may run. His legs were definitely paralyzed
before and may be again, but for one moment he would forget the moral
defeat of his life and his withdrawal from life and live an enforced
sanity. But sometimes the withdrawal was—or could become—too complete.
</p>
<p>
"We're here."
</p>
<p>
Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed
two streets from his building and were standing in front of what
appeared to be a small, dingy cafe. He followed Price through the
screeching screen door.
</p>
<p>
They seated themselves at a small table with a red-checked cloth.
Infield wondered why cheap bars and restaurants always used red-checked
cloths. Then he looked closer and discovered the reason. They did a
remarkably good job of camouflaging the spots of grease and alcohol.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
A fat man who smelled of the grease and alcohol of the tablecloths
shuffled up to them with a towel on his arm, staring ahead of him at
some point in time rather than space.
</p>
<p>
Price lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. "Reggie is studying biblical
text. Cute gadget. His contact lenses are made up of a lot of layers
of polarized glass. Every time he blinks, the amount of polarization
changes and a new page appears. His father once told him that if he
didn't study his Bible and pray for him, his old dad would die."
</p>
<p>
The psychiatrist knew the threat on the father's part couldn't create
such a fixation by itself. His eyebrows faintly inquired.
</p>
<p>
Price nodded jerkily. "Twenty years ago, at least."
</p>
<p>
"What'll you have, Georgie?" Reggie asked.
</p>
<p>
The young man snubbed out his cigarette viciously. "Bourbon. Straight."
</p>
<p>
Reggie smiled—a toothy, vacant, comedy-relief smile. "Fine. The Good
Book says a little wine is good for a man, or something like that. I
don't remember exactly."
</p>
<p>
Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to
learn his Bible lessons to save his father, because it was obvious his
father was dead. He would never succeed because there was no reason to
succeed. But he had to try, didn't he, for his father's sake? He didn't
hate his father for making him study. He didn't want him to die. He had
to prove that.
</p>
<p>
Infield sighed. At least this device kept the man on his feet, doing
some kind of useful work instead of rotting in a padded cell with a
probably imaginary Bible. A man could cut his wrists with the edge of a
sheet of paper if he tried long enough, so of course the Bible would be
imaginary.
</p>
<p>
"But, Georgie," the waiter complained, "you know you won't drink it.
You ask me to bring you drinks and then you just look at them. Boy, do
you look funny when you're looking at drinks. Honest, Georgie, I want
to laugh when I think of the way you look at a glass with a drink in
it." He did laugh.
</p>
<p>
Price fumbled with the cigarette stub in the black iron ashtray,
examining it with the skill of scientific observation. "Mr. Infield is
buying me the drink and that makes it different."
</p>
<p>
Reggie went away. Price kept dissecting the tobacco and paper. Infield
cleared his throat and again reminded himself against such obvious
affectations. "You were telling me about some organization of the
Cured," he said as a reminder.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Price looked up, no longer interested in the relic of a cigarette. He
was suddenly intensely interested and intensely observant of the rest
of the cafe. "Was I? I was? Well, suppose you tell me something. What
do you really think of the Incompletes?"
</p>
<p>
The psychiatrist felt his face frown. "Who?"
</p>
<p>
"I forgot. You haven't been one of us long. The Incompletes is a truer
name for the so-called Normals. Have you ever thought of just how
dangerous these people are, Mr. Infield?"
</p>
<p>
"Frankly, no," Infield said, realizing it was not the right thing to
say but tiring of constant pretense.
</p>
<p>
"You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation.
Maybe everyone didn't have one once, but after being told they did
have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a
defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that
phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time
and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are
Cured. Those lacking Cures—the Incompletes—
<i>
must be dealt with
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
Infield's throat went dry. "And you're the one to deal with them?"
</p>
<p>
"It's my Destiny." Price quickly added, "And yours, too, of course."
</p>
<p>
Infield nodded. Price was a demagogue, young, handsome, dynamic,
likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his
divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man.
Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few
people who still read books from the old days of therapy to recognize
Price for what he was, he nevertheless still liked the young man
for the intelligence behind the egotism and the courage behind the
fanaticism.
</p>
<p>
"How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?" Infield asked.
</p>
<p>
Price started to glance around the cafe, then half-shrugged, almost
visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground.
"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not—for their own
good."
</p>
<p>
Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was
not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick.
Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the
ranks of the Cured—if indeed the plot was not already universal,
imposed upon many ill minds.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view.
Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient
as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if
everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop
secondary symptoms.
</p>
<p>
People would start needing two Cures—perhaps a foetic gyro and a
safety belt—then another and another. There would always be a crutch
to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something
else—until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to
operate.
</p>
<p>
A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for
the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and
the race.
</p>
<p>
But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical
relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't
want or need it?
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps you don't see how it could be done," Price said. "I'll
explain."
</p>
<p>
Reggie's heavy hand sat a straight bourbon down before Price and
another before Infield. Price stared at the drink almost without
comprehension of how it came to be. He started to sweat.
</p>
<p>
"George, drink it."
</p>
<p>
The voice belonged to a young woman, a blonde girl with pink skin
and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought
half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal—an "Incomplete."
But then he noticed something about the baby she carried. The Cure had
been very simple. It wasn't even a mechanized half-human robot, just a
rag doll. She sat down at the table.
</p>
<p>
"George," she said, "drink it. One drink won't raise your alcohol index
to the danger point. You've got to get over this fear of even the sight
or smell of liquor."
</p>
<p>
The girl turned to Infield. "You're one of us, but you're new, so you
don't know about George. Maybe you can help if you do. It's all silly.
He's not an alcoholic. He didn't need to put that Cure on his head.
It's just an excuse for not drinking. All of this is just because a
while back something happened to the baby here—" she adjusted the
doll's blanket—"when he was drinking. Just drinking, not drunk.
</p>
<p>
"I don't remember what happened to the baby—it wasn't important.
But George has been brooding about it ever since. I guess he thinks
something else bad will happen because of liquor. That's silly. Why
don't you tell him it's silly?"
</p>
<p>
"Maybe it is," Infield said softly. "You could take the shock if he
downed that drink and the shock might do you good."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Price laughed shortly. "I feel like doing something very melodramatic,
like throwing my drink—and yours—across the room, but I haven't got
the guts to touch those glasses. Do it for me, will you? Cauterizing
the bite might do me good if I'd been bitten by a rabid dog, but I
don't have the nerve to do it."
</p>
<p>
Before Infield could move, Reggie came and set both drinks on a little
circular tray. He moved away. "I knew it. That's all he did, just look
at the drink. Makes me laugh."
</p>
<p>
Price wiped the sweat off his palms. Infield sat and thought. Mrs.
Price cooed to the rag doll, unmindful of either of them now.
</p>
<p>
"You were explaining," the psychiatrist said. "You were going to tell
me how you were going to Cure the Incompletes."
</p>
<p>
"I said
<i>
we
</i>
were going to do it. Actually
<i>
you
</i>
will play a greater
part than I,
<i>
Doctor
</i>
Infield."
</p>
<p>
The psychiatrist sat rigidly.
</p>
<p>
"You didn't think you could give me your right name in front of your
own office building and that I wouldn't recognize you? I know some
psychiatrists are sensitive about wearing Cures themselves, but it is a
mark of honor of the completely sane man. You should be proud of your
Cure and eager to Cure others.
<i>
Very
</i>
eager."
</p>
<p>
"Just what do you mean?" He already suspected Price's meaning.
</p>
<p>
Price leaned forward. "There is one phobia that is so wide-spread, a
Cure is not even thought of—hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to
your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the
other Cured psychiatrists give
<i>
everybody
</i>
who comes to you a Cure?"
</p>
<p>
Infield gestured vaguely. "A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures
unless they were absolutely necessary."
</p>
<p>
"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself.
Other psychiatrists have."
</p>
<p>
Before Infield could speak, a stubble-faced, barrel-chested man moved
past their table. He wore a safety belt. It was the man Price had
called Davies, the one who had fastened one of his safety lines to
Infield in the street.
</p>
<p>
Davies went to the bar in the back. "Gimme a bottle," he demanded of a
vacant-eyed Reggie. He came back toward them, carrying the bottle in
one hand, brushing off rain drops with the other. He stopped beside
Price and glared. Price leaned back. The chair creaked. Mrs. Price kept
cooing to the doll.
</p>
<p>
"You made me fall," Davies accused.
</p>
<p>
Price shrugged. "You were unconscious. You never knew it."
</p>
<p>
Sweat broke out on Davies' forehead. "You broke the Code. Don't you
think I can imagine how it was to fall? You louse!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Suddenly, Davies triggered his safety belt. At close range, before
the lines could fan out in a radius, all the lines in front attached
themselves to Price, the ones at each side clung to their table and the
floor, and all the others to the table behind Infield. Davies released
all lines except those on Price, and then threw himself backward,
dragging Price out of his chair and onto the floor. Davies didn't mind
making others fall. They were always trying to make
<i>
him
</i>
fall just so
they could laugh at him or pounce on him; why shouldn't he like to make
them fall first?
</p>
<p>
Expertly, Davies moved forward and looped the loose lines around
Price's head and shoulders and then around his feet. He crouched beside
Price and shoved the bottle into the gasping mouth and poured.
</p>
<p>
Price twisted against the binding lines in blind terror, gagging and
spouting whiskey. Davies laughed and tilted the bottle more.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Price screamed. "The Cure! If you get that much liquor in his
system, it will kill him!" She rocked the rag doll in her arms, trying
to soothe it, and stared in horror.
</p>
<p>
Infield hit the big man behind the ear. He dropped the bottle and fell
over sideways on the floor. Fear and hate mingled in his eyes as he
looked up at Infield.
</p>
<p>
Nonsense, Infield told himself. Eyes can't register emotion.
</p>
<p>
Davies released his lines and drew them in. He got up precariously.
"I'm going to kill you," he said, glaring at Infield. "You made me fall
worse than Georgie did. I'm really going to kill you."
</p>
<p>
Infield wasn't a large man, but he had pressed two hundred and fifty
many times in gym. He grabbed Davies' belt with both hands and lifted
him about six inches off the floor.
</p>
<p>
"I could drop you," the psychiatrist said.
</p>
<p>
"No!" Davies begged weakly. "Please!"
</p>
<p>
"I'll do it if you cause more trouble." Infield sat down and rubbed his
aching forearms.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Davies backed off in terror, right into the arms of Reggie. The waiter
closed his huge hands on the acrophobe's shoulders.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
You
</i>
broke the Code all the way," Reggie said. "The Good Book says
'Thou shouldn't kill' or something like that, and so does the Code."
</p>
<p>
"Let him go, Reggie," Price choked out, getting to his feet. "I'm not
dead." He wiped his hand across his mouth.
</p>
<p>
"No. No, you aren't." Infield felt an excitement pounding through him,
same as when he had diagnosed his first case. No, better than that.
</p>
<p>
"That taste of liquor didn't kill you, Price. Nothing terrible
happened. You could find some way to get rid of that Cure."
</p>
<p>
Price stared at him as if he were a padded-cell case. "That's
different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one
ever gets rid of a Cure."
</p>
<p>
They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a
critical point in history. It was up to him which turn the world took,
the world as represented by these four Cured people. "I'm afraid I'm
for
<i>
less
</i>
Cures instead of more, Price. Look, if I can show you that
someone can discard a Cure, would you get rid of that—if I may use the
word—
<i>
monstrous
</i>
thing on your head?"
</p>
<p>
Price grinned. Infield didn't recognize its smugness at the time.
</p>
<p>
"I'll show you." He took off the circlet with the lightning rod and
yanked at the wire running down into his collar. The new-old excitement
within was running high. He felt the wire snap and come up easily. He
threw the Cure on the floor.
</p>
<p>
"Now," he said, "I am going out in that rain storm. There's thunder and
lightning out there. I'm afraid, but I can get along without a Cure and
so can you."
</p>
<p>
"You can't! Nobody can!" Price screamed after him. He turned to the
others. "If he reveals us, the Cause is lost. We've got to stop him
<i>
for good
</i>
. We've got to go after him."
</p>
<p>
"It's slippery," Davies whimpered. "I might fall."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Price cuddled her rag doll. "I can't leave the baby and she
mustn't get wet."
</p>
<p>
"Well, there's no liquor out there and you can study your text in the
lightning flashes, Reggie. Come on."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Running down the streets that were tunnels of shining tar, running into
the knifing ice bristles of the rain, Henry Infield realized that he
was very frightened of the lightning.
</p>
<p>
There is no action without a reason, he knew from the old neglected
books. He had had a latent fear of lightning when he chose the
lightning rod Cure. He could have picked a safety belt or foetic gyro
just as well.
</p>
<p>
He sneezed. He was soaked through, but he kept on running. He didn't
know what Price and Reggie planned to do when they caught him. He
slipped and fell. He would soon find out what they wanted. The
excitement was all gone now and it left an empty space into which fear
rushed.
</p>
<p>
Reggie said, "We shall make a sacrifice."
</p>
<p>
Infield looked up and saw the lightning reflected on the blade of a
thin knife. Infield reached toward it more in fascination than fear. He
managed to get all his fingers around two of Reggie's. He jerked and
the knife fell into Infield's palm. The psychiatrist pulled himself
erect by holding to Reggie's arm. Staggering to his feet, he remembered
what he must do and slashed at the waiter's head. A gash streaked
across the man's brow and blood poured into his eyes. He screamed. "I
can't see the words!"
</p>
<p>
It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but
now he ran away—he couldn't even solve his own.
</p>
<p>
Infield realized that he had gone mad as he held the thin blade high
overhead, but he did need some kind of lightning rod. Price (who was
right behind him, gaining) had been right. No one could discard a Cure.
He watched the lightning play its light on the blade of his Cure and he
knew that Price was going to kill him in the next moment.
</p>
<p>
He was wrong.
</p>
<p>
The lightning hit him first.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Reggie squinted under the bandage at the lettering on the door that
said INFIELD & MORGAN and opened the door. He ran across the room to
the man sitting at the desk, reading by the swivel light.
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Morgan, your partner, Mr. Infield, he—"
</p>
<p>
"Just a moment." Morgan switched on the room lights. "What were you
saying?"
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by
lightning. We took him to the morgue. He must have been crazy to go
out without his Cure."
</p>
<p>
Morgan stared into his bright desk light without blinking. "This is
quite a shock to me. Would you mind leaving? I'll come over to your
place and you can tell me about it later."
</p>
<p>
Reggie went out. "Yes, sir. He was struck by lightning, struck dead. He
must have been crazy to leave his Cure...." The door closed.
</p>
<p>
Morgan exhaled. Poor Infield. But it wasn't the lightning that killed
him, of course. Morgan adjusted the soundproofing plugs in his ears,
thinking that you did have to have quite a bit of light to read lips.
The thunder, naturally, was what had killed Infield. Loud noise—any
noise—that would do it every time. Too bad Infield had never really
stopped being one of the Incompletes. Dangerous people. He would have
to deal with them.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) He wants to infiltrate the fraternal club for the Cured in order to prevent Price's authoritarian rule, so he must blend in.\n(B) It will protect him against lightning strikes and is meant as a Cure for his astraphobia.\n(C) He wants to know what it feels like to be a Cured, and therefore he pretends to have a fear of thunder.\n(D) He is tired of working as a psychiatrist at Infield & Morgan and wants to seek out new opportunities in the world of the Cured.",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "PS; Short stories; Science fiction; Psychiatrists -- Fiction"
} |
51494 | Why is the first part of the story so important?
Choices:
(A) It lets the reader know that it's Purnie's birthday (which becomes important later)
(B) It lets the reader see how Purnie interacts with his family
(C) It shows the reader a skill that Purnie's been practicing
(D) It give great detail of the setting (which Purnie has to use later in the story to his advantage) | [
"C",
"It shows the reader a skill that Purnie's been practicing"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
BEACH SCENE
</h1>
<p>
By MARSHALL KING
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by WOOD
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
It was a fine day at the beach
<br/>
for Purnie's game—but his new
<br/>
friends played very rough!
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could run
no more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped with
delight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see the
ocean at last.
</p>
<p>
When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. No
sign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutiny
of brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from going
to the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.
</p>
<p>
"On your mark!" he shouted to the rippling stream and its orange
whirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending that
some object might try to get a head start. "Get set!" he challenged
the thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. "Stop!"
He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purple
clouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonder
how tall the trees really were.
</p>
<p>
His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:
the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpools
had stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,
its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and the
heavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls and
nimbi.
</p>
<p>
With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purnie
hurried toward the ocean.
</p>
<p>
If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much to
see and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seen
the wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from his
brothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he could
remember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,
as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though he
were already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs to
play on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comical
three-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and many
kinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.
</p>
<p>
He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved this
day just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't this
his fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, and
even for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies and
wouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!
</p>
<p>
"I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see!" As he passed one of
the many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he took
care not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. When
Purnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures he
met—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that as
soon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not far
off, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what was
clearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that he
had been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeying
far from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that an
hour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.
He chose to ignore the negative maxim that "small children who stop
time without an adult being present, may not live to regret it."
</p>
<p>
He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friends
when they learned of his brave journey.
</p>
<p>
The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough to
gather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunch
during this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along a
dozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.
</p>
<p>
He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!
</p>
<p>
He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his "Hurrah!" came
out as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled waves
awaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers along
the shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having already
exploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smooth
orange curls waiting to start that action.
</p>
<p>
And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora were
frozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie had
heard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothers
in school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down the
beach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facing
the spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eight
more, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interrupted
animation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thin
nothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comical
tripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careers
of munching seaweed.
</p>
<p>
"Hi there!" Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered that
he himself was "dead" to the living world: he was still in a zone of
time-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world would
continue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Hi there!" he called again; but now his mental attitude was that he
expected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded by
activity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tasted
the dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friends
continue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.
</p>
<p>
He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brook
picked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumed
their leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued their
pollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of their
delicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not been
interrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performed
with continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,
not the world around him.
</p>
<p>
He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet the
tripons who, to him, had just come to life.
</p>
<p>
"I can stand on my head!" He set down his lunch and balanced himself
bottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him in
position. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had ever
done, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left its
mark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.
</p>
<p>
The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching long
enough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to its
repast.
</p>
<p>
Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything at
once. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glided
to a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first of
the two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual "Hi
there!" when he heard them making sounds of their own.
</p>
<p>
"... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makes
seventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!"
</p>
<p>
"My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell are
you going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back in
San Diego?"
</p>
<p>
"Hi there, wanna play?" Purnie's invitation got nothing more than
startled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.
He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,
tagging along at their heels. "I've got my lunch, want some?"
</p>
<p>
"Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking at
the scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for this
expedition just to give your flunkies a vacation."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself in
their heels.
</p>
<p>
"All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it's
your money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But you
hired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's just
what I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safety
of the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home."
</p>
<p>
"Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em to
bring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in the
ocean with a three-legged ostrich!"
</p>
<p>
"Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twenty
minutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to find
wild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint little
creatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the men
look around a minute or two before we stake out your claim."
</p>
<p>
"Bah! Bunch of damn children."
</p>
<p>
As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. "Benson,
will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me!" Purnie shrieked with
joy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this position
he got an upside down view of them walking away.
</p>
<p>
He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?
What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, three
more of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparently
trying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held out
his lunch. "Want some?" No response.
</p>
<p>
Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten and
went down to where they had stopped further along the beach.
</p>
<p>
"Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in the
vicinity. He's trying to locate it now."
</p>
<p>
"There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to make
you so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, I
believe."
</p>
<p>
"Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I've
discovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about that
flag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque."
</p>
<p>
"All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and his
claim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Lively
now!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, the
first two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.
</p>
<p>
"Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for the
base of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.
</p>
<p>
"Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too high
to carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works will
slide down on top of us."
</p>
<p>
"Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to be
solid. It's got to stand at least—"
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this with
the flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up a
flag."
</p>
<p>
"There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements set
down by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say it
represents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flags
is the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call it
sentiment if you will."
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before."
</p>
<p>
"Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?
What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering."
</p>
<p>
"Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrow
system so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually own
the people who are foolish enough to buy land on them."
</p>
<p>
"I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!
It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give your
space ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good money
into a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away from
thirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?"
</p>
<p>
"I imagine you'll triple your money in six months."
</p>
<p>
When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested in
the strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, and
as they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering to
himself, content to be in their company.
</p>
<p>
He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to see
the remainder of the group running toward them.
</p>
<p>
"Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with the
scintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!"
</p>
<p>
"How about that, Miles?"
</p>
<p>
"This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.
Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. "Can you do this?"
He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderful
noises, and he felt most satisfied.
</p>
<p>
"Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This little
chuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!"
</p>
<p>
"Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do you
suppose—"
</p>
<p>
By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hard
put to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: he
stood on one leg.
</p>
<p>
"Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
"Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—"
</p>
<p>
"This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!"
</p>
<p>
"With my crew as witness, I officially protest—"
</p>
<p>
"Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,
they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands of
these creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn fools
on Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors
<i>
flocking
</i>
to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off or
doesn't it?"
</p>
<p>
"Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may be
great danger to the crew—"
</p>
<p>
"Now look here! You had planned to put
<i>
mineral
</i>
specimens in a lead
box, so what's the difference? Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
"He'll die."
</p>
<p>
"I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, and
what's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box."
</p>
<p>
Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this day
had brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,
the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circle
happily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of their
own tricks.
</p>
<p>
He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle stepped
back and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.
Purnie sat up to watch the show.
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has no
intention of running away."
</p>
<p>
"Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling what
powers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope."
</p>
<p>
"I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes."
</p>
<p>
"All right, careful now with that line."
</p>
<p>
"Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed the
imploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't know
what he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as he
wiggled in anticipation.
</p>
<p>
He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knew
it, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He was
surprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.
Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want to
protect himself.
</p>
<p>
He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, their
attention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that he
had not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.
</p>
<p>
"Wait!" He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran back
into the little crowd. "I've got my lunch, want some?"
</p>
<p>
The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,
and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.
He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within a
few feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was about
to push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard a
deafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.
</p>
<p>
"Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!"
</p>
<p>
"There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that's
all. Now pick him up."
</p>
<p>
The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.
What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward him
again, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use this
power carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split second
following the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in all
directions to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it had
ordered the stoppage of time.
</p>
<p>
The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hung
motionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way in
transverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie dragged
himself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability to
understand.
</p>
<p>
As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at first
to not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done something
wrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,
he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who had
in his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from one
end; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.
He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made a
hissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.
Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, true
to its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loud
explosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie had
stopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and its
three legs drawn up into a squatting position.
</p>
<p>
Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,
torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this ocean
country! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beach
animals.
</p>
<p>
Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friends
with a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playing
with them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fit
into. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start the
long walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew he
didn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. His
fatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had already
abused this faculty.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood in
open-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on the
spot where Purnie had been standing.
</p>
<p>
"My God, he's—he's gone."
</p>
<p>
Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in his
hand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.
"All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. What
did you do with him?"
</p>
<p>
The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, for
to them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure of
was that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping around
in front of them, and the next moment he was gone.
</p>
<p>
"Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?"
</p>
<p>
"Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I'll be damned!"
</p>
<p>
"Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now that
you've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way."
</p>
<p>
"Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about that
fuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about that
gun!"
</p>
<p>
Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at his
friends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.
Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the short
distance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified at
the spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals below
filled him with hysteria.
</p>
<p>
The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.
Others were pinned down on the sand.
</p>
<p>
"I didn't mean it!" Purnie screamed. "I'm sorry! Can't you hear?" He
hopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic and
shame. "Get up! Please get up!" He was horrified by the moans reaching
his ears from the beach. "You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?
Please get up." He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he have
done this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,
tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring it
about.
</p>
<p>
The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.
The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding of
death.
</p>
<p>
"Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?"
</p>
<p>
"I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going to
drown!"
</p>
<p>
"Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?"
</p>
<p>
"The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of us
here in the water—"
</p>
<p>
"Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's—" His sounds were cut off by a
wavelet gently rolling over his head.
</p>
<p>
Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of the
animals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregarding
the consequences, he ordered time to stop.
</p>
<p>
Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then he
tugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie worked
slowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as far
as his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their condition
of life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way until
he started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,
where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. The
hand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among the
logs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.
</p>
<p>
It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.
</p>
<p>
Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim after
another until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, he
started unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.
He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sitting
position, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.
Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue into
a new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed the
chaotic scene before him.
</p>
<p>
At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away from
him.
</p>
<p>
He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period of
time-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... without
him. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,
he knew he must first resume time.
</p>
<p>
Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and then
to consider if this were the moment to start time before it was too
late. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of the
knoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.
</p>
<p>
Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he ordered
time to resume, nothing happened.
</p>
<p>
His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he died
the oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But he
wanted to see them safe.
</p>
<p>
He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no
<i>
urging
</i>
time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,
first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. He
had to take one viewpoint or the other.
</p>
<p>
Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind took
command....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomach
and pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled over
Purnie as sounds came from the animal.
</p>
<p>
"What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!
What's happening?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're either
crazy or those damn logs are alive!"
</p>
<p>
"It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,
we're both cracking."
</p>
<p>
"I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.
I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they're
piled up over there!"
</p>
<p>
"Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? Captain
Benson!"
</p>
<p>
"Are you men all right?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes sir, but—"
</p>
<p>
"Who saw exactly what happened?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—"
</p>
<p>
"I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up the
others and get out of here while time is on our side."
</p>
<p>
"But what happened, Captain?"
</p>
<p>
"Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so old
they're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It would
take super-human energy to move one of those things."
</p>
<p>
"I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are so
busy eating seaweed—"
</p>
<p>
"All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can't
walk. Where's Forbes?"
</p>
<p>
"He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Or
laughing. I can't tell which."
</p>
<p>
"We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You all
right?"
</p>
<p>
"Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'll
do anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see that
little trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!"
</p>
<p>
"See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or one
of us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be along
shortly."
</p>
<p>
"Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible
for this. Hee-hee!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?
</p>
<p>
He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,
where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moons
he saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two and
three, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around the
curving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear far
behind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.
</p>
<p>
"Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?"
</p>
<p>
"It's possible, but we're not."
</p>
<p>
"I wish I could be sure."
</p>
<p>
"See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?"
</p>
<p>
"I still can't believe it."
</p>
<p>
"He'll never be the same."
</p>
<p>
"Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed back
there?"
</p>
<p>
"You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of us
suddenly—"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, of course. But I mean beside that."
</p>
<p>
"Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up."
</p>
<p>
"But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly of
myself."
</p>
<p>
"Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw him
too."
</p>
<p>
"I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir."
</p>
<p>
"Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Got
him in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devil
come back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped under
those logs?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't do
him any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'm
still a little shaky."
</p>
<p>
"Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.
I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.
You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone."
</p>
<p>
"No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked."
</p>
<p>
"That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw through
glazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it was
nearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by now
had become familiar.
</p>
<p>
"Where are you?"
</p>
<p>
Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he was
beyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when he
returned.
</p>
<p>
"We've made a terrible mistake. We—" The sounds faded in and out on
Purnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in different
directions. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scattered
logs and peer around and under them.
</p>
<p>
"If you're hurt I'd like to help!" The twin moons were high in the sky
now, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a double
shadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watched
the creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction of
the others.
</p>
<p>
Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. The
beach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmering
white square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnie
ever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) It lets the reader know that it's Purnie's birthday (which becomes important later)\n(B) It lets the reader see how Purnie interacts with his family\n(C) It shows the reader a skill that Purnie's been practicing\n(D) It give great detail of the setting (which Purnie has to use later in the story to his advantage)",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; PS; Short stories; Extraterrestrial beings -- Fiction; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction"
} |
51286 | What didn't surprise Matilda about Haron's house?
Choices:
(A) the outside was poorly kept up
(B) she was fed exactly what she wanted
(C) it had space for six women to stay
(D) she was locked in her room | [
"C",
"it had space for six women to stay"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
PEN PAL
</h1>
<p>
Illustrated by DON SIBLEY
</p>
<p>
By MILTON LESSER
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
<br/>
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
<br/>
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
</p>
<p>
This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
Matilda, you see, had patience.
</p>
<p>
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
</p>
<p>
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
</p>
<p>
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't
<i>
fall
</i>
in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
</p>
<p>
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
</p>
<p>
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
</p>
<p>
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
</p>
<p>
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
off the night table.
</p>
<p>
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
<i>
it
</i>
. Or, that is,
<i>
him
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose
universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a
provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be
intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a
lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful
opportunity cultural experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
</p>
<p>
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
</p>
<p>
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
</p>
<p>
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
</p>
<p>
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
</p>
<p>
And so she got there.
</p>
<p>
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Is that in the United States?"
</p>
<p>
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
</p>
<p>
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
<i>
oh
</i>
under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
</p>
<p>
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
</p>
<p>
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
</p>
<p>
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
</p>
<p>
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
Matilda cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she began. "I'm looking for—"
</p>
<p>
"Haron Gorka." The librarian nodded.
</p>
<p>
"How on earth did you know?"
</p>
<p>
"That's easy. You're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring
about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now
you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear.
"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Of course I know him. He's our steadiest reader here at
the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four
books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty
years younger—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "Only ten," she
assured the librarian. "Ten years would be more than sufficient, I'm
sure."
</p>
<p>
"Are you? Well. Well, well." The librarian did something with the back
of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're right at that." Then she sighed. "But I guess a miss is as
good as a mile."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know
him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if
five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
</p>
<p>
"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the
addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear."
</p>
<p>
"What about the other five women?"
</p>
<p>
"They convinced me that I ought to give them his address."
</p>
<p>
Matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill.
"Was this the way?" she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this
sort of thing.
</p>
<p>
The librarian shook her head.
</p>
<p>
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her
hand. "Then is this better?"
</p>
<p>
"That's worse. I wouldn't take your money—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry. What then?"
</p>
<p>
"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still
could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me
faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will
do, and with half a dozen of you, I'll get an overall picture. Each one
of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each
have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture
considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share
of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the
address. She thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car,
whistling to herself.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except
that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen
to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her
spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the
librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps
he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to
his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or
personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked
him all the more for it.
</p>
<p>
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda's
made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the
only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a
dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would
be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought
had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which
she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought
Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having
been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps
she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open
arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead,
someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked
had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly.
He told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room
which evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small
undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the
wall, there was a button.
</p>
<p>
"You want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press
that button. The results will surprise you."
</p>
<p>
"What about Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to
home, lady, and I will tell him you are here."
</p>
<p>
A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He
closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears
had not missed the ominous click. She ran to the door and tried to open
it, but it would not budge. It was locked—from the outside.
</p>
<p>
It must be said to Matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. After
that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty,
she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. Besides, it was not
her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a
neurotic servant.
</p>
<p>
For a time Matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was
going on outside she could hear nothing. In that case, she would
pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently
she lay down on the bed to take a nap. This didn't last long, however:
she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two
heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to
her overwrought nerves.
</p>
<p>
At that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and
she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy
beefsteak. Well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. In that case, she
would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little
slot in the wall and pressed the button.
</p>
<p>
She heard the whir of machinery. A moment later there was a soft
sliding sound. Through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed
almost instantly by a tray. On the tray were a bowl of turtle soup,
mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a
parfait—and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her
salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. The fact
that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be
attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was
extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic
servant.
</p>
<p>
When she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a
little while Matilda was asleep again. This time she did not dream at
all. It was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was
with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's
servant, and he said, "Mr. Gorka will see you now."
</p>
<p>
"Now?"
</p>
<p>
"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He had a point there, but Matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair.
She told the servant so.
</p>
<p>
"Miss," he replied, "I assure you it will not matter in the least to
Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"You sure?" Matilda wanted to take no chances.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Come."
</p>
<p>
She followed him out of the little room and across what should have
been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with
dust. Of the other women Matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly
realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her
own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with
Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him
better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the
old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and
compare notes.
</p>
<p>
She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with
Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was
just that he was so
<i>
ordinary
</i>
-looking. She almost would have preferred
the monster of her dreams.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an
almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist
at each corner.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Greetings. You have come—"
</p>
<p>
"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in
assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see
and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to
keep on the middle of the road.
</p>
<p>
"I am fine. Are you ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You came in response to my ad. You want to hear me talk, do
you not?"
</p>
<p>
"I—do." Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back
and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and
seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to
<i>
know
</i>
the
man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines
than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and
Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit.
</p>
<p>
"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for
dinner," she told him brightly.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and
teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you
press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines
how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the
adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. It means either that
you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if
Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh—ready."
</p>
<p>
"Well?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you like me to talk about?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, anything."
</p>
<p>
"Please. As the ad read, my universal experience—is universal.
Literally. You'll have to be more specific."
</p>
<p>
"Well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels?
Unfortunately, while I've done a lot of reading, I haven't been to all
the places I would have liked—"
</p>
<p>
"Good enough. You know, of course, how frigid Deneb VII is?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda said, "Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, there was the time our crew—before I had retired, of
course—made a crash landing there. We could survive in the vac-suits,
of course, but the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
were after us almost at once. They go
mad over plastic. They will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. Our
vac-suits—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"—were made of plastic," Matilda suggested. She did not understand a
thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Must you interrupt? The air-hose and the water feed, these
were plastic. Not the rest of the suit. The point is that half of us
were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder
were near death. I owe my life to the mimicry of a
<i>
flaak
</i>
from Capella
III. It assumed the properties of plastic and led the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
a
merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb
system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry
<i>
flaaks
</i>
with you. Excellent idea, really excellent."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her
that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she
<i>
wanted
</i>
to believe in him and the result was that it took until now
for her to realize it.
</p>
<p>
"Stop making fun of me," she said.
</p>
<p>
"So, naturally, you'll see
<i>
flaaks
</i>
all over that system—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop!"
</p>
<p>
"What's that? Making fun of you?" Haron Gorka's voice had been so
eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he
seemed disappointed. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of
resignation, and he said, "Very well. I'm wrong again. You are the
sixth, and you're no better than the other five. Perhaps you are even
more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she
is right and I am wrong...."
</p>
<p>
Haron Gorka turned his back.
</p>
<p>
Matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the
house, go outside and get into her car. She noticed not without
surprise that the other five cars were now gone. She was the last of
Haron Gorka's guests to depart.
</p>
<p>
As she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw
the servant leaving, too. Far down the road, he was walking slowly.
Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all
alone.
</p>
<p>
As she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. There
were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric
who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly
insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in
particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his
voice high-pitched and eager.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was not until she had passed the small library building that she
remembered what she had promised the librarian. In her own way, the
aging woman would be as disappointed as Matilda, but a promise was a
promise, and Matilda turned the car in a wide U-turn and parked it
outside the library.
</p>
<p>
The woman sat at her desk as Matilda had remembered her, gray,
broom-stick figure, rigid. But now when she saw Matilda she perked up
visibly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, my dear," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Hi."
</p>
<p>
"You're back a bit sooner than I expected. But, then, the other five
have returned, too, and I imagine your story will be similar."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what they told you," Matilda said. "But this is what
happened to me."
</p>
<p>
She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and
in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second
because she knew it would make her feel better.
</p>
<p>
"So," she finished, "Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or
insane. I'm sorry."
</p>
<p>
"He's neither," the librarian contradicted. "Perhaps he is slightly
eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Did he leave a message for his wife?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the
five."
</p>
<p>
"No. He didn't. But you were the last and I thought he would give you a
message for his wife—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda didn't understand. She didn't understand at all, but she told
the little librarian what the message was. "He wanted her to return,"
she said.
</p>
<p>
The librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "You wouldn't believe
me if I told you something."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Mrs. Gorka."
</p>
<p>
The librarian stood up and came around the desk. She opened a drawer
and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "You
see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much."
</p>
<p>
Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for
anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two.
</p>
<p>
"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star
system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He
says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the
accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he
loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of
the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given
the opportunity just to listen to him.
</p>
<p>
"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand,
ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will
settle down on Canopus XIV and cultivate
<i>
torgas
</i>
. That would be so
nice—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if Haron wants me back, then I have to go. Have a care, my dear.
If you marry, choose a home-body. I've had the experience and you've
seen my Haron for yourself."
</p>
<p>
And then the woman was gone. Numbly, Matilda walked to the doorway and
watched her angular figure disappear down the road. Of all the crazy
things....
</p>
<p>
Deneb and Capella and Canopus, these were stars. Add a number and you
might have a planet revolving about each star. Of all the insane—
</p>
<p>
They were mad, all right, and now Matilda wondered if, actually,
they were husband and wife. It could readily be; maybe the madness
was catching. Maybe if you thought too much about such things, such
travels, you could get that way. Of course, Herman represented the
other extreme, and Herman was even worse in his own way—but hereafter
Matilda would seek the happy medium.
</p>
<p>
And, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. They
were, she realized, for kids.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She ate dinner in Cedar Falls and then she went out to her car again,
preparing for the journey back home. The sun had set and it was a clear
night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the Milky Way was a pale
rainbow bridge in the sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda paused. Off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon,
and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place.
</p>
<p>
The glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the
horizon. It flickered. It flickered again, and finally it was gone.
</p>
<p>
The stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. That was
why Matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a
clear summer night when you could see the span of the Milky Way.
</p>
<p>
But abruptly the stars and the Milky Way were paled by the brightest
shooting star Matilda had ever seen. It flashed suddenly and it
remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across
the night sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda gasped and ran into her car. She started the gears and pressed
the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home.
</p>
<p>
It was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going
<i>
up
</i>
.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) the outside was poorly kept up\n(B) she was fed exactly what she wanted\n(C) it had space for six women to stay\n(D) she was locked in her room",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; Single women -- Fiction; PS"
} |
51286 | Why did the librarian really give every woman Mr. Gorka's address?
Choices:
(A) to find a woman that would really listen to him
(B) she wanted to hear their stories
(C) to prove him wrong
(D) to help him find a suitable companion | [
"C",
"to prove him wrong"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
PEN PAL
</h1>
<p>
Illustrated by DON SIBLEY
</p>
<p>
By MILTON LESSER
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
<br/>
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
<br/>
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
</p>
<p>
This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
Matilda, you see, had patience.
</p>
<p>
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
</p>
<p>
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
</p>
<p>
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't
<i>
fall
</i>
in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
</p>
<p>
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
</p>
<p>
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
</p>
<p>
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
</p>
<p>
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
off the night table.
</p>
<p>
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
<i>
it
</i>
. Or, that is,
<i>
him
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose
universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a
provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be
intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a
lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful
opportunity cultural experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
</p>
<p>
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
</p>
<p>
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
</p>
<p>
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
</p>
<p>
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
</p>
<p>
And so she got there.
</p>
<p>
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Is that in the United States?"
</p>
<p>
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
</p>
<p>
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
<i>
oh
</i>
under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
</p>
<p>
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
</p>
<p>
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
</p>
<p>
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
</p>
<p>
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
Matilda cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she began. "I'm looking for—"
</p>
<p>
"Haron Gorka." The librarian nodded.
</p>
<p>
"How on earth did you know?"
</p>
<p>
"That's easy. You're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring
about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now
you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear.
"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Of course I know him. He's our steadiest reader here at
the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four
books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty
years younger—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "Only ten," she
assured the librarian. "Ten years would be more than sufficient, I'm
sure."
</p>
<p>
"Are you? Well. Well, well." The librarian did something with the back
of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're right at that." Then she sighed. "But I guess a miss is as
good as a mile."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know
him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if
five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
</p>
<p>
"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the
addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear."
</p>
<p>
"What about the other five women?"
</p>
<p>
"They convinced me that I ought to give them his address."
</p>
<p>
Matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill.
"Was this the way?" she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this
sort of thing.
</p>
<p>
The librarian shook her head.
</p>
<p>
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her
hand. "Then is this better?"
</p>
<p>
"That's worse. I wouldn't take your money—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry. What then?"
</p>
<p>
"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still
could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me
faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will
do, and with half a dozen of you, I'll get an overall picture. Each one
of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each
have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture
considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share
of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the
address. She thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car,
whistling to herself.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except
that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen
to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her
spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the
librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps
he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to
his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or
personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked
him all the more for it.
</p>
<p>
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda's
made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the
only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a
dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would
be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought
had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which
she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought
Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having
been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps
she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open
arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead,
someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked
had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly.
He told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room
which evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small
undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the
wall, there was a button.
</p>
<p>
"You want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press
that button. The results will surprise you."
</p>
<p>
"What about Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to
home, lady, and I will tell him you are here."
</p>
<p>
A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He
closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears
had not missed the ominous click. She ran to the door and tried to open
it, but it would not budge. It was locked—from the outside.
</p>
<p>
It must be said to Matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. After
that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty,
she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. Besides, it was not
her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a
neurotic servant.
</p>
<p>
For a time Matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was
going on outside she could hear nothing. In that case, she would
pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently
she lay down on the bed to take a nap. This didn't last long, however:
she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two
heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to
her overwrought nerves.
</p>
<p>
At that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and
she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy
beefsteak. Well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. In that case, she
would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little
slot in the wall and pressed the button.
</p>
<p>
She heard the whir of machinery. A moment later there was a soft
sliding sound. Through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed
almost instantly by a tray. On the tray were a bowl of turtle soup,
mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a
parfait—and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her
salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. The fact
that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be
attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was
extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic
servant.
</p>
<p>
When she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a
little while Matilda was asleep again. This time she did not dream at
all. It was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was
with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's
servant, and he said, "Mr. Gorka will see you now."
</p>
<p>
"Now?"
</p>
<p>
"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He had a point there, but Matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair.
She told the servant so.
</p>
<p>
"Miss," he replied, "I assure you it will not matter in the least to
Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"You sure?" Matilda wanted to take no chances.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Come."
</p>
<p>
She followed him out of the little room and across what should have
been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with
dust. Of the other women Matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly
realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her
own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with
Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him
better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the
old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and
compare notes.
</p>
<p>
She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with
Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was
just that he was so
<i>
ordinary
</i>
-looking. She almost would have preferred
the monster of her dreams.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an
almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist
at each corner.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Greetings. You have come—"
</p>
<p>
"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in
assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see
and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to
keep on the middle of the road.
</p>
<p>
"I am fine. Are you ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You came in response to my ad. You want to hear me talk, do
you not?"
</p>
<p>
"I—do." Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back
and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and
seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to
<i>
know
</i>
the
man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines
than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and
Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit.
</p>
<p>
"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for
dinner," she told him brightly.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and
teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you
press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines
how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the
adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. It means either that
you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if
Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh—ready."
</p>
<p>
"Well?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you like me to talk about?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, anything."
</p>
<p>
"Please. As the ad read, my universal experience—is universal.
Literally. You'll have to be more specific."
</p>
<p>
"Well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels?
Unfortunately, while I've done a lot of reading, I haven't been to all
the places I would have liked—"
</p>
<p>
"Good enough. You know, of course, how frigid Deneb VII is?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda said, "Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, there was the time our crew—before I had retired, of
course—made a crash landing there. We could survive in the vac-suits,
of course, but the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
were after us almost at once. They go
mad over plastic. They will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. Our
vac-suits—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"—were made of plastic," Matilda suggested. She did not understand a
thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Must you interrupt? The air-hose and the water feed, these
were plastic. Not the rest of the suit. The point is that half of us
were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder
were near death. I owe my life to the mimicry of a
<i>
flaak
</i>
from Capella
III. It assumed the properties of plastic and led the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
a
merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb
system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry
<i>
flaaks
</i>
with you. Excellent idea, really excellent."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her
that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she
<i>
wanted
</i>
to believe in him and the result was that it took until now
for her to realize it.
</p>
<p>
"Stop making fun of me," she said.
</p>
<p>
"So, naturally, you'll see
<i>
flaaks
</i>
all over that system—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop!"
</p>
<p>
"What's that? Making fun of you?" Haron Gorka's voice had been so
eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he
seemed disappointed. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of
resignation, and he said, "Very well. I'm wrong again. You are the
sixth, and you're no better than the other five. Perhaps you are even
more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she
is right and I am wrong...."
</p>
<p>
Haron Gorka turned his back.
</p>
<p>
Matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the
house, go outside and get into her car. She noticed not without
surprise that the other five cars were now gone. She was the last of
Haron Gorka's guests to depart.
</p>
<p>
As she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw
the servant leaving, too. Far down the road, he was walking slowly.
Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all
alone.
</p>
<p>
As she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. There
were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric
who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly
insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in
particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his
voice high-pitched and eager.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was not until she had passed the small library building that she
remembered what she had promised the librarian. In her own way, the
aging woman would be as disappointed as Matilda, but a promise was a
promise, and Matilda turned the car in a wide U-turn and parked it
outside the library.
</p>
<p>
The woman sat at her desk as Matilda had remembered her, gray,
broom-stick figure, rigid. But now when she saw Matilda she perked up
visibly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, my dear," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Hi."
</p>
<p>
"You're back a bit sooner than I expected. But, then, the other five
have returned, too, and I imagine your story will be similar."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what they told you," Matilda said. "But this is what
happened to me."
</p>
<p>
She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and
in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second
because she knew it would make her feel better.
</p>
<p>
"So," she finished, "Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or
insane. I'm sorry."
</p>
<p>
"He's neither," the librarian contradicted. "Perhaps he is slightly
eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Did he leave a message for his wife?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the
five."
</p>
<p>
"No. He didn't. But you were the last and I thought he would give you a
message for his wife—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda didn't understand. She didn't understand at all, but she told
the little librarian what the message was. "He wanted her to return,"
she said.
</p>
<p>
The librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "You wouldn't believe
me if I told you something."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Mrs. Gorka."
</p>
<p>
The librarian stood up and came around the desk. She opened a drawer
and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "You
see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much."
</p>
<p>
Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for
anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two.
</p>
<p>
"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star
system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He
says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the
accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he
loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of
the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given
the opportunity just to listen to him.
</p>
<p>
"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand,
ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will
settle down on Canopus XIV and cultivate
<i>
torgas
</i>
. That would be so
nice—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if Haron wants me back, then I have to go. Have a care, my dear.
If you marry, choose a home-body. I've had the experience and you've
seen my Haron for yourself."
</p>
<p>
And then the woman was gone. Numbly, Matilda walked to the doorway and
watched her angular figure disappear down the road. Of all the crazy
things....
</p>
<p>
Deneb and Capella and Canopus, these were stars. Add a number and you
might have a planet revolving about each star. Of all the insane—
</p>
<p>
They were mad, all right, and now Matilda wondered if, actually,
they were husband and wife. It could readily be; maybe the madness
was catching. Maybe if you thought too much about such things, such
travels, you could get that way. Of course, Herman represented the
other extreme, and Herman was even worse in his own way—but hereafter
Matilda would seek the happy medium.
</p>
<p>
And, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. They
were, she realized, for kids.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She ate dinner in Cedar Falls and then she went out to her car again,
preparing for the journey back home. The sun had set and it was a clear
night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the Milky Way was a pale
rainbow bridge in the sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda paused. Off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon,
and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place.
</p>
<p>
The glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the
horizon. It flickered. It flickered again, and finally it was gone.
</p>
<p>
The stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. That was
why Matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a
clear summer night when you could see the span of the Milky Way.
</p>
<p>
But abruptly the stars and the Milky Way were paled by the brightest
shooting star Matilda had ever seen. It flashed suddenly and it
remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across
the night sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda gasped and ran into her car. She started the gears and pressed
the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home.
</p>
<p>
It was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going
<i>
up
</i>
.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) to find a woman that would really listen to him\n(B) she wanted to hear their stories\n(C) to prove him wrong\n(D) to help him find a suitable companion",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; Single women -- Fiction; PS"
} |
51286 | Why was Mr. Gorka so strange?
Choices:
(A) he was insane
(B) his expectations were so high
(C) he wasn't who Matilda thought he was
(D) he was already married | [
"C",
"he wasn't who Matilda thought he was"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
PEN PAL
</h1>
<p>
Illustrated by DON SIBLEY
</p>
<p>
By MILTON LESSER
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
All she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption
<br/>
to go out and hunt one down. But that meant
<br/>
poaching in a strictly forbidden territory!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was
something of a paradox. She was thirty-three years old, certainly not
aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now
up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent
paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments
at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. Matilda was
also looking for a husband.
</p>
<p>
This, in itself, was not unusual—but Matilda was so completely
wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince
charming, a faithful Don Juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted
of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and
talk about it all to Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed
Matilda not in the least. She had been known to say that there are over
a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible
bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she
had been waiting for him.
</p>
<p>
Matilda, you see, had patience.
</p>
<p>
She also had a fetish. Matilda had received her A.B. from exclusive
Ursula Johns College and Radcliff had yielded her Masters degree, yet
Matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. She would read
them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine
names which, through a system known only to Matilda, had an affinity
to her own. To the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed,
Matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow Penshaws,
that it was in this way she would find her husband. The widow Penshaws
impatiently told her to go out and get dates.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
That particular night, Matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the
garage and walked up the walk to the porch. The widow Penshaws was
rocking on the glider and Matilda said hello.
</p>
<p>
The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand
in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger.
</p>
<p>
"I thought so," she said. "I knew this was coming when I saw that look
in your eye at dinner. Where is Herman's engagement ring?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda smiled. "It wouldn't have worked out, Ma. He was too darned
stuffy. I gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled
politely and said he wished I had told him sooner because his fifteenth
college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the
invitation."
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws nodded regretfully. "That was thoughtful of Herman
to hide his feelings."
</p>
<p>
"Hogwash!" said her daughter. "He has no true feelings. He's sorry that
he had to miss his college reunion. That's all he has to hide. A stuffy
Victorian prude and even less of a man than the others."
</p>
<p>
"But, Matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. It
ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate.
You don't
<i>
fall
</i>
in love, Matilda—no one does. Love osmoses into you
slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time."
</p>
<p>
Matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found
nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact
of love. She said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her
light summer dress and took a cold shower.
</p>
<p>
She began to hum to herself. She had not yet seen the pen pal section
of the current
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
, and because the subject matter of
that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect
a gratifying selection of pen pals.
</p>
<p>
She shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself
dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her
bedroom. She dared not let the widow Penshaws know that she slept in
the nude; the widow Penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the
nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away.
</p>
<p>
Matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each
ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!).
Then she propped up her pillows—two pillows partially stopped her
post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
off the night table.
</p>
<p>
She flipped through the pages and came to personals. Someone in
Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a
midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in
ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same
subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because
he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and—
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda read the next one twice. Then she held it close to the light
and read it again. The
<i>
Literary Review
</i>
was one of the few magazines
which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and
Matilda even liked the sound of the name. But mostly, she had to admit
to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. This very well could be
<i>
it
</i>
. Or, that is,
<i>
him
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
Intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose
universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a
provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be
intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a
lot to say and wants to say it. All others need not apply. Wonderful
opportunity cultural experience ... Haron Gorka, Cedar Falls, Ill.
</p>
<p>
The man was egotistical, all right; Matilda could see that. But she had
never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something
about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. The man sounded
as though he would have reason indeed. He only wanted the best because
he was the best. Like calls to like.
</p>
<p>
The name—Haron Gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to Matilda.
Haron Gorka—the nationality could be anything. And that was it. He had
no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international
man, a figure among figures, a paragon....
</p>
<p>
Matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. The moon shone in
through the window brightly, and at such times Matilda generally would
get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from
her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence
keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. But this time it did not
disturb her, and she would let it shine. Cedar Falls was a small town
not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and
jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of
writing a letter.
</p>
<p>
Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Dressed
properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and
she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to Cedar Falls.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered
with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom,
dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and
figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were
perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the
mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger,
and tiptoed downstairs.
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell.
</p>
<p>
"Mother," gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something
unexpected. "What on earth are you doing up?"
</p>
<p>
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put
in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "I'm fixing
breakfast, of course...."
</p>
<p>
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak
about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even
if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the
magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like
only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour,
Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her
favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you
are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought
that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar
Falls and find out.
</p>
<p>
And so she got there.
</p>
<p>
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a
stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This
man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses
which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over
his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello," said Matilda.
</p>
<p>
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda
asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Is that in the United States?"
</p>
<p>
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live?
What's the quickest way to get there?"
</p>
<p>
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now
take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an
<i>
oh
</i>
under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the
stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda almost
happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. He grudgingly suggested
that if it really were important, she might check with the police.
</p>
<p>
Matilda did, only they didn't know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned
out that no one did: Matilda tried the general store, the fire
department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas
stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at
random. As far us the gentry of Cedar Falls was concerned, Haron Gorka
did not exist.
</p>
<p>
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this
early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she
knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at
least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked
to analyze other people's mistakes, especially Matilda's.
</p>
<p>
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls' small and
unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by
browsing through the dusty slacks.
</p>
<p>
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be
called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small
building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library
still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the
old librarian as she passed.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda
Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray
hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
</p>
<p>
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn't the librarian help her? Why
hadn't she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well-educated as
Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent
residence here in Cedar Palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his
own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection
of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the
librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
</p>
<p>
Matilda cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she began. "I'm looking for—"
</p>
<p>
"Haron Gorka." The librarian nodded.
</p>
<p>
"How on earth did you know?"
</p>
<p>
"That's easy. You're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring
about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now
you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear.
"You know him? You know Haron Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. Of course I know him. He's our steadiest reader here at
the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four
books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty
years younger—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "Only ten," she
assured the librarian. "Ten years would be more than sufficient, I'm
sure."
</p>
<p>
"Are you? Well. Well, well." The librarian did something with the back
of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "Maybe you're right.
Maybe you're right at that." Then she sighed. "But I guess a miss is as
good as a mile."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know
him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka...."
</p>
<p>
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if
five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
</p>
<p>
"Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"I'm not supposed to do this, you know. We're not permitted to give the
addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear."
</p>
<p>
"What about the other five women?"
</p>
<p>
"They convinced me that I ought to give them his address."
</p>
<p>
Matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill.
"Was this the way?" she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this
sort of thing.
</p>
<p>
The librarian shook her head.
</p>
<p>
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her
hand. "Then is this better?"
</p>
<p>
"That's worse. I wouldn't take your money—"
</p>
<p>
"Sorry. What then?"
</p>
<p>
"If I can't enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still
could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me
faithfully and you'll get his address. That's what the other five will
do, and with half a dozen of you, I'll get an overall picture. Each one
of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each
have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture
considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share
of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the
address. She thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car,
whistling to herself.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except
that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen
to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her
spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the
librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps
he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to
his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or
personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked
him all the more for it.
</p>
<p>
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda's
made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the
only one with the idea to visit Haron Gorka in person. With half a
dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would
be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought
had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which
she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought
Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having
been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps
she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As it turned out, she wasn't. Not only that, she was welcomed with open
arms. Not by Haron Gorka; that she really might have liked. Instead,
someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked
had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly.
He told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room
which evidently was to be her living quarters. It contained a small
undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the
wall, there was a button.
</p>
<p>
"You want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press
that button. The results will surprise you."
</p>
<p>
"What about Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"When he wants you, he will send for you. Meanwhile, make yourself to
home, lady, and I will tell him you are here."
</p>
<p>
A little doubtful now, Matilda thanked him and watched him leave. He
closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but Matilda's ears
had not missed the ominous click. She ran to the door and tried to open
it, but it would not budge. It was locked—from the outside.
</p>
<p>
It must be said to Matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. After
that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty,
she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. Besides, it was not
her fault if, in his unconcern, Haron Gorka had unwittingly hired a
neurotic servant.
</p>
<p>
For a time Matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was
going on outside she could hear nothing. In that case, she would
pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently
she lay down on the bed to take a nap. This didn't last long, however:
she had a nightmare in which Haron Gorka appeared as a giant with two
heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to
her overwrought nerves.
</p>
<p>
At that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and
she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy
beefsteak. Well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. In that case, she
would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little
slot in the wall and pressed the button.
</p>
<p>
She heard the whir of machinery. A moment later there was a soft
sliding sound. Through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed
almost instantly by a tray. On the tray were a bowl of turtle soup,
mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a
parfait—and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again—but by then her
salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. The fact
that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be
attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was
extremely palatable made her forget all about Haron Gorka's neurotic
servant.
</p>
<p>
When she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a
little while Matilda was asleep again. This time she did not dream at
all. It was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was
with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The feeling did not last long. Standing over her was Haron Gorka's
servant, and he said, "Mr. Gorka will see you now."
</p>
<p>
"Now?"
</p>
<p>
"Now. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
</p>
<p>
He had a point there, but Matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair.
She told the servant so.
</p>
<p>
"Miss," he replied, "I assure you it will not matter in the least to
Haron Gorka. You are here and he is ready to see you and that is all
that matters."
</p>
<p>
"You sure?" Matilda wanted to take no chances.
</p>
<p>
"Yes. Come."
</p>
<p>
She followed him out of the little room and across what should have
been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with
dust. Of the other women Matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly
realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her
own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with
Haron Gorka. Well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him
better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the
old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and
compare notes.
</p>
<p>
She would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with
Haron Gorka. It was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was
just that he was so
<i>
ordinary
</i>
-looking. She almost would have preferred
the monster of her dreams.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an
almost-Roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist
at each corner.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Greetings. You have come—"
</p>
<p>
"In response to your ad. How do you do, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
She hoped she wasn't being too formal. But, then, there was no sense in
assuming that he would like informality. She could only wait and see
and adjust her own actions to suit him. Meanwhile, it would be best to
keep on the middle of the road.
</p>
<p>
"I am fine. Are you ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Certainly. You came in response to my ad. You want to hear me talk, do
you not?"
</p>
<p>
"I—do." Matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back
and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and
seen. But first she certainly would have liked to get to
<i>
know
</i>
the
man. Well, Haron Gorka obviously had more experience along these lines
than she did. He waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and
Matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit.
</p>
<p>
"I must admit I was surprised when I got exactly what I wanted for
dinner," she told him brightly.
</p>
<p>
"Eh? What say? Oh, yes, naturally. A combination of telepathy and
teleportation. The synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you
press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines
how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. The fact that the
adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. It means either that
you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry."
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Matilda vaguely. Perhaps it might be better, after all, if
Haron Gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit.
</p>
<p>
"Ready?"
</p>
<p>
"Uh—ready."
</p>
<p>
"Well?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, what, Mr. Gorka?"
</p>
<p>
"What would you like me to talk about?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh, anything."
</p>
<p>
"Please. As the ad read, my universal experience—is universal.
Literally. You'll have to be more specific."
</p>
<p>
"Well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels?
Unfortunately, while I've done a lot of reading, I haven't been to all
the places I would have liked—"
</p>
<p>
"Good enough. You know, of course, how frigid Deneb VII is?"
</p>
<p>
Matilda said, "Beg pardon?"
</p>
<p>
"Well, there was the time our crew—before I had retired, of
course—made a crash landing there. We could survive in the vac-suits,
of course, but the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
were after us almost at once. They go
mad over plastic. They will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. Our
vac-suits—"
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"—were made of plastic," Matilda suggested. She did not understand a
thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright.
</p>
<p>
"No, no. Must you interrupt? The air-hose and the water feed, these
were plastic. Not the rest of the suit. The point is that half of us
were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder
were near death. I owe my life to the mimicry of a
<i>
flaak
</i>
from Capella
III. It assumed the properties of plastic and led the
<i>
thlomots
</i>
a
merry chase across the frozen surface of D VII. You travel in the Deneb
system now and Interstellar Ordinance makes it mandatory to carry
<i>
flaaks
</i>
with you. Excellent idea, really excellent."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Almost at once, Matilda's educational background should have told her
that Haron Gorka was mouthing gibberish. But on the other hand she
<i>
wanted
</i>
to believe in him and the result was that it took until now
for her to realize it.
</p>
<p>
"Stop making fun of me," she said.
</p>
<p>
"So, naturally, you'll see
<i>
flaaks
</i>
all over that system—"
</p>
<p>
"Stop!"
</p>
<p>
"What's that? Making fun of you?" Haron Gorka's voice had been so
eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he
seemed disappointed. He smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of
resignation, and he said, "Very well. I'm wrong again. You are the
sixth, and you're no better than the other five. Perhaps you are even
more outspoken. When you see my wife, tell her to come back. Again she
is right and I am wrong...."
</p>
<p>
Haron Gorka turned his back.
</p>
<p>
Matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the
house, go outside and get into her car. She noticed not without
surprise that the other five cars were now gone. She was the last of
Haron Gorka's guests to depart.
</p>
<p>
As she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw
the servant leaving, too. Far down the road, he was walking slowly.
Then Haron Gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all
alone.
</p>
<p>
As she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. There
were, of course, two alternatives. Either Haron Gorka was an eccentric
who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly
insane. She could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in
particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his
voice high-pitched and eager.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was not until she had passed the small library building that she
remembered what she had promised the librarian. In her own way, the
aging woman would be as disappointed as Matilda, but a promise was a
promise, and Matilda turned the car in a wide U-turn and parked it
outside the library.
</p>
<p>
The woman sat at her desk as Matilda had remembered her, gray,
broom-stick figure, rigid. But now when she saw Matilda she perked up
visibly.
</p>
<p>
"Hello, my dear," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Hi."
</p>
<p>
"You're back a bit sooner than I expected. But, then, the other five
have returned, too, and I imagine your story will be similar."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what they told you," Matilda said. "But this is what
happened to me."
</p>
<p>
She quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and
in detail. She did this first because it was a promise, and second
because she knew it would make her feel better.
</p>
<p>
"So," she finished, "Haron Gorka is either extremely eccentric or
insane. I'm sorry."
</p>
<p>
"He's neither," the librarian contradicted. "Perhaps he is slightly
eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Did he leave a message for his wife?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes. Yes, he did. But how did you know? Oh, I suppose he told the
five."
</p>
<p>
"No. He didn't. But you were the last and I thought he would give you a
message for his wife—"
</p>
<p>
Matilda didn't understand. She didn't understand at all, but she told
the little librarian what the message was. "He wanted her to return,"
she said.
</p>
<p>
The librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "You wouldn't believe
me if I told you something."
</p>
<p>
"What's that?"
</p>
<p>
"I am Mrs. Gorka."
</p>
<p>
The librarian stood up and came around the desk. She opened a drawer
and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "You
see, my dear, Haron expects too much. He expects entirely too much."
</p>
<p>
Matilda did not say a word. One madman a day would be quite enough for
anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two.
</p>
<p>
"We've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star
system from our home near Canopus. But Haron is too demanding. He
says I am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the
accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. When he
loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of
the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given
the opportunity just to listen to him.
</p>
<p>
"But he's wrong. It's a hard life for a woman. Someday—five thousand,
ten thousand years from now—I will convince him. And then we will
settle down on Canopus XIV and cultivate
<i>
torgas
</i>
. That would be so
nice—"
</p>
<p>
"I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if Haron wants me back, then I have to go. Have a care, my dear.
If you marry, choose a home-body. I've had the experience and you've
seen my Haron for yourself."
</p>
<p>
And then the woman was gone. Numbly, Matilda walked to the doorway and
watched her angular figure disappear down the road. Of all the crazy
things....
</p>
<p>
Deneb and Capella and Canopus, these were stars. Add a number and you
might have a planet revolving about each star. Of all the insane—
</p>
<p>
They were mad, all right, and now Matilda wondered if, actually,
they were husband and wife. It could readily be; maybe the madness
was catching. Maybe if you thought too much about such things, such
travels, you could get that way. Of course, Herman represented the
other extreme, and Herman was even worse in his own way—but hereafter
Matilda would seek the happy medium.
</p>
<p>
And, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. They
were, she realized, for kids.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
She ate dinner in Cedar Falls and then she went out to her car again,
preparing for the journey back home. The sun had set and it was a clear
night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the Milky Way was a pale
rainbow bridge in the sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda paused. Off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon,
and that was the direction of Haron Gorka's place.
</p>
<p>
The glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the
horizon. It flickered. It flickered again, and finally it was gone.
</p>
<p>
The stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. That was
why Matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a
clear summer night when you could see the span of the Milky Way.
</p>
<p>
But abruptly the stars and the Milky Way were paled by the brightest
shooting star Matilda had ever seen. It flashed suddenly and it
remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across
the night sky.
</p>
<p>
Matilda gasped and ran into her car. She started the gears and pressed
the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home.
</p>
<p>
It was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going
<i>
up
</i>
.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) he was insane\n(B) his expectations were so high\n(C) he wasn't who Matilda thought he was\n(D) he was already married",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Science fiction; Single women -- Fiction; PS"
} |
50869 | What is one thing Glmpauszn didn't struggle with when acclimating to Earth?
Choices:
(A) slang terms
(B) meeting people
(C) emotions
(D) appropriate clothing | [
"B",
"meeting people"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gleeb for Earth
</h1>
<p>
By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Not to be or not to not be ... that was the
<br/>
not-question for the invader of the not-world.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because he
can do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch with
somebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,
everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, "Why
didn't you warn us?"
</p>
<p>
I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly to
me because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also they
might think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my license
revoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guests
might be down on their luck now and then.
</p>
<p>
What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance of
two of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.
</p>
<p>
Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,
I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters I
include here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.
And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside the
coat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt the
underwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was also
the underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out of
it and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer were
the letters I told you about.
</p>
<p>
Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum that
checked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was a
real case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.
Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs to
his room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.
</p>
<p>
In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the same
suit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest the
shirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in the
middle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of the
mirror. Only the frame!
</p>
<p>
What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes these
guys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I read
the letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in different
handwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.
India, China, England, everywhere.
</p>
<p>
My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops or
maybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he says
write to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you have
them. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,
the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I never
touch junk, not even aspirin.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Yours very truly,
<br/>
Ivan Smernda
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Bombay, India
<br/>
June 8
</p>
<p>
Mr. Joe Binkle
<br/>
Plaza Ritz Arms
<br/>
New York City
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,
for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,
Glmpauszn, will be born.
</p>
<p>
Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirror
gateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with such
tremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetus
within the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am static
and for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universe
with fear and trepidation.
</p>
<p>
As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but got
no response. What could have diminished your powers of articulate
wave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages and
returning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsing
and surrounded with an impregnable chimera.
</p>
<p>
Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned the
not-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by what
the not-world calls "mail" till we meet. For this purpose I must
utilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whose
inadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.
Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.
</p>
<p>
I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentary
reports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasury
of facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be free
of the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed in
your task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when we
return again.
</p>
<p>
The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city of
Bombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.
Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exact
location, for the not-people might have access to the information.
</p>
<p>
I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When it
is alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring from
the pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrational
likeness.
</p>
<p>
I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am among
them. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gateway
lies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child in
order that I might destroy the not-people completely.
</p>
<p>
All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix too
fast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.
Gezsltrysk, what a task!
</p>
<p>
Farewell till later.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Wichita, Kansas
<br/>
June 13
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,
I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there are
no terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you in
not-language what I had to go through during the first moments of my
birth.
</p>
<p>
Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limited
equipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctor
came in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternation
reigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. What
difference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.
As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,
since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother
(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw up
their hands and left.
</p>
<p>
I learned the following day that the opposite component of my
not-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyance
during my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, a
bender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.
</p>
<p>
When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, I
made a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36
not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I was
standing by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.
He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable of
speech.
</p>
<p>
Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, I
produced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.
</p>
<p>
"Poppa," I said.
</p>
<p>
This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords that
are now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted sounded
low-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must have
jarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from the
room.
</p>
<p>
They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble something
about my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared at
the doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,
she fell down heavily. She made a distinct
<i>
thump
</i>
on the floor.
</p>
<p>
This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the window
and retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,
but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!
</p>
<p>
I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including the
cleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a reply
from Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praise
indeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.
But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himself
and it's his nature never to flatter anyone.
</p>
<p>
From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping the
qualifying preface except where comparisons must be made between this
alleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitive
mythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these people
refer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But we
learned otherwise, while they never have.
</p>
<p>
New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hard
time classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to the
inevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror of
the not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand your
not replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What could
have happened to your vibrations?
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Albuquerque, New Mexico
<br/>
June 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.
My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feeler
vibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then I
establish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without his
knowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes my
letter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what he
has done.
</p>
<p>
My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of an
individual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, but
I fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tell
you about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I have
accomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.
</p>
<p>
In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind of
sleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.
Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.
</p>
<p>
As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...
my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hard
time classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquire
the stuff needed for the destruction of these people.
</p>
<p>
Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, the
impressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioning
for me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficient
mechanism I inhabit.
</p>
<p>
I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.
It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurried
immediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked up
and all about me at the beauty.
</p>
<p>
Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. I
simply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions was
to realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do not
let yourself believe they do.
</p>
<p>
This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.
Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. She
wore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention was
diverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.
</p>
<p>
The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried from
nearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene with
an attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I told
myself. But they were.
</p>
<p>
I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that you
unfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.
</p>
<p>
"He was stark naked," the girl with the sneakers said.
</p>
<p>
A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.
</p>
<p>
"Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out of
this area."
</p>
<p>
"But—"
</p>
<p>
"No more buck-bathing, Lizzy," the officer ordered. "No more speeches
in the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Now
where is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him."
</p>
<p>
That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to this
oversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressions
that assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,
pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. I
must feel each, become accustomed to it.
</p>
<p>
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information I
have been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.
What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission is
impaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can write
you with more enlightenment.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Moscow, Idaho
<br/>
June 17
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greet
me in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,
pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of five
bucks!
</p>
<p>
It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up with
the correct variant of the slang term "buck." Is it possible that you
are powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live in
this inferior world?
</p>
<p>
A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged in
a struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusions
of this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have lived
a semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this world
ripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individual
fluctuations make up our sentient population.
</p>
<p>
Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardized
by these people. The not-world and our world are like two baskets
as you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with the
greatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sides
are joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrational
plane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a world
of higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.
While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,
more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.
</p>
<p>
They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selves
into ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to force
some of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,
causing them much agony and fright.
</p>
<p>
The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people call
mediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit one
of them at the first opportunity to see for myself.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I picked
them up while examining the "slang" portion of my information catalog
which you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimate
cause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peace
of our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,
get hep.
</p>
<p>
As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Des Moines, Iowa
<br/>
June 19
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passages
in my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.
Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled here
"revolting" are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they are
all being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the most
important part of my journey—completion of the weapon against the
not-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue that
day, I assure you.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Boise, Idaho
<br/>
July 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.
Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed in
our catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reed
bending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bent
indeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is known
quaintly in this tongue as a "hooker of red-eye." Ha! I've mastered
even the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. I feel much better now.
</p>
<p>
You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions that
constantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself to
react exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.
</p>
<p>
Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I am
burned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,
I experience a tickle.
</p>
<p>
This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a group
of symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangely
enough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this world
came most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thing
here, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.
</p>
<p>
I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank and
carried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the money
to a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the best
hotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.
</p>
<p>
Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the other
about it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another for
the love of it.
</p>
<p>
Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten or
fifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen spare
rooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I have
failed. This alcohol is taking effect now.
</p>
<p>
Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!
I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've been
studying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics of
these people, in the movies. This is the best place to see these
people as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and there
do homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.
</p>
<p>
Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.
</p>
<p>
By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won't
cost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who's
writing this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?
</p>
<p>
I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at last
learning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, one
simply must persevere, I always say.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Penobscot, Maine
<br/>
July 20
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned it
in any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came across
to this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had a
quart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feel
wonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.
</p>
<p>
There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into this
body and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. Now
I can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports today
outlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we must
finally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experiments
yet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation of
the inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss his
vibrations.
</p>
<p>
I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out a
blonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She was
attracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised is
perfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.
</p>
<p>
I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I remember
distinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money I
had dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.
We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would you
believe it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through the
money in her bare feet! Then we kissed.
</p>
<p>
Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerve
ends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets these
impulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in the
adrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of the
entire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.
</p>
<p>
I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again the
tingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myself
quickly.
</p>
<p>
Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and love
in this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girl
and tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.
This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,
wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he would
have a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?
</p>
<p>
I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.
Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. I
had not found love.
</p>
<p>
I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fell
asleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called gin
and didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.
</p>
<p>
I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don't
I wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?
I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is a
gin mixture.
</p>
<p>
I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'll
take him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting up
an atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to do
is activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.
</p>
<p>
Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,
you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off the
fat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Sacramento, Calif.
<br/>
July 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letter
the morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank a
lot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seance
things.
</p>
<p>
Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we got
to the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner and
continued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed again
because she said yes immediately.
</p>
<p>
The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had the
most frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror these
people really are to our world.
</p>
<p>
The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strong
psychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but I
was too busy with the redhead to notice.
</p>
<p>
Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternal
grandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. He
concentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form in
the room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,
shapeless cascade of light.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, "Grandma Lucy!" Then I
really took notice.
</p>
<p>
Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgftury
partially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating in
the fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhku
was open and his btgrimms were down.
</p>
<p>
Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievable
pattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and the
redhead.
</p>
<p>
Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as a
result of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in these
not-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the reality
of not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is only
half over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling all
my powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even become
invisible any more.
</p>
<p>
I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.
</p>
<p>
Quickly!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Florence, Italy
<br/>
September 10
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pick
closer points of communication soon. I have nothing to report but
failure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formula
that is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms were
filled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.
</p>
<p>
I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when I
realized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reaction
that inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave there
immediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was not
aware of the nature of my activities.
</p>
<p>
I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. I
stuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then sauntered
into the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the manager
I was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his best
customer.
</p>
<p>
"But why, sir?" he asked plaintively.
</p>
<p>
I was baffled. What could I tell him?
</p>
<p>
"Don't you like the rooms?" he persisted. "Isn't the service good?"
</p>
<p>
"It's the rooms," I told him. "They're—they're—"
</p>
<p>
"They're what?" he wanted to know.
</p>
<p>
"They're not safe."
</p>
<p>
"Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is...."
</p>
<p>
At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.
</p>
<p>
"See?" I screamed. "Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!"
</p>
<p>
He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.
Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think like
the not-men, curse them.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Rochester, New York
<br/>
September 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury's
niggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a form
of mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,
transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end will
be swift and fatal.
</p>
<p>
First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.
Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.
Absolutely nothing.
</p>
<p>
We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bring
with me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place of
birth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, a
large mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowly
climb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secure
world. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.
</p>
<p>
You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same with
me. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world senses
falter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. When
the gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.
</p>
<p>
In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queer
world will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, can
we, Joe?
</p>
<p>
And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll have
hgutry before the ghjdksla!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon brain
dissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody who
knows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is a
gleeb?
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) slang terms\n(B) meeting people\n(C) emotions\n(D) appropriate clothing",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Epistolary fiction; Short stories"
} |
50869 | What did Joe and Glmpauszn plan to do?
Choices:
(A) eliminate people to take over the world
(B) eliminate people because they were bothersome
(C) learn all they could about the human race
(D) take over and inhabit this world | [
"B",
"eliminate people because they were bothersome"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gleeb for Earth
</h1>
<p>
By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by EMSH
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Not to be or not to not be ... that was the
<br/>
not-question for the invader of the not-world.
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because he
can do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch with
somebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,
everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, "Why
didn't you warn us?"
</p>
<p>
I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly to
me because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also they
might think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my license
revoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guests
might be down on their luck now and then.
</p>
<p>
What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance of
two of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.
</p>
<p>
Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,
I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters I
include here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.
And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside the
coat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt the
underwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was also
the underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out of
it and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer were
the letters I told you about.
</p>
<p>
Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum that
checked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was a
real case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.
Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs to
his room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.
</p>
<p>
In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the same
suit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest the
shirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in the
middle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of the
mirror. Only the frame!
</p>
<p>
What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes these
guys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I read
the letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in different
handwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.
India, China, England, everywhere.
</p>
<p>
My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops or
maybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he says
write to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you have
them. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,
the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I never
touch junk, not even aspirin.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Yours very truly,
<br/>
Ivan Smernda
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Bombay, India
<br/>
June 8
</p>
<p>
Mr. Joe Binkle
<br/>
Plaza Ritz Arms
<br/>
New York City
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,
for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,
Glmpauszn, will be born.
</p>
<p>
Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirror
gateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with such
tremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetus
within the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am static
and for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universe
with fear and trepidation.
</p>
<p>
As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but got
no response. What could have diminished your powers of articulate
wave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages and
returning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsing
and surrounded with an impregnable chimera.
</p>
<p>
Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned the
not-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by what
the not-world calls "mail" till we meet. For this purpose I must
utilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whose
inadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.
Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.
</p>
<p>
I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentary
reports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasury
of facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be free
of the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed in
your task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when we
return again.
</p>
<p>
The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city of
Bombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.
Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exact
location, for the not-people might have access to the information.
</p>
<p>
I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When it
is alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring from
the pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrational
likeness.
</p>
<p>
I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am among
them. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gateway
lies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child in
order that I might destroy the not-people completely.
</p>
<p>
All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix too
fast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.
Gezsltrysk, what a task!
</p>
<p>
Farewell till later.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Wichita, Kansas
<br/>
June 13
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,
I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there are
no terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you in
not-language what I had to go through during the first moments of my
birth.
</p>
<p>
Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limited
equipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctor
came in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternation
reigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. What
difference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.
As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,
since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother
(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw up
their hands and left.
</p>
<p>
I learned the following day that the opposite component of my
not-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyance
during my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, a
bender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.
</p>
<p>
When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, I
made a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36
not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I was
standing by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.
He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable of
speech.
</p>
<p>
Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, I
produced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.
</p>
<p>
"Poppa," I said.
</p>
<p>
This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords that
are now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted sounded
low-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must have
jarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from the
room.
</p>
<p>
They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble something
about my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared at
the doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,
she fell down heavily. She made a distinct
<i>
thump
</i>
on the floor.
</p>
<p>
This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the window
and retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,
but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!
</p>
<p>
I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including the
cleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a reply
from Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praise
indeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.
But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himself
and it's his nature never to flatter anyone.
</p>
<p>
From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping the
qualifying preface except where comparisons must be made between this
alleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitive
mythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these people
refer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But we
learned otherwise, while they never have.
</p>
<p>
New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hard
time classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to the
inevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror of
the not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand your
not replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What could
have happened to your vibrations?
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Albuquerque, New Mexico
<br/>
June 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.
My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feeler
vibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then I
establish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without his
knowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes my
letter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what he
has done.
</p>
<p>
My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of an
individual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, but
I fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tell
you about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I have
accomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.
</p>
<p>
In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind of
sleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.
Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.
</p>
<p>
As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...
my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hard
time classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquire
the stuff needed for the destruction of these people.
</p>
<p>
Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, the
impressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioning
for me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficient
mechanism I inhabit.
</p>
<p>
I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.
It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurried
immediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked up
and all about me at the beauty.
</p>
<p>
Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. I
simply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions was
to realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do not
let yourself believe they do.
</p>
<p>
This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.
Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. She
wore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention was
diverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.
</p>
<p>
The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried from
nearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene with
an attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I told
myself. But they were.
</p>
<p>
I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that you
unfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.
</p>
<p>
"He was stark naked," the girl with the sneakers said.
</p>
<p>
A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.
</p>
<p>
"Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out of
this area."
</p>
<p>
"But—"
</p>
<p>
"No more buck-bathing, Lizzy," the officer ordered. "No more speeches
in the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Now
where is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him."
</p>
<p>
That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to this
oversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressions
that assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,
pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. I
must feel each, become accustomed to it.
</p>
<p>
The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information I
have been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.
What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission is
impaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can write
you with more enlightenment.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Moscow, Idaho
<br/>
June 17
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greet
me in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,
pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of five
bucks!
</p>
<p>
It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up with
the correct variant of the slang term "buck." Is it possible that you
are powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live in
this inferior world?
</p>
<p>
A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged in
a struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusions
of this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have lived
a semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this world
ripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individual
fluctuations make up our sentient population.
</p>
<p>
Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardized
by these people. The not-world and our world are like two baskets
as you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with the
greatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sides
are joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrational
plane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a world
of higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.
While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,
more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.
</p>
<p>
They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selves
into ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to force
some of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,
causing them much agony and fright.
</p>
<p>
The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people call
mediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit one
of them at the first opportunity to see for myself.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I picked
them up while examining the "slang" portion of my information catalog
which you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimate
cause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peace
of our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,
get hep.
</p>
<p>
As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Des Moines, Iowa
<br/>
June 19
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passages
in my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.
Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled here
"revolting" are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they are
all being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the most
important part of my journey—completion of the weapon against the
not-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue that
day, I assure you.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Boise, Idaho
<br/>
July 15
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.
Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed in
our catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reed
bending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bent
indeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is known
quaintly in this tongue as a "hooker of red-eye." Ha! I've mastered
even the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. I feel much better now.
</p>
<p>
You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions that
constantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself to
react exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.
</p>
<p>
Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I am
burned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,
I experience a tickle.
</p>
<p>
This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a group
of symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon me
again. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangely
enough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this world
came most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thing
here, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.
</p>
<p>
I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank and
carried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the money
to a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the best
hotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.
</p>
<p>
Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the other
about it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another for
the love of it.
</p>
<p>
Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten or
fifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen spare
rooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I have
failed. This alcohol is taking effect now.
</p>
<p>
Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!
I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've been
studying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics of
these people, in the movies. This is the best place to see these
people as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and there
do homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.
</p>
<p>
Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.
</p>
<p>
By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won't
cost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who's
writing this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?
</p>
<p>
I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at last
learning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, one
simply must persevere, I always say.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Penobscot, Maine
<br/>
July 20
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned it
in any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came across
to this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had a
quart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feel
wonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.
</p>
<p>
There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into this
body and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. Now
I can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports today
outlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we must
finally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experiments
yet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation of
the inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss his
vibrations.
</p>
<p>
I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out a
blonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She was
attracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised is
perfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.
</p>
<p>
I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I remember
distinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money I
had dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.
We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would you
believe it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through the
money in her bare feet! Then we kissed.
</p>
<p>
Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerve
ends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets these
impulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in the
adrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of the
entire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.
</p>
<p>
I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again the
tingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myself
quickly.
</p>
<p>
Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and love
in this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girl
and tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.
This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,
wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he would
have a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?
</p>
<p>
I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.
Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. I
had not found love.
</p>
<p>
I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fell
asleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called gin
and didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.
</p>
<p>
I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don't
I wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?
I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is a
gin mixture.
</p>
<p>
I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'll
take him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting up
an atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to do
is activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.
</p>
<p>
Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,
you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off the
fat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Sacramento, Calif.
<br/>
July 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letter
the morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank a
lot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seance
things.
</p>
<p>
Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we got
to the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner and
continued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed again
because she said yes immediately.
</p>
<p>
The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had the
most frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror these
people really are to our world.
</p>
<p>
The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strong
psychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but I
was too busy with the redhead to notice.
</p>
<p>
Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternal
grandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. He
concentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form in
the room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,
shapeless cascade of light.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, "Grandma Lucy!" Then I
really took notice.
</p>
<p>
Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgftury
partially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating in
the fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhku
was open and his btgrimms were down.
</p>
<p>
Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievable
pattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and the
redhead.
</p>
<p>
Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as a
result of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in these
not-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the reality
of not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is only
half over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling all
my powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even become
invisible any more.
</p>
<p>
I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.
</p>
<p>
Quickly!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Florence, Italy
<br/>
September 10
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pick
closer points of communication soon. I have nothing to report but
failure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formula
that is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms were
filled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.
</p>
<p>
I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when I
realized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reaction
that inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave there
immediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was not
aware of the nature of my activities.
</p>
<p>
I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. I
stuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then sauntered
into the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the manager
I was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his best
customer.
</p>
<p>
"But why, sir?" he asked plaintively.
</p>
<p>
I was baffled. What could I tell him?
</p>
<p>
"Don't you like the rooms?" he persisted. "Isn't the service good?"
</p>
<p>
"It's the rooms," I told him. "They're—they're—"
</p>
<p>
"They're what?" he wanted to know.
</p>
<p>
"They're not safe."
</p>
<p>
"Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is...."
</p>
<p>
At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.
</p>
<p>
"See?" I screamed. "Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!"
</p>
<p>
He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.
Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think like
the not-men, curse them.
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p class="ph4">
Rochester, New York
<br/>
September 25
</p>
<p>
Dear Joe:
</p>
<p>
I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury's
niggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a form
of mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,
transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end will
be swift and fatal.
</p>
<p>
First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.
Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.
Absolutely nothing.
</p>
<p>
We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bring
with me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place of
birth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, a
large mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowly
climb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secure
world. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.
</p>
<p>
You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same with
me. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world senses
falter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. When
the gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.
</p>
<p>
In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queer
world will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, can
we, Joe?
</p>
<p>
And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll have
hgutry before the ghjdksla!
</p>
<p class="ph4">
Glmpauszn
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Dear Editor:
</p>
<p>
These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon brain
dissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody who
knows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is a
gleeb?
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) eliminate people to take over the world\n(B) eliminate people because they were bothersome\n(C) learn all they could about the human race\n(D) take over and inhabit this world",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Epistolary fiction; Short stories"
} |
51330 | Which word best describes Nat?
Choices:
(A) dishonest
(B) respectable
(C) enthusiastic
(D) partier | [
"B",
"respectable"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
I am a Nucleus
</h1>
<p>
By STEPHEN BARR
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian
<br/>
sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had
<br/>
suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten
down, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, which
had an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtown
temperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, but
according to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got
dressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that my
wife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.
</p>
<p>
What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumed
the carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! The
ashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still the
place looked wife-deserted.
</p>
<p>
It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'd
had to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios I
write for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrella
when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost
tropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and a
woman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.
</p>
<p>
"Madison and Fifty-fourth," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Right," said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then go
on grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. "Sorry, Mac.
You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting."
</p>
<p>
If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper over
my hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic held
me up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,
just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got one
which exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thing
happened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rain
had stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation where
they were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was the
usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,
a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.
While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I was
able to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the size
of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,
and then his chattering drill hit it.
</p>
<p>
There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him on
his back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At the
moment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—I
felt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on my
hand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, the
bleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought some
pink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, I
found that I had missed the story conference.
</p>
<p>
During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase "I'm just
spitballing" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,
"The whole ball of wax," twelve times. However, my story had been
accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the
conference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,
the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which
rung of the ladder you have achieved.
</p>
<p>
The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to the
apartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standing
there talking to the doorman.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it
at your office building." I looked blank and he explained, "We just
heard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammed
at the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it."
</p>
<p>
Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. "That's right, Danny, I
just missed it," I said, and went on in.
</p>
<p>
Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on the
other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and
except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going
on.
</p>
<p>
I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread the
directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until
she got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.
How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick and
such. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convinced
that I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for the
reasons she supposes.
</p>
<p>
I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: "When
you take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,
too."
</p>
<p>
Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in
front of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberate
me from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.
When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on the
manuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. The
pencil was standing on its end.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hear
about, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and drank
some of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from the
muggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapter
to try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the last
sentence.
</p>
<p>
Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.
My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly's
notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticed
one that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: "Garbage
picked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. I
love you." What can you do when the girl loves you?
</p>
<p>
I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room window
at the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick was
exercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to be
allowed to perch, but were not allowed to.
</p>
<p>
Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so that
their wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinking
about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,
they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they all
wanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided and
fell.
</p>
<p>
The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds and
picked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,
stroking its feathers.
</p>
<p>
My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident were
interrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building is
usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like
an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that
of my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and has
never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late
afternoon.
</p>
<p>
"You can't say a thing like that to me!" I heard him shout. "I tell you
I got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we started
to play!"
</p>
<p>
Several other loud voices started at the same time.
</p>
<p>
"Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, and only when you were dealer!"
</p>
<p>
The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened the
door to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confronting
him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the
impulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and he
looked stunned.
</p>
<p>
"Here!" he said, holding out a deck of cards, "For Pete's sake, look at
'em yourselves if you think they're marked!"
</p>
<p>
The nearest man struck them up from his hand. "Okay, Houdini! So
they're not marked! All I know is five straight...."
</p>
<p>
His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cards
on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the
rest face up—all red.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived and
the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,
got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatly
arranged cards.
</p>
<p>
"Judas!" he said, and started to pick them up. "Will you look at that!
My God, what a session...."
</p>
<p>
I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,
but I had an idea what I would hear.
</p>
<p>
After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.
</p>
<p>
"Never seen anything to equal it," he said. "Wouldn't have believed
it. Those guys
<i>
didn't
</i>
believe it. Every round normal, nothing
unusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sort
of thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be
<i>
my
</i>
deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,
somebody else has four aces...."
</p>
<p>
He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. There
was one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the top
broke and glass chips got into the bottle.
</p>
<p>
"I'll have to go down for more soda," I said.
</p>
<p>
"I'll come, too. I need air."
</p>
<p>
At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles in
what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the
top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the
tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from
at least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice and
I was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouth
open and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with his
mouth open.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tie
his shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxi
swerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,
its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreign
cars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without any
side-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming to
rest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at that
moment.
</p>
<p>
The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he and
the taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arranged
crosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move either
forward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxi
to a lamp.
</p>
<p>
Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time at
all, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.
Everyone was honking his horn.
</p>
<p>
Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his
station house from the box opposite.
</p>
<p>
It was out of order.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed the
windows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat had
brightened up considerably.
</p>
<p>
"I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office," he said.
"You know, I think this would make an item for the paper." He grinned
and nodded toward the pandemonium.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desk
lamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, except
one. That was tied in three knots.
</p>
<p>
All
<i>
right
</i>
, I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time had
come for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to call
McGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a university
uptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe he
knows everything.
</p>
<p>
When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,
<i>
more
</i>
trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill's
voice said, "Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were
connected. That's a damn funny coincidence."
</p>
<p>
"Not in the least," I said. "Come on over here. I've got something for
you to work on."
</p>
<p>
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—"
</p>
<p>
"Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent."
</p>
<p>
"At once," he said, and hung up.
</p>
<p>
While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs of
my novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to a
point where I was about to put down the word "agurgling," I decided it
was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter
"R." Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step to
the side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.
</p>
<p>
This was absolutely not my day.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "nothing you've told me is impossible or
supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against
that poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.
It's all those other things...."
</p>
<p>
He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilight
while I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.
</p>
<p>
"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at
what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,
and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that
you're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion." I started
to get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. "I know, but don't
you see that that is far more likely than...." He stopped and shook
his head. Then he brightened. "I have an idea. Maybe we can have a
demonstration."
</p>
<p>
He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. "Have you any
change on you?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes," I said. "Quite a bit." I reached into my pocket. There
must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. "Do you think
they'll each have the same date, perhaps?"
</p>
<p>
"Did you accumulate all that change today?"
</p>
<p>
"No. During the week."
</p>
<p>
He shook his head. "In that case, no. Discounting the fact that you
could have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, that
would be
<i>
actually
</i>
impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'll
tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if
they all come up heads."
</p>
<p>
I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto the
floor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stacked
themselves into a neat pile.
</p>
<p>
I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took a
handful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.
</p>
<p>
These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,
the adjacent ones touching.
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said, "what more do you want?"
</p>
<p>
"Great Scott," he said, and sat down. "I suppose you know that
there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the
Universe—random and design. The sands on the beach are an example
of random distribution and life is an example of design. The motions
of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so
many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of
Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;
it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the other
hand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goes
against it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidental
manifestation."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean," I asked in some confusion, "that some form of life is
controlling the coins and—the other things?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He shook his head. "No. All I mean is that improbable things usually
have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,
I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the
book of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seems
to involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were you
still in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?"
</p>
<p>
"I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left."
</p>
<p>
"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?"
</p>
<p>
"Center of what?" I asked. "I feel as though I were the center of an
electrical storm. Something has it in for me!"
</p>
<p>
McGill grinned. "Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be
anthropomorphic."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life."
</p>
<p>
"On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions are
being rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's a
non-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder." He had a faraway,
frowning look.
</p>
<p>
I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go out and eat," I said, "There's not a damn thing in the
kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee."
</p>
<p>
We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, we
could hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,
by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and we
heard one of them say to Danny, "I don't know what the hell's going
on around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.
They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen
anything like it."
</p>
<p>
Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as they
tried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to let
the other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both had
embarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins were
replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.
</p>
<p>
"All right, smart guy!" they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,
only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous punches
which met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable bouts
ever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anything
else, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identical
excuses and threats.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. "You all right,
Mr. Graham?" he asked. "I don't know what's going on around here, but
ever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!"
he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. "Bring those dames over
here!"
</p>
<p>
Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellas
intertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing over
fenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; the
ladies seemed not to be.
</p>
<p>
"All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip!" one of them said. "Leave go of my
umbrella and we'll say no more about it!"
</p>
<p>
"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?" said her adversary.
</p>
<p>
The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella also
caught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which the
other two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,
but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it was
Molly. My nurse-wife.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Alec!" she said, and managed to detach herself. "Are you all
right?" Was
<i>
I
</i>
all right!
</p>
<p>
"Molly! What are you doing here?"
</p>
<p>
"I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what to
think." She pointed to the stalled cars. "Are you really all right?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I'm all right. But why...."
</p>
<p>
"The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother's
number and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it traced
and it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got a
busy signal. Oh, dear, are you
<i>
sure
</i>
you're all right?"
</p>
<p>
I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.
Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious cast
to it.
</p>
<p>
"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham," was all he said.
</p>
<p>
When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. "Explain to Molly," I said.
"And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet."
</p>
<p>
He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was
a jump ahead of him.
</p>
<p>
"In other words, you think it's something organic?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.
I'm not doing so well," he confessed.
</p>
<p>
"But so far as I can see," Molly answered, "it's mere probability, and
without any over-all pattern."
</p>
<p>
"Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. "Do you
<i>
feel
</i>
all right, darling?" she asked me. I nodded brightly. "You'll
think this silly of me," she went on to McGill, "but why isn't it
something like an overactive poltergeist?"
</p>
<p>
"Pure concept," he said. "No genuine evidence."
</p>
<p>
"Magnetism?"
</p>
<p>
"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't
magnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,
and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy has
mainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,
all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece of
iron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just stay
there, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more than
that—they go on moving."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?"
</p>
<p>
"Only an analogy," said McGill. "A crystal resembles life in that it
has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree
this—thing—has no discernible shape and motion
<i>
is
</i>
involved, but
plants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, but
it does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into a
non-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions and
it has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you might
call improbability."
</p>
<p>
Molly frowned. "Then what
<i>
is
</i>
it? What's it made of?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea about
the atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears to
be forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speck
of sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus of
crystallization."
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like the pearl in an oyster," Molly said, and gave me an
impertinent look.
</p>
<p>
"Why," I asked McGill, "did you say the coins couldn't have the same
date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way."
</p>
<p>
"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and
everything that's happened can all be described as improbable motions
here and now. The dates were already there, and to change them would
require retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.
That telephone now—"
</p>
<p>
The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephone
repairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.
</p>
<p>
"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister," he said with strong
disapproval.
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not," I said. "Is it broken?"
</p>
<p>
"Not exactly
<i>
broken
</i>
, but—" He shook his head and took it apart some
more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finally
the man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill tried
to explain to me what had happened with the phone.
</p>
<p>
"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the
receiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open."
</p>
<p>
"But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a long
time! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken her
nearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay."
</p>
<p>
"Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in the
floor—something like that—just happened to cause the right induction
impulses. Yes, I know how you feel," he said, seeing my expression.
"It's beginning to bear down."
</p>
<p>
Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was
so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.
</p>
<p>
"I'm in no mood to cook," she said. "Let's get away from all this."
</p>
<p>
McGill raised an eyebrow. "If all this, as you call it, will let us."
</p>
<p>
In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.
</p>
<p>
"I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,
I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,
but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved in
some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?"
</p>
<p>
"He's got a theory," said Molly. "Come and eat with us and he'll tell
you all about it."
</p>
<p>
Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on Sixth
Avenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less than
before and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,
and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the
lieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.
</p>
<p>
"If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham," Danny said, "it's at the
station house. What there's left of it, that is."
</p>
<p>
Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I felt
the speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet of
cigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. I
happened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. Before
I could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on the
sidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, but
said nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.
</p>
<p>
When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although it
didn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the door
and ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at the
next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green
evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter
returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold
cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait
for the fat lady.
</p>
<p>
I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been used
instead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, and
made faces.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to
the bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tasted
one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled
expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a
row of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.
</p>
<p>
That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothing
came out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.
Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with his
pick, his face pink with exasperation.
</p>
<p>
I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice
<i>
is
</i>
a
crystal, I thought to myself.
</p>
<p>
The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thing
happened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the bar
crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,
baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the
kitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,
which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had
grown larger.
</p>
<p>
Molly lit a cigarette and said, "I suppose this is all part of it,
Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here."
</p>
<p>
It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noise
had stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum of
the air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I made
a gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped her
cigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboring
vichyssoise.
</p>
<p>
"Hey! What's the idea?" snarled the sour-looking man.
</p>
<p>
"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was an accident. I—"
</p>
<p>
"Throwing cigarettes at people!" the fat lady said.
</p>
<p>
"I really didn't mean to," I began again, getting up. There must have
been a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuff
buttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closely
set tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,
ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.
</p>
<p>
The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man
licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The
owner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward us
with a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but I
was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) dishonest\n(B) respectable\n(C) enthusiastic\n(D) partier",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Science fiction; Chance -- Fiction; PS; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction"
} |
51330 | Which didn't distract Mr. Graham from getting dinner the first time?
Choices:
(A) his wife coming home early
(B) his telephone was broken
(C) watching two men fight on the sidewalk
(D) another encounter with the police officer | [
"B",
"his telephone was broken"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
I am a Nucleus
</h1>
<p>
By STEPHEN BARR
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian
<br/>
sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had
<br/>
suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten
down, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, which
had an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtown
temperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, but
according to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got
dressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that my
wife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.
</p>
<p>
What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumed
the carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! The
ashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still the
place looked wife-deserted.
</p>
<p>
It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'd
had to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios I
write for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrella
when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost
tropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and a
woman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.
</p>
<p>
"Madison and Fifty-fourth," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Right," said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then go
on grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. "Sorry, Mac.
You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting."
</p>
<p>
If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper over
my hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic held
me up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,
just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got one
which exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thing
happened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rain
had stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation where
they were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was the
usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,
a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.
While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I was
able to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the size
of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,
and then his chattering drill hit it.
</p>
<p>
There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him on
his back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At the
moment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—I
felt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on my
hand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, the
bleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought some
pink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, I
found that I had missed the story conference.
</p>
<p>
During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase "I'm just
spitballing" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,
"The whole ball of wax," twelve times. However, my story had been
accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the
conference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,
the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which
rung of the ladder you have achieved.
</p>
<p>
The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to the
apartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standing
there talking to the doorman.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it
at your office building." I looked blank and he explained, "We just
heard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammed
at the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it."
</p>
<p>
Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. "That's right, Danny, I
just missed it," I said, and went on in.
</p>
<p>
Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on the
other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and
except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going
on.
</p>
<p>
I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread the
directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until
she got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.
How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick and
such. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convinced
that I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for the
reasons she supposes.
</p>
<p>
I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: "When
you take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,
too."
</p>
<p>
Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in
front of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberate
me from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.
When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on the
manuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. The
pencil was standing on its end.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hear
about, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and drank
some of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from the
muggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapter
to try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the last
sentence.
</p>
<p>
Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.
My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly's
notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticed
one that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: "Garbage
picked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. I
love you." What can you do when the girl loves you?
</p>
<p>
I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room window
at the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick was
exercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to be
allowed to perch, but were not allowed to.
</p>
<p>
Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so that
their wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinking
about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,
they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they all
wanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided and
fell.
</p>
<p>
The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds and
picked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,
stroking its feathers.
</p>
<p>
My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident were
interrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building is
usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like
an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that
of my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and has
never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late
afternoon.
</p>
<p>
"You can't say a thing like that to me!" I heard him shout. "I tell you
I got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we started
to play!"
</p>
<p>
Several other loud voices started at the same time.
</p>
<p>
"Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, and only when you were dealer!"
</p>
<p>
The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened the
door to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confronting
him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the
impulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and he
looked stunned.
</p>
<p>
"Here!" he said, holding out a deck of cards, "For Pete's sake, look at
'em yourselves if you think they're marked!"
</p>
<p>
The nearest man struck them up from his hand. "Okay, Houdini! So
they're not marked! All I know is five straight...."
</p>
<p>
His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cards
on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the
rest face up—all red.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived and
the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,
got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatly
arranged cards.
</p>
<p>
"Judas!" he said, and started to pick them up. "Will you look at that!
My God, what a session...."
</p>
<p>
I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,
but I had an idea what I would hear.
</p>
<p>
After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.
</p>
<p>
"Never seen anything to equal it," he said. "Wouldn't have believed
it. Those guys
<i>
didn't
</i>
believe it. Every round normal, nothing
unusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sort
of thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be
<i>
my
</i>
deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,
somebody else has four aces...."
</p>
<p>
He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. There
was one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the top
broke and glass chips got into the bottle.
</p>
<p>
"I'll have to go down for more soda," I said.
</p>
<p>
"I'll come, too. I need air."
</p>
<p>
At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles in
what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the
top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the
tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from
at least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice and
I was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouth
open and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with his
mouth open.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tie
his shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxi
swerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,
its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreign
cars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without any
side-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming to
rest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at that
moment.
</p>
<p>
The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he and
the taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arranged
crosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move either
forward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxi
to a lamp.
</p>
<p>
Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time at
all, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.
Everyone was honking his horn.
</p>
<p>
Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his
station house from the box opposite.
</p>
<p>
It was out of order.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed the
windows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat had
brightened up considerably.
</p>
<p>
"I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office," he said.
"You know, I think this would make an item for the paper." He grinned
and nodded toward the pandemonium.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desk
lamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, except
one. That was tied in three knots.
</p>
<p>
All
<i>
right
</i>
, I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time had
come for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to call
McGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a university
uptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe he
knows everything.
</p>
<p>
When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,
<i>
more
</i>
trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill's
voice said, "Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were
connected. That's a damn funny coincidence."
</p>
<p>
"Not in the least," I said. "Come on over here. I've got something for
you to work on."
</p>
<p>
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—"
</p>
<p>
"Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent."
</p>
<p>
"At once," he said, and hung up.
</p>
<p>
While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs of
my novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to a
point where I was about to put down the word "agurgling," I decided it
was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter
"R." Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step to
the side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.
</p>
<p>
This was absolutely not my day.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "nothing you've told me is impossible or
supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against
that poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.
It's all those other things...."
</p>
<p>
He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilight
while I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.
</p>
<p>
"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at
what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,
and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that
you're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion." I started
to get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. "I know, but don't
you see that that is far more likely than...." He stopped and shook
his head. Then he brightened. "I have an idea. Maybe we can have a
demonstration."
</p>
<p>
He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. "Have you any
change on you?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes," I said. "Quite a bit." I reached into my pocket. There
must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. "Do you think
they'll each have the same date, perhaps?"
</p>
<p>
"Did you accumulate all that change today?"
</p>
<p>
"No. During the week."
</p>
<p>
He shook his head. "In that case, no. Discounting the fact that you
could have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, that
would be
<i>
actually
</i>
impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'll
tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if
they all come up heads."
</p>
<p>
I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto the
floor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stacked
themselves into a neat pile.
</p>
<p>
I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took a
handful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.
</p>
<p>
These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,
the adjacent ones touching.
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said, "what more do you want?"
</p>
<p>
"Great Scott," he said, and sat down. "I suppose you know that
there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the
Universe—random and design. The sands on the beach are an example
of random distribution and life is an example of design. The motions
of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so
many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of
Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;
it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the other
hand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goes
against it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidental
manifestation."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean," I asked in some confusion, "that some form of life is
controlling the coins and—the other things?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He shook his head. "No. All I mean is that improbable things usually
have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,
I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the
book of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seems
to involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were you
still in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?"
</p>
<p>
"I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left."
</p>
<p>
"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?"
</p>
<p>
"Center of what?" I asked. "I feel as though I were the center of an
electrical storm. Something has it in for me!"
</p>
<p>
McGill grinned. "Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be
anthropomorphic."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life."
</p>
<p>
"On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions are
being rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's a
non-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder." He had a faraway,
frowning look.
</p>
<p>
I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go out and eat," I said, "There's not a damn thing in the
kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee."
</p>
<p>
We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, we
could hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,
by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and we
heard one of them say to Danny, "I don't know what the hell's going
on around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.
They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen
anything like it."
</p>
<p>
Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as they
tried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to let
the other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both had
embarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins were
replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.
</p>
<p>
"All right, smart guy!" they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,
only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous punches
which met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable bouts
ever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anything
else, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identical
excuses and threats.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. "You all right,
Mr. Graham?" he asked. "I don't know what's going on around here, but
ever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!"
he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. "Bring those dames over
here!"
</p>
<p>
Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellas
intertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing over
fenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; the
ladies seemed not to be.
</p>
<p>
"All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip!" one of them said. "Leave go of my
umbrella and we'll say no more about it!"
</p>
<p>
"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?" said her adversary.
</p>
<p>
The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella also
caught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which the
other two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,
but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it was
Molly. My nurse-wife.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Alec!" she said, and managed to detach herself. "Are you all
right?" Was
<i>
I
</i>
all right!
</p>
<p>
"Molly! What are you doing here?"
</p>
<p>
"I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what to
think." She pointed to the stalled cars. "Are you really all right?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I'm all right. But why...."
</p>
<p>
"The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother's
number and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it traced
and it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got a
busy signal. Oh, dear, are you
<i>
sure
</i>
you're all right?"
</p>
<p>
I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.
Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious cast
to it.
</p>
<p>
"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham," was all he said.
</p>
<p>
When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. "Explain to Molly," I said.
"And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet."
</p>
<p>
He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was
a jump ahead of him.
</p>
<p>
"In other words, you think it's something organic?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.
I'm not doing so well," he confessed.
</p>
<p>
"But so far as I can see," Molly answered, "it's mere probability, and
without any over-all pattern."
</p>
<p>
"Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. "Do you
<i>
feel
</i>
all right, darling?" she asked me. I nodded brightly. "You'll
think this silly of me," she went on to McGill, "but why isn't it
something like an overactive poltergeist?"
</p>
<p>
"Pure concept," he said. "No genuine evidence."
</p>
<p>
"Magnetism?"
</p>
<p>
"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't
magnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,
and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy has
mainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,
all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece of
iron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just stay
there, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more than
that—they go on moving."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?"
</p>
<p>
"Only an analogy," said McGill. "A crystal resembles life in that it
has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree
this—thing—has no discernible shape and motion
<i>
is
</i>
involved, but
plants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, but
it does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into a
non-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions and
it has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you might
call improbability."
</p>
<p>
Molly frowned. "Then what
<i>
is
</i>
it? What's it made of?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea about
the atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears to
be forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speck
of sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus of
crystallization."
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like the pearl in an oyster," Molly said, and gave me an
impertinent look.
</p>
<p>
"Why," I asked McGill, "did you say the coins couldn't have the same
date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way."
</p>
<p>
"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and
everything that's happened can all be described as improbable motions
here and now. The dates were already there, and to change them would
require retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.
That telephone now—"
</p>
<p>
The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephone
repairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.
</p>
<p>
"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister," he said with strong
disapproval.
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not," I said. "Is it broken?"
</p>
<p>
"Not exactly
<i>
broken
</i>
, but—" He shook his head and took it apart some
more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finally
the man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill tried
to explain to me what had happened with the phone.
</p>
<p>
"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the
receiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open."
</p>
<p>
"But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a long
time! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken her
nearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay."
</p>
<p>
"Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in the
floor—something like that—just happened to cause the right induction
impulses. Yes, I know how you feel," he said, seeing my expression.
"It's beginning to bear down."
</p>
<p>
Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was
so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.
</p>
<p>
"I'm in no mood to cook," she said. "Let's get away from all this."
</p>
<p>
McGill raised an eyebrow. "If all this, as you call it, will let us."
</p>
<p>
In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.
</p>
<p>
"I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,
I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,
but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved in
some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?"
</p>
<p>
"He's got a theory," said Molly. "Come and eat with us and he'll tell
you all about it."
</p>
<p>
Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on Sixth
Avenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less than
before and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,
and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the
lieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.
</p>
<p>
"If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham," Danny said, "it's at the
station house. What there's left of it, that is."
</p>
<p>
Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I felt
the speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet of
cigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. I
happened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. Before
I could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on the
sidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, but
said nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.
</p>
<p>
When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although it
didn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the door
and ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at the
next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green
evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter
returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold
cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait
for the fat lady.
</p>
<p>
I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been used
instead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, and
made faces.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to
the bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tasted
one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled
expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a
row of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.
</p>
<p>
That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothing
came out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.
Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with his
pick, his face pink with exasperation.
</p>
<p>
I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice
<i>
is
</i>
a
crystal, I thought to myself.
</p>
<p>
The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thing
happened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the bar
crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,
baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the
kitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,
which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had
grown larger.
</p>
<p>
Molly lit a cigarette and said, "I suppose this is all part of it,
Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here."
</p>
<p>
It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noise
had stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum of
the air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I made
a gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped her
cigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboring
vichyssoise.
</p>
<p>
"Hey! What's the idea?" snarled the sour-looking man.
</p>
<p>
"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was an accident. I—"
</p>
<p>
"Throwing cigarettes at people!" the fat lady said.
</p>
<p>
"I really didn't mean to," I began again, getting up. There must have
been a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuff
buttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closely
set tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,
ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.
</p>
<p>
The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man
licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The
owner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward us
with a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but I
was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) his wife coming home early\n(B) his telephone was broken\n(C) watching two men fight on the sidewalk\n(D) another encounter with the police officer",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Science fiction; Chance -- Fiction; PS; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction"
} |
51330 | Who seemed to get the least annoyed at the restaurant?
Choices:
(A) the man who ordered cold cuts
(B) the lady in the evening gown
(C) the waiter
(D) the bartender | [
"C",
"the waiter"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
I am a Nucleus
</h1>
<p>
By STEPHEN BARR
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian
<br/>
sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had
<br/>
suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beaten
down, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, which
had an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtown
temperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, but
according to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I got
dressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that my
wife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.
</p>
<p>
What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumed
the carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! The
ashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still the
place looked wife-deserted.
</p>
<p>
It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'd
had to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios I
write for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrella
when I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almost
tropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and a
woman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.
</p>
<p>
"Madison and Fifty-fourth," I said.
</p>
<p>
"Right," said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then go
on grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. "Sorry, Mac.
You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting."
</p>
<p>
If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper over
my hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic held
me up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,
just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got one
which exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thing
happened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rain
had stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation where
they were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was the
usual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,
a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.
While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I was
able to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the size
of an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,
and then his chattering drill hit it.
</p>
<p>
There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him on
his back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At the
moment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—I
felt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on my
hand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, the
bleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought some
pink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, I
found that I had missed the story conference.
</p>
<p>
During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase "I'm just
spitballing" eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,
"The whole ball of wax," twelve times. However, my story had been
accepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from the
conference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,
the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon which
rung of the ladder you have achieved.
</p>
<p>
The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to the
apartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standing
there talking to the doorman.
</p>
<p>
He said, "Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed it
at your office building." I looked blank and he explained, "We just
heard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammed
at the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it."
</p>
<p>
Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. "That's right, Danny, I
just missed it," I said, and went on in.
</p>
<p>
Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on the
other hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, and
except for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been going
on.
</p>
<p>
I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread the
directions Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself until
she got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.
How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick and
such. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convinced
that I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for the
reasons she supposes.
</p>
<p>
I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: "When
you take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,
too."
</p>
<p>
Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down in
front of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberate
me from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.
When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on the
manuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. The
pencil was standing on its end.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hear
about, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and drank
some of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from the
muggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapter
to try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the last
sentence.
</p>
<p>
Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.
My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly's
notes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticed
one that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: "Garbage
picked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. I
love you." What can you do when the girl loves you?
</p>
<p>
I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room window
at the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick was
exercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to be
allowed to perch, but were not allowed to.
</p>
<p>
Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so that
their wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinking
about this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,
they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they all
wanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided and
fell.
</p>
<p>
The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds and
picked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,
stroking its feathers.
</p>
<p>
My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident were
interrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building is
usually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded like
an incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized that
of my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and has
never, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the late
afternoon.
</p>
<p>
"You can't say a thing like that to me!" I heard him shout. "I tell you
I got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we started
to play!"
</p>
<p>
Several other loud voices started at the same time.
</p>
<p>
"Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!"
</p>
<p>
"Yeah, and only when you were dealer!"
</p>
<p>
The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened the
door to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confronting
him, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and the
impulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and he
looked stunned.
</p>
<p>
"Here!" he said, holding out a deck of cards, "For Pete's sake, look at
'em yourselves if you think they're marked!"
</p>
<p>
The nearest man struck them up from his hand. "Okay, Houdini! So
they're not marked! All I know is five straight...."
</p>
<p>
His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cards
on the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and the
rest face up—all red.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived and
the four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,
got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatly
arranged cards.
</p>
<p>
"Judas!" he said, and started to pick them up. "Will you look at that!
My God, what a session...."
</p>
<p>
I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,
but I had an idea what I would hear.
</p>
<p>
After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.
</p>
<p>
"Never seen anything to equal it," he said. "Wouldn't have believed
it. Those guys
<i>
didn't
</i>
believe it. Every round normal, nothing
unusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sort
of thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be
<i>
my
</i>
deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,
somebody else has four aces...."
</p>
<p>
He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. There
was one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the top
broke and glass chips got into the bottle.
</p>
<p>
"I'll have to go down for more soda," I said.
</p>
<p>
"I'll come, too. I need air."
</p>
<p>
At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles in
what must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over the
top of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto the
tile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been from
at least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice and
I was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouth
open and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with his
mouth open.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tie
his shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxi
swerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,
its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreign
cars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without any
side-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming to
rest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at that
moment.
</p>
<p>
The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he and
the taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arranged
crosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move either
forward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxi
to a lamp.
</p>
<p>
Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time at
all, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.
Everyone was honking his horn.
</p>
<p>
Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to his
station house from the box opposite.
</p>
<p>
It was out of order.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed the
windows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat had
brightened up considerably.
</p>
<p>
"I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office," he said.
"You know, I think this would make an item for the paper." He grinned
and nodded toward the pandemonium.
</p>
<p>
When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desk
lamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, except
one. That was tied in three knots.
</p>
<p>
All
<i>
right
</i>
, I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time had
come for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to call
McGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a university
uptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe he
knows everything.
</p>
<p>
When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,
<i>
more
</i>
trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill's
voice said, "Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we were
connected. That's a damn funny coincidence."
</p>
<p>
"Not in the least," I said. "Come on over here. I've got something for
you to work on."
</p>
<p>
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—"
</p>
<p>
"Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent."
</p>
<p>
"At once," he said, and hung up.
</p>
<p>
While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs of
my novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to a
point where I was about to put down the word "agurgling," I decided it
was too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letter
"R." Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step to
the side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.
</p>
<p>
This was absolutely not my day.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "nothing you've told me is impossible or
supernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds against
that poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.
It's all those other things...."
</p>
<p>
He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilight
while I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.
</p>
<p>
"Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense at
what I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,
and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view that
you're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion." I started
to get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. "I know, but don't
you see that that is far more likely than...." He stopped and shook
his head. Then he brightened. "I have an idea. Maybe we can have a
demonstration."
</p>
<p>
He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. "Have you any
change on you?"
</p>
<p>
"Why, yes," I said. "Quite a bit." I reached into my pocket. There
must have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. "Do you think
they'll each have the same date, perhaps?"
</p>
<p>
"Did you accumulate all that change today?"
</p>
<p>
"No. During the week."
</p>
<p>
He shook his head. "In that case, no. Discounting the fact that you
could have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, that
would be
<i>
actually
</i>
impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'll
tell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see if
they all come up heads."
</p>
<p>
I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto the
floor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stacked
themselves into a neat pile.
</p>
<p>
I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took a
handful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.
</p>
<p>
These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,
the adjacent ones touching.
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said, "what more do you want?"
</p>
<p>
"Great Scott," he said, and sat down. "I suppose you know that
there are two great apparently opposite principles governing the
Universe—random and design. The sands on the beach are an example
of random distribution and life is an example of design. The motions
of the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are so
many of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law of
Thermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;
it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the other
hand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goes
against it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidental
manifestation."
</p>
<p>
"Do you mean," I asked in some confusion, "that some form of life is
controlling the coins and—the other things?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He shook his head. "No. All I mean is that improbable things usually
have improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,
I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of the
book of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seems
to involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were you
still in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?"
</p>
<p>
"I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left."
</p>
<p>
"Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?"
</p>
<p>
"Center of what?" I asked. "I feel as though I were the center of an
electrical storm. Something has it in for me!"
</p>
<p>
McGill grinned. "Don't be superstitious. And especially don't be
anthropomorphic."
</p>
<p>
"Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life."
</p>
<p>
"On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions are
being rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's a
non-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder." He had a faraway,
frowning look.
</p>
<p>
I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.
</p>
<p>
"Let's go out and eat," I said, "There's not a damn thing in the
kitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee."
</p>
<p>
We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, we
could hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,
by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and we
heard one of them say to Danny, "I don't know what the hell's going
on around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.
They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seen
anything like it."
</p>
<p>
Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as they
tried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to let
the other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both had
embarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins were
replaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.
</p>
<p>
"All right, smart guy!" they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,
only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous punches
which met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable bouts
ever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anything
else, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identical
excuses and threats.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. "You all right,
Mr. Graham?" he asked. "I don't know what's going on around here, but
ever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!"
he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. "Bring those dames over
here!"
</p>
<p>
Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellas
intertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing over
fenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; the
ladies seemed not to be.
</p>
<p>
"All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip!" one of them said. "Leave go of my
umbrella and we'll say no more about it!"
</p>
<p>
"And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it?" said her adversary.
</p>
<p>
The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella also
caught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which the
other two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,
but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it was
Molly. My nurse-wife.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, Alec!" she said, and managed to detach herself. "Are you all
right?" Was
<i>
I
</i>
all right!
</p>
<p>
"Molly! What are you doing here?"
</p>
<p>
"I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what to
think." She pointed to the stalled cars. "Are you really all right?"
</p>
<p>
"Of course I'm all right. But why...."
</p>
<p>
"The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother's
number and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it traced
and it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got a
busy signal. Oh, dear, are you
<i>
sure
</i>
you're all right?"
</p>
<p>
I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.
Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious cast
to it.
</p>
<p>
"Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham," was all he said.
</p>
<p>
When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. "Explain to Molly," I said.
"And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet."
</p>
<p>
He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she was
a jump ahead of him.
</p>
<p>
"In other words, you think it's something organic?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," McGill said, "I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.
I'm not doing so well," he confessed.
</p>
<p>
"But so far as I can see," Molly answered, "it's mere probability, and
without any over-all pattern."
</p>
<p>
"Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. "Do you
<i>
feel
</i>
all right, darling?" she asked me. I nodded brightly. "You'll
think this silly of me," she went on to McGill, "but why isn't it
something like an overactive poltergeist?"
</p>
<p>
"Pure concept," he said. "No genuine evidence."
</p>
<p>
"Magnetism?"
</p>
<p>
"Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren't
magnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,
and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy has
mainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,
all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece of
iron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just stay
there, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more than
that—they go on moving."
</p>
<p>
"Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?"
</p>
<p>
"Only an analogy," said McGill. "A crystal resembles life in that it
has a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agree
this—thing—has no discernible shape and motion
<i>
is
</i>
involved, but
plants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, but
it does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into a
non-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions and
it has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you might
call improbability."
</p>
<p>
Molly frowned. "Then what
<i>
is
</i>
it? What's it made of?"
</p>
<p>
"I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea about
the atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears to
be forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speck
of sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus of
crystallization."
</p>
<p>
"Sounds like the pearl in an oyster," Molly said, and gave me an
impertinent look.
</p>
<p>
"Why," I asked McGill, "did you say the coins couldn't have the same
date? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way."
</p>
<p>
"Because I don't think this thing got going before today and
everything that's happened can all be described as improbable motions
here and now. The dates were already there, and to change them would
require retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.
That telephone now—"
</p>
<p>
The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephone
repairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.
</p>
<p>
"I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister," he said with strong
disapproval.
</p>
<p>
"Certainly not," I said. "Is it broken?"
</p>
<p>
"Not exactly
<i>
broken
</i>
, but—" He shook his head and took it apart some
more.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finally
the man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill tried
to explain to me what had happened with the phone.
</p>
<p>
"You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced the
receiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open."
</p>
<p>
"But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a long
time! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken her
nearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay."
</p>
<p>
"Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in the
floor—something like that—just happened to cause the right induction
impulses. Yes, I know how you feel," he said, seeing my expression.
"It's beginning to bear down."
</p>
<p>
Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I was
so pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.
</p>
<p>
"I'm in no mood to cook," she said. "Let's get away from all this."
</p>
<p>
McGill raised an eyebrow. "If all this, as you call it, will let us."
</p>
<p>
In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.
</p>
<p>
"I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,
I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,
but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved in
some mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?"
</p>
<p>
"He's got a theory," said Molly. "Come and eat with us and he'll tell
you all about it."
</p>
<p>
Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on Sixth
Avenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less than
before and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,
and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made the
lieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.
</p>
<p>
"If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham," Danny said, "it's at the
station house. What there's left of it, that is."
</p>
<p>
Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I felt
the speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet of
cigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. I
happened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. Before
I could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on the
sidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, but
said nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.
</p>
<p>
When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although it
didn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the door
and ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at the
next table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant green
evening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiter
returned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: cold
cuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfait
for the fat lady.
</p>
<p>
I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been used
instead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, and
made faces.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back to
the bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tasted
one of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzled
expression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out a
row of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.
</p>
<p>
That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothing
came out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.
Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with his
pick, his face pink with exasperation.
</p>
<p>
I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice
<i>
is
</i>
a
crystal, I thought to myself.
</p>
<p>
The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thing
happened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the bar
crowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,
baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to the
kitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,
which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience had
grown larger.
</p>
<p>
Molly lit a cigarette and said, "I suppose this is all part of it,
Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here."
</p>
<p>
It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noise
had stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum of
the air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I made
a gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped her
cigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboring
vichyssoise.
</p>
<p>
"Hey! What's the idea?" snarled the sour-looking man.
</p>
<p>
"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was an accident. I—"
</p>
<p>
"Throwing cigarettes at people!" the fat lady said.
</p>
<p>
"I really didn't mean to," I began again, getting up. There must have
been a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuff
buttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closely
set tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,
ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.
</p>
<p>
The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The man
licked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. The
owner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward us
with a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but I
was outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) the man who ordered cold cuts\n(B) the lady in the evening gown\n(C) the waiter\n(D) the bartender",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Science fiction; Chance -- Fiction; PS; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction"
} |
51129 | What wasn't something unheard of that the Earthmen brought to Zur?
Choices:
(A) the idea of credit
(B) new roads
(C) government
(D) metal pots | [
"C",
"government"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A Gift From Earth
</h1>
<p>
By MANLY BANISTER
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by KOSSIN
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Except for transportation, it was absolutely
<br/>
free ... but how much would the freight cost?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"It is an outrage," said Koltan of the House of Masur, "that the
Earthmen land among the Thorabians!"
</p>
<p>
Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, he
was in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.
</p>
<p>
At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in his
dotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to the
Pottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more and
he knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldest
and Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, their
treasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last in
the rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.
</p>
<p>
"Behold, my sons," said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. "What are
these Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strength
and our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen may
come and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, the
fame and fortune of the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"It
<i>
is
</i>
a damned imposition," agreed Morvan, ignoring his father's
philosophical attitude. "They could have landed just as easily here in
Lor."
</p>
<p>
"The Thorabians will lick up the gravy," said Singula, whose mind ran
rather to matters of financial aspect, "and leave us the grease."
</p>
<p>
By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,
which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were panting
to get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, a
very scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept his
own counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enough
for him. He would report when the time was ripe.
</p>
<p>
"Doubtless," said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conference
was expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of his
elders, "the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in building
that ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only means
of transport."
</p>
<p>
Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secret
conclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.
The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,
remember your position in the family."
</p>
<p>
Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.
</p>
<p>
"Listen to the boy," said the aged father. "There is more wisdom in his
head than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only of
the clay."
</p>
<p>
Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned him
a beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enough
thing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated in
their desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and they
did.
</p>
<p>
Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thought
about the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the way
of metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he could
figure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation of
his brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, of
course, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strange
metal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of the
city, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all of
tile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all the
people to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had much
too quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much to
be desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.
</p>
<p>
The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world of
Zur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of all
Zurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, in
effect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,
for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him a
whaling for it.
</p>
<p>
There was also some talk going around about agreements made between
the Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard one
thing one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less a
newspaper, was unknown on Zur.
</p>
<p>
Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,
none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any had
tried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there is
always an "anti" faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowed
happily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.
</p>
<p>
Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of ships
arrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur was
practically acrawl with Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
Immediately, the Earthmen established what they called
"corporations"—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. The
object of the visit was trade.
</p>
<p>
In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zurian
city of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it took
some time for the news to spread.
</p>
<p>
The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from the
pottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing an
aluminum pot at him.
</p>
<p>
"What is that thing?" he asked curiously.
</p>
<p>
"A pot. I bought it at the market."
</p>
<p>
"Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend my
substance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, I
say!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The pretty young wife laughed at him. "Up to your ears in clay, no
wonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmen
are selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old clay
pots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break when
dropped."
</p>
<p>
"What good is it?" asked Zotul, interested. "How will it hold heat,
being so light?"
</p>
<p>
"The Earthmen don't cook as we do," she explained patiently. "There is
a paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will have
to design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on."
</p>
<p>
"Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a new
type of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why do
you need a whole new stove for one little pot?"
</p>
<p>
"A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltan
will have to produce the new stove because all the housewives are
buying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthman
said so."
</p>
<p>
"He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough go
back to cooking with your old ones."
</p>
<p>
"The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are so
cheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and you
will have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to use
them."
</p>
<p>
After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotul
stamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that would
accommodate the terrestrial pots very well.
</p>
<p>
And Koltan put the model into production.
</p>
<p>
"Orders already are pouring in like mad," he said the next day. "It
was wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I am
sorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend to
do well by us."
</p>
<p>
The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up with
the demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than a
million had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting the
hundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in every
land.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.
One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had ever
dreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust of
the Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured from
it in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on its
scanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome by
the novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorian
language—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of the
brothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.
</p>
<p>
Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enough
in value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set up
telegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.
Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every major
city on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyed
the instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the business
of the House of Masur continued to look up.
</p>
<p>
"As I have always said from the beginning," chortled Director Koltan,
"this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, and
especially for the House of Masur."
</p>
<p>
"You didn't think so at first," Zotul pointed out, and was immediately
sorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for his
unthinkable impertinence.
</p>
<p>
It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that their
production of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two per
cent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stoves
greatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; but
their business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots from
Earth.
</p>
<p>
About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—made
their appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with the
newfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because for
everything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.
What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. They
destroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.
</p>
<p>
The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale of
Masur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltan
called an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of his
senile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old man
might still have a little wit left that could be helpful.
</p>
<p>
"Note," Koltan announced in a shaky voice, "that the Earthmen undermine
our business," and he read off the figures.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps," said Zotul, "it is a good thing also, as you said before,
and will result in something even better for us."
</p>
<p>
Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantly
subsided.
</p>
<p>
"They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferior
terrestrial junk," Koltan went on bitterly. "It is only the glamor that
sells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of their
eyes, we can be ruined."
</p>
<p>
The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the while
Father Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they got
nowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
</p>
<p>
"My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottom
of your trouble, but the
<i>
things
</i>
of Earth. Think of the telegraph and
the newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.
The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of these
newspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people are
intrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock to
buy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, you
might also have advertisements of your own."
</p>
<p>
Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertising
from the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by the
advertisements of the Earthmen.
</p>
<p>
In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, the
brothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, several
things had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortal
rest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen had
procured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of which
they found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. What
they did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discovered
in the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, working
under supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oil
regions to every major and minor city on Zur.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the first
terrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business in
gas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove business
was gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gas
at a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except the
brothers Masur.
</p>
<p>
The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making an
energetic protest to the governor of Lor.
</p>
<p>
At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmen
for a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it and
departed from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House of
Masur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed that
much new building was taking place and wondered what it was.
</p>
<p>
"Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure," said Koltan
blackly.
</p>
<p>
In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radio
receiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron was
loaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and other
radio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with the
natural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—with
commercials.
</p>
<p>
Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time or
they would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.
</p>
<p>
"I think," the governor told them, "that you gentlemen have not
paused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to be
modern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doing
all in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing a
great, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed in
ten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know they
are even bringing
<i>
autos
</i>
to Zur!"
</p>
<p>
The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of these
hitherto unheard-of vehicles.
</p>
<p>
"It only remains," concluded the governor, "to build highways, and the
Earthmen are taking care of that."
</p>
<p>
At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselves
that they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for houses
and street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the new
highways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be made
yet.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The people
bought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highways
were constructed.
</p>
<p>
The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plants
and began to manufacture Portland cement.
</p>
<p>
You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Of
course, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for either
tile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuff
made far better road surfacing.
</p>
<p>
The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.
</p>
<p>
The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, "I cannot
handle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the Merchandising
Council."
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Koltan.
</p>
<p>
"It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such as
yours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strain
in the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal with
it. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them."
</p>
<p>
The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers to
Zotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to calling
him in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.
</p>
<p>
All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for the
purpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, they
had to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.
</p>
<p>
Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicated
on their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was not
surprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down to
make room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, paved
with something called "blacktop" and jammed with an array of glittering
new automobiles.
</p>
<p>
An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, now
that they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul ached
with desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them and
they were the envied ones of Zur.
</p>
<p>
Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook hands
jovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took a
better look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individual
with genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed in
the baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except for
an indefinite sense of alienness about him.
</p>
<p>
"Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur," boomed the Earthman, clapping
Zotul on the back. "Just tell us your troubles and we'll have you
straightened out in no time."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for this
occasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.
</p>
<p>
Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had been
made upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.
</p>
<p>
"Once," he said formally, "the Masur fortune was the greatest in
the world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous Kalrab
Masur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greater
reward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh and
bones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how prone
is the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, and
all because of new things coming from Earth."
</p>
<p>
Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. "Why didn't you come
to me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,
we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always to
do right by the customer."
</p>
<p>
"Divinity witness," Zorin said, "that we ask only compensation for
damages."
</p>
<p>
Broderick shook his head. "It is not possible to replace an immense
fortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported your
trouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Do
you own an automobile?"
</p>
<p>
"No."
</p>
<p>
"A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?"
</p>
<p>
Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. "My wife Lania likes
the music," he explained. "I cannot afford the other things."
</p>
<p>
Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford the
bargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.
</p>
<p>
"To begin with," he said, "I am going to make you a gift of all these
luxuries you do not have." As Zotul made to protest, he cut him off
with a wave of his hand. "It is the least we can do for you. Pick a car
from the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things delivered
and installed in your home."
</p>
<p>
"To receive gifts," said Zotul, "incurs an obligation."
</p>
<p>
"None at all," beamed the Earthman cheerily. "Every item is given to
you absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask is
that you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not to
make profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout the
Galaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working out
the full program takes time."
</p>
<p>
He chuckled deeply. "We of Earth have a saying about one of our
extremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,
but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with the
motto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, it
was no more than fair to pay transportation.
</p>
<p>
He said, "How much does the freight cost?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick told him.
</p>
<p>
"It may seem high," said the Earthman, "but remember that Earth is
sixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of the
merchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, considering
the cost of operating an interstellar spaceship."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible," said Zotul drably. "Not I and all my brothers together
have so much money any more."
</p>
<p>
"You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer you
credit!"
</p>
<p>
"What is that?" asked Zotul skeptically.
</p>
<p>
"It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of the
rich," said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of the
involutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles that
might have had a discouraging effect.
</p>
<p>
On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.
Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. "What must I do
to get credit?"
</p>
<p>
"Just sign this paper," said Broderick, "and you become part of our
Easy Payment Plan."
</p>
<p>
Zotul drew back. "I have five brothers. If I took all these things for
myself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue."
</p>
<p>
"Here." Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. "Have each
of your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That is
all there is to it."
</p>
<p>
It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotul
wrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.
</p>
<p>
"I will talk it over with them," he said. "Give me the total so I will
have the figures."
</p>
<p>
The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotul
pointed this out politely.
</p>
<p>
"Interest," Broderick explained. "A mere fifteen per cent. After all,
you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to be
paid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.
This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble."
</p>
<p>
"I see." Zotul puzzled over it sadly. "It is too much," he said. "Our
plant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments."
</p>
<p>
"I have a surprise for you," smiled Broderick. "Here is a contract. You
will start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certain
parts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage local
manufacture to help bring prices down."
</p>
<p>
"We haven't the equipment."
</p>
<p>
"We will equip your plant," beamed Broderick. "It will require only
a quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrial
company."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,
won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarter
interest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.
These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.
</p>
<p>
The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but the
Earthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.
</p>
<p>
For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on the
new concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by a
terrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn from
the crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.
The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,
served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In the
winter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, though
they had gas-fired central heating.
</p>
<p>
About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electric
generators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood of
electrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,
batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had to
buy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?
</p>
<p>
The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.
They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electric
fans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth could
possibly sell them.
</p>
<p>
"We will be forty years paying it all off," exulted Zotul, "but
meantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?"
</p>
<p>
But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.
The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. The
Earthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own because
it was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth's
unswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.
Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.
</p>
<p>
The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The sets
were delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own and
maintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earth
had them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,
but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.
</p>
<p>
The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lush
business.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decade
and a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on this
backward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise was
slow, but it was extremely sure.
</p>
<p>
The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had less
money and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but television
kept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for the
pangs of impoverishment.
</p>
<p>
The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotul
designed and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikons
were a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and sold
them for less.
</p>
<p>
The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy any
more, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.
</p>
<p>
"You got us into this," they said, emphasizing their bitterness with
fists. "Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have some
contracts to continue operating."
</p>
<p>
Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.
Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.
Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.
</p>
<p>
Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hint
of toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.
</p>
<p>
"So you can't pay," he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. He
looked at Zotul coldly. "It is well you have come to us instead of
making it necessary for us to approach you through the courts."
</p>
<p>
"I don't know what you mean," said Zotul.
</p>
<p>
"If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everything
attached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they are
attached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. We
will only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of your
pottery to us."
</p>
<p>
The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think of
beating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and was
somewhat comforted.
</p>
<p>
"To fail," said Koltan soberly, "is not a Masur attribute. Go to the
governor and tell him what we think of this business. The House of
Masur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it is
time for the government to do something for us."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene of
confusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application for
an interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. It
was remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the female
terrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian men
covetous and Zurian women envious.
</p>
<p>
"The governor will see you," she said sweetly. "He has been expecting
you."
</p>
<p>
"Me?" marveled Zotul.
</p>
<p>
She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governor
of Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with a
friendly smile.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again."
</p>
<p>
Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,
the Earthman.
</p>
<p>
"I—I came to see the governor," he said in confusion.
</p>
<p>
Broderick nodded agreeably. "I am the governor and I am well acquainted
with your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down."
</p>
<p>
"I don't understand. The Earthmen...." Zotul paused, coloring. "We are
about to lose our plant."
</p>
<p>
"You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant away
from you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest and
richest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact."
</p>
<p>
"What do you mean?"
</p>
<p>
"Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We have
bought you out."
</p>
<p>
"Our government...."
</p>
<p>
"Your governments belong to us, too," said Broderick. "When they could
not pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we took
them over, just as we are taking you over."
</p>
<p>
"You mean," exclaimed Zotul, aghast, "that you Earthmen own everything
on Zur?"
</p>
<p>
"Even your armies."
</p>
<p>
"But
<i>
why
</i>
?"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stared
down moodily into the street.
</p>
<p>
"You don't know what an overcrowded world is like," he said. "A street
like this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossible
on Earth."
</p>
<p>
"But it's mobbed," protested Zotul. "It gave me a headache."
</p>
<p>
"And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth has
made us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The only
habitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the least
populous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in."
</p>
<p>
"And after that?"
</p>
<p>
Broderick smiled gently. "Zur will grow. Our people will intermarry
with yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zurians
nor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both."
</p>
<p>
Zotul sat in silent thought. "But you did not have to buy us out. You
had the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet could
have been yours alone." He stopped in alarm. "Or am I suggesting an
idea that didn't occur to you?"
</p>
<p>
"No," said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained with
memory. "We know the history of conquest all too well. Our method
causes more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and more
sure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job is
finished, we can repair the dislocations."
</p>
<p>
"At last I understand what you said about the tortoise."
</p>
<p>
"Slow but sure." Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on the
shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,
but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zur
are equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we had
to break down your caste system."
</p>
<p>
Zotul's eyes widened. "And that is why my brothers did not beat me when
I failed!"
</p>
<p>
"Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you and
your brothers to sign?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," said Zotul. "I am ready."
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) the idea of credit\n(B) new roads\n(C) government\n(D) metal pots",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Business -- Fiction; Science fiction; PS; Human-alien encounters -- Fiction; Short stories; Extrasolar planets -- Fiction"
} |
51657 | Who didn't William say strange things to?
Choices:
(A) a man at the restaurant
(B) his father
(C) the librarian
(D) Partridge | [
"D",
"Partridge"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
Charity Case
</h1>
<p>
By JIM HARMON
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Science Fiction December 1959.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
Certainly I see things that aren't there
<br/>
and don't say what my voice says—but how
<br/>
can I prove that I don't have my health?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
When he began his talk with "You got your health, don't you?" it
touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it.
</p>
<p>
Why couldn't what he said have been "The best things in life are free,
buddy" or "Every dog has his day, fellow" or "If at first you don't
succeed, man"? No, he had to use that one line. You wouldn't blame me.
Not if you believe me.
</p>
<p>
The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was
four or five somebody was soiling my bed for me. I absolutely was not
doing it. I took long naps morning and evening so I could lie awake all
night to see that it wouldn't happen. It couldn't happen. But in the
morning the bed would sit there dispassionately soiled and convict me
on circumstantial evidence. My punishment was as sure as the tide.
</p>
<p>
Dad was a compact man, small eyes, small mouth, tight clothes. He was
narrow but not mean. For punishment, he locked me in a windowless
room and told me to sit still until he came back. It wasn't so bad a
punishment, except that when Dad closed the door, the light turned off
and I was left there in the dark.
</p>
<p>
Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it
dark to add to my punishment. But I learned he didn't know the light
went out. It came back on when he unlocked the door. Every time I told
him about the light as soon as I could talk again, but he said I was
lying.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
One day, to prove me a liar, he opened and closed the door a few times
from outside. The light winked off and on, off and on, always shining
when Dad stuck his head inside. He tried using the door from the
inside, and the light stayed on, no matter how hard he slammed the
door.
</p>
<p>
I stayed in the dark longer for lying about the light.
</p>
<p>
Alone in the dark, I wouldn't have had it so bad if it wasn't for the
things that came to me.
</p>
<p>
They were real to me. They never touched me, but they had a little boy.
He looked the way I did in the mirror. They did unpleasant things to
him.
</p>
<p>
Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and
I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got
smart enough to keep the beasts to myself.
</p>
<p>
My mother hated me. I loved her, of course. I remember her smell mixed
up with flowers and cookies and winter fires. I remember she hugged me
on my ninth birthday. The trouble came from the notes written in my
awkward hand that she found, calling her names I didn't understand.
Sometimes there were drawings. I didn't write those notes or make those
drawings.
</p>
<p>
My mother and father must have been glad when I was sent away to reform
school after my thirteenth birthday party, the one no one came to.
</p>
<p>
The reform school was nicer. There were others there who'd had it about
like me. We got along. I didn't watch their shifty eyes too much, or
ask them what they shifted to see. They didn't talk about my screams
at night.
</p>
<p>
It was home.
</p>
<p>
My trouble there was that I was always being framed for stealing. I
didn't take any of those things they located in my bunk. Stealing
wasn't in my line. If you believe any of this at all, you'll see why it
couldn't be me who did the stealing.
</p>
<p>
There was reason for me to steal, if I could have got away with it. The
others got money from home to buy the things they needed—razor blades,
candy, sticks of tea. I got a letter from Mom or Dad every now and then
before they were killed, saying they had sent money or that it was
enclosed, but somehow I never got a dime of it.
</p>
<p>
When I was expelled from reform school, I left with just one idea in
mind—to get all the money I could ever use for the things I needed and
the things I wanted.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
It was two or three years later that I skulked into Brother Partridge's
mission on Durbin Street.
</p>
<p>
The preacher and half a dozen men were singing
<i>
Onward Christian
Soldiers
</i>
in the meeting room. It was a drafty hall with varnished
camp chairs. I shuffled in at the back with my suitcoat collar turned
up around my stubbled jaw. I made my hand shaky as I ran it through my
knotted hair. Partridge was supposed to think I was just a bum. As
an inspiration, I hugged my chest to make him think I was some wino
nursing a flask full of Sneaky Pete. All I had there was a piece of
copper alloy tubing inside a slice of plastic hose for taking care of
myself, rolling sailors and the like. Who had the price of a bottle?
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
Partridge didn't seem to notice me, but I knew that was an act. I knew
people were always watching every move I made. He braced his red-furred
hands on the sides of his auctioneer's stand and leaned his splotched
eagle beak toward us. "Brothers, this being Thanksgiving, I pray the
good Lord that we all are truly thankful for all that we have received.
Amen."
</p>
<p>
Some skin-and-bones character I didn't know struggled out of his seat,
amening. I could see he had a lot to be thankful for—somewhere he had
received a fix.
</p>
<p>
"Brothers," Partridge went on after enjoying the interruption with a
beaming smile, "you shall all be entitled to a bowl of turkey soup
prepared by Sister Partridge, a generous supply of sweet rolls and
dinner rolls contributed by the Early Morning Bakery of this city,
and all the coffee you can drink. Let us march out to
<i>
The Stars and
Stripes Forever
</i>
, John Philip Sousa's grand old patriotic song."
</p>
<p>
I had to laugh at all those bums clattering the chairs in front of me,
scampering after water soup and stale bread. As soon as I got cleaned
up, I was going to have dinner in a good restaurant, and I was going to
order such expensive food and leave such a large tip for the waiter and
send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some
executive with some brokerage firm would see me and say to himself,
"Hmm, executive material. Just the type we need. I beg your pardon,
sir—" just like the razor-blade comic-strip ads in the old magazines
that Frankie the Pig sells three for a quarter.
</p>
<p>
I was marching. Man, was I ever marching, but the secret of it was I
was only marking time the way we did in fire drills at the school.
</p>
<p>
They passed me, every one of them, and marched out of the meeting
room into the kitchen. Even Partridge made his way down from the
auctioneer's stand like a vulture with a busted wing and darted through
his private door.
</p>
<p>
I was alone, marking time behind the closed half of double doors. One
good breath and I raced past the open door and flattened myself to the
wall. Crockery was ringing and men were slurping inside. No one had
paid any attention to me. That was pretty odd. People usually watch my
every move, but a man's luck has to change sometime, doesn't it?
</p>
<p>
Following the wallboard, I went down the side of the room and behind
the last row of chairs, closer, closer, and halfway up the room again
to the entrance—the entrance and the little wooden box fastened to the
wall beside it.
</p>
<p>
The box was old and made out of some varnished wood. There was a slot
in the top. There wasn't any sign anywhere around it, but you knew it
wasn't a mailbox.
</p>
<p>
My hand went flat on the top of the box. One finger at a time drew up
and slipped into the slot. Index, fore, third, little. I put my thumb
in my palm and shoved. My hand went in.
</p>
<p>
There were coins inside. I scooped them up with two fingers and held
them fast with the other two. Once I dropped a dime—not a penny,
milled edge—and I started to reach for it. No, don't be greedy. I knew
I would probably lose my hold on all the coins if I tried for that one.
I had all the rest. It felt like about two dollars, or close to it.
</p>
<p>
Then I found the bill. A neatly folded bill in the box. Somehow I knew
all along it would be there.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I tried to read the numbers on the bill with my fingertips, but I
couldn't. It had to be a one. Who drops anything but a one into a Skid
Row collection box? But still there were tourists, slummers. They might
leave a fifty or even a hundred. A hundred!
</p>
<p>
Yes, it felt new, crisp. It had to be a hundred. A single would be
creased or worn.
</p>
<p>
I pulled my hand out of the box. I
<i>
tried
</i>
to pull my hand out of the
box.
</p>
<p>
I knew what the trouble was, of course. I was in a monkey trap. The
monkey reaches through the hole for the bait, and when he gets it in
his hot little fist, he can't get his hand out. He's too greedy to let
go, so he stays there, caught as securely as if he were caged.
</p>
<p>
I was a man, not a monkey. I knew why I couldn't get my hand out. But I
couldn't lose that money, especially that century bill. Calm, I ordered
myself.
<i>
Calm.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The box was fastened to the vertical tongue-and-groove laths of the
woodwork, not the wall. It was old lumber, stiffened by a hundred
layers of paint since 1908. The paint was as thick and strong as the
boards. The box was fastened fast. Six-inch spike nails, I guessed.
</p>
<p>
Calmly, I flung my whole weight away from the wall. My wrist almost
cracked, but there wasn't even a bend in the box. Carefully, I tried to
jerk my fist straight up, to pry off the top of the box. It was as if
the box had been carved out of one solid piece of timber. It wouldn't
go up, down, left or right.
</p>
<p>
But I kept trying.
</p>
<p>
While keeping a lookout for Partridge and somebody stepping out of the
kitchen for a pull on a bottle, I spotted the clock for the first
time, a Western Union clock high up at the back of the hall. Just as
I seen it for the first time, the electricity wound the spring motor
inside like a chicken having its neck wrung.
</p>
<p>
The next time I glanced at the clock, it said ten minutes had gone by.
My hand still wasn't free and I hadn't budged the box.
</p>
<p>
"This," Brother Partridge said, "is one of the most profound
experiences of my life."
</p>
<p>
My head hinged until it lined my eyes up with Brother Partridge. The
pipe hung heavy in my pocket, but he was too far from me.
</p>
<p>
"A vision of you at the box projected itself on the crest of my soup,"
the preacher explained in wonderment.
</p>
<p>
I nodded. "Swimming right in there with the dead duck."
</p>
<p>
"Cold turkey," he corrected. "Are you scoffing at a miracle?"
</p>
<p>
"People are always watching me, Brother," I said. "So now they do it
even when they aren't around. I should have known it would come to
that."
</p>
<p>
The pipe was suddenly a weight I wanted off me. I would try robbing
a collection box, knowing positively that I would get caught, but I
wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness
to it. I had never got away with anything in my life. I was too smart
to even try anything but the little things.
</p>
<p>
"I may be able to help you," Brother Partridge said, "if you have faith
and a conscience."
</p>
<p>
"I've got something better than a conscience," I told him.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Brother Partridge regarded me solemnly. "There must be something
special about you, for your apprehension to come through miraculous
intervention. But I can't imagine what."
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
always
</i>
get apprehended somehow, Brother," I said. "I'm pretty
special."
</p>
<p>
"Your name?"
</p>
<p>
"William Hagle." No sense lying. I had been booked and printed before.
</p>
<p>
Partridge prodded me with his bony fingers as if making sure I was
substantial. "Come. Let's sit down, if you can remove your fist from
the money box."
</p>
<p>
I opened up my fingers and let the coins ring inside the box and I drew
out my hand. The bill stuck to the sweat on my fingers and slid out
along with the digits. A one, I decided. I had got into trouble for a
grubby single. It wasn't any century. I had been kidding myself.
</p>
<p>
I unfolded the note. Sure enough, it wasn't a hundred-dollar bill, but
it was a twenty, and that was almost the same thing to me. I creased it
and put it back into the slot.
</p>
<p>
As long as it stalled off the cops, I'd talk to Partridge.
</p>
<p>
We took a couple of camp chairs and I told him the story of my life, or
most of it. It was hard work on an empty stomach; I wished I'd had some
of that turkey soup. Then again I was glad I hadn't. Something always
happened to me when I thought back over my life. The same thing.
</p>
<p>
The men filed out of the kitchen, wiping their chins, and I went right
on talking.
</p>
<p>
After some time Sister Partridge bustled in and snapped on the overhead
lights and I kept talking. The brother still hadn't used the phone to
call the cops.
</p>
<p>
"Remarkable," Partridge finally said when I got so hoarse I had to take
a break. "One is almost—
<i>
almost
</i>
—reminded of Job. William, you are
being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure."
</p>
<p>
"Punished for a sin? But, Brother, I've always had it like this, as
long as I can remember. What kind of a sin could I have committed when
I was fresh out of my crib?"
</p>
<p>
"William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do
you deny the transmigration of souls?"
</p>
<p>
"Well," I said, "I've had no personal experience—"
</p>
<p>
"Of course you have, William! Say you don't remember. Say you don't
want to remember. But don't say you have no personal experience!"
</p>
<p>
"And you think I'm being punished for something I did in a previous
life?"
</p>
<p>
He looked at me in disbelief. "What else could it be?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know," I confessed. "I certainly haven't done anything that
bad in
<i>
this
</i>
life."
</p>
<p>
"William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will
lift from you."
</p>
<p>
It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I
shook off the dizziness of it. "By the Lord Harry, Brother, I'm going
to give it a try!" I cried.
</p>
<p>
"I believe you," Partridge said, surprised at himself.
</p>
<p>
He ambled over to the money box on the wall. He tapped the bottom
lightly and a box with no top slid out of the slightly larger box. He
reached in, fished out the bill and presented it to me.
</p>
<p>
"Perhaps this will help in your atonement," he said.
</p>
<p>
I crumpled it into my pocket fast. Not meaning to sound ungrateful, I'm
pretty sure he hadn't noticed it was a twenty.
</p>
<p>
And then the bill seemed to lie there, heavy, a lead weight. It would
have been different if I had managed to get it out of the box myself.
You know how it is.
</p>
<p>
Money you haven't earned doesn't seem real to you.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
There was something I forgot to mention so far. During the year between
when I got out of the reformatory and the one when I tried to steal
Brother Partridge's money, I killed a man.
</p>
<p>
It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get
punished. It didn't have to be a sin in some previous life, you see.
</p>
<p>
I had gotten my first job in too long, stacking boxes at the freight
door of Baysinger's. The drivers unloaded the stuff, but they just
dumped it off the truck. An empty rear end was all they wanted. The
freight boss told me to stack the boxes inside, neat and not too close
together.
</p>
<p>
I stacked boxes the first day. I stacked more the second. The third day
I went outside with my baloney and crackers. It was warm enough even
for November.
</p>
<p>
Two of them, dressed like Harvard seniors, caps and striped duffer
jackets, came up to the crate I was dining off.
</p>
<p>
"Work inside, Jack?" the taller one asked.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah," I said, chewing.
</p>
<p>
"What do you do, Jack?" the fatter one asked.
</p>
<p>
"Stack boxes."
</p>
<p>
"Got a union card?"
</p>
<p>
I shook my head.
</p>
<p>
"Application?"
</p>
<p>
"No," I said. "I'm just helping out during Christmas."
</p>
<p>
"You're a scab, buddy," Long-legs said. "Don't you read the papers?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't like comic strips," I said.
</p>
<p>
They sighed. I think they hated to do it, but I was bucking the system.
</p>
<p>
Fats hit me high. Long-legs hit me low. I blew cracker crumbs into
their faces. After that, I just let them go. I know how to take a
beating. That's one thing I knew.
</p>
<p>
Then lying there, bleeding to myself, I heard them talking. I heard
noises like
<i>
make an example of him
</i>
and
<i>
do something permanent
</i>
and I
squirmed away across the rubbish like a polite mouse.
</p>
<p>
I made it around a corner of brick and stood up, hurting my knee on a
piece of brown-splotched pipe. There were noises on the other angle of
the corner and so I tested if the pipe was loose and it was. I closed
my eyes and brought the pipe up and then down.
</p>
<p>
It felt as if I connected, but I was so numb, I wasn't sure until I
unscrewed my eyes.
</p>
<p>
There was a big man in a heavy wool overcoat and gray homburg spread on
a damp centerfold from the
<i>
News
</i>
. There was a pick-up slip from the
warehouse under the fingers of one hand, and somebody had beaten his
brains out.
</p>
<p>
The police figured it was part of some labor dispute, I guess, and they
never got to me.
</p>
<p>
I suppose I was to blame anyway. If I hadn't been alive, if I hadn't
been there to get beaten up, it wouldn't have happened. I could see
the point in making me suffer for it. There was a lot to be said for
looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling
Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had
happened that day.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Searching myself after I left Brother Partridge, I finally found a
strip of gray adhesive tape on my side, out of the fuzzy area. Making
the twenty the size of a thick postage stamp, I peeled back the tape
and put the folded bill on the white skin and smoothed the tape back.
</p>
<p>
There was only one place for me to go now. I headed for the public
library. It was only about twenty blocks, but not having had anything
to eat since the day before, it enervated me.
</p>
<p>
The downstairs washroom was where I went first. There was nobody
there but an old guy talking urgently to a kid with thick glasses,
and somebody building a fix in one of the booths. I could see charred
matches dropping down on the floor next to his tennis shoes, and even a
few grains of white stuff. But he managed to hold still enough to keep
from spilling more from the spoon.
</p>
<p>
I washed my hands and face, smoothed my hair down, combing it with my
fingers. Going over my suit with damp toweling got off a lot of the
dirt. I put my collar on the outside of my jacket and creased the
wings with my thumbnail so it would look more like a sports shirt.
It didn't really. I still looked like a bum, but sort of a neat,
non-objectionable bum.
</p>
<p>
The librarian at the main desk looked sympathetically hostile, or
hostilely sympathetic.
</p>
<p>
"I'd like to get into the stacks, miss," I said, "and see some of the
old newspapers."
</p>
<p>
"Which newspapers?" the old girl asked stiffly.
</p>
<p>
I thought back. I couldn't remember the exact date. "Ones for the first
week in November last year."
</p>
<p>
"We have the
<i>
Times
</i>
microfilmed. I would have to project them for you."
</p>
<p>
"I didn't want to see the
<i>
Times
</i>
," I said, fast. "Don't you have any
newspapers on paper?" I didn't want her to see what I wanted to read up
on.
</p>
<p>
"We have the
<i>
News
</i>
, bound, for last year."
</p>
<p>
I nodded. "That's the one I wanted to see."
</p>
<p>
She sniffed and told me to follow her. I didn't rate a cart to my
table, I guess, or else the bound papers weren't supposed to come out
of the stacks.
</p>
<p>
The cases of books, row after row, smelled good. Like old leather and
good pipe tobacco. I had been here before. In this world, it's the man
with education who makes the money. I had been reading the Funk &
Wagnalls Encyclopedia. So far I knew a lot about Mark Antony, Atomic
Energy, Boron, Brussels, Catapults, Demons, and Divans.
</p>
<p>
I guess I had stopped to look around at some of the titles, because the
busy librarian said sharply, "Follow me."
</p>
<p>
I heard my voice say, "A pleasure. What about after work?"
</p>
<p>
I didn't say it, but I was used to my voice independently saying
things. Her neck got to flaming, but she walked stiffly ahead. She
didn't say anything. She must be awful mad, I decided. But then I got
the idea she was flushed with pleasure. I'm pretty ugly and I looked
like a bum, but I was young. You had to grant me that.
</p>
<p>
She waved a hand at the rows of bound
<i>
News
</i>
and left me alone with
them. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to hunt up a table to lay the
books on or not, so I took the volume for last year and laid it on the
floor. That was the cleanest floor I ever saw.
</p>
<p>
It didn't take me long to find the story. The victim was a big man,
because the story was on the second page of the Nov. 4 edition.
</p>
<p>
I started to tear the page out, then only memorized the name and home
address. Somebody was sure to see me and I couldn't risk trouble just
now.
</p>
<p>
I stuck the book back in line and left by the side door.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
I went to a dry-cleaner, not the cheapest place I knew, because I
wouldn't be safe with the change from a twenty in that neighborhood.
My suit was cleaned while I waited. I paid a little extra and had
it mended. Funny thing about a suit—it's almost never completely
shot unless you just have it ripped off you or burned up. It wasn't
exactly in style, but some rich executives wore suits out of style
that they had paid a lot of money for. I remembered Fredric March's
double-breasted in
<i>
Executive Suite
</i>
while Walter Pidgeon and the rest
wore Ivy Leagues. Maybe I would look like an eccentric executive.
</p>
<p>
I bought a new shirt, a good used pair of shoes, and a dime pack of
single-edged razor blades. I didn't have a razor, but anybody with
nerve can shave with a single-edge blade and soap and water.
</p>
<p>
The clerk took my two bucks in advance and I went up to my room.
</p>
<p>
I washed out my socks and underwear, took a bath, shaved and trimmed
my hair and nails with the razor blade. With some soap on my finger, I
scrubbed my teeth. Finally I got dressed.
</p>
<p>
Everything was all right except that I didn't have a tie. They had
them, a quarter a piece, where I got the shoes. It was only six
blocks—I could go back. But I didn't want to wait. I wanted to
complete the picture.
</p>
<p>
The razor blade sliced through the pink bath towel evenly. I cut out a
nice modern-style tie, narrow, with some horizontal stripes down at the
bottom. I made a tight, thin knot. It looked pretty good.
</p>
<p>
I was ready to leave, so I started for the door. I went back. I had
almost forgotten my luggage. The box still had three unwrapped blades
in it. I pocketed it. I hefted the used blade, dulled by all the work
it had done. You can run being economical into stinginess. I tossed it
into the wastebasket.
</p>
<p>
I had five hamburgers and five cups of coffee. I couldn't finish all of
the French fries.
</p>
<p>
"Mac," I said to the fat counterman, who looked like all fat
countermen, "give me a Milwaukee beer."
</p>
<p>
He stopped polishing the counter in front of his friend. "Milwaukee,
Wisconsin, or Milwaukee, Oregon?"
</p>
<p>
"Wisconsin."
</p>
<p>
He didn't argue.
</p>
<p>
It was cold and bitter. All beer is bitter, no matter what they say on
TV. I like beer. I like the bitterness of it.
</p>
<p>
It felt like another, but I checked myself. I needed a clear head.
I thought about going back to the hotel for some sleep; I still had
the key in my pocket (I wasn't trusting it to any clerk). No, I had
had sleep on Thanksgiving, bracing up for trying the lift at Brother
Partridge's. Let's see, it was daylight outside again, so this was the
day after Thanksgiving. But it had only been sixteen or twenty hours
since I had slept. That was enough.
</p>
<p>
I left the money on the counter for the hamburgers and coffee and the
beer. There was $7.68 left.
</p>
<p>
As I passed the counterman's friend on his stool, my voice said, "I
think you're yellow."
</p>
<p>
He turned slowly, his jaw moving further away from his brain.
</p>
<p>
I winked. "It was just a bet for me to say that to you. I won two
bucks. Half of it is yours." I held out the bill to him.
</p>
<p>
His paw closed over the money and punched me on the biceps. Too hard.
He winked back. "It's okay."
</p>
<p>
I rubbed my shoulder, marching off fast, and I counted my money. With
my luck, I might have given the counterman's friend the five instead of
one of the singles. But I hadn't. I now had $6.68 left.
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
still
</i>
think you're yellow," my voice said.
</p>
<p>
It was my voice, but it didn't come from me. There were no words, no
feeling of words in my throat. It just came out of the air the way it
always did.
</p>
<p>
I ran.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Harold R. Thompkins, 49, vice-president of Baysinger's, was found
dead behind the store last night. His skull had been crushed by a
vicious beating with a heavy implement, Coroner McClain announced in
preliminary verdict. Tompkins, who resided at 1467 Claremont, Edgeway,
had been active in seeking labor-management peace in the recent
difficulties....
</p>
<p>
I had read that a year before. The car cards on the clanking subway and
the rumbling bus didn't seem nearly so interesting to me. Outside the
van, a tasteful sign announced the limits of the village of Edgeway,
and back inside, the monsters of my boyhood went
<i>
bloomp
</i>
at me.
</p>
<p>
I hadn't seen anything like them in years.
</p>
<p>
The slimy, scaly beasts were slithering over the newspaper holders,
the ad card readers, the girl watchers as the neat little carbon-copy
modern homes breezed past the windows.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
I ignored the devils and concentrated on reading the withered,
washed-out political posters on the telephone poles. My neck ached from
holding it so stiff, staring out through the glass. More than that, I
could feel the jabberwocks staring at me. You know how it is. You can
feel a stare with the back of your neck and between your eyes. They got
one brush of a gaze out of me.
</p>
<p>
The things abruptly started their business, trying to act casually as
if they hadn't been waiting for me to look at them at all. They had a
little human being of some sort.
</p>
<p>
It was the size of a small boy, like the small boy who looked like me
that they used to destroy when I was locked up with them in the dark.
Except this was a man, scaled down to child's size. He had sort of an
ugly, worried, tired, stupid look and he wore a shiny suit with a piece
of a welcome mat or something for a necktie. Yeah, it was me. I really
knew it all the time.
</p>
<p>
They began doing things to the midget me. I didn't even lift an
eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they
had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but
I really got bored with all that violence and killing and killing the
same kill over and over. Like watching the Saturday night string of
westerns in a bar.
</p>
<p>
The sunlight through the window was yellow and hot. After a time, I
began to dose.
</p>
<p>
The shrieks woke me up.
</p>
<p>
For the first time, I could hear the shrieks of the monster's victim
and listen to their obscene droolings. For the very first time in my
life. Always before it had been all pantomime, like Charlie Chaplin.
Now I heard the sounds of it all.
</p>
<p>
They say it's a bad sign when you start hearing voices.
</p>
<p>
I nearly panicked, but I held myself in the seat and forced myself
to be rational about it. My own voice was always saying things
<i>
everybody
</i>
could hear but which I didn't say. It wasn't any worse to
be the
<i>
only
</i>
one who could hear other things I never said. I was as
sane as I ever was. There was no doubt about that.
</p>
<p>
But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me.
</p>
<p>
Whatever was punishing me for my sin was determined that I turn back
before reaching 1467 Claremont.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) a man at the restaurant\n(B) his father\n(C) the librarian\n(D) Partridge",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction"
} |
51609 | Why was Humphrey being pick-pocketed so much?
Choices:
(A) to plant information necessary to arrest him
(B) it's a typical behavior in this city
(C) people typically pick-pocket him because he's distracted
(D) for Lanfierre to get to know Humphrey's personality better | [
"D",
"for Lanfierre to get to know Humphrey's personality better"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A FALL OF GLASS
</h1>
<p>
By STANLEY R. LEE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
The weatherman was always right:
<br/>
Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;
<br/>
occasional light showers—but of what?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.
</p>
<p>
It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, the
humidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball in
a cloudless blue sky.
</p>
<p>
His pockets were picked eleven times.
</p>
<p>
It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a
masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey
Fownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He
was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,
one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.
But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to
begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so
deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many
people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome
Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus
postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the
confusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postman
rifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girl
happened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got his
right and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.
The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.
He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a
heated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his
rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the
<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put
and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he
was playing.
</p>
<p>
There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.
</p>
<p>
It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,
hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings of
a celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-light
fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Dome
weevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed the
huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still
intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity
that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this
rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight
surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting
his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed
and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning
them. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled a
five-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster of
Paris. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight and
handedness behind.
</p>
<p>
By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier complete
with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an
orange patrol car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.
</p>
<p>
Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes
approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an
odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar
to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and
particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated
within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social
force; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,
Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that
genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own
small efforts, rarer.
</p>
<p>
Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.
Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes his house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said.
</p>
<p>
"House shakes," Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then he
stopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.
</p>
<p>
"You heard right. The house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said, savoring it.
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass of
the windshield. "Like from ...
<i>
side to side
</i>
?" he asked in a somewhat
patronizing tone of voice.
</p>
<p>
"And up and down."
</p>
<p>
MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orange
uniform. "Go on," he said, amused. "It sounds interesting." He tossed
the dossier carelessly on the back seat.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride
couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride
was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He
had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly
absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was
only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes
to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had
seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly
resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke
in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably
trite.
</p>
<p>
Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refused
to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a
vacation.
</p>
<p>
"Why don't you take a vacation?" Lieutenant MacBride suggested.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? A
zephyr?"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard some."
</p>
<p>
"They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strong
winds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there was
a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds
<i>
did
</i>
blow, it would
shake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling the
whole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing down
the avenue."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you something else," Lanfierre went on. "The
<i>
windows
</i>
all
close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every
single window in the place will drop to its sill." Lanfierre leaned
back in the seat, his eyes still on the house. "Sometimes I think
there's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as if
they all had something important to say but had to close the windows
first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?
And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into
conversation—and that's why the house shakes."
</p>
<p>
MacBride whistled.
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't need a vacation."
</p>
<p>
A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the
windshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.
</p>
<p>
"No, you don't need a rest," MacBride said. "You're starting to see
flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your
brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—"
</p>
<p>
At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed
shut.
</p>
<p>
The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.
MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the
ghostly babble of voices to commence.
</p>
<p>
The house began to shake.
</p>
<p>
It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed and
dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The
house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then
they both looked back at the dancing house.
</p>
<p>
"And the
<i>
water
</i>
," Lanfierre said. "The
<i>
water
</i>
he uses! He could be
the thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a whole
family of thirsty and clean kids, and he
<i>
still
</i>
wouldn't need all that
water."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pages
now in amazement. "Where do you get a guy like this?" he asked. "Did
you see what he carries in his pockets?"
</p>
<p>
"And compasses won't work on this street."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.
</p>
<p>
He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. It
expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got
neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There
was something implacable about his sighs.
</p>
<p>
"He'll be coming out soon," Lanfierre said. "He eats supper next door
with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at
the widow's next door and then the library."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "The library?" he
said. "Is he in with that bunch?"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre nodded.
</p>
<p>
"Should be very interesting," MacBride said slowly.
</p>
<p>
"I can't wait to see what he's got in there," Lanfierre murmured,
watching the house with a consuming interest.
</p>
<p>
They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyes
widened as the house danced a new step.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his
shoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupation
of his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn't
noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He
had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the
high-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the
house. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watch
from outside.
</p>
<p>
He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no room
left in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist a
draw-pull.
</p>
<p>
Every window slammed shut.
</p>
<p>
"Tight as a kite," he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward the
closet at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was that
right? No,
<i>
snug as a hug in a rug
</i>
. He went on, thinking:
<i>
The old
devils.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion of
wheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-saw
that went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had a
curious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged from
grandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in graceful
circles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although there
was one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. He
watched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them for
seven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.
</p>
<p>
Outside, the domed city vanished.
</p>
<p>
It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,
the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more
satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.
Looking through the window he saw only a garden.
</p>
<p>
Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sun
setting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which left
the smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid a
huge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon a
garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.
</p>
<p>
Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.
<i>
And cocktails for
two.
</i>
Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched as
the moon played,
<i>
Oh, You Beautiful Doll
</i>
and the neon roses flashed
slowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned on
the scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated rose
as the moon shifted to
<i>
People Will Say We're In Love
</i>
.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rubbed his chin critically. It
<i>
seemed
</i>
all right. A dreamy sunset,
an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.
</p>
<p>
They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rose
really smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. But
then, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.
<i>
Insist
</i>
on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realistic
romantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icy
fingers marching up and down your spine?
</p>
<p>
His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read that
book on ancient mores and courtship customs.
</p>
<p>
How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly
long and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amount
of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. "No"
meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the
circumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later on
this evening.
</p>
<p>
He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,
thinking roguishly:
<i>
Thou shalt not inundate.
</i>
The risks he was taking!
A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant
<i>
Singing in the Rain
</i>
. Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red sun
continued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over and
demolished several of the neon roses.
</p>
<p>
The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steering
wheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; he
gingerly turned it.
</p>
<p>
Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle of
winds came to him.
</p>
<p>
He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This was
important; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.
The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose and
the moon shook a trifle as it whispered
<i>
Cuddle Up a Little Closer
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.
<i>
My dear
Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic
garden; time to be a bit forward.
<i>
My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
No.
Contrived. How about a simple,
<i>
Dear Mrs. Deshazaway
</i>
. That might be
it.
<i>
I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn't
rather stay over instead of going home....
</i>
</p>
<p>
Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear the
shaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connected
to wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they made
one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as
high-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the
Studebaker valve wider and wider....
</p>
<p>
The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sun
shot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moon
fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning
<i>
When the
Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to the
Studebaker wheel and shut it off.
</p>
<p>
At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn't
the first time the winds got out of line.
</p>
<p>
Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all down
and went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,
about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.
Its days were thirty and it followed September.
<i>
And all the rest have
thirty-one.
</i>
What a strange people, the ancients!
</p>
<p>
He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Men are too perishable," Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. "For all
practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die."
</p>
<p>
"Would you pass the beets, please?" Humphrey Fownes said.
</p>
<p>
She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. "And don't look at me
that way," she said. "I'm
<i>
not
</i>
going to marry you and if you want
reasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse."
</p>
<p>
The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything
passionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionately
red. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelry
tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes had
never known anyone like her. "You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,"
she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for
her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. "Do you have any
idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I rob
my husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry their
bodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace."
</p>
<p>
"As long as there are people," he said philosophically, "there'll be
talk."
</p>
<p>
"But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,
I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,
Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so
healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily
worse for him."
</p>
<p>
"I don't seem to mind the air."
</p>
<p>
She threw up her hands. "You'd be the worst of the lot!" She left the
table, rustling and tinkling about the room. "I can just hear them. Try
some of the asparagus.
<i>
Five.
</i>
That's what they'd say. That woman did
it again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record."
</p>
<p>
"Really," Fownes protested. "I feel splendid. Never better."
</p>
<p>
He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on his
shoulders. "And what about those
<i>
very
</i>
elaborate plans you've been
making to seduce me?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.
</p>
<p>
"Don't you think
<i>
they'll
</i>
find out?
<i>
I
</i>
found out and you can bet
<i>
they
</i>
will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't
always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it
wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't
have another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you've
gone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes put his fork down. "Dear Mrs. Deshazaway," he started to say.
</p>
<p>
"And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,
you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man a
question he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wanted
to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask
<i>
me
</i>
a
few questions. You see, we're both a bit queer."
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't thought of that," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—"
</p>
<p>
"That won't be necessary," Fownes said with unusual force. "With all
due respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well state
here and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway."
</p>
<p>
"But my dear Mr. Fownes," she said, leaning across the table. "We're
lost, you and I."
</p>
<p>
"Not if we could leave the dome," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"That's impossible! How?"
</p>
<p>
In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownes
leaned across the table and whispered: "Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?
Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly has
no control whatever? Where the
<i>
wind
</i>
blows across
<i>
prairies
</i>
; or is
it the other way around? No matter. How would you like
<i>
that
</i>
, Mrs.
Deshazaway?"
</p>
<p>
Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her
two hands. "Pray continue," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.
And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and is
supposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyond
the dome."
</p>
<p>
"I see."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
And
</i>
," Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, "they say
that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,
the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's
<i>
vernal
</i>
and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers no
longer scintillate."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
My.
</i>
" Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then came
back to the table, standing directly over Fownes. "If you can get us
outside the dome," she said, "out where a man stays
<i>
warm
</i>
long enough
for his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...
you may call me Agnes."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a
look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a
wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It
would be such a
<i>
deliciously
</i>
insane experience. ("April has thirty
days," Fownes mumbled, passing them, "because thirty is the largest
number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor
with it are
<i>
primes
</i>
." MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.
Lanfierre sighed.)
</p>
<p>
Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to the
library several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given over
to government publications and censored old books with holes in
them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet
there undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman of
eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the
books around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into near
unintelligibility.
</p>
<p>
"Here's one," she said to him as he entered. "
<i>
Gulliver's Travels.
</i>
Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for
<i>
five
</i>
days. What
do you make of it?"
</p>
<p>
In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surrounded
the librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curious
illustration. "What's that?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"A twister," she replied quickly. "Now listen to
<i>
this
</i>
. Seven years
later on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.
What do you make of
<i>
that
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd say," Humphrey Fownes said, "that he ... that he recommended it
to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about
this book and then they ... they went to the library together and she
borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married."
</p>
<p>
"Hah! They were brother and sister!" the librarian shouted in her
parched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.
</p>
<p>
Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twister
was unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, like
a malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carrying
a Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anything
to feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlit
night, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacket
in his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumbling
after him: "Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991," as though
reading inscriptions on a tombstone.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid
ladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to other
people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables
looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.
</p>
<p>
"Where did the old society fail?" the leader was demanding of them. He
stood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. He
glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey
Fownes squeezed into an empty chair. "We live in a dome," the leader
said, "for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thing
that the great technological societies before ours could not invent,
notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. He
waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled
with this problem in revolutionary dialectics.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," the leader said, aware that no one else had
obtained the insight. "If a sound foreign policy can't be created the
only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the
movement into domes began—
<i>
by common consent of the governments
</i>
. This
is known as self-containment."
</p>
<p>
Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull
in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be
arranged for him to get out.
</p>
<p>
"Out?" the leader said, frowning. "Out? Out where?"
</p>
<p>
"Outside the dome."
</p>
<p>
"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and
leave."
</p>
<p>
"And that day I'll await impatiently," Fownes replied with marvelous
tact, "because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future
wife and I have to leave
<i>
now
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.
You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And
dialectically very poor."
</p>
<p>
"Then you
<i>
have
</i>
discussed preparations, the practical necessities of
life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?
Have I left anything out?"
</p>
<p>
The leader sighed. "The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything
out," he said to the group.
</p>
<p>
Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.
</p>
<p>
"Tell the man what he's forgotten," the leader said, walking to the far
window and turning his back quite pointedly on them.
</p>
<p>
Everyone spoke at the same moment. "
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," they all
said, it being almost too obvious for words.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On his way out the librarian shouted at him: "
<i>
A Tale of a Tub
</i>
,
thirty-five years overdue!" She was calculating the fine as he closed
the door.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one
block away from his house. It was then that he realized something
unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police
was parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.
</p>
<p>
His house was dancing.
</p>
<p>
It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's
residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight
that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing
it. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing its
own independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immense
curiosity.
</p>
<p>
The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.
</p>
<p>
From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched as
his favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast of
cold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. A
wild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,
suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofa
cushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging an
old, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of his
ancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.
</p>
<p>
He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toying
with his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on his
cheeks. He got hit by a shoe.
</p>
<p>
As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played over
his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.
</p>
<p>
"Help!" Lieutenant MacBride called.
</p>
<p>
Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his
dripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the
distance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Winds
</i>
," he said in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
"What's happening?" MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
March
</i>
winds," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What?!"
</p>
<p>
"April showers!"
</p>
<p>
The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emerged
from the blackness of the living room. "These are
<i>
not
</i>
Optimum Dome
Conditions!" the voice wailed. "The temperature is
<i>
not
</i>
59 degrees.
The humidity is
<i>
not
</i>
47%!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. "Moonlight!" he
shouted. "Roses! My
<i>
soul
</i>
for a cocktail for two!" He grasped the
doorway to keep from being blown out of the house.
</p>
<p>
"Are you going to make it stop or aren't you!" MacBride yelled.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to tell me what you did first!"
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
told
</i>
him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs
bedroom!"
</p>
<p>
When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way
up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a
wheel in his hand.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"What have I done?" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.
</p>
<p>
Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure what's going to come of this," he said to Lanfierre with
an astonishing amount of objectivity, "but the entire dome air supply
is now coming through my bedroom."
</p>
<p>
The wind screamed.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
"Not any more there isn't."
</p>
<p>
They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them and
they quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.
</p>
<p>
Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefully
edged out of the house and forced the front door shut.
</p>
<p>
The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the Optimum
Dome Conditions of the bright avenue.
</p>
<p>
"I never figured on
<i>
this
</i>
," Lanfierre said, shaking his head.
</p>
<p>
With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.
They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did a
wild, elated jig.
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a place
<i>
is
</i>
this?" MacBride said, his courage beginning
to return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossed
it away.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, he was
<i>
different
</i>
," Lanfierre murmured. "I knew that much."
</p>
<p>
When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certain
amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,
standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was
strangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now rose
out of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases every
which way.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Now
</i>
what?" MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strange
black cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolent
top....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He
held it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroom
with the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identical
shape of the illustration.
</p>
<p>
"It's a twister," he said softly. "A Kansas twister!"
</p>
<p>
"What," MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, "what ... is a
twister?"
</p>
<p>
The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear of
the house toward the side of the dome. "It says here," Fownes shouted
over the roaring, "that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twister
and that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land
<i>
beyond the
confines of everyday living
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.
</p>
<p>
"Fownes!" MacBride shouted. "This is a direct order! Make it go back!"
</p>
<p>
But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodging
mountainous puffs of glass as he went. "Mrs. Deshazaway!" he shouted.
"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!"
</p>
<p>
The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with the
precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,
emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quickly
emptied and then rushed about empty-handed. "Yoo-hoo!" he yelled,
running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.
Optimum temperature collapsed. "Mrs. Deshazaway!
<i>
Agnes
</i>
, will you
marry me? Yoo-hoo!"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,
dazed.
</p>
<p>
There was quite a large fall of glass.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) to plant information necessary to arrest him\n(B) it's a typical behavior in this city\n(C) people typically pick-pocket him because he's distracted\n(D) for Lanfierre to get to know Humphrey's personality better",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
51609 | What is the relationship between Lanfierre and MacBride?
Choices:
(A) Lanfierre is training in MacBride
(B) MacBride is Lanfierre's superior
(C) they are partners working on the case
(D) Lanfierre is the aberration expert, and MacBride is a cop | [
"D",
"Lanfierre is the aberration expert, and MacBride is a cop"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A FALL OF GLASS
</h1>
<p>
By STANLEY R. LEE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
The weatherman was always right:
<br/>
Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;
<br/>
occasional light showers—but of what?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.
</p>
<p>
It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, the
humidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball in
a cloudless blue sky.
</p>
<p>
His pockets were picked eleven times.
</p>
<p>
It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a
masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey
Fownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He
was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,
one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.
But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to
begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so
deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many
people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome
Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus
postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the
confusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postman
rifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girl
happened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got his
right and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.
The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.
He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a
heated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his
rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the
<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put
and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he
was playing.
</p>
<p>
There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.
</p>
<p>
It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,
hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings of
a celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-light
fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Dome
weevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed the
huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still
intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity
that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this
rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight
surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting
his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed
and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning
them. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled a
five-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster of
Paris. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight and
handedness behind.
</p>
<p>
By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier complete
with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an
orange patrol car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.
</p>
<p>
Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes
approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an
odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar
to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and
particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated
within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social
force; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,
Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that
genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own
small efforts, rarer.
</p>
<p>
Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.
Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes his house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said.
</p>
<p>
"House shakes," Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then he
stopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.
</p>
<p>
"You heard right. The house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said, savoring it.
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass of
the windshield. "Like from ...
<i>
side to side
</i>
?" he asked in a somewhat
patronizing tone of voice.
</p>
<p>
"And up and down."
</p>
<p>
MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orange
uniform. "Go on," he said, amused. "It sounds interesting." He tossed
the dossier carelessly on the back seat.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride
couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride
was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He
had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly
absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was
only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes
to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had
seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly
resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke
in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably
trite.
</p>
<p>
Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refused
to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a
vacation.
</p>
<p>
"Why don't you take a vacation?" Lieutenant MacBride suggested.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? A
zephyr?"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard some."
</p>
<p>
"They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strong
winds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there was
a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds
<i>
did
</i>
blow, it would
shake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling the
whole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing down
the avenue."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you something else," Lanfierre went on. "The
<i>
windows
</i>
all
close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every
single window in the place will drop to its sill." Lanfierre leaned
back in the seat, his eyes still on the house. "Sometimes I think
there's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as if
they all had something important to say but had to close the windows
first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?
And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into
conversation—and that's why the house shakes."
</p>
<p>
MacBride whistled.
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't need a vacation."
</p>
<p>
A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the
windshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.
</p>
<p>
"No, you don't need a rest," MacBride said. "You're starting to see
flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your
brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—"
</p>
<p>
At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed
shut.
</p>
<p>
The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.
MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the
ghostly babble of voices to commence.
</p>
<p>
The house began to shake.
</p>
<p>
It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed and
dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The
house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then
they both looked back at the dancing house.
</p>
<p>
"And the
<i>
water
</i>
," Lanfierre said. "The
<i>
water
</i>
he uses! He could be
the thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a whole
family of thirsty and clean kids, and he
<i>
still
</i>
wouldn't need all that
water."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pages
now in amazement. "Where do you get a guy like this?" he asked. "Did
you see what he carries in his pockets?"
</p>
<p>
"And compasses won't work on this street."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.
</p>
<p>
He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. It
expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got
neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There
was something implacable about his sighs.
</p>
<p>
"He'll be coming out soon," Lanfierre said. "He eats supper next door
with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at
the widow's next door and then the library."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "The library?" he
said. "Is he in with that bunch?"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre nodded.
</p>
<p>
"Should be very interesting," MacBride said slowly.
</p>
<p>
"I can't wait to see what he's got in there," Lanfierre murmured,
watching the house with a consuming interest.
</p>
<p>
They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyes
widened as the house danced a new step.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his
shoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupation
of his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn't
noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He
had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the
high-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the
house. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watch
from outside.
</p>
<p>
He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no room
left in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist a
draw-pull.
</p>
<p>
Every window slammed shut.
</p>
<p>
"Tight as a kite," he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward the
closet at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was that
right? No,
<i>
snug as a hug in a rug
</i>
. He went on, thinking:
<i>
The old
devils.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion of
wheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-saw
that went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had a
curious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged from
grandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in graceful
circles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although there
was one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. He
watched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them for
seven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.
</p>
<p>
Outside, the domed city vanished.
</p>
<p>
It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,
the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more
satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.
Looking through the window he saw only a garden.
</p>
<p>
Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sun
setting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which left
the smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid a
huge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon a
garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.
</p>
<p>
Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.
<i>
And cocktails for
two.
</i>
Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched as
the moon played,
<i>
Oh, You Beautiful Doll
</i>
and the neon roses flashed
slowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned on
the scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated rose
as the moon shifted to
<i>
People Will Say We're In Love
</i>
.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rubbed his chin critically. It
<i>
seemed
</i>
all right. A dreamy sunset,
an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.
</p>
<p>
They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rose
really smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. But
then, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.
<i>
Insist
</i>
on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realistic
romantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icy
fingers marching up and down your spine?
</p>
<p>
His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read that
book on ancient mores and courtship customs.
</p>
<p>
How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly
long and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amount
of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. "No"
meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the
circumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later on
this evening.
</p>
<p>
He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,
thinking roguishly:
<i>
Thou shalt not inundate.
</i>
The risks he was taking!
A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant
<i>
Singing in the Rain
</i>
. Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red sun
continued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over and
demolished several of the neon roses.
</p>
<p>
The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steering
wheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; he
gingerly turned it.
</p>
<p>
Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle of
winds came to him.
</p>
<p>
He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This was
important; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.
The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose and
the moon shook a trifle as it whispered
<i>
Cuddle Up a Little Closer
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.
<i>
My dear
Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic
garden; time to be a bit forward.
<i>
My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
No.
Contrived. How about a simple,
<i>
Dear Mrs. Deshazaway
</i>
. That might be
it.
<i>
I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn't
rather stay over instead of going home....
</i>
</p>
<p>
Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear the
shaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connected
to wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they made
one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as
high-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the
Studebaker valve wider and wider....
</p>
<p>
The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sun
shot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moon
fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning
<i>
When the
Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to the
Studebaker wheel and shut it off.
</p>
<p>
At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn't
the first time the winds got out of line.
</p>
<p>
Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all down
and went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,
about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.
Its days were thirty and it followed September.
<i>
And all the rest have
thirty-one.
</i>
What a strange people, the ancients!
</p>
<p>
He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Men are too perishable," Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. "For all
practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die."
</p>
<p>
"Would you pass the beets, please?" Humphrey Fownes said.
</p>
<p>
She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. "And don't look at me
that way," she said. "I'm
<i>
not
</i>
going to marry you and if you want
reasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse."
</p>
<p>
The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything
passionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionately
red. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelry
tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes had
never known anyone like her. "You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,"
she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for
her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. "Do you have any
idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I rob
my husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry their
bodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace."
</p>
<p>
"As long as there are people," he said philosophically, "there'll be
talk."
</p>
<p>
"But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,
I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,
Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so
healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily
worse for him."
</p>
<p>
"I don't seem to mind the air."
</p>
<p>
She threw up her hands. "You'd be the worst of the lot!" She left the
table, rustling and tinkling about the room. "I can just hear them. Try
some of the asparagus.
<i>
Five.
</i>
That's what they'd say. That woman did
it again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record."
</p>
<p>
"Really," Fownes protested. "I feel splendid. Never better."
</p>
<p>
He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on his
shoulders. "And what about those
<i>
very
</i>
elaborate plans you've been
making to seduce me?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.
</p>
<p>
"Don't you think
<i>
they'll
</i>
find out?
<i>
I
</i>
found out and you can bet
<i>
they
</i>
will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't
always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it
wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't
have another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you've
gone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes put his fork down. "Dear Mrs. Deshazaway," he started to say.
</p>
<p>
"And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,
you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man a
question he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wanted
to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask
<i>
me
</i>
a
few questions. You see, we're both a bit queer."
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't thought of that," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—"
</p>
<p>
"That won't be necessary," Fownes said with unusual force. "With all
due respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well state
here and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway."
</p>
<p>
"But my dear Mr. Fownes," she said, leaning across the table. "We're
lost, you and I."
</p>
<p>
"Not if we could leave the dome," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"That's impossible! How?"
</p>
<p>
In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownes
leaned across the table and whispered: "Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?
Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly has
no control whatever? Where the
<i>
wind
</i>
blows across
<i>
prairies
</i>
; or is
it the other way around? No matter. How would you like
<i>
that
</i>
, Mrs.
Deshazaway?"
</p>
<p>
Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her
two hands. "Pray continue," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.
And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and is
supposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyond
the dome."
</p>
<p>
"I see."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
And
</i>
," Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, "they say
that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,
the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's
<i>
vernal
</i>
and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers no
longer scintillate."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
My.
</i>
" Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then came
back to the table, standing directly over Fownes. "If you can get us
outside the dome," she said, "out where a man stays
<i>
warm
</i>
long enough
for his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...
you may call me Agnes."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a
look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a
wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It
would be such a
<i>
deliciously
</i>
insane experience. ("April has thirty
days," Fownes mumbled, passing them, "because thirty is the largest
number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor
with it are
<i>
primes
</i>
." MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.
Lanfierre sighed.)
</p>
<p>
Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to the
library several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given over
to government publications and censored old books with holes in
them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet
there undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman of
eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the
books around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into near
unintelligibility.
</p>
<p>
"Here's one," she said to him as he entered. "
<i>
Gulliver's Travels.
</i>
Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for
<i>
five
</i>
days. What
do you make of it?"
</p>
<p>
In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surrounded
the librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curious
illustration. "What's that?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"A twister," she replied quickly. "Now listen to
<i>
this
</i>
. Seven years
later on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.
What do you make of
<i>
that
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd say," Humphrey Fownes said, "that he ... that he recommended it
to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about
this book and then they ... they went to the library together and she
borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married."
</p>
<p>
"Hah! They were brother and sister!" the librarian shouted in her
parched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.
</p>
<p>
Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twister
was unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, like
a malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carrying
a Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anything
to feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlit
night, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacket
in his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumbling
after him: "Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991," as though
reading inscriptions on a tombstone.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid
ladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to other
people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables
looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.
</p>
<p>
"Where did the old society fail?" the leader was demanding of them. He
stood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. He
glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey
Fownes squeezed into an empty chair. "We live in a dome," the leader
said, "for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thing
that the great technological societies before ours could not invent,
notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. He
waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled
with this problem in revolutionary dialectics.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," the leader said, aware that no one else had
obtained the insight. "If a sound foreign policy can't be created the
only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the
movement into domes began—
<i>
by common consent of the governments
</i>
. This
is known as self-containment."
</p>
<p>
Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull
in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be
arranged for him to get out.
</p>
<p>
"Out?" the leader said, frowning. "Out? Out where?"
</p>
<p>
"Outside the dome."
</p>
<p>
"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and
leave."
</p>
<p>
"And that day I'll await impatiently," Fownes replied with marvelous
tact, "because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future
wife and I have to leave
<i>
now
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.
You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And
dialectically very poor."
</p>
<p>
"Then you
<i>
have
</i>
discussed preparations, the practical necessities of
life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?
Have I left anything out?"
</p>
<p>
The leader sighed. "The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything
out," he said to the group.
</p>
<p>
Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.
</p>
<p>
"Tell the man what he's forgotten," the leader said, walking to the far
window and turning his back quite pointedly on them.
</p>
<p>
Everyone spoke at the same moment. "
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," they all
said, it being almost too obvious for words.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On his way out the librarian shouted at him: "
<i>
A Tale of a Tub
</i>
,
thirty-five years overdue!" She was calculating the fine as he closed
the door.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one
block away from his house. It was then that he realized something
unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police
was parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.
</p>
<p>
His house was dancing.
</p>
<p>
It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's
residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight
that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing
it. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing its
own independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immense
curiosity.
</p>
<p>
The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.
</p>
<p>
From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched as
his favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast of
cold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. A
wild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,
suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofa
cushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging an
old, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of his
ancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.
</p>
<p>
He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toying
with his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on his
cheeks. He got hit by a shoe.
</p>
<p>
As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played over
his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.
</p>
<p>
"Help!" Lieutenant MacBride called.
</p>
<p>
Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his
dripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the
distance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Winds
</i>
," he said in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
"What's happening?" MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
March
</i>
winds," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What?!"
</p>
<p>
"April showers!"
</p>
<p>
The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emerged
from the blackness of the living room. "These are
<i>
not
</i>
Optimum Dome
Conditions!" the voice wailed. "The temperature is
<i>
not
</i>
59 degrees.
The humidity is
<i>
not
</i>
47%!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. "Moonlight!" he
shouted. "Roses! My
<i>
soul
</i>
for a cocktail for two!" He grasped the
doorway to keep from being blown out of the house.
</p>
<p>
"Are you going to make it stop or aren't you!" MacBride yelled.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to tell me what you did first!"
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
told
</i>
him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs
bedroom!"
</p>
<p>
When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way
up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a
wheel in his hand.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"What have I done?" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.
</p>
<p>
Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure what's going to come of this," he said to Lanfierre with
an astonishing amount of objectivity, "but the entire dome air supply
is now coming through my bedroom."
</p>
<p>
The wind screamed.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
"Not any more there isn't."
</p>
<p>
They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them and
they quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.
</p>
<p>
Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefully
edged out of the house and forced the front door shut.
</p>
<p>
The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the Optimum
Dome Conditions of the bright avenue.
</p>
<p>
"I never figured on
<i>
this
</i>
," Lanfierre said, shaking his head.
</p>
<p>
With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.
They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did a
wild, elated jig.
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a place
<i>
is
</i>
this?" MacBride said, his courage beginning
to return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossed
it away.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, he was
<i>
different
</i>
," Lanfierre murmured. "I knew that much."
</p>
<p>
When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certain
amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,
standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was
strangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now rose
out of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases every
which way.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Now
</i>
what?" MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strange
black cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolent
top....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He
held it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroom
with the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identical
shape of the illustration.
</p>
<p>
"It's a twister," he said softly. "A Kansas twister!"
</p>
<p>
"What," MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, "what ... is a
twister?"
</p>
<p>
The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear of
the house toward the side of the dome. "It says here," Fownes shouted
over the roaring, "that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twister
and that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land
<i>
beyond the
confines of everyday living
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.
</p>
<p>
"Fownes!" MacBride shouted. "This is a direct order! Make it go back!"
</p>
<p>
But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodging
mountainous puffs of glass as he went. "Mrs. Deshazaway!" he shouted.
"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!"
</p>
<p>
The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with the
precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,
emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quickly
emptied and then rushed about empty-handed. "Yoo-hoo!" he yelled,
running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.
Optimum temperature collapsed. "Mrs. Deshazaway!
<i>
Agnes
</i>
, will you
marry me? Yoo-hoo!"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,
dazed.
</p>
<p>
There was quite a large fall of glass.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Lanfierre is training in MacBride\n(B) MacBride is Lanfierre's superior\n(C) they are partners working on the case\n(D) Lanfierre is the aberration expert, and MacBride is a cop",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
51609 | What is unlikely to happen next?
Choices:
(A) Agnes and Humphrey will leave the dome
(B) the government will rethink some of the dome's policies
(C) Humphrey's house will fall apart
(D) the dome will be repaired | [
"B",
"the government will rethink some of the dome's policies"
] | <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html lang="en" xml:lang="en" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<hr class="chap"/>
<h1>
A FALL OF GLASS
</h1>
<p>
By STANLEY R. LEE
</p>
<p>
Illustrated by DILLON
</p>
<p>
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
<br/>
Galaxy Magazine October 1960.
<br/>
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
<br/>
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p class="ph3">
<i>
The weatherman was always right:
<br/>
Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;
<br/>
occasional light showers—but of what?
</i>
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.
</p>
<p>
It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, the
humidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball in
a cloudless blue sky.
</p>
<p>
His pockets were picked eleven times.
</p>
<p>
It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a
masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey
Fownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He
was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,
one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.
But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to
begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so
deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many
people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome
Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus
postman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In the
confusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postman
rifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girl
happened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got his
right and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.
The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.
He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in a
heated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his
rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the
<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. -->
<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. -->
handkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of put
and take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea he
was playing.
</p>
<p>
There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.
</p>
<p>
It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,
hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings of
a celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-light
fragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Dome
weevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed the
huge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass still
intrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humidity
that was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was this
rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight
surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting
his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed
and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning
them. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled a
five-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster of
Paris. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight and
handedness behind.
</p>
<p>
By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier complete
with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an
orange patrol car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.
</p>
<p>
Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownes
approach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was an
odd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similar
to that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new and
particularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be tolerated
within the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a social
force; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,
Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see that
genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own
small efforts, rarer.
</p>
<p>
Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.
Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.
</p>
<p>
"Sometimes his house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said.
</p>
<p>
"House shakes," Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then he
stopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.
</p>
<p>
"You heard right. The house
<i>
shakes
</i>
," Lanfierre said, savoring it.
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass of
the windshield. "Like from ...
<i>
side to side
</i>
?" he asked in a somewhat
patronizing tone of voice.
</p>
<p>
"And up and down."
</p>
<p>
MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orange
uniform. "Go on," he said, amused. "It sounds interesting." He tossed
the dossier carelessly on the back seat.
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBride
couldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBride
was a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. He
had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly
absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was
only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes
to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had
seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly
resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke
in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably
trite.
</p>
<p>
Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refused
to believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting a
vacation.
</p>
<p>
"Why don't you take a vacation?" Lieutenant MacBride suggested.
</p>
<p>
"It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? A
zephyr?"
</p>
<p>
"I've heard some."
</p>
<p>
"They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strong
winds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there was
a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds
<i>
did
</i>
blow, it would
shake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling the
whole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing down
the avenue."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.
</p>
<p>
"I'll tell you something else," Lanfierre went on. "The
<i>
windows
</i>
all
close at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden every
single window in the place will drop to its sill." Lanfierre leaned
back in the seat, his eyes still on the house. "Sometimes I think
there's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as if
they all had something important to say but had to close the windows
first so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?
And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode into
conversation—and that's why the house shakes."
</p>
<p>
MacBride whistled.
</p>
<p>
"No, I don't need a vacation."
</p>
<p>
A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against the
windshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.
</p>
<p>
"No, you don't need a rest," MacBride said. "You're starting to see
flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your
brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—"
</p>
<p>
At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed
shut.
</p>
<p>
The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.
MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the
ghostly babble of voices to commence.
</p>
<p>
The house began to shake.
</p>
<p>
It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed and
dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The
house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....
</p>
<p>
MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then
they both looked back at the dancing house.
</p>
<p>
"And the
<i>
water
</i>
," Lanfierre said. "The
<i>
water
</i>
he uses! He could be
the thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a whole
family of thirsty and clean kids, and he
<i>
still
</i>
wouldn't need all that
water."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pages
now in amazement. "Where do you get a guy like this?" he asked. "Did
you see what he carries in his pockets?"
</p>
<p>
"And compasses won't work on this street."
</p>
<p>
The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.
</p>
<p>
He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. It
expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got
neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. There
was something implacable about his sighs.
</p>
<p>
"He'll be coming out soon," Lanfierre said. "He eats supper next door
with a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper at
the widow's next door and then the library."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "The library?" he
said. "Is he in with that bunch?"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre nodded.
</p>
<p>
"Should be very interesting," MacBride said slowly.
</p>
<p>
"I can't wait to see what he's got in there," Lanfierre murmured,
watching the house with a consuming interest.
</p>
<p>
They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyes
widened as the house danced a new step.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off his
shoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupation
of his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn't
noticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. He
had a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and the
high-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of the
house. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watch
from outside.
</p>
<p>
He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no room
left in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist a
draw-pull.
</p>
<p>
Every window slammed shut.
</p>
<p>
"Tight as a kite," he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward the
closet at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was that
right? No,
<i>
snug as a hug in a rug
</i>
. He went on, thinking:
<i>
The old
devils.
</i>
</p>
<p>
The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion of
wheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-saw
that went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had a
curious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged from
grandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in graceful
circles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although there
was one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. He
watched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them for
seven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.
</p>
<p>
Outside, the domed city vanished.
</p>
<p>
It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,
the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a more
satisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.
Looking through the window he saw only a garden.
</p>
<p>
Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sun
setting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which left
the smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid a
huge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon a
garden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.
</p>
<p>
Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.
<i>
And cocktails for
two.
</i>
Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched as
the moon played,
<i>
Oh, You Beautiful Doll
</i>
and the neon roses flashed
slowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned on
the scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated rose
as the moon shifted to
<i>
People Will Say We're In Love
</i>
.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
He rubbed his chin critically. It
<i>
seemed
</i>
all right. A dreamy sunset,
an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.
</p>
<p>
They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rose
really smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. But
then, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.
<i>
Insist
</i>
on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realistic
romantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icy
fingers marching up and down your spine?
</p>
<p>
His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read that
book on ancient mores and courtship customs.
</p>
<p>
How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incredibly
long and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amount
of falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. "No"
meant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and the
circumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later on
this evening.
</p>
<p>
He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,
thinking roguishly:
<i>
Thou shalt not inundate.
</i>
The risks he was taking!
A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant
<i>
Singing in the Rain
</i>
. Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red sun
continued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over and
demolished several of the neon roses.
</p>
<p>
The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steering
wheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; he
gingerly turned it.
</p>
<p>
Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle of
winds came to him.
</p>
<p>
He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This was
important; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.
The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose and
the moon shook a trifle as it whispered
<i>
Cuddle Up a Little Closer
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.
<i>
My dear
Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romantic
garden; time to be a bit forward.
<i>
My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.
</i>
No.
Contrived. How about a simple,
<i>
Dear Mrs. Deshazaway
</i>
. That might be
it.
<i>
I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn't
rather stay over instead of going home....
</i>
</p>
<p>
Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear the
shaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connected
to wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they made
one gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance as
high-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening the
Studebaker valve wider and wider....
</p>
<p>
The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sun
shot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moon
fell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning
<i>
When the
Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day
</i>
.
</p>
<p>
The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to the
Studebaker wheel and shut it off.
</p>
<p>
At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn't
the first time the winds got out of line.
</p>
<p>
Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all down
and went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,
about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.
Its days were thirty and it followed September.
<i>
And all the rest have
thirty-one.
</i>
What a strange people, the ancients!
</p>
<p>
He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
"Men are too perishable," Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. "For all
practical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die."
</p>
<p>
"Would you pass the beets, please?" Humphrey Fownes said.
</p>
<p>
She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. "And don't look at me
that way," she said. "I'm
<i>
not
</i>
going to marry you and if you want
reasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse."
</p>
<p>
The widow was a passionate woman. She did everything
passionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionately
red. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelry
tinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes had
never known anyone like her. "You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,"
she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible for
her to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. "Do you have any
idea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I rob
my husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry their
bodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace."
</p>
<p>
"As long as there are people," he said philosophically, "there'll be
talk."
</p>
<p>
"But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,
I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,
Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so
healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily
worse for him."
</p>
<p>
"I don't seem to mind the air."
</p>
<p>
She threw up her hands. "You'd be the worst of the lot!" She left the
table, rustling and tinkling about the room. "I can just hear them. Try
some of the asparagus.
<i>
Five.
</i>
That's what they'd say. That woman did
it again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record."
</p>
<p>
"Really," Fownes protested. "I feel splendid. Never better."
</p>
<p>
He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on his
shoulders. "And what about those
<i>
very
</i>
elaborate plans you've been
making to seduce me?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.
</p>
<p>
"Don't you think
<i>
they'll
</i>
find out?
<i>
I
</i>
found out and you can bet
<i>
they
</i>
will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't
always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it
wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't
have another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you've
gone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes put his fork down. "Dear Mrs. Deshazaway," he started to say.
</p>
<p>
"And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,
you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man a
question he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wanted
to be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask
<i>
me
</i>
a
few questions. You see, we're both a bit queer."
</p>
<p>
"I hadn't thought of that," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—"
</p>
<p>
"That won't be necessary," Fownes said with unusual force. "With all
due respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well state
here and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway."
</p>
<p>
"But my dear Mr. Fownes," she said, leaning across the table. "We're
lost, you and I."
</p>
<p>
"Not if we could leave the dome," Fownes said quietly.
</p>
<p>
"That's impossible! How?"
</p>
<p>
In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownes
leaned across the table and whispered: "Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?
Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly has
no control whatever? Where the
<i>
wind
</i>
blows across
<i>
prairies
</i>
; or is
it the other way around? No matter. How would you like
<i>
that
</i>
, Mrs.
Deshazaway?"
</p>
<p>
Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on her
two hands. "Pray continue," she said.
</p>
<p>
"Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.
And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and is
supposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyond
the dome."
</p>
<p>
"I see."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
And
</i>
," Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, "they say
that somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,
the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's
<i>
vernal
</i>
and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers no
longer scintillate."
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
My.
</i>
" Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then came
back to the table, standing directly over Fownes. "If you can get us
outside the dome," she said, "out where a man stays
<i>
warm
</i>
long enough
for his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...
you may call me Agnes."
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was a
look of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt a
wistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. It
would be such a
<i>
deliciously
</i>
insane experience. ("April has thirty
days," Fownes mumbled, passing them, "because thirty is the largest
number such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisor
with it are
<i>
primes
</i>
." MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.
Lanfierre sighed.)
</p>
<p>
Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to the
library several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given over
to government publications and censored old books with holes in
them. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meet
there undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman of
eighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like the
books around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into near
unintelligibility.
</p>
<p>
"Here's one," she said to him as he entered. "
<i>
Gulliver's Travels.
</i>
Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for
<i>
five
</i>
days. What
do you make of it?"
</p>
<p>
In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surrounded
the librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curious
illustration. "What's that?" he said.
</p>
<p>
"A twister," she replied quickly. "Now listen to
<i>
this
</i>
. Seven years
later on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.
What do you make of
<i>
that
</i>
?"
</p>
<p>
"I'd say," Humphrey Fownes said, "that he ... that he recommended it
to her, that one day they met in the street and he told her about
this book and then they ... they went to the library together and she
borrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married."
</p>
<p>
"Hah! They were brother and sister!" the librarian shouted in her
parched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.
</p>
<p>
Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twister
was unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, like
a malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carrying
a Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anything
to feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlit
night, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacket
in his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumbling
after him: "Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991," as though
reading inscriptions on a tombstone.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaid
ladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to other
people's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tables
looking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.
</p>
<p>
"Where did the old society fail?" the leader was demanding of them. He
stood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. He
glanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as Humphrey
Fownes squeezed into an empty chair. "We live in a dome," the leader
said, "for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thing
that the great technological societies before ours could not invent,
notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?"
</p>
<p>
Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. He
waited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggled
with this problem in revolutionary dialectics.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," the leader said, aware that no one else had
obtained the insight. "If a sound foreign policy can't be created the
only alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus the
movement into domes began—
<i>
by common consent of the governments
</i>
. This
is known as self-containment."
</p>
<p>
Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lull
in the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might be
arranged for him to get out.
</p>
<p>
"Out?" the leader said, frowning. "Out? Out where?"
</p>
<p>
"Outside the dome."
</p>
<p>
"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and
leave."
</p>
<p>
"And that day I'll await impatiently," Fownes replied with marvelous
tact, "because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future
wife and I have to leave
<i>
now
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.
You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And
dialectically very poor."
</p>
<p>
"Then you
<i>
have
</i>
discussed preparations, the practical necessities of
life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?
Have I left anything out?"
</p>
<p>
The leader sighed. "The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything
out," he said to the group.
</p>
<p>
Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.
</p>
<p>
"Tell the man what he's forgotten," the leader said, walking to the far
window and turning his back quite pointedly on them.
</p>
<p>
Everyone spoke at the same moment. "
<i>
A sound foreign policy
</i>
," they all
said, it being almost too obvious for words.
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
On his way out the librarian shouted at him: "
<i>
A Tale of a Tub
</i>
,
thirty-five years overdue!" She was calculating the fine as he closed
the door.
</p>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was one
block away from his house. It was then that he realized something
unusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security police
was parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.
</p>
<p>
His house was dancing.
</p>
<p>
It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one's
residence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sight
that for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causing
it. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing its
own independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immense
curiosity.
</p>
<p>
The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.
</p>
<p>
From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched as
his favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast of
cold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. A
wild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,
suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofa
cushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging an
old, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of his
ancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.
</p>
<p>
He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toying
with his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on his
cheeks. He got hit by a shoe.
</p>
<p>
As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played over
his face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.
</p>
<p>
"Help!" Lieutenant MacBride called.
</p>
<p>
Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on his
dripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in the
distance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Winds
</i>
," he said in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
"What's happening?" MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
March
</i>
winds," he said.
</p>
<p>
"What?!"
</p>
<p>
"April showers!"
</p>
<p>
The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emerged
from the blackness of the living room. "These are
<i>
not
</i>
Optimum Dome
Conditions!" the voice wailed. "The temperature is
<i>
not
</i>
59 degrees.
The humidity is
<i>
not
</i>
47%!"
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. "Moonlight!" he
shouted. "Roses! My
<i>
soul
</i>
for a cocktail for two!" He grasped the
doorway to keep from being blown out of the house.
</p>
<p>
"Are you going to make it stop or aren't you!" MacBride yelled.
</p>
<p>
"You'll have to tell me what you did first!"
</p>
<p>
"I
<i>
told
</i>
him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairs
bedroom!"
</p>
<p>
When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his way
up the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with a
wheel in his hand.
</p>
<hr class="chap"/>
<hr class="chap"/>
<p>
"What have I done?" Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.
</p>
<p>
Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.
</p>
<p>
"I'm not sure what's going to come of this," he said to Lanfierre with
an astonishing amount of objectivity, "but the entire dome air supply
is now coming through my bedroom."
</p>
<p>
The wind screamed.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
"Not any more there isn't."
</p>
<p>
They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them and
they quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.
</p>
<p>
Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefully
edged out of the house and forced the front door shut.
</p>
<p>
The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the Optimum
Dome Conditions of the bright avenue.
</p>
<p>
"I never figured on
<i>
this
</i>
," Lanfierre said, shaking his head.
</p>
<p>
With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.
They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did a
wild, elated jig.
</p>
<p>
"What kind of a place
<i>
is
</i>
this?" MacBride said, his courage beginning
to return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossed
it away.
</p>
<p>
"Sure, he was
<i>
different
</i>
," Lanfierre murmured. "I knew that much."
</p>
<p>
When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certain
amount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,
standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It was
strangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now rose
out of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases every
which way.
</p>
<p>
"
<i>
Now
</i>
what?" MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strange
black cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolent
top....
</p>
<hr class="tb"/>
<p>
Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. He
held it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroom
with the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identical
shape of the illustration.
</p>
<p>
"It's a twister," he said softly. "A Kansas twister!"
</p>
<p>
"What," MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, "what ... is a
twister?"
</p>
<p>
The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear of
the house toward the side of the dome. "It says here," Fownes shouted
over the roaring, "that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twister
and that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land
<i>
beyond the
confines of everyday living
</i>
."
</p>
<p>
MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.
</p>
<p>
"Is there something I can turn?" Lanfierre asked.
</p>
<p>
Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.
</p>
<p>
"Fownes!" MacBride shouted. "This is a direct order! Make it go back!"
</p>
<p>
But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodging
mountainous puffs of glass as he went. "Mrs. Deshazaway!" he shouted.
"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!"
</p>
<p>
The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with the
precipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,
emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quickly
emptied and then rushed about empty-handed. "Yoo-hoo!" he yelled,
running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.
Optimum temperature collapsed. "Mrs. Deshazaway!
<i>
Agnes
</i>
, will you
marry me? Yoo-hoo!"
</p>
<p>
Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,
dazed.
</p>
<p>
There was quite a large fall of glass.
</p>
</html>
</html>
| {
"choices": "(A) Agnes and Humphrey will leave the dome\n(B) the government will rethink some of the dome's policies\n(C) Humphrey's house will fall apart\n(D) the dome will be repaired",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "PS; Science fiction; Short stories"
} |
20046 | Who would the author most agree with about swearing?
Choices:
(A) Mussolini
(B) Ashley Montagu
(C) Robert Graves
(D) Michael Irvin | [
"C",
"Robert Graves"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Maledict<I>oratory</I><br/><br/> The high costs of low<br/>language.<br/><br/> Sunday, Jan. 14, 1996: A<br/>day that will live in--well, not infamy, exactly. Blasphemy would be closer to<br/>it.<br/><br/> Early that afternoon, the<br/>Pittsburgh Steelers defeated the Indianapolis Colts to win the American<br/>Football Conference championship. Linebacker Greg Lloyd, accepting the trophy<br/>in front of a national television audience, responded with enthusiasm. "Let's<br/>see if we can bring this damn thing back here next year," he said, "along with<br/>the [expletive] Super Bowl."<br/><br/> A few<br/>hours later, Michael Irvin of the Dallas Cowboys offered this spirited defense<br/>of his coach on TV after his team won the National Football Conference title:<br/>"Nobody deserves it more than Barry Switzer. He took all of this [expletive]<br/>."<br/><br/> Iwatched those episodes, and, incongruous as it may sound,<br/>I thought of Kenneth Tynan. Britain's great postwar drama critic was no fan of<br/>American football, but he was a fan of swearing. Thirty years earlier, almost<br/>to the week, Tynan was interviewed on BBC television in his capacity as<br/>literary director of Britain's National Theater and asked if he would allow the<br/>theater to present a play in which sex took place on stage. "Certainly," he<br/>replied. "I think there are very few rational people in this world to whom the<br/>word '[expletive]' is particularly diabolical or revolting or totally<br/>forbidden."<br/><br/> It turned out there were a<br/>few more than Tynan thought. Within 24 hours, resolutions had been introduced<br/>in the House of Commons calling for his prosecution on charges of obscenity,<br/>for his removal as a theater official, and for censure of the network for<br/>allowing an obscene word to go out on the airwaves. Tynan escaped punishment,<br/>but he acquired a public reputation for tastelessness that he carried for the<br/>rest his life. To much of ordinary Britain, he became the man who had said<br/>"[expletive]" on the BBC.<br/><br/> Neither<br/>Greg Lloyd nor Michael Irvin was so stigmatized. "It's live television," NBC<br/>Vice President Ed Markey said, rationalizing the outbursts. "It's an emotional<br/>moment. These things happen." Irvin wasn't about to let that stand. "I knew<br/>exactly what I was saying," he insisted later. "Those of you who can't believe<br/>I said it--believe it."<br/><br/> Swearing isn't the only public act that Western<br/>civilization condones today but didn't 30 years ago. But it is one of the most<br/>interesting. It is everywhere, impossible to avoid or tune out.<br/><br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am sitting in a meeting at the office, talking with a colleague about a<br/>business circumstance that may possibly go against us. "In that case, we're<br/>[expletive] ," he says. Five years ago, he would have said "screwed." Twenty<br/>years ago, he would have said, "We're in big trouble." Societal tolerance of<br/>profanity requires us to increase our dosage as time goes on.<br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am walking along a suburban street, trailing a class of pre-schoolers who<br/>are linked to each other by a rope. A pair of teen-agers passes us in the other<br/>direction. By the time they have reached the end of the line of children, they<br/>have tossed off a whole catalog of obscenities I did not even hear until I was<br/>well into adolescence, let alone use in casual conversation on a public street.<br/> <br/><br/> <br/><br/> I am talking to a distinguished professor of public policy about a<br/>foundation grant. I tell her something she wasn't aware of before. In 1965, the<br/>appropriate response was "no kidding." In 1996, you do not say "no kidding." It<br/>is limp and ineffectual. If you are surprised at all, you say what she says:<br/>"No shit."<br/><br/> <br/><br/> What word is taboo in middle-class America in 1996? There<br/>are a couple of credible candidates: The four-letter word for "vagina" remains<br/>off-limits in polite conversation (although that has more to do with feminism<br/>than with profanity), and the slang expression for those who engage in oral sex<br/>with males is not yet acceptable by the standards of office-meeting<br/>etiquette.<br/><br/> But aside from a few<br/>exceptions, the supply of genuinely offensive language has dwindled almost to<br/>nothing as the 20th century comes to an end; the currency of swearing has been<br/>inflated to the brink of worthlessness. When almost anything can be said in<br/>public, profanity ceases to exist in any meaningful way at all.<br/><br/> That<br/>most of the forbidden words of the 1950s are no longer forbidden will come as<br/>news to nobody: The steady debasement of the common language is only one of<br/>many social strictures that have loosened from the previous generation to the<br/>current. What is important is that profanity served a variety of<br/>purposes for a long time in Western culture. It does not serve those purposes<br/>any more.<br/><br/> What purposes? There are a couple of plausible answers. One<br/>of them is emotional release. Robert Graves, who wrote a book in the 1920s<br/>called The Future of Swearing , thought that profanity was the adult<br/>replacement for childhood tears. There comes a point in life, he wrote, when<br/>"wailing is rightly discouraged, and groans are also considered a signal of<br/>extreme weakness. Silence under suffering is usually impossible." So one<br/>reaches back for a word one does not normally use, and utters it without undue<br/>embarrassment or guilt. And one feels better--even stimulated.<br/><br/> The anthropologist Ashley<br/>Montagu, whose Anatomy of Swearing , published in 1967, is the definitive<br/>modern take on the subject, saw profanity as a safety valve rather than a<br/>stimulant, a verbal substitute for physical aggression. When someone swears,<br/>Montagu wrote, "potentially noxious energy is converted into a form that<br/>renders it comparatively innocuous."<br/><br/> One<br/>could point out, in arguing against the safety-valve theory, that as America<br/>has grown more profane in the past 30 years, it has also grown more violent,<br/>not less. But this is too simple. It isn't just the supply of dirty words that<br/>matters, it's their emotive power. If they have lost that power through<br/>overuse, it's perfectly plausible to say that their capacity to deter<br/>aggressive behavior has weakened as well.<br/><br/> But there is something else important to say about<br/>swearing--that it represents the invocation of those ideas a society considers<br/>powerful, awesome, and a little scary.<br/><br/> I'm not sure there is an<br/>easy way to convey to anybody under 30, for example, the sheer emotive force<br/>that the word "[expletive]" possessed in the urban childhood culture of 40<br/>years ago. It was the verbal link to a secret act none of us understood but<br/>that was known to carry enormous consequences in the adult world. It was the<br/>embodiment of both pleasure and danger. It was not a word or an idea to mess<br/>with. When it was used, it was used, as Ashley Montagu said, "sotto<br/>voce , like a smuggler cautiously making his way across a forbidden<br/>frontier."<br/><br/> In that<br/>culture, the word "[expletive]" was not only obscene, it was profane, in the<br/>original sense: It took an important idea in vain. Profanity can be an act of<br/>religious defiance, but it doesn't have to be. The Greeks tempted fate by<br/>invoking the names of their superiors on Mount Olympus; they also swore upon<br/>everyday objects whose properties they respected but did not fully understand.<br/>"By the Cabbage!" Socrates is supposed to have said in moments of stress, and<br/>that was for good reason. He believed that cabbage cured hangovers, and as<br/>such, carried sufficient power and mystery to invest any moment with the<br/>requisite emotional charge.<br/><br/> These days, none of us believes in cabbage in the way<br/>Socrates did, or in the gods in the way most Athenians did. Most Americans tell<br/>poll-takers that they believe in God, but few of them in a way that would make<br/>it impossible to take His name in vain: That requires an Old Testament piety<br/>that disappeared from American middle-class life a long time ago.<br/><br/> Nor do we believe in sex<br/>any more the way most American children and millions of adults believed in it a<br/>generation ago: as an act of profound mystery and importance that one did not<br/>engage in, or discuss, or even invoke, without a certain amount of excitement<br/>and risk. We have trivialized and routinized sex to the point where it just<br/>doesn't carry the emotional freight it carried in the schoolyards and bedrooms<br/>of the 1950s.<br/><br/> Many<br/>enlightened people consider this to be a great improvement over a society in<br/>which sex generated not only emotion and power, but fear. For the moment, I<br/>wish to insist only on this one point: When sexuality loses its power to awe,<br/>it loses its power to create genuine swearing. When we convert it into a casual<br/>form of recreation, we shouldn't be surprised to hear linebackers using the<br/>word "[expletive]" on national television.<br/><br/> To profane something, in other words, one must believe in<br/>it. The cheapening of profanity in modern America represents, more than<br/>anything else, the crumbling of belief. There are very few ideas left at this<br/>point that are awesome or frightening enough for us to enforce a taboo against<br/>them.<br/><br/> The instinctive response<br/>of most educated people to the disappearance of any taboo is to applaud it, but<br/>this is wrong. Healthy societies need a decent supply of verbal taboos and<br/>prohibitions, if only as yardsticks by which ordinary people can measure and<br/>define themselves. By violating these taboos over and over, some succeed in<br/>defining themselves as rebels. Others violate them on special occasions to<br/>derive an emotional release. Forbidden language is one of the ways we remind<br/>children that there are rules to everyday life, and consequences for breaking<br/>them. When we forget this principle, or cease to accept it, it is not just our<br/>language that begins to fray at the edges.<br/><br/> What do we do about it?<br/>Well, we could pass a law against swearing. Mussolini actually did that. He<br/>decreed that trains and buses, in addition to running on time, had to carry<br/>signs that read "Non bestemmiare per l'onore d'Italia." ("Do not swear for the<br/>honor of Italy.") The commuters of Rome reacted to those signs exactly as you<br/>would expect: They cursed them.<br/><br/> What Mussolini could not<br/>do, I am reasonably sure that American governments of the 1990s cannot do, nor<br/>would I wish it. I merely predict that sometime in the coming generation,<br/>profanity will return in a meaningful way. It served too many purposes for too<br/>many years of American life to disappear on a permanent basis. We need it.<br/><br/> And so I am reasonably<br/>sure that when my children have children, there will once again be words so<br/>awesome that they cannot be uttered without important consequences. This will<br/>not only represent a new stage of linguistic evolution, it will be a token of<br/>moral revival. What the dirty words will be, God only knows.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) Mussolini\n(B) Ashley Montagu\n(C) Robert Graves\n(D) Michael Irvin",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20017 | What does the author think would have improved The Slums of Beverly Hills?
Choices:
(A) a more realistic plot
(B) more episodes to explain the situation
(C) a more experienced director
(D) more attractive actors | [
"C",
"a more experienced director"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Dirty Laundry<br/><br/> Now and then, a documentary<br/>film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern<br/>the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a<br/>documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How<br/>much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're<br/>striving, at least in theory, to capture?<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade Beds , Nicholas<br/>Barker's " 'real life' feature film," has proudly worn its mongrel status as a<br/>"directed" documentary of single life in the big city, employing, in the face<br/>of criticism, what amounts to a cackling-punk defiance. The movie tracks four<br/>aging New Yorkers--two men, two women--through their lonely dating rituals, in<br/>the process depicting a universe of lusty, coupled-up haves and downcast,<br/>excluded have-nots, all viewed Rear Window -style through rectangular<br/>openings in the massive apartment houses in which they reside.<br/><br/> This is<br/>not cinema <br/> vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The<br/>director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates,<br/>followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and<br/>dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film "an exercise in<br/>mendacity," Barker goes on, "I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters<br/>and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate<br/>larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two<br/>weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded<br/>to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In<br/>part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and<br/>commentary ("I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really<br/>don't want to have anything to do with it"--a New York publicist), it threatens<br/>to become a cause <br/> célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater<br/>near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of<br/>"difficult" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing.<br/>Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak<br/>show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the<br/>Puritan kind; it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard<br/>pervert people's lives in the name of "larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Those<br/>truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch<br/>lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were<br/>to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature<br/>might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger<br/>dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is<br/>very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however,<br/>Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains<br/>about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males.<br/><br/> <br/>Michael turns out to be the film's most<br/>sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy<br/>54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind<br/>dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are "mutts." Sounding like one<br/>of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco ,<br/>Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in<br/>the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose<br/>pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a<br/>pathetic little loser--a mutt.<br/><br/> Aimee, on<br/>the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds.<br/>Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside<br/>bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her<br/>thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly<br/>the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has<br/>always been fat--and she's "OK with it," and a man just has to accept it. This<br/>is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if<br/>you call them back? If you express too much interest? "Or," the viewer thinks,<br/>"if you're 225 pounds?"<br/><br/> The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous<br/>exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a<br/>Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money<br/>and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too<br/>difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks ("I'm up to two dicks<br/>a day"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks.<br/>Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article)<br/>is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint.<br/>Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their<br/>dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them<br/>for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and<br/>steps into the shower and soaps up.<br/><br/> Barker<br/>might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has<br/>robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't<br/>thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your<br/>eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed<br/>like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection.<br/>The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You<br/>can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and<br/>elaborately lighted) and reminding them, "In this scene she points out that you<br/>should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action."<br/><br/> <br/>Call me square, but I find this antithetical to<br/>the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before<br/>going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his<br/>material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels<br/>prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not<br/>go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for<br/>$10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial,<br/>following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was<br/>"true to her character." But what separates documentary from fiction is that<br/>real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished<br/>characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of<br/>her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary<br/>filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected<br/>patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than<br/>the one they set out to portray.<br/><br/> So what are Barker's "larger<br/>dramatic truths"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people<br/>fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and,<br/>in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably,<br/>that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to<br/>regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to<br/>see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger<br/>dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together<br/>and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to<br/>the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and<br/>then, hey, he's a documentarian.<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade<br/>Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its<br/>subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and<br/>the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that<br/>you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you.<br/>Anything to keep from turning into one of those people.<br/><br/> The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two<br/>genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue.<br/>Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd<br/>juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic<br/>upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being<br/>shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP<br/>code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them<br/>to be educated in the best schools. ("Furniture's temporary; education is<br/>permanent.") It's a major omission, then, that we never see those schools or<br/>the kids' interaction with their stable, well-to-do Beverly Hills counterparts.<br/>We can't tell if the father is, on some weird level, justified in his fervor,<br/>or whether he's screwing up his children--subjecting them to humiliation and<br/>robbing them of a sense of permanence--for no reason. Jenkins hasn't quite<br/>figured out how to shape her narrative, which is full of episodes that are<br/>there because they actually happened but that don't have a payoff. I almost<br/>wish she'd included more voice-over narration, more commentary on the things<br/>that, as a filmmaker, she hasn't learned to bring out.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's<br/>exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of<br/>'70s fashions and decor. The father, to obtain financial support from his<br/>wealthy brother (Carl Reiner), volunteers to take in his vaguely schizzy,<br/>dipsomaniacal niece (Marisa Tomei). She and her cousin compare breasts, play<br/>with vibrators, and talk in pig Latinish gibberish, but Jenkins never lets the<br/>proceedings get too sentimental: The whimsy is always cut with an acidic<br/>awareness of the family's desperation. "Are we middle-class now?" ask the<br/>children, hopefully, before another crisis sends them back into their van,<br/>cruising past the movie stars' mansions, in the mean streets of Beverly<br/>Hills.<br/><br/> <br/>Grading on the steep curve established by<br/>summer blockbuster seasons past, these have turned out to be a pretty good few<br/>months at the movies. Even the commercial swill ( Deep Impact ,<br/>Armageddon , The Mask of Zorro , Small Soldiers , Snake<br/>Eyes , Halloween: H20 ) has been of a high grade, and Saving<br/>Private Ryan and Return to Paradise were Vitalis slaps in the kisser<br/>for people woozy from all the warm weather escapism. Out of Sight was<br/>tender and charming, as was, in its gross-out way, There's Something About<br/>Mary . And, on the indie front, The Opposite of Sex , Buffalo<br/>66 , and Pi have proved that there's still commercial life after<br/>Sundance. Sure, we had stinkers, but even Godzilla was fun to jeer at.<br/>And there's something reassuring about the fact that The Avengers is so<br/>rotten: proof yet again that people with piles of money can hire wizard<br/>production designers but can't fake class.<br/><br/> I don't know who the<br/>credited screenwriter, Don MacPherson, is, but it's unlikely that he has ever<br/>seen an episode of the old Avengers , let alone sussed out the source of<br/>its appeal. Opening with a slapstick sequence of agent John Steed (Ralph<br/>Fiennes) doing kung fu, the film shifts to a scene in which he meets Mrs. Peel<br/>(Uma Thurman) while sitting naked in a sauna with only a newspaper to cover his<br/>private parts. The series was erotic in a way only prim English humor can be:<br/>The Old Boy Steed was capable of throwing a punch and bonking someone with his<br/>bowler, but he left the karate kicking to his liberated, leather-suited distaff<br/>associate. Here their roles have been witlessly muddled, and MacPherson's idea<br/>of banter is to have the pair complete each other's clichés.<br/><br/> Whereas the original Steed,<br/>Patrick Macnee, was to the English Men's Club born, Fiennes is an eternal<br/>caddie. The willowy Thurman looks great in her outfits, but it's ever more<br/>apparent that she isn't much of an actress--at least, not a trained one--and<br/>her attempts at insouciance are embarrassingly arch. As the eccentric master<br/>villain who controls the weather, even Sean Connery is flat-out terrible,<br/>acting high on the hog. To think Connery once found the Bond films so far<br/>beneath him! When he sputters lines like "Time to die!" one imagines Dr. No,<br/>Goldfinger, and Blofeld snickering in the wings.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) a more realistic plot\n(B) more episodes to explain the situation\n(C) a more experienced director\n(D) more attractive actors",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20017 | What is the author's purpose for writing this?
Choices:
(A) to inform people that documentaries aren't always accurate
(B) to persuade people to be critical of movies they watch
(C) to explain different films he's seen recently
(D) to inform the audience of the changes in cinema | [
"C",
"to explain different films he's seen recently"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Dirty Laundry<br/><br/> Now and then, a documentary<br/>film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern<br/>the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a<br/>documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How<br/>much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're<br/>striving, at least in theory, to capture?<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade Beds , Nicholas<br/>Barker's " 'real life' feature film," has proudly worn its mongrel status as a<br/>"directed" documentary of single life in the big city, employing, in the face<br/>of criticism, what amounts to a cackling-punk defiance. The movie tracks four<br/>aging New Yorkers--two men, two women--through their lonely dating rituals, in<br/>the process depicting a universe of lusty, coupled-up haves and downcast,<br/>excluded have-nots, all viewed Rear Window -style through rectangular<br/>openings in the massive apartment houses in which they reside.<br/><br/> This is<br/>not cinema <br/> vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The<br/>director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates,<br/>followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and<br/>dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film "an exercise in<br/>mendacity," Barker goes on, "I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters<br/>and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate<br/>larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two<br/>weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded<br/>to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In<br/>part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and<br/>commentary ("I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really<br/>don't want to have anything to do with it"--a New York publicist), it threatens<br/>to become a cause <br/> célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater<br/>near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of<br/>"difficult" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing.<br/>Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak<br/>show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the<br/>Puritan kind; it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard<br/>pervert people's lives in the name of "larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Those<br/>truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch<br/>lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were<br/>to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature<br/>might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger<br/>dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is<br/>very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however,<br/>Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains<br/>about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males.<br/><br/> <br/>Michael turns out to be the film's most<br/>sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy<br/>54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind<br/>dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are "mutts." Sounding like one<br/>of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco ,<br/>Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in<br/>the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose<br/>pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a<br/>pathetic little loser--a mutt.<br/><br/> Aimee, on<br/>the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds.<br/>Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside<br/>bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her<br/>thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly<br/>the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has<br/>always been fat--and she's "OK with it," and a man just has to accept it. This<br/>is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if<br/>you call them back? If you express too much interest? "Or," the viewer thinks,<br/>"if you're 225 pounds?"<br/><br/> The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous<br/>exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a<br/>Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money<br/>and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too<br/>difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks ("I'm up to two dicks<br/>a day"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks.<br/>Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article)<br/>is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint.<br/>Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their<br/>dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them<br/>for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and<br/>steps into the shower and soaps up.<br/><br/> Barker<br/>might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has<br/>robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't<br/>thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your<br/>eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed<br/>like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection.<br/>The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You<br/>can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and<br/>elaborately lighted) and reminding them, "In this scene she points out that you<br/>should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action."<br/><br/> <br/>Call me square, but I find this antithetical to<br/>the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before<br/>going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his<br/>material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels<br/>prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not<br/>go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for<br/>$10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial,<br/>following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was<br/>"true to her character." But what separates documentary from fiction is that<br/>real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished<br/>characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of<br/>her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary<br/>filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected<br/>patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than<br/>the one they set out to portray.<br/><br/> So what are Barker's "larger<br/>dramatic truths"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people<br/>fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and,<br/>in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably,<br/>that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to<br/>regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to<br/>see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger<br/>dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together<br/>and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to<br/>the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and<br/>then, hey, he's a documentarian.<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade<br/>Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its<br/>subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and<br/>the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that<br/>you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you.<br/>Anything to keep from turning into one of those people.<br/><br/> The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two<br/>genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue.<br/>Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd<br/>juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic<br/>upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being<br/>shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP<br/>code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them<br/>to be educated in the best schools. ("Furniture's temporary; education is<br/>permanent.") It's a major omission, then, that we never see those schools or<br/>the kids' interaction with their stable, well-to-do Beverly Hills counterparts.<br/>We can't tell if the father is, on some weird level, justified in his fervor,<br/>or whether he's screwing up his children--subjecting them to humiliation and<br/>robbing them of a sense of permanence--for no reason. Jenkins hasn't quite<br/>figured out how to shape her narrative, which is full of episodes that are<br/>there because they actually happened but that don't have a payoff. I almost<br/>wish she'd included more voice-over narration, more commentary on the things<br/>that, as a filmmaker, she hasn't learned to bring out.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's<br/>exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of<br/>'70s fashions and decor. The father, to obtain financial support from his<br/>wealthy brother (Carl Reiner), volunteers to take in his vaguely schizzy,<br/>dipsomaniacal niece (Marisa Tomei). She and her cousin compare breasts, play<br/>with vibrators, and talk in pig Latinish gibberish, but Jenkins never lets the<br/>proceedings get too sentimental: The whimsy is always cut with an acidic<br/>awareness of the family's desperation. "Are we middle-class now?" ask the<br/>children, hopefully, before another crisis sends them back into their van,<br/>cruising past the movie stars' mansions, in the mean streets of Beverly<br/>Hills.<br/><br/> <br/>Grading on the steep curve established by<br/>summer blockbuster seasons past, these have turned out to be a pretty good few<br/>months at the movies. Even the commercial swill ( Deep Impact ,<br/>Armageddon , The Mask of Zorro , Small Soldiers , Snake<br/>Eyes , Halloween: H20 ) has been of a high grade, and Saving<br/>Private Ryan and Return to Paradise were Vitalis slaps in the kisser<br/>for people woozy from all the warm weather escapism. Out of Sight was<br/>tender and charming, as was, in its gross-out way, There's Something About<br/>Mary . And, on the indie front, The Opposite of Sex , Buffalo<br/>66 , and Pi have proved that there's still commercial life after<br/>Sundance. Sure, we had stinkers, but even Godzilla was fun to jeer at.<br/>And there's something reassuring about the fact that The Avengers is so<br/>rotten: proof yet again that people with piles of money can hire wizard<br/>production designers but can't fake class.<br/><br/> I don't know who the<br/>credited screenwriter, Don MacPherson, is, but it's unlikely that he has ever<br/>seen an episode of the old Avengers , let alone sussed out the source of<br/>its appeal. Opening with a slapstick sequence of agent John Steed (Ralph<br/>Fiennes) doing kung fu, the film shifts to a scene in which he meets Mrs. Peel<br/>(Uma Thurman) while sitting naked in a sauna with only a newspaper to cover his<br/>private parts. The series was erotic in a way only prim English humor can be:<br/>The Old Boy Steed was capable of throwing a punch and bonking someone with his<br/>bowler, but he left the karate kicking to his liberated, leather-suited distaff<br/>associate. Here their roles have been witlessly muddled, and MacPherson's idea<br/>of banter is to have the pair complete each other's clichés.<br/><br/> Whereas the original Steed,<br/>Patrick Macnee, was to the English Men's Club born, Fiennes is an eternal<br/>caddie. The willowy Thurman looks great in her outfits, but it's ever more<br/>apparent that she isn't much of an actress--at least, not a trained one--and<br/>her attempts at insouciance are embarrassingly arch. As the eccentric master<br/>villain who controls the weather, even Sean Connery is flat-out terrible,<br/>acting high on the hog. To think Connery once found the Bond films so far<br/>beneath him! When he sputters lines like "Time to die!" one imagines Dr. No,<br/>Goldfinger, and Blofeld snickering in the wings.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) to inform people that documentaries aren't always accurate\n(B) to persuade people to be critical of movies they watch\n(C) to explain different films he's seen recently\n(D) to inform the audience of the changes in cinema",
"difficulty": "1",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
20017 | What would the author likely say about himself?
Choices:
(A) he only likes certain film genres
(B) he's an expert at critiquing films
(C) his opinion is different from most peoples'
(D) his films are better than most that he's seen | [
"B",
"he's an expert at critiquing films"
] | <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> Dirty Laundry<br/><br/> Now and then, a documentary<br/>film comes along that makes us re-examine the rules that unofficially govern<br/>the genre: Can there be a middle ground between fiction and fact? Can a<br/>documentary use scripted scenes and yet remain ontologically authentic? How<br/>much can you stylize material before you alter the reality that you're<br/>striving, at least in theory, to capture?<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade Beds , Nicholas<br/>Barker's " 'real life' feature film," has proudly worn its mongrel status as a<br/>"directed" documentary of single life in the big city, employing, in the face<br/>of criticism, what amounts to a cackling-punk defiance. The movie tracks four<br/>aging New Yorkers--two men, two women--through their lonely dating rituals, in<br/>the process depicting a universe of lusty, coupled-up haves and downcast,<br/>excluded have-nots, all viewed Rear Window -style through rectangular<br/>openings in the massive apartment houses in which they reside.<br/><br/> This is<br/>not cinema <br/> vérité , and nothing has been left to chance. The<br/>director selected his four subjects from many hundreds of potential candidates,<br/>followed them around for months, and then scripted their monologues and<br/>dialogues to reflect what he says he saw. Calling his own film "an exercise in<br/>mendacity," Barker goes on, "I'm quite happy to tell lies about my characters<br/>and even collude with their self-delusions if it enables me to communicate<br/>larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Spurned by U.S. distributors, Unmade Beds opened two<br/>weeks ago in a small screening room in downtown Manhattan, where it proceeded<br/>to set box office records and generate lots of (largely favorable) press. In<br/>part due to smart publicity, which has bannered some of the bad reviews and<br/>commentary ("I have to tell you that this film upset me so much that I really<br/>don't want to have anything to do with it"--a New York publicist), it threatens<br/>to become a cause <br/> célèbre --and to be coming soon to a theater<br/>near you. It's always nice to see distributors proved wrong about the merits of<br/>"difficult" films, but in this case I think they did the decent thing.<br/>Unmade Beds isn't just bad--it's obnoxiously, noxiously bad, a freak<br/>show for the empathetically challenged. The outrage it has prompted isn't the<br/>Puritan kind; it's more like legitimate revulsion at watching a blowhard<br/>pervert people's lives in the name of "larger dramatic truths."<br/><br/> Those<br/>truths are large, all right. Take Michael, the 40-year-old, 5 foot 4 inch<br/>lonely guy who has been looking for a wife for almost two decades. If you were<br/>to walk past him on the street, you might think that a man of his small stature<br/>might have some trouble getting dates and be rather bitter about it. The larger<br/>dramatic truth is that Michael has lots of trouble getting dates and is<br/>very bitter about it. Just in case you feel too sorry for him, however,<br/>Barker is careful to include a homophobic monologue in which Michael complains<br/>about young women who waste their lives hanging out with effeminate males.<br/><br/> <br/>Michael turns out to be the film's most<br/>sympathetic subject--by a wide margin. At least he's not Mikey, a paunchy<br/>54-year-old who writes but can't sell screenplays and who always flees blind<br/>dates, because the women he gets fixed up with are "mutts." Sounding like one<br/>of the low-level gangsters who posture like kingpins in Donnie Brasco ,<br/>Mikey talks a lot about mutts. He also reminisces about that 24 hour period in<br/>the '70s when he managed to sleep with three different beautiful women, whose<br/>pictures he shows off. These days, all he meets are mutts. He comes off as a<br/>pathetic little loser--a mutt.<br/><br/> Aimee, on<br/>the other hand, is a pathetic big loser, weighing in at 225 pounds.<br/>Determined to get married before she turns 30, she generally is filmed beside<br/>bags of groceries and assorted junk foods. She cries about her situation to her<br/>thin friend, Laurie, who, in one scene, gently mentions Aimee's weight. Clearly<br/>the scene is scripted, but Aimee does a good job acting taken aback. She has<br/>always been fat--and she's "OK with it," and a man just has to accept it. This<br/>is followed by more talk about how you attract men. Will they respect you if<br/>you call them back? If you express too much interest? "Or," the viewer thinks,<br/>"if you're 225 pounds?"<br/><br/> The only natural performer here is Brenda, a garrulous<br/>exhibitionist who blossoms with the camera on her--she could have a career as a<br/>Penny Marshall-style character actress. Divorced and aging, Brenda needs money<br/>and is willing to charge for her sexual services. It shouldn't be too<br/>difficult, because men are always showing her their dicks ("I'm up to two dicks<br/>a day"). They meet her and, a few minutes later, they show her their dicks.<br/>Weird, huh? What Barker leaves out (it's in a New York Observer article)<br/>is that Brenda, a former lap dancer, works in marketing at a strip joint.<br/>Presumably, men standing next to her in line at McDonald's don't show her their<br/>dicks. Nor, presumably, does she show them her breasts--although she bares them<br/>for Barker's camera, jabbering about her body while she doffs her clothes and<br/>steps into the shower and soaps up.<br/><br/> Barker<br/>might have crafted his subjects' monologues from their own words, but he has<br/>robbed them of their spontaneity--and, thus, of their essence. They aren't<br/>thinking or trying to come to grips with their situations in front of your<br/>eyes, because they already know what they're going to say: They've been fixed<br/>like butterflies on the ends of pins and held up for voyeuristic inspection.<br/>The scenes with friends and confidantes have a crude, programmatic purpose. You<br/>can imagine the director composing a shot (the shots are tightly composed and<br/>elaborately lighted) and reminding them, "In this scene she points out that you<br/>should lose weight and you get shocked and defensive. Ready ... Action."<br/><br/> <br/>Call me square, but I find this antithetical to<br/>the documentary spirit. An Englishman who trained as an anthropologist before<br/>going to work for BBC Television, Barker clearly made up his mind about his<br/>material before his cameras began to roll--so it's no surprise that it feels<br/>prechewed and predigested. When reality interfered (Brenda apparently did not<br/>go through with a marriage to an immigrant in search of a green card for<br/>$10,000, as she does on-screen), Barker brushed the truth aside as immaterial,<br/>following her up the steps of City Hall in her wedding dress because it was<br/>"true to her character." But what separates documentary from fiction is that<br/>real people are often more complicated, and more conflicted, than finished<br/>characters--as Brenda proved to be more (or, at least, other) than the sum of<br/>her parts. That's the kind of truth that reveals itself to documentary<br/>filmmakers after the fact, when they go over footage and discover unexpected<br/>patterns, dissonances, glimmers of a universe that's richer and messier than<br/>the one they set out to portray.<br/><br/> So what are Barker's "larger<br/>dramatic truths"? Single people in big cities can be desperate. Single people<br/>fear they're going to die alone--unloved and unloving. People are judged and,<br/>in turn, judge others by how they look. Big news. One could argue, charitably,<br/>that the movie is meant to be prescriptive, that Barker intends for us to<br/>regard the ways in which his subjects delude themselves and thereby learn to<br/>see through our own self-delusions. But Barker hasn't concocted a larger<br/>dramatic structure that would hold those larger dramatic truths together<br/>and help us comprehend where these people went wrong. He dramatizes right up to<br/>the point where a dramatist would be expected to provide some insight--and<br/>then, hey, he's a documentarian.<br/><br/> <br/> Unmade<br/>Beds might make a good date movie. There's little to argue about in its<br/>subjects' personalities--both males and females will find them repulsive--and<br/>the picture the film paints of single life in the big city is so bleak that<br/>you'll probably want to jump into bed with whoever is sitting next to you.<br/>Anything to keep from turning into one of those people.<br/><br/> The Slums of Beverly Hills also walks a line between two<br/>genres, in this case coming-of-age sex comedy and autobiographical monologue.<br/>Tamara Jenkins, the writer and first-time director, has an eye for absurd<br/>juxtapositions that was obviously sharpened by the pain of her nomadic<br/>upbringing. Her protagonist (Natasha Lyonne) spends her teen-age years being<br/>shuttled with her two brothers from one cheap dive to another in the 90210 ZIP<br/>code, all because her egregiously unsuccessful father (Alan Arkin) wants them<br/>to be educated in the best schools. ("Furniture's temporary; education is<br/>permanent.") It's a major omission, then, that we never see those schools or<br/>the kids' interaction with their stable, well-to-do Beverly Hills counterparts.<br/>We can't tell if the father is, on some weird level, justified in his fervor,<br/>or whether he's screwing up his children--subjecting them to humiliation and<br/>robbing them of a sense of permanence--for no reason. Jenkins hasn't quite<br/>figured out how to shape her narrative, which is full of episodes that are<br/>there because they actually happened but that don't have a payoff. I almost<br/>wish she'd included more voice-over narration, more commentary on the things<br/>that, as a filmmaker, she hasn't learned to bring out.<br/><br/> <br/> The<br/>Slums of Beverly Hills never gels, but it has a likable spirit, and it's<br/>exceedingly easy on the eye, with lots of pretty girls and wry evocations of<br/>'70s fashions and decor. The father, to obtain financial support from his<br/>wealthy brother (Carl Reiner), volunteers to take in his vaguely schizzy,<br/>dipsomaniacal niece (Marisa Tomei). She and her cousin compare breasts, play<br/>with vibrators, and talk in pig Latinish gibberish, but Jenkins never lets the<br/>proceedings get too sentimental: The whimsy is always cut with an acidic<br/>awareness of the family's desperation. "Are we middle-class now?" ask the<br/>children, hopefully, before another crisis sends them back into their van,<br/>cruising past the movie stars' mansions, in the mean streets of Beverly<br/>Hills.<br/><br/> <br/>Grading on the steep curve established by<br/>summer blockbuster seasons past, these have turned out to be a pretty good few<br/>months at the movies. Even the commercial swill ( Deep Impact ,<br/>Armageddon , The Mask of Zorro , Small Soldiers , Snake<br/>Eyes , Halloween: H20 ) has been of a high grade, and Saving<br/>Private Ryan and Return to Paradise were Vitalis slaps in the kisser<br/>for people woozy from all the warm weather escapism. Out of Sight was<br/>tender and charming, as was, in its gross-out way, There's Something About<br/>Mary . And, on the indie front, The Opposite of Sex , Buffalo<br/>66 , and Pi have proved that there's still commercial life after<br/>Sundance. Sure, we had stinkers, but even Godzilla was fun to jeer at.<br/>And there's something reassuring about the fact that The Avengers is so<br/>rotten: proof yet again that people with piles of money can hire wizard<br/>production designers but can't fake class.<br/><br/> I don't know who the<br/>credited screenwriter, Don MacPherson, is, but it's unlikely that he has ever<br/>seen an episode of the old Avengers , let alone sussed out the source of<br/>its appeal. Opening with a slapstick sequence of agent John Steed (Ralph<br/>Fiennes) doing kung fu, the film shifts to a scene in which he meets Mrs. Peel<br/>(Uma Thurman) while sitting naked in a sauna with only a newspaper to cover his<br/>private parts. The series was erotic in a way only prim English humor can be:<br/>The Old Boy Steed was capable of throwing a punch and bonking someone with his<br/>bowler, but he left the karate kicking to his liberated, leather-suited distaff<br/>associate. Here their roles have been witlessly muddled, and MacPherson's idea<br/>of banter is to have the pair complete each other's clichés.<br/><br/> Whereas the original Steed,<br/>Patrick Macnee, was to the English Men's Club born, Fiennes is an eternal<br/>caddie. The willowy Thurman looks great in her outfits, but it's ever more<br/>apparent that she isn't much of an actress--at least, not a trained one--and<br/>her attempts at insouciance are embarrassingly arch. As the eccentric master<br/>villain who controls the weather, even Sean Connery is flat-out terrible,<br/>acting high on the hog. To think Connery once found the Bond films so far<br/>beneath him! When he sputters lines like "Time to die!" one imagines Dr. No,<br/>Goldfinger, and Blofeld snickering in the wings.<br/><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> | {
"choices": "(A) he only likes certain film genres\n(B) he's an expert at critiquing films\n(C) his opinion is different from most peoples' \n(D) his films are better than most that he's seen",
"difficulty": "0",
"topic": "Periodicals; Specialized Magazine; Media Coverage"
} |
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