split
stringclasses 3
values | document_id
stringlengths 5
5
| questions
sequencelengths 4
10
| options
sequencelengths 4
10
| gold_label
sequencelengths 4
10
| difficult
sequencelengths 4
10
| text
stringlengths 10.3k
35.3k
|
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
train | 23767 | [
"Why is Peter on the surface of this planet?",
"What would have happened if the Peace State had not crash landed?",
"What is the most likely explanation for why Kolin's anger is so extreme?",
"Which description is the best representation of Yrtok's role in the story?",
"Why is Kolin so worried about the purple berries?",
"What might lead the reader to think that Ashlew is trying to draw Kolin into a trap?",
"What did Kolin think about becoming a tree himself?",
"How does Kolin feel about Ashlew?"
] | [
[
"His ship took a long turn and is waiting for supplies.",
"He ended up there because of an accident.",
"His ship is there to pass rations to the locals who are low on food.",
"He is part of an exploratory crew sent to investigate."
],
[
"A different crew would eventually follow a similar path.",
"The locals would not have gotten the rations they needed.",
"A revolution on Haurtoz would never have happened.",
"Yrtok would have remained lonely for the rest of his life."
],
[
"He is known to be irritable and have mood swings.",
"He had been holding in anger and his captain's reaction was the last straw.",
"He was under the effects of the purple berries.",
"His mind is being controlled by Ashlew."
],
[
"She figured out what was wrong with Ammet when he fell.",
"She was the reason they had a quality water supply.",
"She found the purple berries, an important source of food for the stranded crew.",
"Her fall leads Kolin to find Ashlew"
],
[
"He expected them to be a different color.",
"They may have had adverse effects on his crewmates' mental state.",
"The cook thinks that they are dangerous to eat.",
"If they are not edible, they will not have any food to bring back with their report."
],
[
"The way in which he offers to talk to the powerful force about Kolin's history",
"The holes strewn across Ashlew's back.",
"The fact that Ashlew assumed Kolin had been to Earth.",
"The fact that anyone would think a tree would be a good being to change into."
],
[
"He wanted to be an animal, not a plant.",
"He was intrigued but wanted to try something slightly different.",
"He figured it was an effective way to escape his crew.",
"He refused to give up his own body."
],
[
"He does not trust him because he has many features not standard for trees.",
"He is hesitant but drawn to him all the same.",
"He is certain that Ashlew is trying to trick him.",
"He trusts them, as the highest ranking person in this new planet he has met so far."
]
] | [
2,
3,
2,
4,
2,
1,
2,
2
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | By H. B. Fyfe
THE TALKATIVE
TREE
Dang vines! Beats all how some plants
have no manners—but what do you expect,
when they used to be men!
All
things considered—the
obscure star, the undetermined
damage to the
stellar drive and the way the
small planet's murky atmosphere
defied precision scanners—the
pilot made a reasonably
good landing. Despite
sour feelings for the space
service of Haurtoz, steward
Peter Kolin had to admit that
casualties might have been
far worse.
Chief Steward Slichow led
his little command, less two
third-class ration keepers
thought to have been trapped
in the lower hold, to a point
two hundred meters from the
steaming hull of the
Peace
State
. He lined them up as if
on parade. Kolin made himself
inconspicuous.
"Since the crew will be on
emergency watches repairing
the damage," announced the
Chief in clipped, aggressive
tones, "I have volunteered my
section for preliminary scouting,
as is suitable. It may be
useful to discover temporary
sources in this area of natural
foods."
Volunteered HIS section!
thought Kolin rebelliously.
Like the Supreme Director
of Haurtoz! Being conscripted
into this idiotic space fleet
that never fights is bad
enough without a tin god on
jets like Slichow!
Prudently, he did not express
this resentment overtly.
His well-schooled features
revealed no trace of the idea—or
of any other idea. The
Planetary State of Haurtoz
had been organized some fifteen
light-years from old
Earth, but many of the home
world's less kindly techniques
had been employed. Lack of
complete loyalty to the state
was likely to result in a siege
of treatment that left the subject
suitably "re-personalized."
Kolin had heard of instances
wherein mere unenthusiastic
posture had betrayed
intentions to harbor
treasonable thoughts.
"You will scout in five details
of three persons each,"
Chief Slichow said. "Every
hour, each detail will send
one person in to report, and
he will be replaced by one of
the five I shall keep here to
issue rations."
Kolin permitted himself to
wonder when anyone might
get some rest, but assumed a
mildly willing look. (Too eager
an attitude could arouse
suspicion of disguising an improper
viewpoint.) The maintenance
of a proper viewpoint
was a necessity if the Planetary
State were to survive
the hostile plots of Earth and
the latter's decadent colonies.
That, at least, was the official
line.
Kolin found himself in a
group with Jak Ammet, a
third cook, and Eva Yrtok,
powdered foods storekeeper.
Since the crew would be eating
packaged rations during
repairs, Yrtok could be spared
to command a scout detail.
Each scout was issued a
rocket pistol and a plastic water
tube. Chief Slichow emphasized
that the keepers of
rations could hardly, in an
emergency, give even the appearance
of favoring themselves
in regard to food. They
would go without. Kolin
maintained a standard expression
as the Chief's sharp
stare measured them.
Yrtok, a dark, lean-faced
girl, led the way with a quiet
monosyllable. She carried the
small radio they would be
permitted to use for messages
of utmost urgency. Ammet
followed, and Kolin brought
up the rear.
To
reach their assigned
sector, they had to climb
a forbidding ridge of rock
within half a kilometer. Only
a sparse creeper grew along
their way, its elongated leaves
shimmering with bronze-green
reflections against a
stony surface; but when they
topped the ridge a thick forest
was in sight.
Yrtok and Ammet paused
momentarily before descending.
Kolin shared their sense of
isolation. They would be out
of sight of authority and responsible
for their own actions.
It was a strange sensation.
They marched down into
the valley at a brisk pace, becoming
more aware of the
clouds and atmospheric haze.
Distant objects seemed
blurred by the mist, taking on
a somber, brooding grayness.
For all Kolin could tell, he
and the others were isolated
in a world bounded by the
rocky ridge behind them and
a semi-circle of damp trees
and bushes several hundred
meters away. He suspected
that the hills rising mistily
ahead were part of a continuous
slope, but could not be
sure.
Yrtok led the way along
the most nearly level ground.
Low creepers became more
plentiful, interspersed with
scrubby thickets of tangled,
spike-armored bushes. Occasionally,
small flying things
flickered among the foliage.
Once, a shrub puffed out an
enormous cloud of tiny
spores.
"Be a job to find anything
edible here," grunted Ammet,
and Kolin agreed.
Finally, after a longer hike
than he had anticipated, they
approached the edge of the
deceptively distant forest.
Yrtok paused to examine some
purple berries glistening dangerously
on a low shrub. Kolin
regarded the trees with
misgiving.
"Looks as tough to get
through as a tropical jungle,"
he remarked.
"I think the stuff puts out
shoots that grow back into
the ground to root as they
spread," said the woman.
"Maybe we can find a way
through."
In two or three minutes,
they reached the abrupt border
of the odd-looking trees.
Except for one thick
trunked giant, all of them
were about the same height.
They craned their necks to estimate
the altitude of the
monster, but the top was hidden
by the wide spread of
branches. The depths behind
it looked dark and impenetrable.
"We'd better explore along
the edge," decided Yrtok.
"Ammet, now is the time to
go back and tell the Chief
which way we're—
Ammet!
"
Kolin looked over his shoulder.
Fifty meters away, Ammet
sat beside the bush with
the purple berries, utterly
relaxed.
"He must have tasted
some!" exclaimed Kolin. "I'll
see how he is."
He ran back to the cook and
shook him by the shoulder.
Ammet's head lolled loosely
to one side. His rather heavy
features were vacant, lending
him a doped appearance. Kolin
straightened up and beckoned
to Yrtok.
For some reason, he had
trouble attracting her attention.
Then he noticed that she
was kneeling.
"Hope she didn't eat some
stupid thing too!" he grumbled,
trotting back.
As he reached her, whatever
Yrtok was examining
came to life and scooted into
the underbrush with a flash
of greenish fur. All Kolin
saw was that it had several
legs too many.
He pulled Yrtok to her
feet. She pawed at him weakly,
eyes as vacant as Ammet's.
When he let go in sudden
horror, she folded gently to
the ground. She lay comfortably
on her side, twitching
one hand as if to brush something
away.
When she began to smile
dreamily, Kolin backed away.
The
corners of his mouth
felt oddly stiff; they had
involuntarily drawn back to
expose his clenched teeth. He
glanced warily about, but
nothing appeared to threaten
him.
"It's time to end this scout,"
he told himself. "It's dangerous.
One good look and I'm
jetting off! What I need is
an easy tree to climb."
He considered the massive
giant. Soaring thirty or forty
meters into the thin fog and
dwarfing other growth, it
seemed the most promising
choice.
At first, Kolin saw no way,
but then the network of vines
clinging to the rugged trunk
suggested a route. He tried
his weight gingerly, then began
to climb.
"I should have brought
Yrtok's radio," he muttered.
"Oh, well, I can take it when
I come down, if she hasn't
snapped out of her spell by
then. Funny … I wonder if
that green thing bit her."
Footholds were plentiful
among the interlaced lianas.
Kolin progressed rapidly.
When he reached the first
thick limbs, twice head
height, he felt safer.
Later, at what he hoped was
the halfway mark, he hooked
one knee over a branch and
paused to wipe sweat from his
eyes. Peering down, he discovered
the ground to be obscured
by foliage.
"I should have checked
from down there to see how
open the top is," he mused.
"I wonder how the view will
be from up there?"
"Depends on what you're
looking for, Sonny!" something
remarked in a soughing wheeze.
Kolin, slipping, grabbed
desperately for the branch.
His fingers clutched a handful
of twigs and leaves, which
just barely supported him until
he regained a grip with
the other hand.
The branch quivered resentfully
under him.
"Careful, there!" whooshed
the eerie voice. "It took me
all summer to grow those!"
Kolin could feel the skin
crawling along his backbone.
"Who
are
you?" he gasped.
The answering sigh of
laughter gave him a distinct
chill despite its suggestion of
amiability.
"Name's Johnny Ashlew.
Kinda thought you'd start
with
what
I am. Didn't figure
you'd ever seen a man grown
into a tree before."
Kolin looked about, seeing
little but leaves and fog.
"I have to climb down," he
told himself in a reasonable
tone. "It's bad enough that the
other two passed out without
me going space happy too."
"What's your hurry?" demanded
the voice. "I can talk
to you just as easy all the way
down, you know. Airholes in
my bark—I'm not like an
Earth tree."
Kolin examined the bark of
the crotch in which he sat. It
did seem to have assorted
holes and hollows in its rough
surface.
"I never saw an Earth tree,"
he admitted. "We came from
Haurtoz."
"Where's that? Oh, never
mind—some little planet. I
don't bother with them all,
since I came here and found
out I could be anything I
wanted."
"What do you mean, anything
you wanted?" asked
Kolin, testing the firmness of
a vertical vine.
"Just
what I said," continued
the voice, sounding
closer in his ear as his
cheek brushed the ridged bark
of the tree trunk. "And, if
I do have to remind you, it
would be nicer if you said
'Mr. Ashlew,' considering my
age."
"Your age? How old—?"
"Can't really count it in
Earth years any more. Lost
track. I always figured bein'
a tree was a nice, peaceful
life; and when I remembered
how long some of them live,
that settled it. Sonny, this
world ain't all it looks like."
"It isn't, Mr. Ashlew?"
asked Kolin, twisting about
in an effort to see what the
higher branches might hide.
"Nope. Most everything
here is run by the Life—that
is, by the thing that first
grew big enough to do some
thinking, and set its roots
down all over until it had
control. That's the outskirts
of it down below."
"The other trees? That jungle?"
"It's more'n a jungle, Sonny.
When I landed here, along
with the others from the
Arcturan Spark
, the planet
looked pretty empty to me,
just like it must have to—Watch
it, there, Boy! If I
didn't twist that branch over
in time, you'd be bouncing off
my roots right now!"
"Th-thanks!" grunted Kolin,
hanging on grimly.
"Doggone vine!" commented
the windy whisper. "
He
ain't one of my crowd. Landed
years later in a ship from
some star towards the center
of the galaxy. You should
have seen his looks before
the Life got in touch with his
mind and set up a mental field
to help him change form. He
looks twice as good as a
vine!"
"He's very handy," agreed
Kolin politely. He groped for
a foothold.
"Well … matter of fact, I
can't get through to him
much, even with the Life's
mental field helping. Guess
he started living with a different
way of thinking. It
burns me. I thought of being
a tree, and then he came along
to take advantage of it!"
Kolin braced himself securely
to stretch tiring muscles.
"Maybe I'd better stay a
while," he muttered. "I don't
know where I am."
"You're about fifty feet
up," the sighing voice informed
him. "You ought to
let me tell you how the Life
helps you change form. You
don't
have
to be a tree."
"No?"
"
Uh
-uh! Some of the boys
that landed with me wanted
to get around and see things.
Lots changed to animals or
birds. One even stayed a man—on
the outside anyway.
Most of them have to change
as the bodies wear out, which
I don't, and some made bad
mistakes tryin' to be things
they saw on other planets."
"I wouldn't want to do
that, Mr. Ashlew."
"There's just one thing.
The Life don't like taking
chances on word about this
place gettin' around. It sorta
believes in peace and quiet.
You might not get back to
your ship in any form that
could tell tales."
"Listen!" Kolin blurted
out. "I wasn't so much enjoying
being what I was that
getting back matters to me!"
"Don't like your home planet,
whatever the name was?"
"Haurtoz. It's a rotten
place. A Planetary State! You
have to think and even look
the way that's standard thirty
hours a day, asleep or
awake. You get scared to
sleep for fear you might
dream
treason and they'd find
out somehow."
"Whooeee! Heard about
them places. Must be tough
just to live."
Suddenly, Kolin found himself
telling the tree about life
on Haurtoz, and of the officially
announced threats to
the Planetary State's planned
expansion. He dwelt upon the
desperation of having no
place to hide in case of trouble
with the authorities. A
multiple system of such
worlds was agonizing to
imagine.
Somehow,
the oddity of
talking to a tree wore off.
Kolin heard opinions spouting
out which he had prudently
kept bottled up for
years.
The more he talked and
stormed and complained, the
more relaxed he felt.
"If there was ever a fellow
ready for this planet," decided
the tree named Ashlew,
"you're it, Sonny! Hang on
there while I signal the Life
by root!"
Kolin sensed a lack of direct
attention. The rustle
about him was natural, caused
by an ordinary breeze. He
noticed his hands shaking.
"Don't know what got into
me, talking that way to a
tree," he muttered. "If Yrtok
snapped out of it and heard,
I'm as good as re-personalized
right now."
As he brooded upon the
sorry choice of arousing a
search by hiding where he
was or going back to bluff
things out, the tree spoke.
"Maybe you're all set, Sonny.
The Life has been thinkin'
of learning about other
worlds. If you can think of a
safe form to jet off in, you
might make yourself a deal.
How'd you like to stay here?"
"I don't know," said Kolin.
"The penalty for desertion—"
"Whoosh! Who'd find you?
You could be a bird, a tree,
even a cloud."
Silenced but doubting, Kolin
permitted himself to try
the dream on for size.
He considered what form
might most easily escape the
notice of search parties and
still be tough enough to live
a long time without renewal.
Another factor slipped into
his musings: mere hope of escape
was unsatisfying after
the outburst that had defined
his fuming hatred for Haurtoz.
I'd better watch myself!
he
thought.
Don't drop diamonds
to grab at stars!
"What I wish I could do is
not just get away but get even
for the way they make us
live … the whole damn set-up.
They could just as easy make
peace with the Earth colonies.
You know why they
don't?"
"Why?" wheezed Ashlew.
"They're scared that without
talk of war, and scouting
for Earth fleets that never
come, people would have time
to think about the way they
have to live and who's running
things in the Planetary
State. Then the gravy train
would get blown up—and I
mean blown up!"
The tree was silent for a
moment. Kolin felt the
branches stir meditatively.
Then Ashlew offered a suggestion.
"I could tell the Life your
side of it," he hissed. "Once
in with us, you can always
make thinking connections,
no matter how far away.
Maybe you could make a deal
to kill two birds with one
stone, as they used to say on
Earth…."
Chief
Steward Slichow
paced up and down beside
the ration crate turned up to
serve him as a field desk. He
scowled in turn, impartially,
at his watch and at the weary
stewards of his headquarters
detail. The latter stumbled
about, stacking and distributing
small packets of emergency
rations.
The line of crewmen released
temporarily from repair
work was transient as to
individuals but immutable as
to length. Slichow muttered
something profane about disregard
of orders as he glared
at the rocky ridges surrounding
the landing place.
He was so intent upon planning
greetings with which to
favor the tardy scouting parties
that he failed to notice
the loose cloud drifting over
the ridge.
It was tenuous, almost a
haze. Close examination
would have revealed it to be
made up of myriads of tiny
spores. They resembled those
cast forth by one of the
bushes Kolin's party had
passed. Along the edges, the
haze faded raggedly into thin
air, but the units evidently
formed a cohesive body. They
drifted together, approaching
the men as if taking intelligent
advantage of the breeze.
One of Chief Slichow's
staggering flunkies, stealing
a few seconds of relaxation
on the pretext of dumping an
armful of light plastic packing,
wandered into the haze.
He froze.
After a few heartbeats, he
dropped the trash and stared
at ship and men as if he had
never seen either. A hail from
his master moved him.
"Coming, Chief!" he called
but, returning at a moderate
pace, he murmured, "My
name is Frazer. I'm a second
assistant steward. I'll think as
Unit One."
Throughout the cloud of
spores, the mind formerly
known as Peter Kolin congratulated
itself upon its
choice of form.
Nearer to the original
shape of the Life than Ashlew
got
, he thought.
He paused to consider the
state of the tree named Ashlew,
half immortal but rooted
to one spot, unable to float on
a breeze or through space itself
on the pressure of light.
Especially, it was unable to
insinuate any part of itself
into the control center of another
form of life, as a second
spore was taking charge of
the body of Chief Slichow at
that very instant.
There are not enough men
,
thought Kolin.
Some of me
must drift through the airlock.
In space, I can spread
through the air system to the
command group.
Repairs to the
Peace State
and the return to Haurtoz
passed like weeks to some of
the crew but like brief moments
in infinity to other
units. At last, the ship parted
the air above Headquarters
City and landed.
The unit known as Captain
Theodor Kessel hesitated before
descending the ramp. He
surveyed the field, the city
and the waiting team of inspecting
officers.
"Could hardly be better,
could it?" he chuckled to the
companion unit called Security
Officer Tarth.
"Hardly, sir. All ready for
the liberation of Haurtoz."
"Reformation of the Planetary
State," mused the captain,
smiling dreamily as he
grasped the handrail. "And
then—formation of the Planetary
Mind!"
END
Transcriber's Note:
This e-text was produced from
Worlds of If January 1962
.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
|
train | 23942 | [
"Why is the lack of hotel space important for Simon's story?",
"What is the goal of the story that Simon tells Mr. Oyster?",
"What does Simon think about the possibility of time travel?",
"Why does Mr. Oyster want to hire Simon and Betty?",
"Why is Simon so unenthusiastic when the client shows up at the beginning of the story?",
"What is Simon referring to when he says \"now it comes\" to Betty during their discussion at the beginning of the story?",
"Why does Simon look for aspirin as soon as he gets to his office?",
"What would've happened if Simon had said yes to the job at the end of the story?",
"Why did Simon's new friend not give him an aspirin when Simon asked for one?"
] | [
[
"It made him cut his trip short without finding any time travelers.",
"Simon would have to learn how to time travel in order to keep his bag from being stolen.",
"It set the stage for him to encounter an alien's home for himself.",
"It meant he would find a number of unsavory characters as he tried to find somewhere to sleep."
],
[
"Simon wanted to show that he had spent a lot of time thinking about encounters with time travelers.",
"He wanted to explain why the trip would not be successful if he went to Germany.",
"He wanted to mock his prospective client for his ideas about time travel.",
"He wanted to prove that Oktoberfest was the wrong place to look for time travelers."
],
[
"He thinks it's possible, but finds it ridiculous that Oktoberfest would be the place to find it.",
"He hopes that it's real, and spends a lot of time thinking about how to avoid a paradox.",
"He knows that it's real, but thinks that its secret will be kept in the future.",
"He thinks it's incredibly stupid and not worth considering."
],
[
"He thinks the time traveler will have the secret to never-ending youth.",
"He wants to know the secret of time travel and they are the best investigators around.",
"He wants to make sure his family's wealth continues in the future.",
"He wants to find out a secret for political reasons."
],
[
"He knows Mr. Oyster's reputation, and does not want to get involved in his affairs.",
"He knows he cannot accomplish what Mr. Oyster is asking, and knows he will have to turn him away.",
"He only takes on easy cases that he knows will pay the bills.",
"He has too much of a headache to deal with the new client."
],
[
"He knows his headache is about to get worse.",
"The client he is expecting is about to show up.",
"He is used to complaints about Betty's salary.",
"He is expecting the usual argument with Betty about her job."
],
[
"He is experiencing caffeine withdrawal and did not have time to stop for coffee.",
"We never learn the cause of the headache, we only know that it is severe.",
"He has a hangover from attending a festival.",
"He was out drinking with some friends the night before, and has a hangover."
],
[
"He would have returned right back to the office soon after he left for the airport, but with a worse hangover.",
"He would have stayed at home and pretended to travel to Germany for the sake of his client.",
"He would have gone to Germany for the 16-day festival and looked for time travelers.",
"He would have brought Betty with him to Germany to help him find time travelers."
],
[
"He had run out of aspirin and did not know how to help.",
"The friend thought Simon needed to deal with his headache like a man.",
"He needed to knock him out to go back to the festival so that Simon would not know what had happened.",
"He gave him a different medicine instead that he thought would work better."
]
] | [
3,
2,
3,
1,
2,
2,
3,
1,
3
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | UNBORN
TOMORROW
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Unfortunately
, there was only
one thing he could bring back
from the wonderful future ...
and though he didn't want to
... nevertheless he did....
Illustrated by Freas
Betty
looked up from
her magazine. She said
mildly, "You're late."
"Don't yell at me, I
feel awful," Simon told
her. He sat down at his desk, passed
his tongue over his teeth in distaste,
groaned, fumbled in a drawer for the
aspirin bottle.
He looked over at Betty and said,
almost as though reciting, "What I
need is a vacation."
"What," Betty said, "are you going
to use for money?"
"Providence," Simon told her
whilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,
"will provide."
"Hm-m-m. But before providing
vacations it'd be nice if Providence
turned up a missing jewel deal, say.
Something where you could deduce
that actually the ruby ring had gone
down the drain and was caught in the
elbow. Something that would net
about fifty dollars."
Simon said, mournful of tone,
"Fifty dollars? Why not make it five
hundred?"
"I'm not selfish," Betty said. "All
I want is enough to pay me this
week's salary."
"Money," Simon said. "When you
took this job you said it was the romance
that appealed to you."
"Hm-m-m. I didn't know most
sleuthing amounted to snooping
around department stores to check on
the clerks knocking down."
Simon said, enigmatically, "Now
it comes."
There was a knock.
Betty bounced up with Olympic
agility and had the door swinging
wide before the knocking was quite
completed.
He was old, little and had bug
eyes behind pince-nez glasses. His
suit was cut in the style of yesteryear
but when a suit costs two or
three hundred dollars you still retain
caste whatever the styling.
Simon said unenthusiastically,
"Good morning, Mr. Oyster." He indicated
the client's chair. "Sit down,
sir."
The client fussed himself with
Betty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyed
Simon, said finally, "You know
my name, that's pretty good. Never
saw you before in my life. Stop fussing
with me, young lady. Your ad
in the phone book says you'll investigate
anything."
"Anything," Simon said. "Only
one exception."
"Excellent. Do you believe in time
travel?"
Simon said nothing. Across the
room, where she had resumed her
seat, Betty cleared her throat. When
Simon continued to say nothing she
ventured, "Time travel is impossible."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why?"
Betty looked to her boss for assistance.
None was forthcoming. There
ought to be some very quick, positive,
definite answer. She said, "Well,
for one thing, paradox. Suppose you
had a time machine and traveled back
a hundred years or so and killed your
own great-grandfather. Then how
could you ever be born?"
"Confound it if I know," the little
fellow growled. "How?"
Simon said, "Let's get to the point,
what you wanted to see me about."
"I want to hire you to hunt me up
some time travelers," the old boy
said.
Betty was too far in now to maintain
her proper role of silent secretary.
"Time travelers," she said, not
very intelligently.
The potential client sat more erect,
obviously with intent to hold the
floor for a time. He removed the
pince-nez glasses and pointed them
at Betty. He said, "Have you read
much science fiction, Miss?"
"Some," Betty admitted.
"Then you'll realize that there are
a dozen explanations of the paradoxes
of time travel. Every writer in
the field worth his salt has explained
them away. But to get on. It's my
contention that within a century or
so man will have solved the problems
of immortality and eternal youth, and
it's also my suspicion that he will
eventually be able to travel in time.
So convinced am I of these possibilities
that I am willing to gamble a
portion of my fortune to investigate
the presence in our era of such time
travelers."
Simon seemed incapable of carrying
the ball this morning, so Betty
said, "But ... Mr. Oyster, if the
future has developed time travel why
don't we ever meet such travelers?"
Simon put in a word. "The usual
explanation, Betty, is that they can't
afford to allow the space-time continuum
track to be altered. If, say, a
time traveler returned to a period of
twenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,
then all subsequent history would be
changed. In that case, the time traveler
himself might never be born. They
have to tread mighty carefully."
Mr. Oyster was pleased. "I didn't
expect you to be so well informed
on the subject, young man."
Simon shrugged and fumbled
again with the aspirin bottle.
Mr. Oyster went on. "I've been
considering the matter for some time
and—"
Simon held up a hand. "There's
no use prolonging this. As I understand
it, you're an elderly gentleman
with a considerable fortune and you
realize that thus far nobody has succeeded
in taking it with him."
Mr. Oyster returned his glasses to
their perch, bug-eyed Simon, but then
nodded.
Simon said, "You want to hire me
to find a time traveler and in some
manner or other—any manner will
do—exhort from him the secret of
eternal life and youth, which you figure
the future will have discovered.
You're willing to pony up a part of
this fortune of yours, if I can deliver
a bona fide time traveler."
"Right!"
Betty had been looking from one
to the other. Now she said, plaintively,
"But where are you going to find
one of these characters—especially if
they're interested in keeping hid?"
The old boy was the center again.
"I told you I'd been considering it
for some time. The
Oktoberfest
,
that's where they'd be!" He seemed
elated.
Betty and Simon waited.
"The
Oktoberfest
," he repeated.
"The greatest festival the world has
ever seen, the carnival,
feria
,
fiesta
to beat them all. Every year it's held
in Munich. Makes the New Orleans
Mardi gras look like a quilting
party." He began to swing into the
spirit of his description. "It originally
started in celebration of the wedding
of some local prince a century
and a half ago and the Bavarians had
such a bang-up time they've been
holding it every year since. The
Munich breweries do up a special
beer,
Marzenbräu
they call it, and
each brewery opens a tremendous tent
on the fair grounds which will hold
five thousand customers apiece. Millions
of liters of beer are put away,
hundreds of thousands of barbecued
chickens, a small herd of oxen are
roasted whole over spits, millions of
pair of
weisswurst
, a very special
sausage, millions upon millions of
pretzels—"
"All right," Simon said. "We'll accept
it. The
Oktoberfest
is one whale
of a wingding."
"Well," the old boy pursued, into
his subject now, "that's where they'd
be, places like the
Oktoberfest
. For
one thing, a time traveler wouldn't
be conspicuous. At a festival like this
somebody with a strange accent, or
who didn't know exactly how to wear
his clothes correctly, or was off the
ordinary in any of a dozen other
ways, wouldn't be noticed. You could
be a four-armed space traveler from
Mars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuous
at the
Oktoberfest
. People
would figure they had D.T.'s."
"But why would a time traveler
want to go to a—" Betty began.
"Why not! What better opportunity
to study a people than when they
are in their cups? If
you
could go
back a few thousand years, the things
you would wish to see would be a
Roman Triumph, perhaps the Rites
of Dionysus, or one of Alexander's
orgies. You wouldn't want to wander
up and down the streets of, say,
Athens while nothing was going on,
particularly when you might be revealed
as a suspicious character not
being able to speak the language, not
knowing how to wear the clothes and
not familiar with the city's layout."
He took a deep breath. "No ma'am,
you'd have to stick to some great
event, both for the sake of actual
interest and for protection against being
unmasked."
The old boy wound it up. "Well,
that's the story. What are your rates?
The
Oktoberfest
starts on Friday and
continues for sixteen days. You can
take the plane to Munich, spend a
week there and—"
Simon was shaking his head. "Not
interested."
As soon as Betty had got her jaw
back into place, she glared unbelievingly
at him.
Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.
"See here, young man, I realize
this isn't an ordinary assignment,
however, as I said, I am willing to
risk a considerable portion of my
fortune—"
"Sorry," Simon said. "Can't be
done."
"A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,"
Mr. Oyster said quietly. "I
like the fact that you already seem
to have some interest and knowledge
of the matter. I liked the way you
knew my name when I walked in the
door; my picture doesn't appear often
in the papers."
"No go," Simon said, a sad quality
in his voice.
"A fifty thousand dollar bonus if
you bring me a time traveler."
"Out of the question," Simon
said.
"But
why
?" Betty wailed.
"Just for laughs," Simon told the
two of them sourly, "suppose I tell
you a funny story. It goes like
this:"
I got a thousand dollars from Mr.
Oyster (Simon began) in the way
of an advance, and leaving him with
Betty who was making out a receipt,
I hustled back to the apartment and
packed a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacation
anyway, this was a natural. On
the way to Idlewild I stopped off at
the Germany Information Offices for
some tourist literature.
It takes roughly three and a half
hours to get to Gander from Idlewild.
I spent the time planning the
fun I was going to have.
It takes roughly seven and a half
hours from Gander to Shannon and
I spent that time dreaming up material
I could put into my reports to
Mr. Oyster. I was going to have to
give him some kind of report for his
money. Time travel yet! What a
laugh!
Between Shannon and Munich a
faint suspicion began to simmer in
my mind. These statistics I read on
the
Oktoberfest
in the Munich tourist
pamphlets. Five million people
attended annually.
Where did five million people
come from to attend an overgrown
festival in comparatively remote
Southern Germany? The tourist season
is over before September 21st,
first day of the gigantic beer bust.
Nor could the Germans account for
any such number. Munich itself has
a population of less than a million,
counting children.
And those millions of gallons of
beer, the hundreds of thousands of
chickens, the herds of oxen. Who
ponied up all the money for such expenditures?
How could the average
German, with his twenty-five dollars
a week salary?
In Munich there was no hotel
space available. I went to the Bahnhof
where they have a hotel service
and applied. They put my name
down, pocketed the husky bribe,
showed me where I could check my
bag, told me they'd do what they
could, and to report back in a few
hours.
I had another suspicious twinge.
If five million people attended this
beer bout, how were they accommodated?
The
Theresienwiese
, the fair
ground, was only a few blocks
away. I was stiff from the plane ride
so I walked.
There are seven major brewers in
the Munich area, each of them represented
by one of the circuslike tents
that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent
contained benches and tables for
about five thousand persons and from
six to ten thousands pack themselves
in, competing for room. In the center
is a tremendous bandstand, the
musicians all
lederhosen
clad, the
music as Bavarian as any to be found
in a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds of
peasant garbed
fräuleins
darted about
the tables with quart sized earthenware
mugs, platters of chicken, sausage,
kraut and pretzels.
I found a place finally at a table
which had space for twenty-odd beer
bibbers. Odd is right. As weird an
assortment of Germans and foreign
tourists as could have been dreamed
up, ranging from a seventy- or
eighty-year-old couple in Bavarian
costume, to the bald-headed drunk
across the table from me.
A desperate waitress bearing six
mugs of beer in each hand scurried
past. They call them
masses
, by the
way, not mugs. The bald-headed
character and I both held up a finger
and she slid two of the
masses
over
to us and then hustled on.
"Down the hatch," the other said,
holding up his
mass
in toast.
"To the ladies," I told him. Before
sipping, I said, "You know, the
tourist pamphlets say this stuff is
eighteen per cent. That's nonsense.
No beer is that strong." I took a long
pull.
He looked at me, waiting.
I came up. "Mistaken," I admitted.
A
mass
or two apiece later he looked
carefully at the name engraved on
his earthenware mug. "Löwenbräu,"
he said. He took a small notebook
from his pocket and a pencil, noted
down the word and returned the
things.
"That's a queer looking pencil you
have there," I told him. "German?"
"Venusian," he said. "Oops, sorry.
Shouldn't have said that."
I had never heard of the brand so
I skipped it.
"Next is the Hofbräu," he said.
"Next what?" Baldy's conversation
didn't seem to hang together very
well.
"My pilgrimage," he told me. "All
my life I've been wanting to go back
to an
Oktoberfest
and sample every
one of the seven brands of the best
beer the world has ever known. I'm
only as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraid
I'll never make it."
I finished my
mass
. "I'll help
you," I told him. "Very noble endeavor.
Name is Simon."
"Arth," he said. "How could you
help?"
"I'm still fresh—comparatively.
I'll navigate you around. There are
seven beer tents. How many have you
got through, so far?"
"Two, counting this one," Arth
said.
I looked at him. "It's going to be
a chore," I said. "You've already got
a nice edge on."
Outside, as we made our way to
the next tent, the fair looked like
every big State-Fair ever seen, except
it was bigger. Games, souvenir
stands, sausage stands, rides, side
shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing
as the last but we managed to
find two seats.
The band was blaring, and five
thousand half-swacked voices were
roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!
At the
G'sufa
everybody upped
with the mugs and drank each other's
health.
"This is what I call a real beer
bust," I said approvingly.
Arth was waving to a waitress. As
in the Löwenbräu tent, a full quart
was the smallest amount obtainable.
A beer later I said, "I don't know
if you'll make it or not, Arth."
"Make what?"
"All seven tents."
"Oh."
A waitress was on her way by,
mugs foaming over their rims. I gestured
to her for refills.
"Where are you from, Arth?" I
asked him, in the way of making
conversation.
"2183."
"2183 where?"
He looked at me, closing one eye
to focus better. "Oh," he said. "Well,
2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque."
"New Albuquerque? Where's
that?"
Arth thought about it. Took another
long pull at the beer. "Right
across the way from old Albuquerque,"
he said finally. "Maybe we
ought to be getting on to the
Pschorrbräu tent."
"Maybe we ought to eat something
first," I said. "I'm beginning to feel
this. We could get some of that barbecued
ox."
Arth closed his eyes in pain.
"Vegetarian," he said. "Couldn't possibly
eat meat. Barbarous. Ugh."
"Well, we need some nourishment,"
I said.
"There's supposed to be considerable
nourishment in beer."
That made sense. I yelled, "
Fräulein!
Zwei neu bier!
"
Somewhere along in here the fog
rolled in. When it rolled out again,
I found myself closing one eye the
better to read the lettering on my
earthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.
Somehow we'd evidently
navigated from one tent to another.
Arth was saying, "Where's your
hotel?"
That seemed like a good question.
I thought about it for a while. Finally
I said, "Haven't got one. Town's
jam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.
I don't think we'll ever make
it, Arth. How many we got to
go?"
"Lost track," Arth said. "You can
come home with me."
We drank to that and the fog rolled
in again.
When the fog rolled out, it was
daylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.
I was sprawled, complete with
clothes, on one of twin beds. On the
other bed, also completely clothed,
was Arth.
That sun was too much. I stumbled
up from the bed, staggered to
the window and fumbled around for
a blind or curtain. There was none.
Behind me a voice said in horror,
"Who ... how ... oh,
Wodo
,
where'd you come from?"
I got a quick impression, looking
out the window, that the Germans
were certainly the most modern, futuristic
people in the world. But I
couldn't stand the light. "Where's
the shade," I moaned.
Arth did something and the window
went opaque.
"That's quite a gadget," I groaned.
"If I didn't feel so lousy, I'd
appreciate it."
Arth was sitting on the edge of
the bed holding his bald head in his
hands. "I remember now," he sorrowed.
"You didn't have a hotel.
What a stupidity. I'll be phased.
Phased all the way down."
"You haven't got a handful of
aspirin, have you?" I asked him.
"Just a minute," Arth said, staggering
erect and heading for what
undoubtedly was a bathroom. "Stay
where you are. Don't move. Don't
touch anything."
"All right," I told him plaintively.
"I'm clean. I won't mess up the
place. All I've got is a hangover, not
lice."
Arth was gone. He came back in
two or three minutes, box of pills in
hand. "Here, take one of these."
I took the pill, followed it with a
glass of water.
And went out like a light.
Arth was shaking my arm. "Want
another
mass
?"
The band was blaring, and five
thousand half-swacked voices were
roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!
At the
G'sufa
everybody upped
with their king-size mugs and drank
each other's health.
My head was killing me. "This is
where I came in, or something," I
groaned.
Arth said, "That was last night."
He looked at me over the rim of his
beer mug.
Something, somewhere, was
wrong. But I didn't care. I finished
my
mass
and then remembered. "I've
got to get my bag. Oh, my head.
Where did we spend last night?"
Arth said, and his voice sounded
cautious, "At my hotel, don't you remember?"
"Not very well," I admitted. "I
feel lousy. I must have dimmed out.
I've got to go to the Bahnhof and
get my luggage."
Arth didn't put up an argument
on that. We said good-by and I could
feel him watching after me as I pushed
through the tables on the way
out.
At the Bahnhof they could do me
no good. There were no hotel rooms
available in Munich. The head was
getting worse by the minute. The
fact that they'd somehow managed
to lose my bag didn't help. I worked
on that project for at least a couple
of hours. Not only wasn't the bag
at the luggage checking station, but
the attendant there evidently couldn't
make heads nor tails of the check
receipt. He didn't speak English and
my high school German was inadequate,
especially accompanied by a
blockbusting hangover.
I didn't get anywhere tearing my
hair and complaining from one end
of the Bahnhof to the other. I drew
a blank on the bag.
And the head was getting worse
by the minute. I was bleeding to
death through the eyes and instead
of butterflies I had bats in my stomach.
Believe me,
nobody
should drink
a gallon or more of Marzenbräu.
I decided the hell with it. I took
a cab to the airport, presented my return
ticket, told them I wanted to
leave on the first obtainable plane to
New York. I'd spent two days at the
Oktoberfest
, and I'd had it.
I got more guff there. Something
was wrong with the ticket, wrong
date or some such. But they fixed
that up. I never was clear on what
was fouled up, some clerk's error,
evidently.
The trip back was as uninteresting
as the one over. As the hangover began
to wear off—a little—I was almost
sorry I hadn't been able to stay.
If I'd only been able to get a room I
would
have stayed, I told myself.
From Idlewild, I came directly to
the office rather than going to my
apartment. I figured I might as well
check in with Betty.
I opened the door and there I
found Mr. Oyster sitting in the chair
he had been occupying four—or was
it five—days before when I'd left.
I'd lost track of the time.
I said to him, "Glad you're here,
sir. I can report. Ah, what was it
you came for? Impatient to hear if
I'd had any results?" My mind was
spinning like a whirling dervish in
a revolving door. I'd spent a wad of
his money and had nothing I could
think of to show for it; nothing but
the last stages of a grand-daddy
hangover.
"Came for?" Mr. Oyster snorted.
"I'm merely waiting for your girl to
make out my receipt. I thought you
had already left."
"You'll miss your plane," Betty
said.
There was suddenly a double dip
of ice cream in my stomach. I walked
over to my desk and looked down at
the calendar.
Mr. Oyster was saying something
to the effect that if I didn't leave today,
it would have to be tomorrow,
that he hadn't ponied up that thousand
dollars advance for anything
less than immediate service. Stuffing
his receipt in his wallet, he fussed
his way out the door.
I said to Betty hopefully, "I suppose
you haven't changed this calendar
since I left."
Betty said, "What's the matter
with you? You look funny. How did
your clothes get so mussed? You tore
the top sheet off that calendar yourself,
not half an hour ago, just before
this marble-missing client came
in." She added, irrelevantly, "Time
travelers yet."
I tried just once more. "Uh, when
did you first see this Mr. Oyster?"
"Never saw him before in my
life," she said. "Not until he came
in this morning."
"This morning," I said weakly.
While Betty stared at me as though
it was
me
that needed candling by a
head shrinker preparatory to being
sent off to a pressure cooker, I fished
in my pocket for my wallet, counted
the contents and winced at the
pathetic remains of the thousand.
I said pleadingly, "Betty, listen,
how long ago did I go out that door—on
the way to the airport?"
"You've been acting sick all morning.
You went out that door about
ten minutes ago, were gone about
three minutes, and then came back."
"See here," Mr. Oyster said (interrupting
Simon's story), "did you
say this was supposed to be amusing,
young man? I don't find it so. In
fact, I believe I am being ridiculed."
Simon shrugged, put one hand to
his forehead and said, "That's only
the first chapter. There are two
more."
"I'm not interested in more," Mr.
Oyster said. "I suppose your point
was to show me how ridiculous the
whole idea actually is. Very well,
you've done it. Confound it. However,
I suppose your time, even when
spent in this manner, has some value.
Here is fifty dollars. And good day,
sir!"
He slammed the door after him
as he left.
Simon winced at the noise, took
the aspirin bottle from its drawer,
took two, washed them down with
water from the desk carafe.
Betty looked at him admiringly.
Came to her feet, crossed over and
took up the fifty dollars. "Week's
wages," she said. "I suppose that's
one way of taking care of a crackpot.
But I'm surprised you didn't
take his money and enjoy that vacation
you've been yearning about."
"I did," Simon groaned. "Three
times."
Betty stared at him. "You mean—"
Simon nodded, miserably.
She said, "But
Simon
. Fifty thousand
dollars bonus. If that story was
true, you should have gone back
again to Munich. If there was one
time traveler, there might have
been—"
"I keep telling you," Simon said
bitterly, "I went back there three
times. There were hundreds of them.
Probably thousands." He took a deep
breath. "Listen, we're just going to
have to forget about it. They're not
going to stand for the space-time
continuum track being altered. If
something comes up that looks like
it might result in the track being
changed, they set you right back at
the beginning and let things start—for
you—all over again. They just
can't allow anything to come back
from the future and change the
past."
"You mean," Betty was suddenly
furious at him, "you've given up!
Why this is the biggest thing— Why
the fifty thousand dollars is nothing.
The future! Just think!"
Simon said wearily, "There's just
one thing you can bring back with
you from the future, a hangover compounded
of a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.
What's more you can pile
one on top of the other, and another
on top of that!"
He shuddered. "If you think I'm
going to take another crack at this
merry-go-round and pile a fourth
hangover on the three I'm already
nursing, all at once, you can think
again."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
June
1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 23960 | [
"What is the significance of the story's title?",
"Which of these statements about the cigarettes has an irony that is represented elsewhere in the story?",
"Which is definitely true about why Sir Robert could not finish smoking the cigarette?",
"Why did Sir Robert decide to disobey the king's orders?",
"What is Robert's relationship with loyalty?",
"Gascon ___ Sir Robert",
"What would have happend if Sir Robert had not disobeyed orders?",
"What does Sir Gaeton think about the relationship between Sir Robert and the king?",
"What is Robert's role in the story?"
] | [
[
"It points to the high ratio of battle over diplomacy in the story",
"It shows that the king is a man of few words",
"We shows that this is part of a newscast recording",
"It hints at sponsorship being relevant"
],
[
"The fact that the producers know different media would have been a better platform",
"The fact that Sir Robert only held one for a short time before dropping it, after saying how good it was",
"The fact that the cigarettes themselves are anachronistic",
"The fact that the producer actually works for a rival cigarette company"
],
[
"The company only paid for a short amount of airtime",
"He had to return to battle",
"It tasted disgusting and he did not want to finish it",
"They were prop cigarettes that hurt to use"
],
[
"It is the only way to get back at France",
"He is going to get chased out",
"He is trying to protect his fellow knights",
"He realizes following orders will mean his death"
],
[
"He is loyal to his crown but makes his own decisions",
"He is loyal to a small group but not to his country",
"He tries to hide his disloyalty to the crown",
"He is staunchly loyal and always obeys orders"
],
[
"monitors",
"envies",
"ignores",
"respects"
],
[
"The king would not have been pinned down so quickly",
"He would not have had time for a smoke break",
"A group of soldiers would have been left exposed",
"He would've been captured by the enemy"
],
[
"He admires their camaraderie and aims to replicate it",
"He thinks Sir Robert needs to convince others of his loyalty",
"He is trying to replace Sir Robert in the king's eyes",
"He thinks there is too much tension to be effective in combat"
],
[
"He is the representative from Old Kings",
"He is one of the producers of the show",
"He is there to test the virtual reality helmet",
"He is asked offer feedback on an episode"
]
] | [
4,
3,
2,
3,
1,
4,
3,
2,
4
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | ... After a Few Words ...
by Seaton McKettrig
Illustrated by Summer
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog October 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.]
This is a science-fiction story. History is a science; the other
part is, as all Americans know, the most fictional field we have
today.
He settled himself comfortably in his seat, and carefully put the helmet
on, pulling it down firmly until it was properly seated. For a moment,
he could see nothing.
Then his hand moved up and, with a flick of the wrist, lifted the visor.
Ahead of him, in serried array, with lances erect and pennons flying,
was the forward part of the column. Far ahead, he knew, were the Knights
Templars, who had taken the advance. Behind the Templars rode the mailed
knights of Brittany and Anjou. These were followed by King Guy of
Jerusalem and the host of Poitou.
He himself, Sir Robert de Bouain, was riding with the Norman and English
troops, just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his
saddle. To his right, he could see the brilliant red-and-gold banner of
the lion-hearted Richard of England—
gules, in pale three lions passant
guardant or
. Behind the standard-bearer, his great war horse moving
with a steady, measured pace, his coronet of gold on his steel helm
gleaming in the glaring desert sun, the lions of England on his
firm-held shield, was the King himself.
Further behind, the Knights Hospitallers protected the rear, guarding
the column of the hosts of Christendom from harassment by the Bedouins.
"By our Lady!" came a voice from his left. "Three days out from Acre,
and the accursed Saracens still elude us."
Sir Robert de Bouain twisted again in his saddle to look at the knight
riding alongside him. Sir Gaeton de l'Arc-Tombé sat tall and straight in
his saddle, his visor up, his blue eyes narrowed against the glare of
the sun.
Sir Robert's lips formed a smile. "They are not far off, Sir Gaeton.
They have been following us. As we march parallel to the seacoast, so
they have been marching with us in those hills to the east."
"Like the jackals they are," said Sir Gaeton. "They assail us from the
rear, and they set up traps in our path ahead. Our spies tell us that
the Turks lie ahead of us in countless numbers. And yet, they fear to
face us in open battle."
"Is it fear, or are they merely gathering their forces?"
"Both," said Sir Gaeton flatly. "They fear us, else they would not dally
to amass so fearsome a force. If, as our informers tell us, there are
uncounted Turks to the fore, and if, as we are aware, our rear is being
dogged by the Bedouin and the black horsemen of Egypt, it would seem
that Saladin has at hand more than enough to overcome us, were they all
truly Christian knights."
"Give them time. We must wait for their attack, sir knight. It were
foolhardy to attempt to seek them in their own hills, and yet they must
stop us. They will attack before we reach Jerusalem, fear not."
"We of Gascony fear no heathen Musselman," Sir Gaeton growled. "It's
this Hellish heat that is driving me mad." He pointed toward the eastern
hills. "The sun is yet low, and already the heat is unbearable."
Sir Robert heard his own laugh echo hollowly within his helmet. "Perhaps
'twere better to be mad when the assault comes. Madmen fight better than
men of cooler blood." He knew that the others were baking inside their
heavy armor, although he himself was not too uncomfortable.
Sir Gaeton looked at him with a smile that held both irony and respect.
"In truth, sir knight, it is apparent that you fear neither men nor
heat. Nor is your own blood too cool. True, I ride with your Normans and
your English and your King Richard of the Lion's Heart, but I am a
Gascon, and have sworn no fealty to him. But to side with the Duke of
Burgundy against King Richard—" He gave a short, barking laugh. "I
fear no man," he went on, "but if I had to fear one, it would be Richard
of England."
Sir Robert's voice came like a sword: steely, flat, cold, and sharp. "My
lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip
of France, as do we all. Philip has deserted the field. He has returned
to France in haste, leaving the rest of us to fight the Saracen for the
Holy Land leaving only the contingent of his vassal the Duke of Burgundy
to remain with us."
"Richard of England has never been on the best of terms with Philip
Augustus," said Sir Gaeton.
"No, and with good cause. But he allowed his anger against Philip to
color his judgment when he spoke harshly against the Duke of Burgundy.
The Duke is no coward, and Richard Plantagenet well knows it. As I said,
he spoke in haste."
"And you intervened," said Sir Gaeton.
"It was my duty." Sir Robert's voice was stubborn. "Could we have
permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and
warleaders in Christendom at this crucial point? The desertion of Philip
of France has cost us dearly. Could we permit the desertion of Burgundy,
too?"
"You did what must be done in honor," the Gascon conceded, "but you have
not gained the love of Richard by doing so."
Sir Robert felt his jaw set firmly. "My king knows I am loyal."
Sir Gaeton said nothing more, but there was a look in his eyes that
showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty
of Sir Robert de Bouain.
Sir Robert rode on in silence, feeling the movement of the horse beneath
him.
There was a sudden sound to the rear. Like a wash of the tide from the
sea came the sound of Saracen war cries and the clash of steel on steel
mingled with the sounds of horses in agony and anger.
Sir Robert turned his horse to look.
The Negro troops of Saladin's Egyptian contingent were thundering down
upon the rear! They clashed with the Hospitallers, slamming in like a
rain of heavy stones, too close in for the use of bows. There was only
the sword against armor, like the sound of a thousand hammers against a
thousand anvils.
"Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off!" It was the voice of King
Richard, sounding like a clarion over the din of battle.
Sir Robert felt his horse move, as though it were urging him on toward
the battle, but his hand held to the reins, keeping the great charger in
check. The King had said "Stand fast!" and this was no time to disobey
the orders of Richard.
The Saracen troops were coming in from the rear, and the Hospitallers
were taking the brunt of the charge. They fought like madmen, but they
were slowly being forced back.
The Master of the Hospitallers rode to the rear, to the King's standard,
which hardly moved in the still desert air, now that the column had
stopped moving.
The voice of the Duke of Burgundy came to Sir Robert's ears.
"Stand fast. The King bids you all to stand fast," said the duke, his
voice fading as he rode on up the column toward the knights of Poitou
and the Knights Templars.
The Master of the Hospitallers was speaking in a low, urgent voice to
the King: "My lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of
eternal infamy. We are losing our horses, one after the other!"
"Good Master," said Richard, "it is you who must sustain their attack.
No one can be everywhere at once."
The Master of the Hospitallers nodded curtly and charged back into the
fray.
The King turned to Sir Baldwin de Carreo, who sat ahorse nearby, and
pointed toward the eastern hills. "They will come from there, hitting us
in the flank; we cannot afford to amass a rearward charge. To do so
would be to fall directly into the hands of the Saracen."
A voice very close to Sir Robert said: "Richard is right. If we go to
the aid of the Hospitallers, we will expose the column to a flank
attack." It was Sir Gaeton.
"My lord the King," Sir Robert heard his voice say, "is right in all but
one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there
will be no need for Saladin and his Turks to come down on our flank. And
the Hospitallers cannot hold for long at this rate. A charge at full
gallop would break the Egyptian line and give the Hospitallers breathing
time. Are you with me?"
"Against the orders of the King?"
"The King cannot see everything! There are times when a man must use his
own judgment! You said you were afraid of no man. Are you with me?"
After a moment's hesitation, Sir Gaeton couched his lance. "I'm with
you, sir knight! Live or die, I follow! Strike and strike hard!"
"Forward then!" Sir Robert heard himself shouting. "Forward for St.
George and for England!"
"St. George and England!" the Gascon echoed.
Two great war horses began to move ponderously forward toward the battle
lines, gaining momentum as they went. Moving in unison, the two knights,
their horses now at a fast trot, lowered their lances, picking their
Saracen targets with care. Larger and larger loomed the Egyptian
cavalrymen as the horses changed pace to a thundering gallop.
The Egyptians tried to dodge, as they saw, too late, the approach of the
Christian knights.
Sir Robert felt the shock against himself and his horse as the steel tip
of the long ash lance struck the Saracen horseman in the chest. Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw that Sir Gaeton, too, had scored.
The Saracen, impaled on Sir Robert's lance, shot from the saddle as he
died. His lighter armor had hardly impeded the incoming spear-point, and
now his body dragged it down as he dropped toward the desert sand.
Another Moslem cavalryman was charging in now, swinging his curved
saber, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance.
There was nothing else to do but drop the lance and draw his heavy
broadsword. His hand grasped it, and it came singing from its scabbard.
The Egyptian's curved sword clanged against Sir Robert's helm, setting
his head ringing. In return, the knight's broadsword came about in a
sweeping arc, and the Egyptian's horse rode on with the rider's headless
body.
Behind him, Sir Robert heard further cries of "St. George and England!"
The Hospitallers, taking heart at the charge, were going in! Behind them
came the Count of Champagne, the Earl of Leister, and the Bishop of
Beauvais, who carried a great warhammer in order that he might not break
Church Law by shedding blood.
Sir Robert's own sword rose and fell, cutting and hacking at the enemy.
He himself felt a dreamlike detachment, as though he were watching the
battle rather than participating in it.
But he could see that the Moslems were falling back before the Christian
onslaught.
And then, quite suddenly, there seemed to be no foeman to swing at.
Breathing heavily, Sir Robert sheathed his broadsword.
Beside him, Sir Gaeton did the same, saying: "It will be a few minutes
before they can regroup, sir knight. We may have routed them
completely."
"Aye. But King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and
disobeying orders. I may win the battle and lose my head in the end."
"This is no time to worry about the future," said the Gascon. "Rest for
a moment and relax, that you may be the stronger later. Here—have an
Old Kings
."
He had a pack of cigarettes in his gauntleted hand, which he profferred
to Sir Robert. There were three cigarettes protruding from it, one
slightly farther than the others. Sir Robert's hand reached out and took
that one.
"Thanks. When the going gets rough, I really enjoy an
Old Kings
."
He put one end of the cigarette in his mouth and lit the other from the
lighter in Sir Gaeton's hand.
"Yes, sir," said Sir Gaeton, after lighting his own cigarette, "
Old
Kings
are the greatest. They give a man real, deep-down smoking
pleasure."
"There's no doubt about it,
Old Kings
are a
man's
cigarette." Sir
Robert could feel the soothing smoke in his lungs as he inhaled deeply.
"That's great. When I want a cigarette, I don't want just
any
cigarette."
"Nor I," agreed the Gascon. "
Old Kings
is the only real cigarette when
you're doing a real
man's
work."
"That's for sure." Sir Robert watched a smoke ring expand in the air.
There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped
his cigarette to the ground. "The trouble is that doing a real he-man's
work doesn't always allow you to enjoy the fine, rich tobaccos of
Old
Kings
right down to the very end."
"No, but you can always light another later," said the Gascon knight.
King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed
rear, had realized the danger and had charged through the Hospitallers
to get into the thick of the fray. Now the Turks were charging down from
the hills, hitting—not the flank as he had expected, but the rear!
Saladin had expected him to hold fast!
Sir Robert and Sir Gaeton spurred their chargers toward the flapping
banner of England.
The fierce warrior-king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was
cutting down Turks as though they were grain-stalks, but still the
Saracen horde pressed on. More and more of the terrible Turks came
boiling down out of the hills, their glittering scimitars swinging.
Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his
own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he
hacked down the Moslem foes.
And then, suddenly, he found himself surrounded by the Saracens! He was
isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces! He
glanced quickly around as he slashed another Saracen from pate to
breastbone. Where was Sir Gaeton? Where were the others? Where was the
red-and-gold banner of Richard?
He caught a glimpse of the fluttering banner far to the rear and started
to fall back.
And then he saw another knight nearby, a huge man who swung his
sparkling blade with power and force. On his steel helm gleamed a golden
coronet! Richard!
And the great king, in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily and
would, within seconds, be cut down by the Saracen horde!
Without hesitation, Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded
monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him.
He saw Richard go down, falling from the saddle of his charger, but by
that time his own sword was cutting into the screaming Saracens and
they had no time to attempt any further mischief to the King. They had
their hands full with Sir Robert de Bouain.
He did not know how long he fought there, holding his charger motionless
over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy,
but presently he heard the familiar cry of "For St. George and for
England" behind him. The Norman and English troops were charging in,
bringing with them the banner of England!
And then Richard was on his feet, cleaving the air about him with his
own broadsword. Its bright edge, besmeared with Saracen blood, was
biting viciously into the foe.
The Turks began to fall back. Within seconds, the Christian knights were
boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat. And
for the second time, Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight.
And then a voice was saying: "You have done well this day, sir knight.
Richard Plantagenet will not forget."
Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king.
"My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my
sovereign and liege lord. My sword and my life are yours whenever you
call."
King Richard's gauntleted hand grasped his own. "If it please God, I
shall never ask your life. An earldom awaits you when we return to
England, sir knight."
And then the king mounted his horse and was running full gallop after
the retreating Saracens.
Robert took off his helmet.
He blinked for a second to adjust his eyes to the relative dimness of
the studio. After the brightness of the desert that the televicarion
helmet had projected into his eyes, the studio seemed strangely
cavelike.
"How'd you like it, Bob?" asked one of the two producers of the show.
Robert Bowen nodded briskly and patted the televike helmet. "It was
O.K.," he said. "Good show. A little talky at the beginning, and it
needs a better fade-out, but the action scenes were fine. The sponsor
ought to like it—for a while, at least."
"What do you mean, 'for a while'?"
Robert Bowen sighed. "If this thing goes on the air the way it is, he'll
lose sales."
"Why? Commercial not good enough?"
"
Too
good! Man, I've smoked
Old Kings
, and, believe me, the real
thing never tasted as good as that cigarette did in the commercial!"
|
train | 24150 | [
"Which of these is an irony represented as a main point in the story?",
"What would have happened if Drs. Niemand and Hillyard had not visited Henry Middletown?",
"What would Dr. Niemand think was the real benefit of visiting Henry Middletown?",
"What is the significance of the twenty-seven day cycle",
"Which of these is the most important reason Dr. Niemand contacted Dr. Hillyard specifically?",
"Which of these does Dr. Niemand believe to be true about the timing of the attacks?",
"Which of these does Dr. Niemand believe to be true about the cause of the attacks?",
"Which of these is not a reason for the researchers to travel to Arizona?",
"What is the role of sunspots in this phenomenon?",
"What is the main point of this interview?"
] | [
[
"Men are more affected by the 27-day cycle than women are",
"Astronomers never talk to each other but only make progress when they do",
"The moon controls the tides but the sun controls emotions",
"Evil will haunt mankind as long as there is light from the Sun"
],
[
"They would have traveled to Australia to talk to a specialist",
"They would have totally given up on their research",
"They would have been missing a key point of connection that allowed them to move their work forward",
"They would have talked to a radio astronomer at a different observatory"
],
[
"Access to specialized graph paper to make sense of their data",
"Access to calendar records to find a pattern with",
"To establish the randomness of the solar flares",
"To provide a perspective from another field"
],
[
"This restructured the data from the reports in a way that fit the sun's rotation",
"It explains why women are more succeptible to the effects of the radiation",
"It shows how arbitrary the cycle is",
"It explains why the symptoms of a flare are so similar to PMS symptoms"
],
[
"Dr. Hillyard is located on the east coast",
"Dr. Niemand wanted to see if this was happening in other parts of California",
"They were old roommates, so Dr. Niemand could trust him with his theory",
"They were friends from medical school"
],
[
"They are related to sunspots and the speed of the Earth's rotation",
"Overcast weather throws off the timing of paired attacks in different areas",
"The timing of the events depends on the movement of the moon, like tides of oceans",
"They are related to the sun's cycle and the speed at which S-Regions travel"
],
[
"The second world war brought out violent tendancies which caused a spread of emotional effects",
"It is the humans' development & use of radio technology that is causing the solar events",
"It is the innate evil of humankind that is causing the emotional disruptions",
"Is it an event on the Sun that causes the attacks"
],
[
"It is not on the coastlines, allowing to look at data away from either coast",
"Mountain ranges are expected to have unique effects on the symptoms ",
"There is an observatory with equipment that can be used for research",
"A potentially useful research partner is there"
],
[
"Sunspots are what we are able to see, but serve only as an approximation of S-Regions, the true cause",
"Sunspots were the key for Henry Middletown's breakthrough in the study",
"Sunspots were what inspired Dr. Niemand to do research on the Sun in the first place",
"Sunspots are the underlying cause of the issue, which are trackable by S-regions"
],
[
"To complain that the conference paper was underattended and underappreciated",
"To discuss the effects of hidden areas on the sun on people's behavior",
"To argue that multidisciplinary science is the best kind of science",
"To warn people of the dangers of the sun on their minds and bodies"
]
] | [
4,
3,
4,
1,
1,
4,
4,
2,
1,
2
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | DISTURBING SUN
By PHILIP LATHAM
Illustrated by Freas
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction May 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This, be it understood, is fiction—nothing but fiction—and not,
under any circumstances, to be considered as having any truth
whatever to it. It's obviously utterly impossible ... isn't it?
An interview with Dr. I. M. Niemand, Director of the Psychophysical
Institute of Solar and Terrestrial Relations, Camarillo, California.
In the closing days of December, 1957, at the meeting of the American
Association for the Advancement of Science in New York, Dr. Niemand
delivered a paper entitled simply, "On the Nature of the Solar
S-Regions." Owing to its unassuming title the startling implications
contained in the paper were completely overlooked by the press. These
implications are discussed here in an exclusive interview with Dr.
Niemand by Philip Latham.
LATHAM. Dr. Niemand, what would you say is your main job?
NIEMAND. I suppose you might say my main job today is to find out all I
can between activity on the Sun and various forms of activity on the
Earth.
LATHAM. What do you mean by activity on the Sun?
NIEMAND. Well, a sunspot is a form of solar activity.
LATHAM. Just what is a sunspot?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid I can't say just what a sunspot is. I can only
describe it. A sunspot is a region on the Sun that is cooler than its
surroundings. That's why it looks dark. It isn't so hot. Therefore not
so bright.
LATHAM. Isn't it true that the number of spots on the Sun rises and
falls in a cycle of eleven years?
NIEMAND. The number of spots on the Sun rises and falls in a cycle of
about
eleven years. That word
about
makes quite a difference.
LATHAM. In what way?
NIEMAND. It means you can only approximately predict the future course
of sunspot activity. Sunspots are mighty treacherous things.
LATHAM. Haven't there been a great many correlations announced between
sunspots and various effects on the Earth?
NIEMAND. Scores of them.
LATHAM. What is your opinion of these correlations?
NIEMAND. Pure bosh in most cases.
LATHAM. But some are valid?
NIEMAND. A few. There is unquestionably a correlation between
sunspots and disturbances of the Earth's magnetic field ... radio
fade-outs ... auroras ... things like that.
LATHAM. Now, Dr. Niemand, I understand that you have been investigating
solar and terrestrial relationships along rather unorthodox lines.
NIEMAND. Yes, I suppose some people would say so.
LATHAM. You have broken new ground?
NIEMAND. That's true.
LATHAM. In what way have your investigations differed from those of
others?
NIEMAND. I think our biggest advance was the discovery that sunspots
themselves are not the direct cause of the disturbances we have been
studying on the Earth. It's something like the eruptions in rubeola.
Attention is concentrated on the bright red papules because they're such
a conspicuous symptom of the disease. Whereas the real cause is an
invisible filterable virus. In the solar case it turned out to be these
S-Regions.
LATHAM. Why S-Regions?
NIEMAND. We had to call them something. Named after the Sun, I suppose.
LATHAM. You say an S-Region is invisible?
NIEMAND. It is quite invisible to the eye but readily detected by
suitable instrumental methods. It is extremely doubtful, however, if the
radiation we detect is the actual cause of the disturbing effects
observed.
LATHAM. Just what are these effects?
NIEMAND. Well, they're common enough, goodness knows. As old as the
world, in fact. Yet strangely enough it's hard to describe them in exact
terms.
LATHAM. Can you give us a general idea?
NIEMAND. I'll try. Let's see ... remember that speech from "Julius
Caesar" where Cassius is bewailing the evil times that beset ancient
Rome? I believe it went like this: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in
our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings."
LATHAM. I'm afraid I don't see—
NIEMAND. Well, Shakespeare would have been nearer the truth if he had
put it the other way around. "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in
ourselves but in our stars" or better "in the Sun."
LATHAM. In the Sun?
NIEMAND. That's right, in the Sun. I suppose the oldest problem in the
world is the origin of human evil. Philosophers have wrestled with it
ever since the days of Job. And like Job they have usually given up in
despair, convinced that the origin of evil is too deep for the human
mind to solve. Generally they have concluded that man is inherently
wicked and sinful and that is the end of it. Now for the first time
science has thrown new light on this subject.
LATHAM. How is that?
NIEMAND. Consider the record of history. There are occasional periods
when conditions are fairly calm and peaceful. Art and industry
flourished. Man at last seemed to be making progress toward some higher
goal. Then suddenly—
for no detectable reason
—conditions are
reversed. Wars rage. People go mad. The world is plunged into an orgy of
bloodshed and misery.
LATHAM. But weren't there reasons?
NIEMAND. What reasons?
LATHAM. Well, disputes over boundaries ... economic rivalry ... border
incidents....
NIEMAND. Nonsense. Men always make some flimsy excuse for going to war.
The truth of the matter is that men go to war because they want to go
to war. They can't help themselves. They are impelled by forces over
which they have no control. By forces outside of themselves.
LATHAM. Those are broad, sweeping statements. Can't you be more
specific?
NIEMAND. Perhaps I'd better go back to the beginning. Let me see.... It
all started back in March, 1955, when I started getting patients
suffering from a complex of symptoms, such as profound mental
depression, anxiety, insomnia, alternating with fits of violent rage and
resentment against life and the world in general. These people were
deeply disturbed. No doubt about that. Yet they were not psychotic and
hardly more than mildly neurotic. Now every doctor gets a good many
patients of this type. Such a syndrome is characteristic of menopausal
women and some men during the climacteric, but these people failed to
fit into this picture. They were married and single persons of both
sexes and of all ages. They came from all walks of life. The onset of
their attack was invariably sudden and with scarcely any warning. They
would be going about their work feeling perfectly all right. Then in a
minute the whole world was like some scene from a nightmare. A week or
ten days later the attack would cease as mysteriously as it had come and
they would be their old self again.
LATHAM. Aren't such attacks characteristic of the stress and strain of
modern life?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid that old stress-and-strain theory has been badly
overworked. Been hearing about it ever since I was a pre-med student at
ucla
. Even as a boy I can remember my grandfather deploring the stress
and strain of modern life when he was a country doctor practicing in
Indiana. In my opinion one of the most valuable contributions
anthropologists have made in recent years is the discovery that
primitive man is afflicted with essentially the same neurotic conditions
as those of us who live a so-called civilized life. They have found
savages displaying every symptom of a nervous breakdown among the
mountain tribes of the Elgonyi and the Aruntas of Australia. No, Mr.
Latham, it's time the stress-and-strain theory was relegated to the junk
pile along with demoniac possession and blood letting.
LATHAM. You must have done something for your patients—
NIEMAND. A doctor must always do something for the patients who come to
his office seeking help. First I gave them a thorough physical
examination. I turned up some minor ailments—a slight heart murmur or a
trace of albumin in the urine—but nothing of any significance. On the
whole they were a remarkably healthy bunch of individuals, much more so
than an average sample of the population. Then I made a searching
inquiry into their personal life. Here again I drew a blank. They had no
particular financial worries. Their sex life was generally satisfactory.
There was no history of mental illness in the family. In fact, the only
thing that seemed to be the matter with them was that there were times
when they felt like hell.
LATHAM. I suppose you tried tranquilizers?
NIEMAND. Oh, yes. In a few cases in which I tried tranquilizing pills of
the meprobamate type there was some slight improvement. I want to
emphasize, however, that I do not believe in prescribing shotgun
remedies for a patient. To my way of thinking it is a lazy slipshod way
of carrying on the practice of medicine. The only thing for which I do
give myself credit was that I asked my patients to keep a detailed
record of their symptoms taking special care to note the time of
exacerbation—increase in the severity of the symptoms—as accurately as
possible.
LATHAM. And this gave you a clue?
NIEMAND. It was the beginning. In most instances patients reported the
attack struck with almost the impact of a physical blow. The prodromal
symptoms were usually slight ... a sudden feeling of uneasiness and
guilt ... hot and cold flashes ... dizziness ... double vision. Then
this ghastly sense of depression coupled with a blind insensate rage at
life. One man said he felt as if the world were closing in on him.
Another that he felt the people around him were plotting his
destruction. One housewife made her husband lock her in her room for
fear she would injure the children. I pored over these case histories
for a long time getting absolutely nowhere. Then finally a pattern began
to emerge.
LATHAM. What sort of pattern?
NIEMAND. The first thing that struck me was that the attacks all
occurred during the daytime, between the hours of about seven in the
morning and five in the evening. Then there were these coincidences—
LATHAM. Coincidences?
NIEMAND. Total strangers miles apart were stricken at almost the same
moment. At first I thought nothing of it but as my records accumulated I
became convinced it could not be attributed to chance. A mathematical
analysis showed the number of coincidences followed a Poisson
distribution very closely. I couldn't possibly see what daylight had to
do with it. There is some evidence that mental patients are most
disturbed around the time of full moon, but a search of medical
literature failed to reveal any connection with the Sun.
LATHAM. What did you do?
NIEMAND. Naturally I said nothing of this to my patients. I did,
however, take pains to impress upon them the necessity of keeping an
exact record of the onset of an attack. The better records they kept the
more conclusive was the evidence. Men and women were experiencing nearly
simultaneous attacks of rage and depression all over southern
California, which was as far as my practice extended. One day it
occurred to me: if people a few miles apart could be stricken
simultaneously, why not people hundreds or thousands of miles apart? It
was this idea that prompted me to get in touch with an old colleague of
mine I had known at UC medical school, Dr. Max Hillyard, who was in
practice in Utica, New York.
LATHAM. With what result?
NIEMAND. I was afraid the result would be that my old roommate would
think I had gone completely crazy. Imagine my surprise and gratification
on receiving an answer by return mail to the effect that he also had
been getting an increasing number of patients suffering with the same
identical symptoms as my own. Furthermore, upon exchanging records we
did
find that in many cases patients three thousand miles apart had
been stricken simultaneously—
LATHAM. Just a minute. I would like to know how you define
"simultaneous."
NIEMAND. We say an attack is simultaneous when one occurred on the east
coast, for example, not earlier or later than five minutes of an attack
on the west coast. That is about as close as you can hope to time a
subjective effect of this nature. And now another fact emerged which
gave us another clue.
LATHAM. Which was?
NIEMAND. In every case of a simultaneous attack the Sun was shining at
both New York and California.
LATHAM. You mean if it was cloudy—
NIEMAND. No, no. The weather had nothing to do with it. I mean the Sun
had to be above the horizon at both places. A person might undergo an
attack soon after sunrise in New York but there would be no
corresponding record of an attack in California where it was still dark.
Conversely, a person might be stricken late in the afternoon in
California without a corresponding attack in New York where the Sun had
set. Dr. Hillyard and I had been searching desperately for a clue. We
had both noticed that the attacks occurred only during the daylight
hours but this had not seemed especially significant. Here we had
evidence pointing directly to the source of trouble. It must have some
connection with the Sun.
LATHAM. That must have had you badly puzzled at first.
NIEMAND. It certainly did. It looked as if we were headed back to the
Middle Ages when astrology and medicine went hand in hand. But since it
was our only lead we had no other choice but to follow it regardless of
the consequences. Here luck played somewhat of a part, for Hillyard
happened to have a contact that proved invaluable to us. Several years
before Hillyard had gotten to know a young astrophysicist, Henry
Middletown, who had come to him suffering from a severe case of myositis
in the arms and shoulders. Hillyard had been able to effect a complete
cure for which the boy was very grateful, and they had kept up a
desultory correspondence. Middletown was now specializing in radio
astronomy at the government's new solar observatory on Turtle Back
Mountain in Arizona. If it had not been for Middletown's help I'm afraid
our investigation would never have gotten past the clinical stage.
LATHAM. In what way was Middletown of assistance?
NIEMAND. It was the old case of workers in one field of science being
completely ignorant of what was going on in another field. Someday we
will have to establish a clearing house in science instead of keeping it
in tight little compartments as we do at present. Well, Hillyard and I
packed up for Arizona with considerable misgivings. We were afraid
Middletown wouldn't take our findings seriously but somewhat to our
surprise he heard our story with the closest attention. I guess
astronomers have gotten so used to hearing from flying saucer
enthusiasts and science-fiction addicts that nothing surprises them any
more. When we had finished he asked to see our records. Hillyard had
them all set down for easy numerical tabulation. Middletown went to work
with scarcely a word. Within an hour he had produced a chart that was
simply astounding.
LATHAM. Can you describe this chart for us?
NIEMAND. It was really quite simple. But if it had not been for
Middletown's experience in charting other solar phenomena it would never
have occurred to us to do it. First, he laid out a series of about
thirty squares horizontally across a sheet of graph paper. He dated
these beginning March 1, 1955, when our records began. In each square he
put a number from 1 to 10 that was a rough index of the number and
intensity of the attacks reported on that day. Then he laid out another
horizontal row below the first one dated twenty-seven days later. That
is, the square under March 1st in the top row was dated March 28th in
the row below it. He filled in the chart until he had an array of dozens
of rows that included all our data down to May, 1958.
When Middletown had finished it was easy to see that the squares of
highest index number did not fall at random on the chart. Instead they
fell in slightly slanting parallel series so that you could draw
straight lines down through them. The connection with the Sun was
obvious.
LATHAM. In what way?
NIEMAND. Why, because twenty-seven days is about the synodic period of
solar rotation. That is, if you see a large spot at the center of the
Sun's disk today, there is a good chance if it survives that you will
see it at the same place twenty-seven days later. But that night
Middletown produced another chart that showed the connection with the
Sun in a way that was even more convincing.
LATHAM. How was that?
NIEMAND. I said that the lines drawn down through the days of greatest
mental disturbance slanted slightly. On this second chart the squares
were dated under one another not at intervals of twenty-seven days, but
at intervals of twenty-seven point three days.
LATHAM. Why is that so important?
NIEMAND. Because the average period of solar rotation in the sunspot
zone is not twenty-seven days but twenty-seven point three days. And on
this chart the lines did not slant but went vertically downward. The
correlation with the synodic rotation of the Sun was practically
perfect.
LATHAM. But how did you get onto the S-Regions?
NIEMAND. Middletown was immediately struck by the resemblance between
the chart of mental disturbance and one he had been plotting over the
years from his radio observations. Now when he compared the two charts
the resemblance between the two was unmistakable. The pattern shown by
the chart of mental disturbance corresponded in a striking way with the
solar chart but with this difference. The disturbances on the Earth
started two days later on the average than the disturbances due to the
S-Regions on the Sun. In other words, there was a lag of about
forty-eight hours between the two. But otherwise they were almost
identical.
LATHAM. But if these S-Regions of Middletown's are invisible how could
he detect them?
NIEMAND. The S-Regions are invisible to the eye through an
optical
telescope, but are detected with ease by a
radio
telescope. Middletown
had discovered them when he was a graduate student working on radio
astronomy in Australia, and he had followed up his researches with the
more powerful equipment at Turtle Back Mountain. The formation of an
S-Region is heralded by a long series of bursts of a few seconds
duration, when the radiation may increase up to several thousand times
that of the background intensity. These noise storms have been recorded
simultaneously on wavelengths of from one to fifteen meters, which so
far is the upper limit of the observations. In a few instances, however,
intense bursts have also been detected down to fifty cm.
LATHAM. I believe you said the periods of mental disturbance last for
about ten or twelve days. How does that tie-in with the S-Regions?
NIEMAND. Very closely. You see it takes about twelve days for an
S-Region to pass across the face of the Sun, since the synodic rotation
is twenty-seven point three days.
LATHAM. I should think it would be nearer thirteen or fourteen days.
NIEMAND. Apparently an S-Region is not particularly effective when it is
just coming on or just going off the disk of the Sun.
LATHAM. Are the S-Regions associated with sunspots?
NIEMAND. They are connected in this way: that sunspot activity and
S-Region activity certainly go together. The more sunspots the more
violent and intense is the S-Region activity. But there is not a
one-to-one correspondence between sunspots and S-Regions. That is, you
cannot connect a particular sunspot group with a particular S-Region.
The same thing is true of sunspots and magnetic storms.
LATHAM. How do you account for this?
NIEMAND. We don't account for it.
LATHAM. What other properties of the S-Regions have you discovered?
NIEMAND. Middletown says that the radio waves emanating from them are
strongly circularly polarized. Moreover, the sense of rotation remains
constant while one is passing across the Sun. If the magnetic field
associated with an S-Region extends into the high solar corona through
which the rays pass, then the sense of rotation corresponds to the
ordinary ray of the magneto-ionic theory.
LATHAM. Does this mean that the mental disturbances arise from some form
of electromagnetic radiation?
NIEMAND. We doubt it. As I said before, the charts show a lag of about
forty-eight hours between the development of an S-Region and the onset
of mental disturbance. This indicates that the malignant energy
emanating from an S-Region consists of some highly penetrating form of
corpuscular radiation, as yet unidentified.
[A]
LATHAM. A question that puzzles me is why some people are affected by
the S-Regions while others are not.
NIEMAND. Our latest results indicate that probably
no one
is
completely immune. All are affected in
some
degree. Just why some
should be affected so much more than others is still a matter of
speculation.
LATHAM. How long does an S-Region last?
NIEMAND. An S-Region may have a lifetime of from three to perhaps a
dozen solar rotations. Then it dies out and for a time we are free from
this malignant radiation. Then a new region develops in perhaps an
entirely different region of the Sun. Sometimes there may be several
different S-Regions all going at once.
LATHAM. Why were not the S-Regions discovered long ago?
NIEMAND. Because the radio exploration of the Sun only began since the
end of World War II.
LATHAM. How does it happen that you only got patients suffering from
S-radiation since about 1955?
NIEMAND. I think we did get such patients previously but not in large
enough numbers to attract attention. Also the present sunspot cycle
started its rise to maximum about 1954.
LATHAM. Is there no way of escaping the S-radiation?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid the only sure way is to keep on the unilluminated
side of the Earth which is rather difficult to do. Apparently the
corpuscular beam from an S-Region is several degrees wide and not very
sharply defined, since its effects are felt simultaneously over the
entire continent. Hillyard and Middletown are working on some form of
shielding device but so far without success.
LATHAM. What is the present state of S-Region activity?
NIEMAND. At the present moment there happens to be no S-Region activity
on the Sun. But a new one may develop at any time. Also, the outlook for
a decrease in activity is not very favorable. Sunspot activity continues
at a high level and is steadily mounting in violence. The last sunspot
cycle had the highest maximum of any since 1780, but the present cycle
bids fair to set an all time record.
LATHAM. And so you believe that the S-Regions are the cause of most of
the present trouble in the world. That it is not ourselves but something
outside ourselves—
NIEMAND. That is the logical outcome of our investigation. We are
controlled and swayed by forces which in many cases we are powerless to
resist.
LATHAM. Could we not be warned of the presence of an S-Region?
NIEMAND. The trouble is they seem to develop at random on the Sun. I'm
afraid any warning system would be worse than useless. We would be
crying WOLF! all the time.
LATHAM. How may a person who is not particularly susceptible to this
malignant radiation know that one of these regions is active?
NIEMAND. If you have a feeling of restlessness and anxiety, if you are
unable to concentrate, if you feel suddenly depressed and discouraged
about yourself, or are filled with resentment toward the world, then you
may be pretty sure that an S-Region is passing across the face of the
Sun. Keep a tight rein on yourself. For it seems that evil will always
be with us ... as long as the Sun shall continue to shine upon this
little world.
THE END
[A]
Middletown believes that the Intense radiation recently
discovered from information derived from Explorer I and III has no
connection with the corpuscular S-radiation.
|
train | 24161 | [
"Why does Evans give up his drinking water?",
"Why does Evans have difficulty identifying crystals?",
"What do the workers of WIlliamson Town do that causes them to lose water?",
"Why is Jones a change in the pricing structure for supply runs?",
"How is time experienced by the people on the moon?",
"How are people on Earth able to help with the search for a missing prospector?",
"What is the most precious commodity on the moon?",
"What is not correct about the workers' description of the meteor shower?",
"What does Jones likely think Evans is up to when he finds him?"
] | [
[
"Using the water is the only way for his transportation to work",
"He knows he will be able to find more soon in one of the caves",
"He knows his rescuers will come find him and bring water",
"He knows he does not have enough to survive so he uses it to save his equipment"
],
[
"All of the crystals he found were very rare",
"He does not have much experience in doing so",
"They were not actually crystals to begin with",
"None of the crystals were native to the moon"
],
[
"Something got stuck when they tried to balance the weight on the valve mechanism",
"Something malfunctioned when they tried to clean old build-up",
"A water container exploded while they were trying to fill it",
"One of the men was siphoning water supply for profit"
],
[
"He thinks it would save time in writing contracts",
"He thinks he can make a bigger profit if he has more control",
"It would allow more necessary supplies to reach Earth",
"He wants to be able to carry more expensive supplies"
],
[
"They track time based on both Earth and the moon",
"They work in two-week shifts, built around supply runs",
"They all live and work on an Earth schedule",
"They plan their schedules around the water cycle"
],
[
"They can shine a light to make searching easier",
"Their equipment is advanced enough to connect to the prospector's radio",
"They can boost the signals of the scanners on the moon",
"They can see different sides of the moon from the people on the moon"
],
[
"Water",
"Oxygen",
"Natural gas",
"Chromite ore"
],
[
"The shower had caused a lot of damage to their equipment",
"Nobody was outside the city to get hit during the storm",
"They could identify fresh craters by locating footprints",
"It had occurred a couple of days ago"
],
[
"He saw that he was setting up a mine to start collecting water",
"He thought he had found a new source of crystals",
"He thought he was already dead",
"He thought his oxygen machine was meant to be a temporary survival tool"
]
] | [
1,
3,
2,
3,
1,
4,
1,
2,
4
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | ALL DAY SEPTEMBER
By ROGER KUYKENDALL
Illustrated by van Dongen
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction June 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Some men just haven't got good sense. They just can't seem to
learn the most fundamental things. Like when there's no use
trying—when it's time to give up because it's hopeless....
The meteor, a pebble, a little larger than a match head, traveled
through space and time since it came into being. The light from the star
that died when the meteor was created fell on Earth before the first
lungfish ventured from the sea.
In its last instant, the meteor fell on the Moon. It was impeded by
Evans' tractor.
It drilled a small, neat hole through the casing of the steam turbine,
and volitized upon striking the blades. Portions of the turbine also
volitized; idling at eight thousand RPM, it became unstable. The shaft
tried to tie itself into a knot, and the blades, damaged and undamaged
were spit through the casing. The turbine again reached a stable state,
that is, stopped. Permanently stopped.
It was two days to sunrise, where Evans stood.
It was just before sunset on a spring evening in September in Sydney.
The shadow line between day and night could be seen from the Moon to be
drifting across Australia.
Evans, who had no watch, thought of the time as a quarter after
Australia.
Evans was a prospector, and like all prospectors, a sort of jackknife
geologist, selenologist, rather. His tractor and equipment cost two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand was paid for. The
rest was promissory notes and grubstake shares. When he was broke, which
was usually, he used his tractor to haul uranium ore and metallic sodium
from the mines at Potter's dike to Williamson Town, where the rockets
landed.
When he was flush, he would prospect for a couple of weeks. Once he
followed a stampede to Yellow Crater, where he thought for a while that
he had a fortune in chromium. The chromite petered out in a month and a
half, and he was lucky to break even.
Evans was about three hundred miles east of Williamson Town, the site of
the first landing on the Moon.
Evans was due back at Williamson Town at about sunset, that is, in about
sixteen days. When he saw the wrecked turbine, he knew that he wouldn't
make it. By careful rationing, he could probably stretch his food out to
more than a month. His drinking water—kept separate from the water in
the reactor—might conceivably last just as long. But his oxygen was too
carefully measured; there was a four-day reserve. By diligent
conservation, he might make it last an extra day. Four days
reserve—plus one is five—plus sixteen days normal supply equals
twenty-one days to live.
In seventeen days he might be missed, but in seventeen days it would be
dark again, and the search for him, if it ever began, could not begin
for thirteen more days. At the earliest it would be eight days too late.
"Well, man, 'tis a fine spot you're in now," he told himself.
"Let's find out how bad it is indeed," he answered. He reached for the
light switch and tried to turn it on. The switch was already in the "on"
position.
"Batteries must be dead," he told himself.
"What batteries?" he asked. "There're no batteries in here, the power
comes from the generator."
"Why isn't the generator working, man?" he asked.
He thought this one out carefully. The generator was not turned by the
main turbine, but by a small reciprocating engine. The steam, however,
came from the same boiler. And the boiler, of course, had emptied itself
through the hole in the turbine. And the condenser, of course—
"The condenser!" he shouted.
He fumbled for a while, until he found a small flashlight. By the light
of this, he reinspected the steam system, and found about three gallons
of water frozen in the condenser. The condenser, like all condensers,
was a device to convert steam into water, so that it could be reused in
the boiler. This one had a tank and coils of tubing in the center of a
curved reflector that was positioned to radiate the heat of the steam
into the cold darkness of space. When the meteor pierced the turbine,
the water in the condenser began to boil. This boiling lowered the
temperature, and the condenser demonstrated its efficiency by quickly
freezing the water in the tank.
Evans sealed the turbine from the rest of the steam system by closing
the shut-off valves. If there was any water in the boiler, it would
operate the engine that drove the generator. The water would condense in
the condenser, and with a little luck, melt the ice in there. Then, if
the pump wasn't blocked by ice, it would return the water to the boiler.
But there was no water in the boiler. Carefully he poured a cup of his
drinking water into a pipe that led to the boiler, and resealed the
pipe. He pulled on a knob marked "Nuclear Start/Safety Bypass." The
water that he had poured into the boiler quickly turned into steam, and
the steam turned the generator briefly.
Evans watched the lights flicker and go out, and he guessed what the
trouble was.
"The water, man," he said, "there is not enough to melt the ice in the
condenser."
He opened the pipe again and poured nearly a half-gallon of water into
the boiler. It was three days' supply of water, if it had been carefully
used. It was one day's supply if used wastefully. It was ostentatious
luxury for a man with a month's supply of water and twenty-one days to
live.
The generator started again, and the lights came on. They flickered as
the boiler pressure began to fail, but the steam had melted some of the
ice in the condenser, and the water pump began to function.
"Well, man," he breathed, "there's a light to die by."
The sun rose on Williamson Town at about the same time it rose on Evans.
It was an incredibly brilliant disk in a black sky. The stars next to
the sun shone as brightly as though there were no sun. They might have
appeared to waver slightly, if they were behind outflung corona flares.
If they did, no one noticed. No one looked toward the sun without dark
filters.
When Director McIlroy came into his office, he found it lighted by the
rising sun. The light was a hot, brilliant white that seemed to pierce
the darkest shadows of the room. He moved to the round window, screening
his eyes from the light, and adjusted the polaroid shade to maximum
density. The sun became an angry red brown, and the room was dark again.
McIlroy decreased the density again until the room was comfortably
lighted. The room felt stuffy, so he decided to leave the door to the
inner office open.
He felt a little guilty about this, because he had ordered that all
doors in the survey building should remain closed except when someone
was passing through them. This was to allow the air-conditioning system
to function properly, and to prevent air loss in case of the highly
improbable meteor damage. McIlroy thought that on the whole, he was
disobeying his own orders no more flagrantly than anyone else in the
survey.
McIlroy had no illusions about his ability to lead men. Or rather, he
did have one illusion; he thought that he was completely unfit as a
leader. It was true that his strictest orders were disobeyed with
cheerful contempt, but it was also true his mildest requests were
complied with eagerly and smoothly.
Everyone in the survey except McIlroy realized this, and even he
accepted this without thinking about it. He had fallen into the habit of
suggesting mildly anything that he wanted done, and writing orders he
didn't particularly care to have obeyed.
For example, because of an order of his stating that there would be no
alcoholic beverages within the survey building, the entire survey was
assured of a constant supply of home-made, but passably good liquor.
Even McIlroy enjoyed the surreptitious drinking.
"Good morning, Mr. McIlroy," said Mrs. Garth, his secretary. Morning to
Mrs. Garth was simply the first four hours after waking.
"Good morning indeed," answered McIlroy. Morning to him had no meaning
at all, but he thought in the strictest sense that it would be morning
on the Moon for another week.
"Has the power crew set up the solar furnace?" he asked. The solar
furnace was a rough parabola of mirrors used to focus the sun's heat on
anything that it was desirable to heat. It was used mostly, from sun-up
to sun-down, to supplement the nuclear power plant.
"They went out about an hour ago," she answered, "I suppose that's what
they were going to do."
"Very good, what's first on the schedule?"
"A Mr. Phelps to see you," she said.
"How do you do, Mr. Phelps," McIlroy greeted him.
"Good afternoon," Mr. Phelps replied. "I'm here representing the
Merchants' Bank Association."
"Fine," McIlroy said, "I suppose you're here to set up a bank."
"That's right, I just got in from Muroc last night, and I've been going
over the assets of the Survey Credit Association all morning."
"I'll certainly be glad to get them off my hands," McIlroy said. "I hope
they're in good order."
"There doesn't seem to be any profit," Mr. Phelps said.
"That's par for a nonprofit organization," said McIlroy. "But we're
amateurs, and we're turning this operation over to professionals. I'm
sure it will be to everyone's satisfaction."
"I know this seems like a silly question. What day is this?"
"Well," said McIlroy, "that's not so silly. I don't know either."
"Mrs. Garth," he called, "what day is this?"
"Why, September, I think," she answered.
"I mean what
day
."
"I don't know, I'll call the observatory."
There was a pause.
"They say what day where?" she asked.
"Greenwich, I guess, our official time is supposed to be Greenwich Mean
Time."
There was another pause.
"They say it's September fourth, one thirty
a.m.
"
"Well, there you are," laughed McIlroy, "it isn't that time doesn't mean
anything here, it just doesn't mean the same thing."
Mr. Phelps joined the laughter. "Bankers' hours don't mean much, at any
rate," he said.
The power crew was having trouble with the solar furnace. Three of the
nine banks of mirrors would not respond to the electric controls, and
one bank moved so jerkily that it could not be focused, and it
threatened to tear several of the mirrors loose.
"What happened here?" Spotty Cade, one of the electrical technicians
asked his foreman, Cowalczk, over the intercommunications radio. "I've
got about a hundred pinholes in the cables out here. It's no wonder they
don't work."
"Meteor shower," Cowalczk answered, "and that's not half of it. Walker
says he's got a half dozen mirrors cracked or pitted, and Hoffman on
bank three wants you to replace a servo motor. He says the bearing was
hit."
"When did it happen?" Cade wanted to know.
"Must have been last night, at least two or three days ago. All of 'em
too small for Radar to pick up, and not enough for Seismo to get a
rumble."
"Sounds pretty bad."
"Could have been worse," said Cowalczk.
"How's that?"
"Wasn't anybody out in it."
"Hey, Chuck," another technician, Lehman, broke in, "you could maybe get
hurt that way."
"I doubt it," Cowalczk answered, "most of these were pinhead size, and
they wouldn't go through a suit."
"It would take a pretty big one to damage a servo bearing," Cade
commented.
"That could hurt," Cowalczk admitted, "but there was only one of them."
"You mean only one hit our gear," Lehman said. "How many missed?"
Nobody answered. They could all see the Moon under their feet. Small
craters overlapped and touched each other. There was—except in the
places that men had obscured them with footprints—not a square foot
that didn't contain a crater at least ten inches across, there was not a
square inch without its half-inch crater. Nearly all of these had been
made millions of years ago, but here and there, the rim of a crater
covered part of a footprint, clear evidence that it was a recent one.
After the sun rose, Evans returned to the lava cave that he had been
exploring when the meteor hit. Inside, he lifted his filter visor, and
found that the light reflected from the small ray that peered into the
cave door lighted the cave adequately. He tapped loose some white
crystals on the cave wall with his geologist's hammer, and put them into
a collector's bag.
"A few mineral specimens would give us something to think about, man.
These crystals," he said, "look a little like zeolites, but that can't
be, zeolites need water to form, and there's no water on the Moon."
He chipped a number of other crystals loose and put them in bags. One of
them he found in a dark crevice had a hexagonal shape that puzzled him.
One at a time, back in the tractor, he took the crystals out of the bags
and analyzed them as well as he could without using a flame which would
waste oxygen. The ones that looked like zeolites were zeolites, all
right, or something very much like it. One of the crystals that he
thought was quartz turned out to be calcite, and one of the ones that he
was sure could be nothing but calcite was actually potassium nitrate.
"Well, now," he said, "it's probably the largest natural crystal of
potassium nitrate that anyone has ever seen. Man, it's a full inch
across."
All of these needed water to form, and their existence on the Moon
puzzled him for a while. Then he opened the bag that had contained the
unusual hexagonal crystals, and the puzzle resolved itself. There was
nothing in the bag but a few drops of water. What he had taken to be a
type of rock was ice, frozen in a niche that had never been warmed by
the sun.
The sun rose to the meridian slowly. It was a week after sunrise. The
stars shone coldly, and wheeled in their slow course with the sun. Only
Earth remained in the same spot in the black sky. The shadow line crept
around until Earth was nearly dark, and then the rim of light appeared
on the opposite side. For a while Earth was a dark disk in a thin halo,
and then the light came to be a crescent, and the line of dawn began to
move around Earth. The continents drifted across the dark disk and into
the crescent. The people on Earth saw the full moon set about the same
time that the sun rose.
Nickel Jones was the captain of a supply rocket. He made trips from and
to the Moon about once a month, carrying supplies in and metal and ores
out. At this time he was visiting with his old friend McIlroy.
"I swear, Mac," said Jones, "another season like this, and I'm going
back to mining."
"I thought you were doing pretty well," said McIlroy, as he poured two
drinks from a bottle of Scotch that Jones had brought him.
"Oh, the money I like, but I will say that I'd have more if I didn't
have to fight the union and the Lunar Trade Commission."
McIlroy had heard all of this before. "How's that?" he asked politely.
"You may think it's myself running the ship," Jones started on his
tirade, "but it's not. The union it is that says who I can hire. The
union it is that says how much I must pay, and how large a crew I need.
And then the Commission ..." The word seemed to give Jones an unpleasant
taste in his mouth, which he hurriedly rinsed with a sip of Scotch.
"The Commission," he continued, making the word sound like an obscenity,
"it is that tells me how much I can charge for freight."
McIlroy noticed that his friend's glass was empty, and he quietly filled
it again.
"And then," continued Jones, "if I buy a cargo up here, the Commission
it is that says what I'll sell it for. If I had my way, I'd charge only
fifty cents a pound for freight instead of the dollar forty that the
Commission insists on. That's from here to Earth, of course. There's no
profit I could make by cutting rates the other way."
"Why not?" asked McIlroy. He knew the answer, but he liked to listen to
the slightly Welsh voice of Jones.
"Near cost it is now at a dollar forty. But what sense is there in
charging the same rate to go either way when it takes about a seventh of
the fuel to get from here to Earth as it does to get from there to
here?"
"What good would it do to charge fifty cents a pound?" asked McIlroy.
"The nickel, man, the tons of nickel worth a dollar and a half on Earth,
and not worth mining here; the low-grade ores of uranium and vanadium,
they need these things on Earth, but they can't get them as long as it
isn't worth the carrying of them. And then, of course, there's the water
we haven't got. We could afford to bring more water for more people, and
set up more distilling plants if we had the money from the nickel.
"Even though I say it who shouldn't, two-eighty a quart is too much to
pay for water."
Both men fell silent for a while. Then Jones spoke again:
"Have you seen our friend Evans lately? The price of chromium has gone
up, and I think he could ship some of his ore from Yellow Crater at a
profit."
"He's out prospecting again. I don't expect to see him until sun-down."
"I'll likely see him then. I won't be loaded for another week and a
half. Can't you get in touch with him by radio?"
"He isn't carrying one. Most of the prospectors don't. They claim that a
radio that won't carry beyond the horizon isn't any good, and one that
will bounce messages from Earth takes up too much room."
"Well, if I don't see him, you let him know about the chromium."
"Anything to help another Welshman, is that the idea?"
"Well, protection it is that a poor Welshman needs from all the English
and Scots. Speaking of which—"
"Oh, of course," McIlroy grinned as he refilled the glasses.
"
Slainte, McIlroy, bach.
" [Health, McIlroy, man.]
"
Slainte mhor, bach.
" [Great Health, man.]
The sun was halfway to the horizon, and Earth was a crescent in the sky
when Evans had quarried all the ice that was available in the cave. The
thought grew on him as he worked that this couldn't be the only such
cave in the area. There must be several more bubbles in the lava flow.
Part of his reasoning proved correct. That is, he found that by
chipping, he could locate small bubbles up to an inch in diameter, each
one with its droplet of water. The average was about one per cent of the
volume of each bubble filled with ice.
A quarter of a mile from the tractor, Evans found a promising looking
mound of lava. It was rounded on top, and it could easily be the dome of
a bubble. Suddenly, Evans noticed that the gauge on the oxygen tank of
his suit was reading dangerously near empty. He turned back to his
tractor, moving as slowly as he felt safe in doing. Running would use up
oxygen too fast. He was halfway there when the pressure warning light
went on, and the signal sounded inside his helmet. He turned on his
ten-minute reserve supply, and made it to the tractor with about five
minutes left. The air purifying apparatus in the suit was not as
efficient as the one in the tractor; it wasted oxygen. By using the suit
so much, Evans had already shortened his life by several days. He
resolved not to leave the tractor again, and reluctantly abandoned his
plan to search for a large bubble.
The sun stood at half its diameter above the horizon. The shadows of the
mountains stretched out to touch the shadows of the other mountains. The
dawning line of light covered half of Earth, and Earth turned beneath
it.
Cowalczk itched under his suit, and the sweat on his face prickled
maddeningly because he couldn't reach it through his helmet. He pushed
his forehead against the faceplate of his helmet and rubbed off some of
the sweat. It didn't help much, and it left a blurred spot in his
vision. That annoyed him.
"Is everyone clear of the outlet?" he asked.
"All clear," he heard Cade report through the intercom.
"How come we have to blow the boilers now?" asked Lehman.
"Because I say so," Cowalczk shouted, surprised at his outburst and
ashamed of it. "Boiler scale," he continued, much calmer. "We've got to
clean out the boilers once a year to make sure the tubes in the reactor
don't clog up." He squinted through his dark visor at the reactor
building, a gray concrete structure a quarter of a mile distant. "It
would be pretty bad if they clogged up some night."
"Pressure's ten and a half pounds," said Cade.
"Right, let her go," said Cowalczk.
Cade threw a switch. In the reactor building, a relay closed. A motor
started turning, and the worm gear on the motor opened a valve on the
boiler. A stream of muddy water gushed into a closed vat. When the vat
was about half full, the water began to run nearly clear. An electric
eye noted that fact and a light in front of Cade turned on. Cade threw
the switch back the other way, and the relay in the reactor building
opened. The motor turned and the gears started to close the valve. But a
fragment of boiler scale held the valve open.
"Valve's stuck," said Cade.
"Open it and close it again," said Cowalczk. The sweat on his forehead
started to run into his eyes. He banged his hand on his faceplate in an
unconscious attempt to wipe it off. He cursed silently, and wiped it off
on the inside of his helmet again. This time, two drops ran down the
inside of his faceplate.
"Still don't work," said Cade.
"Keep trying," Cowalczk ordered. "Lehman, get a Geiger counter and come
with me, we've got to fix this thing."
Lehman and Cowalczk, who were already suited up started across to the
reactor building. Cade, who was in the pressurized control room without
a suit on, kept working the switch back and forth. There was light that
indicated when the valve was open. It was on, and it stayed on, no
matter what Cade did.
"The vat pressure's too high," Cade said.
"Let me know when it reaches six pounds," Cowalczk requested. "Because
it'll probably blow at seven."
The vat was a light plastic container used only to decant sludge out of
the water. It neither needed nor had much strength.
"Six now," said Cade.
Cowalczk and Lehman stopped halfway to the reactor. The vat bulged and
ruptured. A stream of mud gushed out and boiled dry on the face of the
Moon. Cowalczk and Lehman rushed forward again.
They could see the trickle of water from the discharge pipe. The motor
turned the valve back and forth in response to Cade's signals.
"What's going on out there?" demanded McIlroy on the intercom.
"Scale stuck in the valve," Cowalczk answered.
"Are the reactors off?"
"Yes. Vat blew. Shut up! Let me work, Mac!"
"Sorry," McIlroy said, realizing that this was no time for officials.
"Let me know when it's fixed."
"Geiger's off scale," Lehman said.
"We're probably O.K. in these suits for an hour," Cowalczk answered. "Is
there a manual shut-off?"
"Not that I know of," Lehman answered. "What about it, Cade?"
"I don't think so," Cade said. "I'll get on the blower and rouse out an
engineer."
"O.K., but keep working that switch."
"I checked the line as far as it's safe," said Lehman. "No valve."
"O.K.," Cowalczk said. "Listen, Cade, are the injectors still on?"
"Yeah. There's still enough heat in these reactors to do some damage.
I'll cut 'em in about fifteen minutes."
"I've found the trouble," Lehman said. "The worm gear's loose on its
shaft. It's slipping every time the valve closes. There's not enough
power in it to crush the scale."
"Right," Cowalczk said. "Cade, open the valve wide. Lehman, hand me that
pipe wrench!"
Cowalczk hit the shaft with the back of the pipe wrench, and it broke at
the motor bearing.
Cowalczk and Lehman fitted the pipe wrench to the gear on the valve, and
turned it.
"Is the light off?" Cowalczk asked.
"No," Cade answered.
"Water's stopped. Give us some pressure, we'll see if it holds."
"Twenty pounds," Cade answered after a couple of minutes.
"Take her up to ... no, wait, it's still leaking," Cowalczk said. "Hold
it there, we'll open the valve again."
"O.K.," said Cade. "An engineer here says there's no manual cutoff."
"Like Hell," said Lehman.
Cowalczk and Lehman opened the valve again. Water spurted out, and
dwindled as they closed the valve.
"What did you do?" asked Cade. "The light went out and came on again."
"Check that circuit and see if it works," Cowalczk instructed.
There was a pause.
"It's O.K.," Cade said.
Cowalczk and Lehman opened and closed the valve again.
"Light is off now," Cade said.
"Good," said Cowalczk, "take the pressure up all the way, and we'll see
what happens."
"Eight hundred pounds," Cade said, after a short wait.
"Good enough," Cowalczk said. "Tell that engineer to hold up a while, he
can fix this thing as soon as he gets parts. Come on, Lehman, let's get
out of here."
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Cade. "You guys had me worried for a
while."
"Think we weren't worried?" Lehman asked. "And it's not over."
"What?" Cade asked. "Oh, you mean the valve servo you two bashed up?"
"No," said Lehman, "I mean the two thousand gallons of water that we
lost."
"Two thousand?" Cade asked. "We only had seven hundred gallons reserve.
How come we can operate now?"
"We picked up twelve hundred from the town sewage plant. What with using
the solar furnace as a radiator, we can make do."
"Oh, God, I suppose this means water rationing again."
"You're probably right, at least until the next rocket lands in a couple
of weeks."
PROSPECTOR FEARED LOST ON MOON
IPP Williamson Town, Moon, Sept. 21st. Scientific survey director
McIlroy released a statement today that Howard Evans, a prospector
is missing and presumed lost. Evans, who was apparently exploring
the Moon in search of minerals was due two days ago, but it was
presumed that he was merely temporarily delayed.
Evans began his exploration on August 25th, and was known to be
carrying several days reserve of oxygen and supplies. Director
McIlroy has expressed a hope that Evans will be found before his
oxygen runs out.
Search parties have started from Williamson Town, but telescopic
search from Palomar and the new satellite observatory are hindered
by the fact that Evans is lost on the part of the Moon which is now
dark. Little hope is held for radio contact with the missing man as
it is believed he was carrying only short-range,
intercommunications equipment. Nevertheless, receivers are ...
Captain Nickel Jones was also expressing a hope: "Anyway, Mac," he was
saying to McIlroy, "a Welshman knows when his luck's run out. And never
a word did he say."
"Like as not, you're right," McIlroy replied, "but if I know Evans, he'd
never say a word about any forebodings."
"Well, happen I might have a bit of Welsh second sight about me, and it
tells me that Evans will be found."
McIlroy chuckled for the first time in several days. "So that's the
reason you didn't take off when you were scheduled," he said.
"Well, yes," Jones answered. "I thought that it might happen that a
rocket would be needed in the search."
The light from Earth lighted the Moon as the Moon had never lighted
Earth. The great blue globe of Earth, the only thing larger than the
stars, wheeled silently in the sky. As it turned, the shadow of sunset
crept across the face that could be seen from the Moon. From full Earth,
as you might say, it moved toward last quarter.
The rising sun shone into Director McIlroy's office. The hot light
formed a circle on the wall opposite the window, and the light became
more intense as the sun slowly pulled over the horizon. Mrs. Garth
walked into the director's office, and saw the director sleeping with
his head cradled in his arms on the desk. She walked softly to the
window and adjusted the shade to darken the office. She stood looking at
McIlroy for a moment, and when he moved slightly in his sleep, she
walked softly out of the office.
A few minutes later she was back with a cup of coffee. She placed it in
front of the director, and shook his shoulder gently.
"Wake up, Mr. McIlroy," she said, "you told me to wake you at sunrise,
and there it is, and here's Mr. Phelps."
McIlroy woke up slowly. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. His
neck was stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position.
"'Morning, Mr. Phelps," he said.
"Good morning," Phelps answered, dropping tiredly into a chair.
"Have some coffee, Mr. Phelps," said Mrs. Garth, handing him a cup.
"Any news?" asked McIlroy.
"About Evans?" Phelps shook his head slowly. "Palomar called in a few
minutes back. Nothing to report and the sun was rising there. Australia
will be in position pretty soon. Several observatories there. Then
Capetown. There are lots of observatories in Europe, but most of them
are clouded over. Anyway the satellite observatory will be in position
by the time Europe is."
McIlroy was fully awake. He glanced at Phelps and wondered how long it
had been since he had slept last. More than that, McIlroy wondered why
this banker, who had never met Evans, was losing so much sleep about
finding him. It began to dawn on McIlroy that nearly the whole
population of Williamson Town was involved, one way or another, in the
search.
The director turned to ask Phelps about this fact, but the banker was
slumped in his chair, fast asleep with his coffee untouched.
It was three hours later that McIlroy woke Phelps.
"They've found the tractor," McIlroy said.
"Good," Phelps mumbled, and then as comprehension came; "That's fine!
That's just line! Is Evans—?"
"Can't tell yet. They spotted the tractor from the satellite
observatory. Captain Jones took off a few minutes ago, and he'll report
back as soon as he lands. Hadn't you better get some sleep?"
Evans was carrying a block of ice into the tractor when he saw the
rocket coming in for a landing. He dropped the block and stood waiting.
When the dust settled from around the tail of the rocket, he started to
run forward. The air lock opened, and Evans recognized the vacuum suited
figure of Nickel Jones.
"Evans, man!" said Jones' voice in the intercom. "Alive you are!"
"A Welshman takes a lot of killing," Evans answered.
Later, in Evans' tractor, he was telling his story:
"... And I don't know how long I sat there after I found the water." He
looked at the Goldburgian device he had made out of wire and tubing.
"Finally I built this thing. These caves were made of lava. They must
have been formed by steam some time, because there's a floor of ice in
all of 'em.
"The idea didn't come all at once, it took a long time for me to
remember that water is made out of oxygen and hydrogen. When I
remembered that, of course, I remembered that it can be separated with
electricity. So I built this thing.
"It runs an electric current through water, lets the oxygen loose in the
room, and pipes the hydrogen outside. It doesn't work automatically, of
course, so I run it about an hour a day. My oxygen level gauge shows how
long."
"You're a genius, man!" Jones exclaimed.
"No," Evans answered, "a Welshman, nothing more."
"Well, then," said Jones, "are you ready to start back?"
"Back?"
"Well, it was to rescue you that I came."
"I don't need rescuing, man," Evans said.
Jones stared at him blankly.
"You might let me have some food," Evans continued. "I'm getting short
of that. And you might have someone send out a mechanic with parts to
fix my tractor. Then maybe you'll let me use your radio to file my
claim."
"Claim?"
"Sure, man, I've thousands of tons of water here. It's the richest mine
on the Moon!"
THE END
|
train | 24192 | [
"Why did Edith greet her husband the way she did when he returned home?",
"How did Henry feel about the remodeled bedrooms?",
"Why did nobody react when Henry's mother started crying at the table?",
"Why was the cemetery joke a faux pas?",
"Why is it ironic that Henry was uncomfortable to see his house rebuilt?",
"Which best describes how Edith feels about Henry's return home?",
"Why is Henry referred to as the First One",
"Why did Rhona look sick while she was dancing with Hank?",
"How did Ralphie feel about his father's return?"
] | [
[
"She was upset that Henry had not been there for their son for some time.",
"She was nervous because she had not seen him in almost a year.",
"In some ways, he was not the man who had left and she was nervous about the change.",
"She had met another man and did not know how to tell Henry about him."
],
[
"He was thankful to have a private place to rest.",
"He felt sad that yet another thing was unfamiliar.",
"He was angry because he really liked his old bed.",
"He thought the new paint was nice but didn't like the furniture."
],
[
"They didn't understand what was wrong and felt too awkward to say anything.",
"They were too busy taking care of other details surrounding the meal.",
"They felt for her in all of the uncertainty and tension.",
"They were used to her tears and knew it was better not to say anything."
],
[
"Henry had watched many people die recently, including his own commanding officer.",
"Henry himself had almost died and did not want to be reminded of the trauma.",
"The joke was so old that made everyone uncomfortable to hear again.",
"Henry had died, but nobody was comfortable enough to talk about it."
],
[
"He used to like change, and always encouraged remodeling projects",
"It used to be his wife that hated change, not Henry.",
"He himself was rebuilt, in some sense.",
"He had said he would do the remodeling himself when he got back, but it was done when he arrived."
],
[
"She is uncertain about how the Henry in front of her is different from the one who left 11 months ago",
"She feels relieved that he made it back from his trip alive.",
"She is thankful that her family is now back together.",
"She is nervous about how the environment of Henry's trip might have changed him."
],
[
"He was the first man to make it back from a Mars mission.",
"Was the first person pieced back together after death.",
"He was the first American to walk on the surface of Mars.",
"He was the first one to make it back alive from the type of trip that he went on."
],
[
"She had decided she needed to stop flirting with him and was upset by this.",
"Hank was already very drunk and the smell of alcohol on his breath appalled her.",
"He was not the Hank she was used to dancing with.",
"She had had too much to drink and her stomach was bothered."
],
[
"He was thankful to have someone to spend time with other than his friends.",
"He was relieved to have his father back home.",
"He was nervous about the changes but tried to adapt to the new situation.",
"He was scared of the man his father had become and tried to avoid him at all costs."
]
] | [
3,
2,
3,
4,
3,
1,
2,
3,
3
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | THE FIRST ONE
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by von Dongen
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.]
The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may be
welcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as a
hero...?
There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usual
speeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which had
once been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city had
since engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everything
wasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite as
at-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,
one of the crew of the spaceship
Washington
, first to set Americans
upon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. His
Honor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.
Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, the
hometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphal
tour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he sat
between the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,
and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the National
Guard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several of
the churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct their
parishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendous
national interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made them
come around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust as
they'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as the
newspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—the
Galloping Twenties.
He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired man
and he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, than
any man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, a
kiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some old
friends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.
He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhaps
he would talk.
Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he had
returned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the great
mariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,
passing, and then the arrival.
The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let him
off at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.
They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,
almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He had
wanted it to be as before.
The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who had
escorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.
He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through with
strangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standing
beside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,
their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He was
still too much the First One to have his gaze met.
He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornate
flagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamental
knocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He was
surprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watching
at a window.
And perhaps she
had
been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.
The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and she
hadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd loved
in high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.
Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutual
support, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. They
looked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,
"It's good to be home!"
Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the other
arm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the old
jokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, the
and-
then
-I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.
She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt the
difference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency to
Ralphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he could
think of nothing else to say, "What a big fella, what a big fella."
Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on the
floor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. "I
didn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough."
So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, that
everything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, General
Carlisle, had said it would early this morning before he left
Washington.
"Give it some time," Carlisle had said. "You need the time; they need
the time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive."
Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,
a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she sat
down beside him—but she had hesitated. He
wasn't
being sensitive; she
had hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.
Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco De
Gama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but more
so. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had worked
with him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantastic
journey—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed genius
in uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.
The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.
He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boy
already tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large of
feature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himself
twenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in a
way that few ten-year-old faces are.
"How's it going in school?" he asked.
"Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation."
"Well, then, before summer vacation?"
"Pretty good."
Edith said, "He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, and
he made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank."
He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering the
warmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears as
he left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They had
feared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even in
continent-to-continent experimental flight.
They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.
But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made the
long journey. Ralphie suddenly said, "I got to go, Dad. I promised Walt
and the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It's
Harmon, you know. I got to keep my word." Without waiting for an answer,
he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—and
ran from the room and from the house.
He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her in
his arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. "I'm very
tired. I'd like to lie down a while." Which wasn't true, because he'd
been lying down all the months of the way back.
She said, "Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around and
make small talk and pick up just where you left off."
He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talk
and pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;
they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.
She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and past
the small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It was
newly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by an
ornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked more
ominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wire
fence around the experimental station.
"Which one is mine," he asked, and tried to smile.
She also tried to smile. "The one near the window. You always liked the
fresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped you
to get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.
You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that you
were going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from it
to this bed again."
"Not this bed," he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.
"No, not this bed," she said quickly. "Your lodge donated the bedroom
set and I really didn't know—" She waved her hand, her face white.
He was sure then that she
had
known, and that the beds and the barrier
between them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He went
to the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,
began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scars
still showed. He waited for her to leave the room.
She said, "Well then, rest up, dear," and went out.
He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the opposite
wall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, the
scars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicing
diagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.
There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'd
been treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seen
them.
Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms would
keep them from her until they were gone.
Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving Walter
Reed Hospital early this morning; which was something he found
distasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,
he began to understand that there would be many things, previously
beneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;
Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probably
changed—because they thought
he
had changed.
He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He let
himself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never known
before.
But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance began
filtering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the same
man who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family and
friends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he could
communicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First One
would again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—a
return to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwash
instead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly be
granted to him.
He slept.
Dinner was at seven
p.m.
His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucille
came. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and ate
in the dining room at the big table.
Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. His
family had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack of
talkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially with
company present—to describe everything and anything that had happened
to him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especially
with his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had been
good-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.
This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. "Stiff"
was perhaps the word.
They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,
efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He looked
at Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,
"Younger than ever." It was nothing new; he'd said it many many times
before, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quip
something like, "Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean." This time
she burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more was
the fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comfort
her; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.
He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touched
her left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't move
it—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-cool
embrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let it
drop out of sight.
So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,
the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.
The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joe
began to talk. "The greatest little development of circular uniform
houses you ever did see," he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.
"Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before—" At that point he
looked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested in
this normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,
mumbled, "Soup's getting cold," and began to eat. His hand shook a
little; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.
Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' Tuesday
Garden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat between
Joe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he felt
alone—and said, "I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rose
bushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower or
trowel."
Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching of
the lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,
and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, "I
have a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room a
while." She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusive
mother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had often
irritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barely
touched his shoulder and fled.
So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rare
slices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. He
cut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphie
and said, "Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard."
Ralphie said, "Yeah, Dad." Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork and
murmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and said
Lucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was going
into the living room for a while. "She'll be back for dessert, of
course," he said, his laugh sounding forced.
Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at
Ralphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe was
chewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked at
Lucille; she was disappearing into the living room.
He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glass
overturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. They
were all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his big
right fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such a
scene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as the
First One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fear
of, that he could have smashed more than a table.
Edith said, "Hank!"
He said, voice hoarse, "Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick of
the lot of you."
Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing food
down his throat. Mother said, "Henry dear—" He didn't answer. She began
to cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never said
anything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have been
the time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something about
getting together again soon and "drop out and see the new development"
and he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.
He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the special
dessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.
She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. She
hesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called the
boy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of the
table. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,
"Hey, I promised—"
"You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball or
something; anything to get away from your father."
Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, "Aw, no, Dad."
Edith said, "He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening
together—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly."
Ralphie said, "Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to."
Hank stood up. "The question is not whether I want to. You both know I
want to. The question is whether
you
want to."
They answered together that of course they wanted to. But their
eyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said he
was going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would in
all probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and that
they shouldn't count on him for normal social life.
He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.
But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a
lighted room. "Phil and Rhona are here." He blinked at her. She smiled,
and it seemed her old smile. "They're so anxious to see you, Hank. I
could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want
to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will."
He sat up. "Phil," he muttered. "Phil and Rhona." They'd had wonderful
times together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest and
closest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.
Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!
It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'd
also expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him to
expect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil sounded
very much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter and
full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, and
clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so much
more gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than was
good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along
on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.
They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to
Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee
and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he
merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.
There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been there
many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized
him. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as
if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.
At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he
said, "I haven't danced with my girl Rhona." His tongue was thick, his
mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her
face—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual
of flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were going
to be sick.
"So let's rock," he said and stood up.
They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.
And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,
mechanical dancing doll.
The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,
"Beddy-bye time."
Hank said, "First one dance with my loving wife."
He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waited
for her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.
Because while she put herself against him, there was something in her
face—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him know
she was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time when
the music ended, he was ready to go home.
They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear of
Phil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,
Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his old
self. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self with
the First One.
They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, and
Phil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen and
looked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fence
paralleling the road. "Hey," he said, pointing, "do you know why that's
the most popular place on earth?"
Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made a
little sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on a
while longer, not yet aware of his supposed
faux pas
.
"You know why?" he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughter
rumbling up from his chest. "You know why, folks?"
Rhona said, "Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—"
Hank said, "No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?"
Phil said, "Because people are—" And then he caught himself and waved
his hand and muttered, "I forgot the punch line."
"Because people are dying to get in," Hank said, and looked through the
window, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleeting
tombstones.
The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have been
nothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. "Maybe you should
let me out right here," Hank said. "I'm home—or that's what everyone
seems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe that
would satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula or
another monster from the movies."
Edith said, "Oh, Hank, don't, don't!"
The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went four
blocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. He
didn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone path
and entered the house.
"Hank," Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, "I'm so sorry—"
"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'll
all work out in time."
"Yes," she said quickly, "that's it. I need a little time. We all need a
little time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.
I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurt
you terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we're
frightened."
"I'm going to stay in the guest room," he said, "for as long as
necessary. For good if need be."
"How could it be for good? How, Hank?"
That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since
returning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,
even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.
"There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks right
now. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment I
did—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He was
smashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almost
ready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to save
all they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy man
loses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,
he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain and
organ process—the process that made it all possible. So people have to
get used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly old
superstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some of
us; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing."
Edith said, "Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please
believe that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and—" She paused.
"There's one question."
He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him by
everyone from the president of the United States on down.
"I saw nothing," he said. "It was as if I slept those six and a half
months—slept without dreaming."
She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he was
satisfied.
Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories of
how they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered and
pulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his own
home.
THE END
|
train | 24278 | [
"How did Read's parents feel about his work with the UN?",
"Which statement best describes how Read changes throughout the story?",
"Which of these is the best explanation for why Read put on his green beret during the battle?",
"What type of person is Umluana?",
"Why is Umluana speaking Dutch to Read and Rashid in the beginning?",
"What is special about this particular UN mission?",
"How will Read likely be remembered by the UN Corps? ",
"What does Read's involvement in The Golden Spacemen tell us?",
"Which of these is the best description of Sergeant Rashid?"
] | [
[
"They were thankful he finally did something important with his life.",
"They were thankful he did not go to trade school.",
"They were upset he wanted to leave the United States for work.",
"They were surprised by his choice but did not keep them from going."
],
[
"He became much less of an individual and more of a pawn for the UN.",
"He overcame his cowardly ways to act for the good of his mission.",
"He remains the self-serving person he was when the story started.",
"He got cocky and made his own decisions without listening to Sergeant Rashid."
],
[
"He thought it would offer him some protection he got shot.",
"He found some comfort in the familiar uniform.",
"It was annoying keeping it in his pocket and this was less distracting.",
"He wanted to make sure others in the battle could identify him, to avoid friendly fire."
],
[
"A considerate and cultured leader.",
"A power-hungry yet peaceful person.",
"A violence-driven man set on developing a large military under his control.",
"A leader hell-bent on proving that Africans do not need white people to be successful."
],
[
"It is the colonizer language of his own country.",
"It's the language that the warrant is written in.",
"It is the language being used by everyone at the World Court event.",
"He wants to show off his ability to speak other languages."
],
[
"It was the first political mission with Americans on the team.",
"It was the first high-profile mission in Africa.",
"It was the first attempt at using a specific power.",
"It was the first mission specifically oriented at avoiding nuclear war."
],
[
"As a cowardly man who always played it safe.",
"As Sergeant Rashid's second-in-command. ",
"As a man who made the arrest of Umluana possible.",
"As a man that cared more about his uniform that his team."
],
[
"His lack of dedication to his own country.",
"His propensity for violence.",
"His desire to have a uniform.",
"His need to belong in a group."
],
[
"A corps member uniquely devoted to amity and concord.",
"An excellent strategist and the best man to have watching your back.",
"An excellent marksman but an even better negotiator.",
"A man outwardly dedicated to peace but inwardly in search of a fight."
]
] | [
3,
2,
2,
3,
1,
3,
3,
4,
1
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE
GREEN
BERET
By TOM PURDOM
It's not so much the decisions a man does make that mark
him as a Man—but the ones he refrains from making. Like the
decision "I've had enough!"
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Read locked the door and drew his pistol. Sergeant Rashid handed
Premier Umluana the warrant.
"We're from the UN Inspector Corps," Sergeant Rashid said. "I'm
very sorry, but we have to arrest you and bring you in for trial
by the World Court."
If Umluana noticed Read's gun, he didn't show it. He read the
warrant carefully. When he finished, he said something in Dutch.
"I don't know your language," Rashid said.
"Then I'll speak English." Umluana was a small man with wrinkled
brow, glasses and a mustache. His skin was a shade lighter than
Read's. "The Inspector General doesn't have the power to arrest a
head of state—especially the Premier of Belderkan. Now, if
you'll excuse me, I must return to my party."
In the other room people laughed and talked. Glasses clinked in
the late afternoon. Read knew two armed men stood just outside
the door. "If you leave, Premier, I'll have to shoot you."
"I don't think so," Umluana said. "No, if you kill me, all Africa
will rise against the world. You don't want me dead. You want me
in court."
Read clicked off the safety.
"Corporal Read is very young," Rashid said, "but he's a crack
shot. That's why I brought him with me. I think he
likes
to
shoot, too."
Umluana turned back to Rashid a second too soon. He saw the
sergeant's upraised hand before it collided with his neck.
"Help!
Kidnap.
"
Rashid judo chopped him and swung the inert body over his
shoulders. Read pulled a flat grenade from his vest pocket. He
dropped it and yellow psycho gas hissed from the valve.
"Let's be off," Rashid said.
The door lock snapped as they went out the window. Two men with
rifles plunged into the gas; sighing, they fell to the floor in a
catatonic trance.
A little car skimmed across the lawn. Bearing the Scourge of
Africa, Rashid struggled toward it. Read walked backward,
covering their retreat.
The car stopped, whirling blades holding it a few inches off the
lawn. They climbed in.
"How did it go?" The driver and another inspector occupied the
front seat.
"They'll be after us in half a minute."
The other inspector carried a light machine gun and a box of
grenades. "I better cover," he said.
"Thanks," Rashid said.
The inspector slid out of the car and ran to a clump of bushes.
The driver pushed in the accelerator. As they swerved toward the
south, Read saw a dozen armed men run out of the house. A grenade
arced from the bushes and the pursuers recoiled from the cloud
that rose before them.
"Is he all right?" the driver asked.
"I don't think I hurt him." Rashid took a syrette from his vest
pocket. "Well, Read, it looks like we're in for a fight. In a few
minutes Miaka Station will know we're coming. And God knows what
will happen at the Game Preserve."
Read wanted to jump out of the car. He could die any minute. But
he had set his life on a well-oiled track and he couldn't get off
until they reached Geneva.
"They don't know who's coming," he said. "They don't make them
tough enough to stop this boy."
Staring straight ahead, he didn't see the sergeant smile.
Two types of recruits are accepted by the UN Inspector Corps:
those with a fanatic loyalty to the ideals of peace and world
order, and those who are loyal to nothing but themselves. Read
was the second type.
A tall, lanky Negro he had spent his school days in one of the
drab suburbs that ring every prosperous American city. It was the
home of factory workers, clerks, semiskilled technicians, all who
do the drudge work of civilization and know they will never do
more. The adults spent their days with television, alcohol and
drugs; the young spent their days with gangs, sex, television and
alcohol. What else was there? Those who could have told him
neither studied nor taught at his schools. What he saw on the
concrete fields between the tall apartment houses marked the
limits of life's possibilities.
He had belonged to a gang called The Golden Spacemen. "Nobody
fools with me," he bragged. "When Harry Read's out, there's a
tiger running loose." No one knew how many times he nearly ran
from other clubs, how carefully he picked the safest spot on the
battle line.
"A man ought to be a man," he once told a girl. "He ought to do a
man's work. Did you ever notice how our fathers look, how they
sleep so much? I don't want to be like that. I want to be
something proud."
He joined the UN Inspector Corps at eighteen, in 1978. The
international cops wore green berets, high buttonless boots, bush
jackets. They were very special men.
For the first time in his life, his father said something about
his ambitions.
"Don't you like America, Harry? Do you
want
to be without a
country? This is the best country in the world. All my life I've
made a good living. Haven't you had everything you ever wanted?
I've been a king compared to people overseas. Why, you stay here
and go to trade school and in two years you'll be living just
like me."
"I don't want that," Read said.
"What do you mean, you don't want that?"
"You could join the American Army," his mother said. "That's as
good as a trade school. If you have to be a soldier."
"I want to be a UN man. I've already enlisted. I'm in! What do
you care what I do?"
The UN Inspector Corps had been founded to enforce the Nuclear
Disarmament Treaty of 1966. Through the years it had acquired
other jobs. UN men no longer went unarmed. Trained to use small
arms and gas weapons, they guarded certain borders, bodyguarded
diplomats and UN officials, even put down riots that threatened
international peace. As the UN evolved into a strong world
government, the UN Inspector Corps steadily acquired new powers.
Read went through six months training on Madagascar.
Twice he nearly got expelled for picking fights with smaller men.
Rather than resign, he accepted punishment which assigned him to
weeks of dull, filthy extra labor. He hated the restrictions and
the iron fence of regulations. He hated boredom, loneliness and
isolation.
And yet he responded with enthusiasm. They had given him a job. A
job many people considered important.
He took his turn guarding the still disputed borders of Korea. He
served on the rescue teams that patrol the busy Polar routes. He
mounted guard at the 1980 World's Fair in Rangoon.
"I liked Rangoon," he even told a friend. "I even liked Korea.
But I think I liked the Pole job best. You sit around playing
cards and shooting the bull and then there's a plane crash or
something and you go out and win a medal. That's great for me.
I'm lazy and I like excitement."
One power implied in the UN Charter no Secretary General or
Inspector General had ever tried to use. The power to arrest any
head of state whose country violated international law. Could the
World Court try and imprison a politician who had conspired to
attack another nation?
For years Africa had been called "The South America of the Old
World." Revolution followed revolution. Colonies became
democracies. Democracies became dictatorships or dissolved in
civil war. Men planted bases on the moon and in four years,
1978-82, ringed the world with matter transmitters; but the black
population of Africa still struggled toward political equality.
Umluana took control of Belderkan in 1979. The tiny, former Dutch
colony, had been a tottering democracy for ten years. The very
day he took control the new dictator and his African party began
to build up the Belderkan Army. For years he had preached a new
Africa, united, free of white masters, the home of a vigorous and
perfect Negro society. His critics called him a hypocritical
racist, an opportunist using the desires of the African people to
build himself an empire.
He began a propaganda war against neighboring South Africa,
promising the liberation of that strife-torn land. Most Negro
leaders, having just won representation in the South African
Parliament, told him to liberate his own country. They believed
they could use their first small voice in the government to win
true freedom for their people.
But the radio assault and the arms buildup continued. Early in
1982, South Africa claimed the Belderkan Army exceeded the size
agreed to in the Disarmament Treaty. The European countries and
some African nations joined in the accusation. China called the
uproar a vicious slur on a new African nation. The United States
and Russia, trying not to get entangled, asked for more
investigation by the UN.
But the evidence was clear. Umluana was defying world law. If he
got away with it, some larger and more dangerous nation might
follow his precedent. And the arms race would begin again.
The Inspector General decided. They would enter Belderkan, arrest
Umluana and try him by due process before the World Court. If the
plan succeeded, mankind would be a long step farther from nuclear
war.
Read didn't know much about the complicated political reasons for
the arrest. He liked the Corp and he liked being in the Corp. He
went where they sent him and did what they told him to do.
The car skimmed above the tree-tops. The driver and his two
passengers scanned the sky.
A plane would have been a faster way to get out of the country.
But then they would have spent hours flying over Africa, with
Belderkan fighters in hot pursuit, other nations joining the
chase and the world uproar gaining volume. By transmitter, if all
went well, they could have Umluana in Geneva in an hour.
They were racing toward Miaka, a branch transmitter station. From
Miaka they would transmit to the Belderkan Preserve, a famous
tourist attraction whose station could transmit to any point on
the globe. Even now a dozen inspectors were taking over the Game
Preserve station and manning its controls.
They had made no plans to take over Miaka. They planned to get
there before it could be defended.
"There's no military base near Miaka," Rashid said. "We might get
there before the Belderkans."
"Here comes our escort," Read said.
A big car rose from the jungle. This one had a recoilless rifle
mounted on the roof. The driver and the gunner waved and fell in
behind them.
"One thing," Read said, "I don't think they'll shoot at us while
he's
in the car."
"Don't be certain, corporal. All these strong-arm movements are
alike. I'll bet Umluana's lieutenants are hoping he'll become a
dead legend. Then they can become live conquerors."
Sergeant Rashid came from Cairo. He had degrees in science and
history from Cambridge but only the Corp gave him work that
satisfied his conscience. He hated war. It was that simple.
Read looked back. He saw three spots of sunlight about two
hundred feet up and a good mile behind.
"Here they come, Sarge."
Rashid turned his head. He waved frantically. The two men in the
other car waved back.
"Shall I duck under the trees?" the driver asked.
"Not yet. Not until we have to."
Read fingered the machine gun he had picked up when he got in the
car. He had never been shot at. Twice he had faced an unarmed
mob, but a few shots had sent them running.
Birds flew screaming from their nests. Monkeys screeched and
threw things at the noisy, speeding cars. A little cloud of birds
surrounded each vehicle.
The escort car made a sharp turn and charged their pursuers. The
big rifle fired twice. Read saw the Belderkan cars scatter.
Suddenly machine-gun bullets cracked and whined beside him.
"Evade," Rashid said. "Don't go down."
Without losing any forward speed, the driver took them straight
up. Read's stomach bounced.
A shell exploded above them. The car rocked. He raised his eyes
and saw a long crack in the roof.
"Hit the floor," Rashid said.
They knelt on the cramped floor. Rashid put on his gas mask and
Read copied him. Umluana breathed like a furnace, still
unconscious from the injection Rashid had given him.
I can't do anything
, Read thought.
They're too far away to
shoot back. All we can do is run.
The sky was clear and blue. The jungle was a noisy bazaar of
color. In the distance guns crashed. He listened to shells
whistle by and the whipcrack of machine-gun bullets. The car
roller-coastered up and down. Every time a shell passed, he
crawled in waves down his own back.
Another explosion, this time very loud.
Rashid raised his eyes above the seat and looked out the rear
window. "Two left. Keep down, Read."
"Can't we go down?" Read said.
"They'll get to Miaka before us."
He shut his eyes when he heard another loud explosion.
Sergeant Rashid looked out the window again. He swore bitterly in
English and Egyptian. Read raised his head. The two cars behind
them weren't fighting each other. A long way back the tree-tops
burned.
"How much farther?" Rashid said. The masks muffled their voices.
"There it is now. Shall I take us right in?"
"I think you'd better."
The station was a glass diamond in a small clearing. The driver
slowed down, then crashed through the glass walls and hovered by
the transmitter booth.
Rashid opened the door and threw out two grenades. Read jumped
out and the two of them struggled toward the booth with Umluana.
The driver, pistol in hand, ran for the control panel.
There were three technicians in the station and no passengers.
All three panicked when the psycho gas enveloped them. They ran
howling for the jungle.
Through the window of his mask, Read saw their pursuers land in
the clearing. Machine-gun bullets raked the building. They got
Umluana in the booth and hit the floor. Read took aim and opened
fire on the largest car.
"Now, I can shoot back," he said. "Now we'll see what they do."
"Are you ready, Rashid?" yelled the driver.
"Man, get us out of here!"
The booth door shut. When it opened, they were at the Game
Preserve.
The station jutted from the side of a hill. A glass-walled
waiting room surrounded the bank of transmitter booths. Read
looked out the door and saw his first battlefield.
Directly in front of him, his head shattered by a bullet, a dead
inspector lay behind an overturned couch.
Read had seen dozens of training films taken during actual
battles or after atomic attacks. He had laughed when other
recruits complained. "That's the way this world is. You people
with the weak stomachs better get used to it."
Now he slid against the rear wall of the transmitter booth.
A wounded inspector crawled across the floor to the booth. Read
couldn't see his wound, only the pain scratched on his face and
the blood he deposited on the floor.
"Did you get Umluana?" he asked Sergeant Rashid.
"He's in the booth. What's going on?" Rashid's Middle East Oxford
seemed more clipped than ever.
"They hit us with two companies of troops a few minutes ago. I
think half our men are wounded."
"Can we get out of here?"
"They machine-gunned the controls."
Rashid swore. "You heard him, Read! Get out there and help those
men."
He heard the screams of the wounded, the crack of rifles and
machine guns, all the terrifying noise of war. But since his
eighteenth year he had done everything his superiors told him to
do.
He started crawling toward an easy-chair that looked like good
cover. A bullet cracked above his head, so close he felt the
shock wave. He got up, ran panicky, crouched, and dove behind the
chair.
An inspector cracked the valve on a smoke grenade. A white fog
spread through the building. They could see anyone who tried to
rush them but the besiegers couldn't pick out targets.
Above the noise, he heard Rashid.
"I'm calling South Africa Station for a copter. It's the only way
out of here. Until it comes, we've got to hold them back."
Read thought of the green beret he had stuffed in his pocket that
morning. He stuck it on his head and cocked it. He didn't need
plain clothes anymore and he wanted to wear at least a part of
his uniform.
Bullets had completely shattered the wall in front of him. He
stared through the murk, across the broken glass. He was Corporal
Harry Read, UN Inspector Corps—a very special man. If he didn't
do a good job here, he wasn't the man he claimed to be. This
might be the only real test he would ever face.
He heard a shout in rapid French. He turned to his right. Men in
red loincloths ran zigzagging toward the station. They carried
light automatic rifles. Half of them wore gas masks.
"Shoot the masks," he yelled. "Aim for the masks."
The machine gun kicked and chattered on his shoulder. He picked a
target and squeezed off a burst. Tensely, he hunted for another
mask. Three grenades arced through the air and yellow gas spread
across the battlefield. The attackers ran through it. A few yards
beyond the gas, some of them turned and ran for their own lines.
In a moment only half a dozen masked men still advanced. The
inspectors fired a long, noisy volley. When they stopped only
four attackers remained on their feet. And they were running for
cover.
The attackers had come straight up a road that led from the Game
Preserve to the station. They had not expected any resistance.
The UN men had already taken over the station, chased out the
passengers and technicians and taken up defense positions; they
had met the Belderkans with a dozen grenades and sent them
scurrying for cover. The fight so far had been vicious but
disorganized. But the Belderkans had a few hundred men and knew
they had wrecked the transmitter controls.
The first direct attack had been repulsed. They could attack many
more times and continue to spray the building with bullets. They
could also try to go around the hill and attack the station from
above; if they did, the inspectors had a good view of the hill
and should see them going up.
The inspectors had taken up good defensive positions. In spite of
their losses, they still had enough firepower to cover the area
surrounding the station.
Read surveyed his sector of fire. About two hundred yards to his
left, he saw the top of a small ditch. Using the ditch for cover,
the Belderkans could sneak to the top of the hill.
Gas grenades are only three inches long. They hold cubic yards of
gas under high pressure. Read unclipped a telescoping rod from
his vest pocket. He opened it and a pair of sights flipped up. A
thin track ran down one side.
He had about a dozen grenades left, three self-propelling. He
slid an SP grenade into the rod's track and estimated windage and
range. Sighting carefully, not breathing, muscles relaxed, the
rod rock steady, he fired and lobbed the little grenade into the
ditch. He dropped another grenade beside it.
The heavy gas would lie there for hours.
Sergeant Rashid ran crouched from man to man. He did what he
could to shield the wounded.
"Well, corporal, how are you?"
"Not too bad, sergeant. See that ditch out there? I put a little
gas in it."
"Good work. How's your ammunition?"
"A dozen grenades. Half a barrel of shells."
"The copter will be here in half an hour. We'll put Umluana on,
then try to save ourselves. Once he's gone, I think we ought to
surrender."
"How do you think they'll treat us?"
"That we'll have to see."
An occasional bullet cracked and whined through the misty room.
Near him a man gasped frantically for air. On the sunny field a
wounded man screamed for help.
"There's a garage downstairs," Rashid said. "In case the copter
doesn't get here on time, I've got a man filling wine bottles
with gasoline."
"We'll stop them, Sarge. Don't worry."
Rashid ran off. Read stared across the green land and listened to
the pound of his heart. What were the Belderkans planning? A mass
frontal attack? To sneak in over the top of the hill?
He didn't think, anymore than a rabbit thinks when it lies hiding
from the fox or a panther thinks when it crouches on a branch
above the trail. His skin tightened and relaxed on his body.
"Listen," said a German.
Far down the hill he heard the deep-throated rumble of a big
motor.
"Armor," the German said.
The earth shook. The tank rounded the bend. Read watched the
squat, angular monster until its stubby gun pointed at the
station. It stopped less than two hundred yards away.
A loud-speaker blared.
ATTENTION UN SOLDIERS.
ATTENTION UN SOLDIERS.
YOU MAY THINK US SAVAGES
BUT WE HAVE MODERN WEAPONS.
WE HAVE ATOMIC WARHEADS,
ALL GASES, ROCKETS
AND FLAME THROWERS. IF
YOU DO NOT SURRENDER
OUR PREMIER, WE WILL DESTROY YOU.
"They know we don't have any big weapons," Read said. "They know
we have only gas grenades and small arms."
He looked nervously from side to side. They couldn't bring the
copter in with that thing squatting out there.
A few feet away, sprawled behind a barricade of tables, lay a man
in advanced shock. His deadly white skin shone like ivory. They
wouldn't even look like that. One nuclear shell from that gun and
they'd be vaporized. Or perhaps the tank had sonic projectors;
then the skin would peel off their bones. Or they might be
burned, or cut up by shrapnel, or gassed with some new mist their
masks couldn't filter.
Read shut his eyes. All around him he heard heavy breathing,
mumbled comments, curses. Clothes rustled as men moved restlessly.
But already the voice of Sergeant Rashid resounded in the murky
room.
"We've got to knock that thing out before the copter comes.
Otherwise, he can't land. I have six Molotov cocktails here. Who
wants to go hunting with me?"
For two years Read had served under Sergeant Rashid. To him, the
sergeant was everything a UN inspector should be. Rashid's
devotion to peace had no limits.
Read's psych tests said pride alone drove him on. That was good
enough for the UN; they only rejected men whose loyalties might
conflict with their duties. But an assault on the tank required
something more than a hunger for self-respect.
Read had seen the inspector who covered their getaway. He had
watched their escort charge three-to-one odds. He had seen
another inspector stay behind at Miaka Station. And here, in this
building, lay battered men and dead men.
All UN inspectors. All part of his life.
And he was part of their life. Their blood, their sacrifice, and
pain, had become a part of him.
"I'll take a cocktail, Sarge."
"Is that Read?"
"Who else did you expect?"
"Nobody. Anybody else?"
"I'll go," the Frenchman said. "Three should be enough. Give us a
good smoke screen."
Rashid snapped orders. He put the German inspector in charge of
Umluana. Read, the Frenchman and himself, he stationed at
thirty-foot intervals along the floor.
"Remember," Rashid said. "We have to knock out that gun."
Read had given away his machine gun. He held a gas-filled bottle
in each hand. His automatic nestled in its shoulder holster.
Rashid whistled.
Dozens of smoke grenades tumbled through the air. Thick mist
engulfed the tank. Read stood up and ran forward. He crouched but
didn't zigzag. Speed counted most here.
Gunfire shook the hill. The Belderkans couldn't see them but they
knew what was going on and they fired systematically into the
smoke.
Bullets ploughed the ground beside him. He raised his head and
found the dim silhouette of the tank. He tried not to think about
bullets ploughing through his flesh.
A bullet slammed into his hip. He fell on his back, screaming.
"Sarge.
Sarge.
"
"I'm hit, too," Rashid said. "Don't stop if you can move."
Listen to him. What's he got, a sprained ankle?
But he didn't feel any pain. He closed his eyes and threw himself
onto his stomach. And nearly fainted from pain. He screamed and
quivered. The pain stopped. He stretched out his hands, gripping
the wine bottles, and inched forward. Pain stabbed him from
stomach to knee.
"I can't move, Sarge."
"Read, you've got to. I think you're the only—"
"What?"
Guns clattered. Bullets cracked.
"Sergeant Rashid! Answer me."
He heard nothing but the lonely passage of the bullets in the
mist.
"I'm a UN man," he mumbled. "You people up there know what a UN
man is? You know what happens when you meet one?"
When he reached the tank, he had another bullet in his right arm.
But they didn't know he was coming and when you get within ten
feet of a tank, the men inside can't see you.
He just had to stand up and drop the bottle down the gun barrel.
That was all—with a broken hip and a wounded right arm.
He knew they would see him when he stood up but he didn't think
about that. He didn't think about Sergeant Rashid, about the
complicated politics of Africa, about crowded market streets. He
had to kill the tank. That was all he thought about. He had
decided something in the world was more important than himself,
but he didn't know it or realize the psychologists would be
surprised to see him do this. He had made many decisions in the
last few minutes. He had ceased to think about them or anything
else.
With his cigarette lighter, he lit the rag stuffed in the end of
the bottle.
Biting his tongue, he pulled himself up the front of the tank.
His long arm stretched for the muzzle of the gun. He tossed the
bottle down the dark throat.
As he fell, the machine-gun bullets hit him in the chest, then in
the neck. He didn't feel them. He had fainted the moment he felt
the bottle leave his hand.
The copter landed ten minutes later. Umluana left in a shower of
bullets. A Russian private, the ranking man alive in the station,
surrendered the survivors to the Belderkans.
His mother hung the Global Medal above the television set.
"He must have been brave," she said. "We had a fine son."
"He was our only son," her husband said. "What did he volunteer
for? Couldn't somebody else have done it?"
His wife started to cry. Awkwardly, he embraced her. He wondered
what his son had wanted that he couldn't get at home.
THE END
|
train | 24517 | [
"What is the role of humor in the story?",
"What is the narrator's perception of ping-pong?",
"Who is the man climbing the mountain?",
"What would have happened if Charley had not been on the ship?",
"Which of these best represents the tone of the recording",
"Why was Charley so interested in the Minnow?",
"Why does the narrator say that the aliens' jokes are dangerous?"
] | [
[
"Dark humor was a favorite of Matt's and defined his storytelling",
"It showed that things amusing to some can be dangerous for others",
"It was a set-up to a complicated joke",
"Jokes are the only thing that kept the crew life"
],
[
"It is a sport he is dedicated to",
"He is embarrassed to be beat at it by members of other races",
"He always watches it on television but never cared to play",
"It was a favorite hobby as a child but he does not play anymore"
],
[
"A mountain guide looking for survivors",
"An astronomical surveyor who ended up there by accident",
"A mountaineer who happened to stumble upon an old radio",
"A Chang native looking for people on this planet"
],
[
"He would not have been able to correct the navigation error",
"The crew would have had to find a different way to manipulate chance",
"The mission would have ended in the same way",
"The crew would likely have made it home alive"
],
[
"Fluctuating but informative",
"Educational and entertaining",
"Straightforward but curious",
"Panicked and insistent"
],
[
"He has been sent to steal the technological secrets",
"His species does not have space travel and he wants to learn from the humans",
"They do not have similar wildlife on his planet",
"He wants to learn enough to pull an elaborate prank"
],
[
"The wrong kind of joke could end in catastrophe",
"It hurts the scientists' reputations to be beat at games like chess",
"Their practical jokes tend to meddle with spaceship parts",
"They like to play with weapons and people tend to die"
]
] | [
2,
2,
2,
4,
1,
4,
1
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1
] | ACCIDENTAL DEATH
BY PETER BAILY
The most
dangerous of weapons
is the one you don't know is loaded.
Illustrated by Schoenherr
The
wind howled out of
the northwest, blind
with snow and barbed
with ice crystals. All
the way up the half-mile
precipice it fingered and wrenched
away at groaning ice-slabs. It
screamed over the top, whirled snow
in a dervish dance around the hollow
there, piled snow into the long furrow
plowed ruler-straight through
streamlined hummocks of snow.
The sun glinted on black rock
glazed by ice, chasms and ridges and
bridges of ice. It lit the snow slope
to a frozen glare, penciled black
shadow down the long furrow, and
flashed at the furrow's end on a
thing of metal and plastics, an artifact
thrown down in the dead wilderness.
Nothing grew, nothing flew, nothing
walked, nothing talked. But the
thing in the hollow was stirring in
stiff jerks like a snake with its back
broken or a clockwork toy running
down. When the movements stopped,
there was a click and a strange
sound began. Thin, scratchy, inaudible
more than a yard away, weary
but still cocky, there leaked from the
shape in the hollow the sound of a
human voice.
"I've tried my hands and arms
and they seem to work," it began.
"I've wiggled my toes with entire
success. It's well on the cards that
I'm all in one piece and not broken
up at all, though I don't see how it
could happen. Right now I don't
feel like struggling up and finding
out. I'm fine where I am. I'll just lie
here for a while and relax, and get
some of the story on tape. This suit's
got a built-in recorder, I might as
well use it. That way even if I'm not
as well as I feel, I'll leave a message.
You probably know we're back
and wonder what went wrong.
"I suppose I'm in a state of shock.
That's why I can't seem to get up.
Who wouldn't be shocked after luck
like that?
"I've always been lucky, I guess.
Luck got me a place in the
Whale
.
Sure I'm a good astronomer but so
are lots of other guys. If I were ten
years older, it would have been an
honor, being picked for the first long
jump in the first starship ever. At my
age it was luck.
"You'll want to know if the ship
worked. Well, she did. Went like a
bomb. We got lined up between
Earth and Mars, you'll remember,
and James pushed the button marked
'Jump'. Took his finger off the button
and there we were:
Alpha Centauri
.
Two months later your time,
one second later by us. We covered
our whole survey assignment like
that, smooth as a pint of old and
mild which right now I could certainly
use. Better yet would be a pint
of hot black coffee with sugar in.
Failing that, I could even go for a
long drink of cold water. There was
never anything wrong with the
Whale
till right at the end and even then I
doubt if it was the ship itself that
fouled things up.
"That was some survey assignment.
We astronomers really lived.
Wait till you see—but of course you
won't. I could weep when I think of
those miles of lovely color film, all
gone up in smoke.
"I'm shocked all right. I never said
who I was. Matt Hennessy, from Farside
Observatory, back of the Moon,
just back from a proving flight
cum
astronomical survey in the starship
Whale
. Whoever you are who finds
this tape, you're made. Take it to
any radio station or newspaper office.
You'll find you can name your price
and don't take any wooden nickels.
"Where had I got to? I'd told you
how we happened to find Chang,
hadn't I? That's what the natives called
it. Walking, talking natives on a
blue sky planet with 1.1 g gravity
and a twenty per cent oxygen atmosphere
at fifteen p.s.i. The odds
against finding Chang on a six-sun
survey on the first star jump ever
must be up in the googols. We certainly
were lucky.
"The Chang natives aren't very
technical—haven't got space travel
for instance. They're good astronomers,
though. We were able to show
them our sun, in their telescopes. In
their way, they're a highly civilized
people. Look more like cats than
people, but they're people all right.
If you doubt it, chew these facts
over.
"One, they learned our language
in four weeks. When I say they, I
mean a ten-man team of them.
"Two, they brew a near-beer that's
a lot nearer than the canned stuff we
had aboard the
Whale
.
"Three, they've a great sense of
humor. Ran rather to silly practical
jokes, but still. Can't say I care for
that hot-foot and belly-laugh stuff
myself, but tastes differ.
"Four, the ten-man language team
also learned chess and table tennis.
"But why go on? People who talk
English, drink beer, like jokes and
beat me at chess or table-tennis are
people for my money, even if they
look like tigers in trousers.
"It was funny the way they won
all the time at table tennis. They certainly
weren't so hot at it. Maybe
that ten per cent extra gravity put us
off our strokes. As for chess, Svendlov
was our champion. He won
sometimes. The rest of us seemed to
lose whichever Chingsi we played.
There again it wasn't so much that
they were good. How could they be,
in the time? It was more that we all
seemed to make silly mistakes when
we played them and that's fatal in
chess. Of course it's a screwy situation,
playing chess with something
that grows its own fur coat, has yellow
eyes an inch and a half long
and long white whiskers. Could
you
have kept your mind on the game?
"And don't think I fell victim to
their feline charm. The children were
pets, but you didn't feel like patting
the adults on their big grinning
heads. Personally I didn't like the one
I knew best. He was called—well, we
called him Charley, and he was the
ethnologist, ambassador, contact man,
or whatever you like to call him, who
came back with us. Why I disliked
him was because he was always trying
to get the edge on you. All the
time he had to be top. Great sense
of humor, of course. I nearly broke
my neck on that butter-slide he fixed
up in the metal alleyway to the
Whale's
engine room. Charley laughed
fit to bust, everyone laughed, I
even laughed myself though doing it
hurt me more than the tumble had.
Yes, life and soul of the party, old
Charley ...
"My last sight of the
Minnow
was
a cabin full of dead and dying men,
the sweetish stink of burned flesh
and the choking reek of scorching insulation,
the boat jolting and shuddering
and beginning to break up,
and in the middle of the flames, still
unhurt, was Charley. He was laughing ...
"My God, it's dark out here. Wonder
how high I am. Must be all of
fifty miles, and doing eight hundred
miles an hour at least. I'll be doing
more than that when I land. What's
final velocity for a fifty-mile fall?
Same as a fifty thousand mile fall, I
suppose; same as escape; twenty-four
thousand miles an hour. I'll make a
mess ...
"That's better. Why didn't I close
my eyes before? Those star streaks
made me dizzy. I'll make a nice
shooting star when I hit air. Come to
think of it, I must be deep in air
now. Let's take a look.
"It's getting lighter. Look at those
peaks down there! Like great knives.
I don't seem to be falling as fast as
I expected though. Almost seem to be
floating. Let's switch on the radio
and tell the world hello. Hello, earth
... hello, again ... and good-by ...
"Sorry about that. I passed out. I
don't know what I said, if anything,
and the suit recorder has no playback
or eraser. What must have happened
is that the suit ran out of
oxygen, and I lost consciousness due
to anoxia. I dreamed I switched on
the radio, but I actually switched on
the emergency tank, thank the Lord,
and that brought me round.
"Come to think of it, why not
crack the suit and breath fresh air
instead of bottled?
"No. I'd have to get up to do that.
I think I'll just lie here a little bit
longer and get properly rested up
before I try anything big like standing
up.
"I was telling about the return
journey, wasn't I? The long jump
back home, which should have dumped
us between the orbits of Earth
and Mars. Instead of which, when
James took his finger off the button,
the mass-detector showed nothing
except the noise-level of the universe.
"We were out in that no place for
a day. We astronomers had to establish
our exact position relative to the
solar system. The crew had to find
out exactly what went wrong. The
physicists had to make mystic passes
in front of meters and mutter about
residual folds in stress-free space.
Our task was easy, because we were
about half a light-year from the sun.
The crew's job was also easy: they
found what went wrong in less than
half an hour.
"It still seems incredible. To program
the ship for a star-jump, you
merely told it where you were and
where you wanted to go. In practical
terms, that entailed first a series of
exact measurements which had to be
translated into the somewhat abstruse
co-ordinate system we used based on
the topological order of mass-points
in the galaxy. Then you cut a tape on
the computer and hit the button.
Nothing was wrong with the computer.
Nothing was wrong with the
engines. We'd hit the right button
and we'd gone to the place we'd aimed
for. All we'd done was aim for
the wrong place. It hurts me to tell
you this and I'm just attached personnel
with no space-flight tradition. In
practical terms, one highly trained
crew member had punched a wrong
pattern of holes on the tape. Another
equally skilled had failed to notice
this when reading back. A childish
error, highly improbable; twice repeated,
thus squaring the improbability.
Incredible, but that's what
happened.
"Anyway, we took good care with
the next lot of measurements. That's
why we were out there so long. They
were cross-checked about five times.
I got sick so I climbed into a spacesuit
and went outside and took some
photographs of the Sun which I hoped
would help to determine hydrogen
density in the outer regions. When
I got back everything was ready. We
disposed ourselves about the control
room and relaxed for all we were
worth. We were all praying that this
time nothing would go wrong, and
all looking forward to seeing Earth
again after four months subjective
time away, except for Charley, who
was still chuckling and shaking his
head, and Captain James who was
glaring at Charley and obviously
wishing human dignity permitted him
to tear Charley limb from limb. Then
James pressed the button.
"Everything twanged like a bowstring.
I felt myself turned inside out,
passed through a small sieve, and
poured back into shape. The entire
bow wall-screen was full of Earth.
Something was wrong all right, and
this time it was much, much worse.
We'd come out of the jump about
two hundred miles above the Pacific,
pointed straight down, traveling at a
relative speed of about two thousand
miles an hour.
"It was a fantastic situation. Here
was the
Whale
, the most powerful
ship ever built, which could cover
fifty light-years in a subjective time
of one second, and it was helpless.
For, as of course you know, the
star-drive couldn't be used again for
at least two hours.
"The
Whale
also had ion rockets
of course, the standard deuterium-fusion
thing with direct conversion.
As again you know, this is good for
interplanetary flight because you can
run it continuously and it has extremely
high exhaust velocity. But in
our situation it was no good because
it has rather a low thrust. It would
have taken more time than we had to
deflect us enough to avoid a smash.
We had five minutes to abandon
ship.
"James got us all into the
Minnow
at a dead run. There was no time to
take anything at all except the clothes
we stood in. The
Minnow
was meant
for short heavy hops to planets or
asteroids. In addition to the ion drive
it had emergency atomic rockets,
using steam for reaction mass. We
thanked God for that when Cazamian
canceled our downwards velocity
with them in a few seconds. We
curved away up over China and from
about fifty miles high we saw the
Whale
hit the Pacific. Six hundred
tons of mass at well over two thousand
miles an hour make an almighty
splash. By now you'll have divers
down, but I doubt they'll salvage
much you can use.
"I wonder why James went down
with the ship, as the saying is? Not
that it made any difference. It must
have broken his heart to know that
his lovely ship was getting the chopper.
Or did he suspect another human
error?
"We didn't have time to think
about that, or even to get the radio
working. The steam rockets blew
up. Poor Cazamian was burnt to a
crisp. Only thing that saved me was
the spacesuit I was still wearing. I
snapped the face plate down because
the cabin was filling with fumes. I
saw Charley coming out of the toilet—that's
how he'd escaped—and I
saw him beginning to laugh. Then
the port side collapsed and I fell out.
"I saw the launch spinning away,
glowing red against a purplish black
sky. I tumbled head over heels towards
the huge curved shield of
earth fifty miles below. I shut my
eyes and that's about all I remember.
I don't see how any of us could have
survived. I think we're all dead.
"I'll have to get up and crack this
suit and let some air in. But I can't.
I fell fifty miles without a parachute.
I'm dead so I can't stand up."
There was silence for a while except
for the vicious howl of the wind.
Then snow began to shift on the
ledge. A man crawled stiffly out and
came shakily to his feet. He moved
slowly around for some time. After
about two hours he returned to the
hollow, squatted down and switched
on the recorder. The voice began
again, considerably wearier.
"Hello there. I'm in the bleakest
wilderness I've ever seen. This place
makes the moon look cozy. There's
precipice around me every way but
one and that's up. So it's up I'll have
to go till I find a way to go down.
I've been chewing snow to quench
my thirst but I could eat a horse. I
picked up a short-wave broadcast on
my suit but couldn't understand a
word. Not English, not French, and
there I stick. Listened to it for fifteen
minutes just to hear a human voice
again. I haven't much hope of reaching
anyone with my five milliwatt
suit transmitter but I'll keep trying.
"Just before I start the climb there
are two things I want to get on tape.
The first is how I got here. I've remembered
something from my military
training, when I did some parachute
jumps. Terminal velocity for a
human body falling through air is
about one hundred twenty m.p.h.
Falling fifty miles is no worse than
falling five hundred feet. You'd be
lucky to live through a five hundred
foot fall, true, but I've been lucky.
The suit is bulky but light and probably
slowed my fall. I hit a sixty mile
an hour updraft this side of the
mountain, skidded downhill through
about half a mile of snow and fetched
up in a drift. The suit is part
worn but still operational. I'm fine.
"The second thing I want to say is
about the Chingsi, and here it is:
watch out for them. Those jokers are
dangerous. I'm not telling how because
I've got a scientific reputation
to watch. You'll have to figure it out
for yourselves. Here are the clues:
(1) The Chingsi talk and laugh but
after all they aren't human. On
an alien world a hundred light-years
away, why shouldn't alien
talents develop? A talent that's
so uncertain and rudimentary
here that most people don't believe
it, might be highly developed
out there.
(2) The
Whale
expedition did fine
till it found Chang. Then it hit
a seam of bad luck. Real stinking
bad luck that went on and
on till it looks fishy. We lost
the ship, we lost the launch, all
but one of us lost our lives. We
couldn't even win a game of
ping-pong.
"So what is luck, good or bad?
Scientifically speaking, future chance
events are by definition chance. They
can turn out favorable or not. When
a preponderance of chance events has
occurred unfavorably, you've got bad
luck. It's a fancy name for a lot of
chance results that didn't go your
way. But the gambler defines it differently.
For him, luck refers to the
future, and you've got bad luck when
future chance events won't go your
way. Scientific investigations into this
have been inconclusive, but everyone
knows that some people are lucky and
others aren't. All we've got are hints
and glimmers, the fumbling touch of
a rudimentary talent. There's the evil
eye legend and the Jonah, bad luck
bringers. Superstition? Maybe; but
ask the insurance companies about
accident prones. What's in a name?
Call a man unlucky and you're superstitious.
Call him accident prone and
that's sound business sense. I've said
enough.
"All the same, search the space-flight
records, talk to the actuaries.
When a ship is working perfectly
and is operated by a hand-picked
crew of highly trained men in perfect
condition, how often is it wrecked
by a series of silly errors happening
one after another in defiance of
probability?
"I'll sign off with two thoughts,
one depressing and one cheering. A
single Chingsi wrecked our ship and
our launch. What could a whole
planetful of them do?
"On the other hand, a talent that
manipulates chance events is bound
to be chancy. No matter how highly
developed it can't be surefire. The
proof is that I've survived to tell the
tale."
At twenty below zero and fifty
miles an hour the wind ravaged the
mountain. Peering through his polarized
vizor at the white waste and the
snow-filled air howling over it, sliding
and stumbling with every step
on a slope that got gradually steeper
and seemed to go on forever, Matt
Hennessy began to inch his way up
the north face of Mount Everest.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
February 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24521 | [
"Why does Bertrand Malloy end up with odd officers under his command?",
"What did Malloy think of Ms. Drayson's inability to share information?",
"What would've happened if Bertrand had tried to introduce himself to the aliens in his building?",
"How does Bertrand Malloy feel about sending the team of man in his place?",
"Which of these is not a reason that Malloy does not leave his office?",
"What is the most likely reason that Secretary of State Blendwell appointed Malloy for the peace talks?",
"Which is probably the hardest thing for Malloy to deal with in his current position?",
"What is the role of the Saarkkadic people in this story?",
"What do Miss Drayson and Kylen Braynek have in common?"
] | [
[
"He has a reputation of being able to handle them well.",
"Higher quality candidates were sent to higher priority jobs.",
"He requests them specifically.",
"It is part of his punishment for this low-ranking position."
],
[
"He uses this to his advantage and his secrets are never shared.",
"He finds it very annoying that she cannot keep him updated.",
"He is thankful to not have to be stuck in small talk with her.",
"He wishes that she could at least gather more information."
],
[
"They would have punished him for revealing himself to the public.",
"He would've made some more friends and felt less isolated.",
"He would likely have lost some respect.",
"They would have laughed at him for his human/Terran social tendencies."
],
[
"He wishes he could do the job himself but knows they are the best for the job.",
"He is relieved to not have to go but wishes he could have found better replacements.",
"He is glad he does not have to go and things they will do a better job anyway.",
"He is fairly certain they are going to mess up the peace talks."
],
[
"He has too much work to do to socialize.",
"He does not like being around the aliens.",
"He is uncomfortable leaving the building.",
"The society pressures him to stay out of sight."
],
[
"He had the most recent practice maintaining peace.",
"He was the closest diplomat available.",
"He was the most qualified to deal with the situation.",
"He has a reputation for not compromising."
],
[
"Being surrounded by aliens ",
"His day-to-day responsibilities as a diplomat",
"Not being able to spend time outside on the beautiful planet",
"Having to stay isolated from other people"
],
[
"The other races are vying for attention from them for support in the war",
"They are overseeing the peace talks.",
"They produce some materials important to the Terrans.",
"They provide a place for Malloy to hide from his own people."
],
[
"They externalize a lot of their thought processes.",
"They are constantly processing extreme amounts of details.",
"They both dislike interacting with other people.",
"They are both paranoid about what other people think."
]
] | [
2,
1,
3,
3,
1,
2,
1,
3,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | IN CASE OF FIRE
By RANDALL GARRETT
There are times when a broken tool is better
than a sound one, or a twisted personality
more useful than a whole one. For
instance, a whole beer bottle isn't half
the weapon that half a beer bottle is ...
Illustrated by Martinez
In his
office apartment,
on the top floor of the
Terran Embassy Building
in Occeq City, Bertrand
Malloy leafed
casually through the dossiers of the
four new men who had been assigned
to him. They were typical of the kind
of men who were sent to him, he
thought. Which meant, as usual, that
they were atypical. Every man in the
Diplomatic Corps who developed a
twitch or a quirk was shipped to
Saarkkad IV to work under Bertrand
Malloy, Permanent Terran Ambassador
to His Utter Munificence, the
Occeq of Saarkkad.
Take this first one, for instance.
Malloy ran his finger down the columns
of complex symbolism that
showed the complete psychological
analysis of the man. Psychopathic
paranoia. The man wasn't technically
insane; he could be as lucid as the next
man most of the time. But he was
morbidly suspicious that every man's
hand was turned against him. He
trusted no one, and was perpetually
on his guard against imaginary plots
and persecutions.
Number two suffered from some
sort of emotional block that left him
continually on the horns of one dilemma
or another. He was psychologically
incapable of making a decision
if he were faced with two or more
possible alternatives of any major
importance.
Number three ...
Malloy sighed and pushed the dossiers
away from him. No two men
were alike, and yet there sometimes
seemed to be an eternal sameness
about all men. He considered himself
an individual, for instance, but wasn't
the basic similarity there, after all?
He was—how old? He glanced at
the Earth calendar dial that was automatically
correlated with the Saarkkadic
calendar just above it. Fifty-nine
next week. Fifty-nine years old. And
what did he have to show for it besides
flabby muscles, sagging skin, a
wrinkled face, and gray hair?
Well, he had an excellent record in
the Corps, if nothing else. One of the
top men in his field. And he had his
memories of Diane, dead these ten
years, but still beautiful and alive in
his recollections. And—he grinned
softly to himself—he had Saarkkad.
He glanced up at the ceiling, and
mentally allowed his gaze to penetrate
it to the blue sky beyond it.
Out there was the terrible emptiness
of interstellar space—a great, yawning,
infinite chasm capable of swallowing
men, ships, planets, suns, and
whole galaxies without filling its insatiable
void.
Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere
out there, a war was raging. He
didn't even like to think of that, but
it was necessary to keep it in mind.
Somewhere out there, the ships of
Earth were ranged against the ships
of the alien Karna in the most important
war that Mankind had yet
fought.
And, Malloy knew, his own position
was not unimportant in that war.
He was not in the battle line, nor
even in the major production line, but
it was necessary to keep the drug supply
lines flowing from Saarkkad, and
that meant keeping on good terms
with the Saarkkadic government.
The Saarkkada themselves were humanoid
in physical form—if one allowed
the term to cover a wide range
of differences—but their minds just
didn't function along the same lines.
For nine years, Bertrand Malloy
had been Ambassador to Saarkkad,
and for nine years, no Saarkkada had
ever seen him. To have shown himself
to one of them would have
meant instant loss of prestige.
To their way of thinking, an important
official was aloof. The greater
his importance, the greater must be
his isolation. The Occeq of Saarkkad
himself was never seen except by a
handful of picked nobles, who, themselves,
were never seen except by their
underlings. It was a long, roundabout
way of doing business, but it was the
only way Saarkkad would do any
business at all. To violate the rigid
social setup of Saarkkad would mean
the instant closing off of the supply
of biochemical products that the
Saarkkadic laboratories produced
from native plants and animals—products
that were vitally necessary
to Earth's war, and which could be
duplicated nowhere else in the
known universe.
It was Bertrand Malloy's job to
keep the production output high and
to keep the materiel flowing towards
Earth and her allies and outposts.
The job would have been a snap
cinch in the right circumstances; the
Saarkkada weren't difficult to get
along with. A staff of top-grade men
could have handled them without
half trying.
But Malloy didn't have top-grade
men. They couldn't be spared from
work that required their total capacity.
It's inefficient to waste a man on a
job that he can do without half trying
where there are more important jobs
that will tax his full output.
So Malloy was stuck with the culls.
Not the worst ones, of course; there
were places in the galaxy that were
less important than Saarkkad to the
war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter
what was wrong with a man, as
long as he had the mental ability to
dress himself and get himself to
work, useful work could be found for
him.
Physical handicaps weren't at all
difficult to deal with. A blind man can
work very well in the total darkness
of an infrared-film darkroom. Partial
or total losses of limbs can be compensated
for in one way or another.
The mental disabilities were harder
to deal with, but not totally impossible.
On a world without liquor, a
dipsomaniac could be channeled easily
enough; and he'd better not try fermenting
his own on Saarkkad unless
he brought his own yeast—which
was impossible, in view of the sterilization
regulations.
But Malloy didn't like to stop at
merely thwarting mental quirks; he
liked to find places where they were
useful
.
The phone chimed. Malloy flipped
it on with a practiced hand.
"Malloy here."
"Mr. Malloy?" said a careful voice.
"A special communication for you has
been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I
bring it in?"
"Bring it in, Miss Drayson."
Miss Drayson was a case in point.
She was uncommunicative. She liked
to gather in information, but she
found it difficult to give it up once it
was in her possession.
Malloy had made her his private
secretary. Nothing—but
nothing
—got
out of Malloy's office without his
direct order. It had taken Malloy a
long time to get it into Miss Drayson's
head that it was perfectly all
right—even desirable—for her to
keep secrets from everyone except
Malloy.
She came in through the door,
a rather handsome woman in her middle
thirties, clutching a sheaf of
papers in her right hand as though
someone might at any instant snatch
it from her before she could turn it
over to Malloy.
She laid them carefully on the
desk. "If anything else comes in, I'll
let you know immediately, sir," she
said. "Will there be anything else?"
Malloy let her stand there while he
picked up the communique. She wanted
to know what his reaction was
going to be; it didn't matter because
no one would ever find out from her
what he had done unless she was
ordered to tell someone.
He read the first paragraph, and his
eyes widened involuntarily.
"Armistice," he said in a low
whisper. "There's a chance that the
war may be over."
"Yes, sir," said Miss Drayson in a
hushed voice.
Malloy read the whole thing
through, fighting to keep his emotions
in check. Miss Drayson stood
there calmly, her face a mask; her
emotions were a secret.
Finally, Malloy looked up. "I'll let
you know as soon as I reach a decision,
Miss Drayson. I think I hardly
need say that no news of this is to
leave this office."
"Of course not, sir."
Malloy watched her go out the door
without actually seeing her. The war
was over—at least for a while. He
looked down at the papers again.
The Karna, slowly being beaten
back on every front, were suing for
peace. They wanted an armistice conference—immediately.
Earth was willing. Interstellar war
is too costly to allow it to continue
any longer than necessary, and this
one had been going on for more than
thirteen years now. Peace was necessary.
But not peace at any price.
The trouble was that the Karna had
a reputation for losing wars and winning
at the peace table. They were
clever, persuasive talkers. They could
twist a disadvantage to an advantage,
and make their own strengths look
like weaknesses. If they won the armistice,
they'd be able to retrench and
rearm, and the war would break out
again within a few years.
Now—at this point in time—they
could be beaten. They could be forced
to allow supervision of the production
potential, forced to disarm, rendered
impotent. But if the armistice went to
their own advantage ...
Already, they had taken the offensive
in the matter of the peace talks.
They had sent a full delegation to
Saarkkad V, the next planet out from
the Saarkkad sun, a chilly world inhabited
only by low-intelligence animals.
The Karna considered this to be
fully neutral territory, and Earth
couldn't argue the point very well. In
addition, they demanded that the conference
begin in three days, Terrestrial
time.
The trouble was that interstellar
communication beams travel a devil
of a lot faster than ships. It would
take more than a week for the Earth
government to get a vessel to Saarkkad
V. Earth had been caught unprepared
for an armistice. They
objected.
The Karna pointed out that the
Saarkkad sun was just as far from
Karn as it was from Earth, that it
was only a few million miles from a
planet which was allied with Earth,
and that it was unfair for Earth to
take so much time in preparing for an
armistice. Why hadn't Earth been prepared?
Did they intend to fight to the
utter destruction of Karn?
It wouldn't have been a problem at
all if Earth and Karn had fostered the
only two intelligent races in the galaxy.
The sort of grandstanding the
Karna were putting on had to be
played to an audience. But there were
other intelligent races throughout the
galaxy, most of whom had remained
as neutral as possible during the
Earth-Karn war. They had no intention
of sticking their figurative noses
into a battle between the two most
powerful races in the galaxy.
But whoever won the armistice
would find that some of the now-neutral
races would come in on their
side if war broke out again. If the
Karna played their cards right, their
side would be strong enough next
time to win.
So Earth had to get a delegation to
meet with the Karna representatives
within the three-day limit or lose what
might be a vital point in the negotiations.
And that was where Bertrand Malloy
came in.
He had been appointed Minister
and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to
the Earth-Karn peace conference.
He looked up at the ceiling again.
"What
can
I do?" he said softly.
On the second day after the arrival
of the communique, Malloy
made his decision. He flipped on his
intercom and said: "Miss Drayson,
get hold of James Nordon and Kylen
Braynek. I want to see them both immediately.
Send Nordon in first, and
tell Braynek to wait."
"Yes, sir."
"And keep the recorder on. You
can file the tape later."
"Yes, sir."
Malloy knew the woman would
listen in on the intercom anyway, and
it was better to give her permission to
do so.
James Nordon was tall, broad-shouldered,
and thirty-eight. His hair
was graying at the temples, and his
handsome face looked cool and efficient.
Malloy waved him to a seat.
"Nordon, I have a job for you. It's
probably one of the most important
jobs you'll ever have in your life. It
can mean big things for you—promotion
and prestige if you do it well."
Nordon nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."
Malloy explained the problem of
the Karna peace talks.
"We need a man who can outthink
them," Malloy finished, "and judging
from your record, I think you're that
man. It involves risk, of course. If
you make the wrong decisions, your
name will be mud back on Earth. But
I don't think there's much chance of
that, really. Do you want to handle
small-time operations all your life?
Of course not.
"You'll be leaving within an hour
for Saarkkad V."
Nordon nodded again. "Yes, sir;
certainly. Am I to go alone?"
"No," said Malloy, "I'm sending
an assistant with you—a man named
Kylen Braynek. Ever heard of him?"
Nordon shook his head. "Not that
I recall, Mr. Malloy. Should I have?"
"Not necessarily. He's a pretty
shrewd operator, though. He knows a
lot about interstellar law, and he's
capable of spotting a trap a mile away.
You'll be in charge, of course, but I
want you to pay special attention to
his advice."
"I will, sir," Nordon said gratefully.
"A man like that can be useful."
"Right. Now, you go into the anteroom
over there. I've prepared a summary
of the situation, and you'll have
to study it and get it into your head
before the ship leaves. That isn't
much time, but it's the Karna who are
doing the pushing, not us."
As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy
said softly: "Send in Braynek,
Miss Drayson."
Kylen Braynek was a smallish man
with mouse-brown hair that lay flat
against his skull, and hard, penetrating,
dark eyes that were shadowed by
heavy, protruding brows. Malloy asked
him to sit down.
Again Malloy went through the explanation
of the peace conference.
"Naturally, they'll be trying to
trick you every step of the way," Malloy
went on. "They're shrewd and
underhanded; we'll simply have to
be more shrewd and more underhanded.
Nordon's job is to sit
quietly and evaluate the data; yours
will be to find the loopholes they're
laying out for themselves and plug
them. Don't antagonize them, but
don't baby them, either. If you see
anything underhanded going on, let
Nordon know immediately."
"They won't get anything by me,
Mr. Malloy."
By the time the ship from Earth
got there, the peace conference had
been going on for four days. Bertrand
Malloy had full reports on the whole
parley, as relayed to him through the
ship that had taken Nordon and Braynek
to Saarkkad V.
Secretary of State Blendwell stopped
off at Saarkkad IV before going
on to V to take charge of the conference.
He was a tallish, lean man with
a few strands of gray hair on the top
of his otherwise bald scalp, and he
wore a hearty, professional smile that
didn't quite make it to his calculating
eyes.
He took Malloy's hand and shook
it warmly. "How are you, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Fine, Mr. Secretary. How's everything
on Earth?"
"Tense. They're waiting to see
what is going to happen on Five. So
am I, for that matter." His eyes were
curious. "You decided not to go
yourself, eh?"
"I thought it better not to. I sent a
good team, instead. Would you like
to see the reports?"
"I certainly would."
Malloy handed them to the secretary,
and as he read, Malloy watched
him. Blendwell was a political appointee—a
good man, Malloy had to
admit, but he didn't know all the
ins and outs of the Diplomatic Corps.
When Blendwell looked up from
the reports at last, he said: "Amazing!
They've held off the Karna at
every point! They've beaten them
back! They've managed to cope with
and outdo the finest team of negotiators
the Karna could send."
"I thought they would," said Malloy,
trying to appear modest.
The secretary's eyes narrowed.
"I've heard of the work you've been
doing here with ... ah ... sick men.
Is this one of your ... ah ... successes?"
Malloy nodded. "I think so. The
Karna put us in a dilemma, so I
threw a dilemma right back at them."
"How do you mean?"
"Nordon had a mental block
against making decisions. If he took
a girl out on a date, he'd have trouble
making up his mind whether to kiss
her or not until she made up his mind
for him, one way or the other. He's
that kind of guy. Until he's presented
with one, single, clear decision which
admits of no alternatives, he can't
move at all.
"As you can see, the Karna tried
to give us several choices on each
point, and they were all rigged. Until
they backed down to a single point
and proved that it
wasn't
rigged,
Nordon couldn't possibly make up his
mind. I drummed into him how important
this was, and the more importance
there is attached to his decisions,
the more incapable he becomes
of making them."
The Secretary nodded slowly.
"What about Braynek?"
"Paranoid," said Malloy. "He
thinks everyone is plotting against
him. In this case, that's all to the good
because the Karna
are
plotting against
him. No matter what they put forth,
Braynek is convinced that there's a
trap in it somewhere, and he digs to
find out what the trap is. Even if
there isn't a trap, the Karna can't
satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced
that there
has
to be—somewhere.
As a result, all his advice to
Nordon, and all his questioning on
the wildest possibilities, just serves
to keep Nordon from getting unconfused.
"These two men are honestly doing
their best to win at the peace conference,
and they've got the Karna reeling.
The Karna can see that we're not
trying to stall; our men are actually
working at trying to reach a decision.
But what the Karna don't see is that
those men, as a team, are unbeatable
because, in this situation, they're psychologically
incapable of losing."
Again the Secretary of State nodded
his approval, but there was still
a question in his mind. "Since you
know all that, couldn't you have handled
it yourself?"
"Maybe, but I doubt it. They might
have gotten around me someway by
sneaking up on a blind spot. Nordon
and Braynek have blind spots, but
they're covered with armor. No, I'm
glad I couldn't go; it's better this
way."
The Secretary of State raised an
eyebrow. "
Couldn't
go, Mr. Ambassador?"
Malloy looked at him. "Didn't you
know? I wondered why you appointed
me, in the first place. No, I
couldn't go. The reason why I'm here,
cooped up in this office, hiding from
the Saarkkada the way a good Saarkkadic
bigshot should, is because I
like
it that way. I suffer from agoraphobia
and xenophobia.
"I have to be drugged to be put on
a spaceship because I can't take all
that empty space, even if I'm protected
from it by a steel shell." A
look of revulsion came over his face.
"And I can't
stand
aliens!"
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
March 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24958 | [
"Why is it significant that the aliens only differ from humans in one physical characteristic?",
"What is the aliens' goal on the surface of Earth?",
"What is the relationship between the two aliens?",
"Why are the aliens not sure if they can help the humans?",
"Why did the aliens decide to land during wintertime?",
"What is the connection between the aliens in the present holiday?",
"How did the climate affect the humans' perception of the aliens?",
"Why does it take the aliens so long to make a decision about what to do?",
"Why did the alien separate when they go down to the surface instead of working together?"
] | [
[
"The aliens happened to look like certain beings from stories of Earth's history.",
"The fact that humans are shorter makes the aliens more imposing.",
"It proves that the aliens and humans are actually distant relatives.",
"It means the aliens will not be trusted when they land on earth."
],
[
"They want to delay any wars until they can come back to help with backup",
"They want to defuse the bombs",
"They want to keep the humans from fighting and destroying themselves",
"They want to officially connect the alien culture and the humans' culture"
],
[
"The very strict power structure means that the second alien never has a say in the decisions that are made.",
"They are equal rank and similar opinions means decisions are made quickly.",
"They are nervous about overstepping the other's authority, meaning nothing ever gets done.",
"They are curious about different aspects of the culture and are hesitant for different reasons, but both want to help the humans."
],
[
"Their superiors would not approve of an intervention on this planet",
"They do not think they have enough time to intervene like they wish they could",
"They do not have experience with this specific type of military technology",
"They have no way of communicating with the humans in their own languages"
],
[
"They did not have enough gas to circle back in the summer time.",
"They preferred the cold in the northern hemisphere to the heat of the southern hemisphere.",
"They had to land now, and went where they could identify the best people to talk to.",
"Their clothing fit in better in colder climates."
],
[
"The holiday allows the aliens to study the economic impact of holidays.",
"The timing of this trip allows the aliens to see an important holiday first hand.",
"The aliens happen to fit the image many humans have of this holiday.",
"The holiday means that there are more people off of work to interact with for the aliens to learn from."
],
[
"The cold pushed the aliens to fly a bit, exposing their wings.",
"The aliens seemed extra out of place in the cold.",
"The cold was what allowed their ships to glow and look powerful.",
"The cold made it harder for the aliens to travel on the surface."
],
[
"They do not know if it is worth the time to learn a human language to try to convince the humans to maintain peace.",
"They are cautious because they do not want to get hit by a missile or bomb.",
"The aliens do not actually want to help, but are required to, so they are hesitant to make a move.",
"They cannot decide if they have time to make a difference before they have to be somewhere else."
],
[
"They want to take advantage of some alone time while they are not on their main ship.",
"They have different knowledge of these different areas, as they travel to the areas they know more about.",
"There is not space for two aliens in one small landing craft, so they must split up.",
"They thought they could cover more ground this way and talk to more people about maintaining peace."
]
] | [
1,
3,
2,
2,
3,
3,
1,
4,
4
] | [
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0
] | SECOND LANDING
By FLOYD WALLACE
A gentle fancy for the Christmas Season—an
oft-told tale with a wistful twistful of Something
that left the Earth with a wing and a prayer.
Earth
was so far away that
it wasn't visible. Even the
sun was only a twinkle. But this
vast distance did not mean that
isolation could endure forever.
Instruments within the ship intercepted
radio broadcasts and,
within the hour, early TV signals.
Machines compiled dictionaries
and grammars and began
translating the major languages.
The history of the planet was
tabulated as facts became available.
The course of the ship changed
slightly; it was not much out of
the way to swing nearer Earth.
For days the two within the ship
listened and watched with little
comment. They had to decide
soon.
"We've got to make or break,"
said the first alien.
"You know what I'm in favor
of," said the second.
"I can guess," said Ethaniel,
who had spoken first. "The place
is a complete mess. They've never
done anything except fight
each other—and invent better
weapons."
"It's not what they've done,"
said Bal, the second alien. "It's
what they're going to do, with
that big bomb."
"The more reason for stopping,"
said Ethaniel. "The big
bomb can destroy them. Without
our help they may do just that."
"I may remind you that in two
months twenty-nine days we're
due in Willafours," said Bal.
"Without looking at the charts
I can tell you we still have more
than a hundred light-years to
go."
"A week," said Ethaniel. "We
can spare a week and still get
there on time."
"A week?" said Bal. "To settle
their problems? They've had two
world wars in one generation
and that the third and final one
is coming up you can't help feeling
in everything they do."
"It won't take much," said
Ethaniel. "The wrong diplomatic
move, or a trigger-happy soldier
could set it off. And it wouldn't
have to be deliberate. A meteor
shower could pass over and their
clumsy instruments could interpret
it as an all-out enemy
attack."
"Too bad," said Bal. "We'll
just have to forget there ever
was such a planet as Earth."
"Could you? Forget so many
people?"
"I'm doing it," said Bal. "Just
give them a little time and they
won't be here to remind me that
I have a conscience."
"My memory isn't convenient,"
said Ethaniel. "I ask you
to look at them."
Bal rustled, flicking the screen
intently. "Very much like ourselves,"
he said at last. "A bit
shorter perhaps, and most certainly
incomplete. Except for the
one thing they lack, and that's
quite odd, they seem exactly like
us. Is that what you wanted me
to say?"
"It is. The fact that they are
an incomplete version of ourselves
touches me. They actually
seem defenseless, though I suppose
they're not."
"Tough," said Bal. "Nothing
we can do about it."
"There is. We can give them
a week."
"In a week we can't negate
their entire history. We can't
begin to undo the effect of the
big bomb."
"You can't tell," said Ethaniel.
"We can look things over."
"And then what? How much
authority do we have?"
"Very little," conceded Ethaniel.
"Two minor officials on the
way to Willafours—and we run
directly into a problem no one
knew existed."
"And when we get to Willafours
we'll be busy. It will be a
long time before anyone comes
this way again."
"A very long time. There's
nothing in this region of space
our people want," said Ethaniel.
"And how long can Earth last?
Ten years? Even ten months?
The tension is building by the
hour."
"What can I say?" said Bal.
"I suppose we can stop and look
them over. We're not committing
ourselves by looking."
They went much closer to
Earth, not intending to commit
themselves. For a day they circled
the planet, avoiding radar
detection, which for them was
not difficult, testing, and sampling.
Finally Ethaniel looked up
from the monitor screen. "Any
conclusions?"
"What's there to think? It's
worse than I imagined."
"In what way?"
"Well, we knew they had the
big bomb. Atmospheric analysis
showed that as far away as we
were."
"I know."
"We also knew they could deliver
the big bomb, presumably
by some sort of aircraft."
"That was almost a certainty.
They'd have no use for the big
bomb without aircraft."
"What's worse is that I now
find they also have missiles,
range one thousand miles and
upward. They either have or are
near a primitive form of space
travel."
"Bad," said Ethaniel. "Sitting
there, wondering when it's going
to hit them. Nervousness could
set it off."
"It could, and the missiles
make it worse," said Bal. "What
did you find out at your end?"
"Nothing worthwhile. I was
looking at the people while you
were investigating their weapons."
"You must think something."
"I wish I knew what to think.
There's so little time," Ethaniel
said. "Language isn't the difficulty.
Our machines translate
their languages easily and I've
taken a cram course in two or
three of them. But that's not
enough, looking at a few plays,
listening to advertisements, music,
and news bulletins. I should
go down and live among them,
read books, talk to scholars, work
with them, play."
"You could do that and you'd
really get to know them. But
that takes time—and we don't
have it."
"I realize that."
"A flat yes or no," said Bal.
"No. We can't help them," said
Ethaniel. "There is nothing we
can do for them—but we have to
try."
"Sure, I knew it before we
started," said Bal. "It's happened
before. We take the trouble to
find out what a people are like
and when we can't help them we
feel bad. It's going to be that
way again." He rose and stretched.
"Well, give me an hour to
think of some way of going at
it."
It was longer than that before
they met again. In the meantime
the ship moved much closer to
Earth. They no longer needed instruments
to see it. The planet
revolved outside the visionports.
The southern plains were green,
coursed with rivers; the oceans
were blue; and much of the
northern hemisphere was glistening
white. Ragged clouds covered
the pole, and a dirty pall
spread over the mid-regions of
the north.
"I haven't thought of anything
brilliant," said Ethaniel.
"Nor I," said Bal. "We're going
to have to go down there
cold. And it will be cold."
"Yes. It's their winter."
"I did have an idea," said Bal.
"What about going down as supernatural
beings?"
"Hardly," said Ethaniel. "A
hundred years ago it might have
worked. Today they have satellites.
They are not primitives."
"I suppose you're right," said
Bal. "I did think we ought to
take advantage of our physical
differences."
"If we could I'd be all for it.
But these people are rough and
desperate. They wouldn't be
fooled by anything that crude."
"Well, you're calling it," said
Bal.
"All right," said Ethaniel.
"You take one side and I the
other. We'll tell them bluntly
what they'll have to do if they're
going to survive, how they can
keep their planet in one piece so
they can live on it."
"That'll go over big. Advice is
always popular."
"Can't help it. That's all we
have time for."
"Special instructions?"
"None. We leave the ship here
and go down in separate landing
craft. You can talk with me any
time you want to through our
communications, but don't unless
you have to."
"They can't intercept the
beams we use."
"They can't, and even if they
did they wouldn't know what to
do with our language. I want
them to think that we don't
need
to talk things over."
"I get it. Makes us seem better
than we are. They think we know
exactly what we're doing even
though we don't."
"If we're lucky they'll think
that."
Bal looked out of the port at
the planet below. "It's going to
be cold where I'm going. You too.
Sure we don't want to change
our plans and land in the southern
hemisphere? It's summer
there."
"I'm afraid not. The great
powers are in the north. They
are the ones we have to reach to
do the job."
"Yeah, but I was thinking of
that holiday you mentioned.
We'll be running straight into it.
That won't help us any."
"I know, they don't like their
holidays interrupted. It can't be
helped. We can't wait until it's
over."
"I'm aware of that," said Bal.
"Fill me in on that holiday, anything
I ought to know. Probably
religious in origin. That so?"
"It was religious a long time
ago," said Ethaniel. "I didn't
learn anything exact from radio
and TV. Now it seems to be
chiefly a time for eating, office
parties, and selling merchandise."
"I see. It has become a business
holiday."
"That's a good description. I
didn't get as much of it as I
ought to have. I was busy studying
the people, and they're hard
to pin down."
"I see. I was thinking there
might be some way we could tie
ourselves in with this holiday.
Make it work for us."
"If there is I haven't thought
of it."
"You ought to know. You're
running this one." Bal looked
down at the planet. Clouds were
beginning to form at the twilight
edge. "I hate to go down
and leave the ship up here with
no one in it."
"They can't touch it. No matter
how they develop in the next
hundred years they still won't be
able to get in or damage it in
any way."
"It's myself I'm thinking
about. Down there, alone."
"I'll be with you. On the other
side of the Earth."
"That's not very close. I'd like
it better if there were someone
in the ship to bring it down in a
hurry if things get rough. They
don't think much of each other.
I don't imagine they'll like aliens
any better."
"They may be unfriendly,"
Ethaniel acknowledged. Now he
switched a monitor screen until
he looked at the slope of a mountain.
It was snowing and men
were cutting small green trees in
the snow. "I've thought of a
trick."
"If it saves my neck I'm for
it."
"I don't guarantee anything,"
said Ethaniel. "This is what I
was thinking of: instead of hiding
the ship against the sun
where there's little chance it will
be seen, we'll make sure that
they do see it. Let's take it
around to the night side of the
planet and light it up."
"Say, pretty good," said Bal.
"They can't imagine that we'd
light up an unmanned ship," said
Ethaniel. "Even if the thought
should occur to them they'll have
no way of checking it. Also, they
won't be eager to harm us with
our ship shining down on them."
"That's thinking," said Bal,
moving to the controls. "I'll move
the ship over where they can see
it best and then I'll light it up.
I'll really light it up."
"Don't spare power."
"Don't worry about that.
They'll see it. Everybody on
Earth will see it." Later, with the
ship in position, glowing against
the darkness of space, pulsating
with light, Bal said: "You know,
I feel better about this. We may
pull it off. Lighting the ship may
be just the help we need."
"It's not we who need help, but
the people of Earth," said Ethaniel.
"See you in five days." With
that he entered a small landing
craft, which left a faintly luminescent
trail as it plunged toward
Earth. As soon as it was
safe to do so, Bal left in another
craft, heading for the other side
of the planet.
And the spaceship circled
Earth, unmanned, blazing and
pulsing with light. No star in the
winter skies of the planet below
could equal it in brilliancy. Once
a man-made satellite came near
but it was dim and was lost sight
of by the people below. During
the day the ship was visible as
a bright spot of light. At evening
it seemed to burn through
the sunset colors.
And the ship circled on,
bright, shining, seeming to be a
little piece clipped from the center
of a star and brought near
Earth to illuminate it. Never, or
seldom, had Earth seen anything
like it.
In five days the two small landing
craft that had left it arched
up from Earth and joined the
orbit of the large ship. The two
small craft slid inside the large
one and doors closed behind
them. In a short time the aliens
met again.
"We did it," said Bal exultantly
as he came in. "I don't know
how we did it and I thought we
were going to fail but at the last
minute they came through."
Ethaniel smiled. "I'm tired,"
he said, rustling.
"Me too, but mostly I'm cold,"
said Bal, shivering. "Snow.
Nothing but snow wherever I
went. Miserable climate. And yet
you had me go out walking after
that first day."
"From my own experience it
seemed to be a good idea," said
Ethaniel. "If I went out walking
one day I noticed that the next
day the officials were much more
cooperative. If it worked for me
I thought it might help you."
"It did. I don't know why, but
it did," said Bal. "Anyway, this
agreement they made isn't the
best but I think it will keep them
from destroying themselves."
"It's as much as we can expect,"
said Ethaniel. "They may
have small wars after this, but
never the big one. In fifty or a
hundred years we can come back
and see how much they've
learned."
"I'm not sure I want to," said
Bal. "Say, what's an angel?"
"Why?"
"When I went out walking
people stopped to look. Some
knelt in the snow and called me
an angel."
"Something like that happened
to me," said Ethaniel.
"I didn't get it but I didn't let
it upset me," said Bal. "I smiled
at them and went about my business."
He shivered again. "It was
always cold. I walked out, but
sometimes I flew back. I hope
that was all right."
In the cabin Bal spread his
great wings. Renaissance painters
had never seen his like but
knew exactly how he looked. In
their paintings they had pictured
him innumerable times.
"I don't think it hurt us that
you flew," said Ethaniel. "I did
so myself occasionally."
"But you don't know what an
angel is?"
"No. I didn't have time to find
out. Some creature of their folklore
I suppose. You know, except
for our wings they're very much
like ourselves. Their legends are
bound to resemble ours."
"Sure," said Bal. "Anyway,
peace on Earth."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
January
1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24966 | [
"Why are there only 11 men on the planet's surface?",
"Why were the robots built?",
"Why did Alan jump towards the robot when it fell into the mud?",
"What is Peggy's importance to the mission?",
"Where is Pete?",
"How does the darkness affect the robots' mobility?",
"Why did the robot at the stream fall into the mud?",
"What would've happened if Alan had not made it to the switch?",
"What would have happened if Allen's blaster had not run out of charge?"
] | [
[
"They wanted to establish a colony only for men.",
"They served as a lookahead team for a larger group.",
"They wanted to go unnoticed as they set up on the planet's surface.",
"There was not enough space on the ship for more people."
],
[
"Nobody knows, they were already on the planet's surface.",
"To kill any people invading the planet.",
"To perform labor and help the people build their city.",
"To protect the people from dangerous animals."
],
[
"He thought the mud would protect him from the fire caused by the blasters.",
"He saw a chance to exploit a weakness of the robot's.",
"He knew he would not survive the attack and wanted to take the robot down with him.",
"The robot would not be able to see him he was right on it."
],
[
"She is Alan's motivation for making it out alive.",
"She is the one who successfully shuts down the robots.",
"She is a medical officer on board the larger ship.",
"She is Pete's wife and helped him design the robots."
],
[
"On the second ship with the larger group of people.",
"Back on his home planet, having sent his robot designs to the colony.",
"Somewhere on the planet's surface, having died by the hand of his own creation.",
"Hidden somewhere on the planet trying to escape the robot attacks."
],
[
"It makes it harder for them to differentiate people from other animals.",
"Their tracking of animals is unimpeded, but they still have plans to contend with.",
"Their mobility is not affected, but it is harder for them to aim their blasters.",
"It makes smaller signals from insects more distracting."
],
[
"Alan managed to knock it down with his blaster.",
"It fell while trying to chase Alan, who managed to confuse it.",
"The mud blocked its sensors and it did not know how to move properly.",
"Its signals were disrupted and it malfunctioned."
],
[
"The robots would have gone on living unnoticed by people, doing as they wished with the planet. ",
"The next group of people would have been caught by surprise and killed.",
"Pete would have been the last hope of the people on the planet's surface.",
"Peggy would have had to build new radio transmitters after the old ones were destroyed."
],
[
"He would still have hit the switch, ending the story the same way.",
"He would have been able to shoot the switch from where he stood instead of having to make a run for it.",
"He would have accidentally cut off communication with other ships.",
"He would have been able to shoot down the robots and not need to hit the switch."
]
] | [
2,
4,
2,
1,
3,
3,
2,
2,
1
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | SURVIVAL
TACTICS
By AL SEVCIK
ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK
The robots were built to serve
Man; to do his work, see to his
comforts, make smooth his way.
Then the robots figured out an
additional service—putting Man
out of his misery.
There
was a sudden crash
that hung sharply in the air,
as if a tree had been hit by
lightning some distance away.
Then another. Alan stopped,
puzzled. Two more blasts, quickly
together, and the sound of a
scream faintly.
Frowning, worrying about the
sounds, Alan momentarily forgot
to watch his step until his foot
suddenly plunged into an ant
hill, throwing him to the jungle
floor. "Damn!" He cursed again,
for the tenth time, and stood
uncertainly in the dimness.
From tall, moss-shrouded trees,
wrist-thick vines hung quietly,
scraping the spongy ground like
the tentacles of some monstrous
tree-bound octopus. Fitful little
plants grew straggly in the
shadows of the mossy trunks,
forming a dense underbrush that
made walking difficult. At midday
some few of the blue sun's
rays filtered through to the
jungle floor, but now, late afternoon
on the planet, the shadows
were long and gloomy.
Alan peered around him at the
vine-draped shadows, listening
to the soft rustlings and faint
twig-snappings of life in the
jungle. Two short, popping
sounds echoed across the stillness,
drowned out almost immediately
and silenced by an
explosive crash. Alan started,
"Blaster fighting! But it can't
be!"
Suddenly anxious, he slashed
a hurried X in one of the trees
to mark his position then turned
to follow a line of similar marks
back through the jungle. He
tried to run, but vines blocked
his way and woody shrubs
caught at his legs, tripping him
and holding him back. Then,
through the trees he saw the
clearing of the camp site, the
temporary home for the scout
ship and the eleven men who,
with Alan, were the only humans
on the jungle planet, Waiamea.
Stepping through the low
shrubbery at the edge of the
site, he looked across the open
area to the two temporary structures,
the camp headquarters
where the power supplies and
the computer were; and the
sleeping quarters. Beyond, nose
high, stood the silver scout ship
that had brought the advance
exploratory party of scientists
and technicians to Waiamea
three days before. Except for a
few of the killer robots rolling
slowly around the camp site on
their quiet treads, there was no
one about.
"So, they've finally got those
things working." Alan smiled
slightly. "Guess that means I
owe Pete a bourbon-and-soda
for sure. Anybody who can
build a robot that hunts by homing
in on animals' mind impulses ..."
He stepped forward
just as a roar of blue flame dissolved
the branches of a tree,
barely above his head.
Without pausing to think,
Alan leaped back, and fell
sprawling over a bush just as
one of the robots rolled silently
up from the right, lowering its
blaster barrel to aim directly at
his head. Alan froze. "My God,
Pete built those things wrong!"
Suddenly a screeching whirlwind
of claws and teeth hurled
itself from the smoldering
branches and crashed against the
robot, clawing insanely at the
antenna and blaster barrel.
With an awkward jerk the robot
swung around and fired its blaster,
completely dissolving the
lower half of the cat creature
which had clung across the barrel.
But the back pressure of the
cat's body overloaded the discharge
circuits. The robot started
to shake, then clicked sharply
as an overload relay snapped
and shorted the blaster cells.
The killer turned and rolled back
towards the camp, leaving Alan
alone.
Shakily, Alan crawled a few
feet back into the undergrowth
where he could lie and watch the
camp, but not himself be seen.
Though visibility didn't make
any difference to the robots, he
felt safer, somehow, hidden. He
knew now what the shooting
sounds had been and why there
hadn't been anyone around the
camp site. A charred blob lying
in the grass of the clearing confirmed
his hypothesis. His stomach
felt sick.
"I suppose," he muttered to
himself, "that Pete assembled
these robots in a batch and then
activated them all at once, probably
never living to realize that
they're tuned to pick up human
brain waves, too. Damn!
Damn!" His eyes blurred and
he slammed his fist into the soft
earth.
When he raised his eyes again
the jungle was perceptibly darker.
Stealthy rustlings in the
shadows grew louder with the
setting sun. Branches snapped
unaccountably in the trees overhead
and every now and then
leaves or a twig fell softly to the
ground, close to where he lay.
Reaching into his jacket, Alan
fingered his pocket blaster. He
pulled it out and held it in his
right hand. "This pop gun
wouldn't even singe a robot, but
it just might stop one of those
pumas."
They said the blast with your name on it would find
you anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.
Slowly Alan looked around,
sizing up his situation. Behind
him the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.
He shuddered. "Not a
very healthy spot to spend the
night. On the other hand, I certainly
can't get to the camp with
a pack of mind-activated mechanical
killers running around.
If I can just hold out until morning,
when the big ship arrives ...
The big ship! Good
Lord, Peggy!" He turned white;
oily sweat punctuated his forehead.
Peggy, arriving tomorrow
with the other colonists, the
wives and kids! The metal killers,
tuned to blast any living
flesh, would murder them the
instant they stepped from the
ship!
A pretty girl, Peggy, the girl
he'd married just three weeks
ago. He still couldn't believe it.
It was crazy, he supposed, to
marry a girl and then take off
for an unknown planet, with her
to follow, to try to create a home
in a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,
but Peggy and her green eyes
that changed color with the
light, with her soft brown hair,
and her happy smile, had ended
thirty years of loneliness and
had, at last, given him a reason
for living. "Not to be killed!"
Alan unclenched his fists and
wiped his palms, bloody where
his fingernails had dug into the
flesh.
There was a slight creak above
him like the protesting of a
branch too heavily laden. Blaster
ready, Alan rolled over onto his
back. In the movement, his elbow
struck the top of a small
earthy mound and he was instantly
engulfed in a swarm of
locust-like insects that beat disgustingly
against his eyes and
mouth. "Fagh!" Waving his
arms before his face he jumped
up and backwards, away from
the bugs. As he did so, a dark
shapeless thing plopped from
the trees onto the spot where he
had been lying stretched out.
Then, like an ambient fungus,
it slithered off into the jungle
undergrowth.
For a split second the jungle
stood frozen in a brilliant blue
flash, followed by the sharp report
of a blaster. Then another.
Alan whirled, startled. The
planet's double moon had risen
and he could see a robot rolling
slowly across the clearing in his
general direction, blasting indiscriminately
at whatever mind
impulses came within its pickup
range, birds, insects, anything.
Six or seven others also left the
camp headquarters area and
headed for the jungle, each to a
slightly different spot.
Apparently the robot hadn't
sensed him yet, but Alan didn't
know what the effective range
of its pickup devices was. He
began to slide back into the
jungle. Minutes later, looking
back he saw that the machine,
though several hundred yards
away, had altered its course and
was now headed directly for
him.
His stomach tightened. Panic.
The dank, musty smell of the
jungle seemed for an instant to
thicken and choke in his throat.
Then he thought of the big ship
landing in the morning, settling
down slowly after a lonely two-week
voyage. He thought of a
brown-haired girl crowding with
the others to the gangway, eager
to embrace the new planet, and
the next instant a charred nothing,
unrecognizable, the victim
of a design error or a misplaced
wire in a machine. "I have to
try," he said aloud. "I have to
try." He moved into the blackness.
Powerful as a small tank, the
killer robot was equipped to
crush, slash, and burn its way
through undergrowth. Nevertheless,
it was slowed by the
larger trees and the thick, clinging
vines, and Alan found that
he could manage to keep ahead
of it, barely out of blaster range.
Only, the robot didn't get tired.
Alan did.
The twin moons cast pale, deceptive
shadows that wavered
and danced across the jungle
floor, hiding debris that tripped
him and often sent him sprawling
into the dark. Sharp-edged
growths tore at his face and
clothes, and insects attracted by
the blood matted against his
pants and shirt. Behind, the robot
crashed imperturbably after
him, lighting the night with fitful
blaster flashes as some
winged or legged life came within
its range.
There was movement also, in
the darkness beside him, scrapings
and rustlings and an occasional
low, throaty sound like an
angry cat. Alan's fingers tensed
on his pocket blaster. Swift
shadowy forms moved quickly in
the shrubs and the growling became
suddenly louder. He fired
twice, blindly, into the undergrowth.
Sharp screams punctuated
the electric blue discharge as
a pack of small feline creatures
leaped snarling and clawing
back into the night.
Mentally, Alan tried to figure
the charge remaining in his blaster.
There wouldn't be much.
"Enough for a few more shots,
maybe. Why the devil didn't I
load in fresh cells this morning!"
The robot crashed on, louder
now, gaining on the tired human.
Legs aching and bruised,
stinging from insect bites, Alan
tried to force himself to run
holding his hands in front of
him like a child in the dark. His
foot tripped on a barely visible
insect hill and a winged swarm
exploded around him. Startled,
Alan jerked sideways, crashing
his head against a tree. He
clutched at the bark for a second,
dazed, then his knees
buckled. His blaster fell into the
shadows.
The robot crashed loudly behind
him now. Without stopping
to think, Alan fumbled along the
ground after his gun, straining
his eyes in the darkness. He
found it just a couple of feet to
one side, against the base of a
small bush. Just as his fingers
closed upon the barrel his other
hand slipped into something
sticky that splashed over his
forearm. He screamed in pain
and leaped back, trying frantically
to wipe the clinging,
burning blackness off his arm.
Patches of black scraped off onto
branches and vines, but the rest
spread slowly over his arm as
agonizing as hot acid, or as flesh
being ripped away layer by
layer.
Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,
Alan stumbled forward.
Sharp muscle spasms shot from
his shoulder across his back and
chest. Tears streamed across his
cheeks.
A blue arc slashed at the trees
a mere hundred yards behind.
He screamed at the blast. "Damn
you, Pete! Damn your robots!
Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!"
He stepped into emptiness.
Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washed
by the water, the pain began to
fall away. He wanted to lie there
forever in the dark, cool, wetness.
For ever, and ever, and ...
The air thundered.
In the dim light he could see
the banks of the stream, higher
than a man, muddy and loose.
Growing right to the edge of the
banks, the jungle reached out
with hairy, disjointed arms as
if to snag even the dirty little
stream that passed so timidly
through its domain.
Alan, lying in the mud of the
stream bed, felt the earth shake
as the heavy little robot rolled
slowly and inexorably towards
him. "The Lord High Executioner,"
he thought, "in battle
dress." He tried to stand but his
legs were almost too weak and
his arm felt numb. "I'll drown
him," he said aloud. "I'll drown
the Lord High Executioner." He
laughed. Then his mind cleared.
He remembered where he was.
Alan trembled. For the first
time in his life he understood
what it was to live, because for
the first time he realized that he
would sometime die. In other
times and circumstances he
might put it off for a while, for
months or years, but eventually,
as now, he would have to watch,
still and helpless, while death
came creeping. Then, at thirty,
Alan became a man.
"Dammit, no law says I have
to flame-out
now
!" He forced
himself to rise, forced his legs
to stand, struggling painfully in
the shin-deep ooze. He worked
his way to the bank and began to
dig frenziedly, chest high, about
two feet below the edge.
His arm where the black thing
had been was swollen and tender,
but he forced his hands to dig,
dig, dig, cursing and crying to
hide the pain, and biting his
lips, ignoring the salty taste of
blood. The soft earth crumbled
under his hands until he had a
small cave about three feet deep
in the bank. Beyond that the
soil was held too tightly by the
roots from above and he had to
stop.
The air crackled blue and a
tree crashed heavily past Alan
into the stream. Above him on
the bank, silhouetting against
the moons, the killer robot stopped
and its blaster swivelled
slowly down. Frantically, Alan
hugged the bank as a shaft of
pure electricity arced over him,
sliced into the water, and exploded
in a cloud of steam. The
robot shook for a second, its
blaster muzzle lifted erratically
and for an instant it seemed almost
out of control, then it
quieted and the muzzle again
pointed down.
Pressing with all his might,
Alan slid slowly along the bank
inches at a time, away from the
machine above. Its muzzle turned
to follow him but the edge of
the bank blocked its aim. Grinding
forward a couple of feet,
slightly overhanging the bank,
the robot fired again. For a split
second Alan seemed engulfed in
flame; the heat of hell singed his
head and back, and mud boiled
in the bank by his arm.
Again the robot trembled. It
jerked forward a foot and its
blaster swung slightly away. But
only for a moment. Then the gun
swung back again.
Suddenly, as if sensing something
wrong, its tracks slammed
into reverse. It stood poised for
a second, its treads spinning
crazily as the earth collapsed underneath
it, where Alan had
dug, then it fell with a heavy
splash into the mud, ten feet
from where Alan stood.
Without hesitation Alan
threw himself across the blaster
housing, frantically locking his
arms around the barrel as the
robot's treads churned furiously
in the sticky mud, causing it to
buck and plunge like a Brahma
bull. The treads stopped and the
blaster jerked upwards wrenching
Alan's arms, then slammed
down. Then the whole housing
whirled around and around, tilting
alternately up and down like
a steel-skinned water monster
trying to dislodge a tenacious
crab, while Alan, arms and legs
wrapped tightly around the blaster
barrel and housing, pressed
fiercely against the robot's metal
skin.
Slowly, trying to anticipate
and shift his weight with the
spinning plunges, Alan worked
his hand down to his right hip.
He fumbled for the sheath clipped
to his belt, found it, and extracted
a stubby hunting knife.
Sweat and blood in his eyes,
hardly able to move on the wildly
swinging turret, he felt down
the sides to the thin crack between
the revolving housing and
the stationary portion of the robot.
With a quick prayer he
jammed in the knife blade—and
was whipped headlong into the
mud as the turret literally snapped
to a stop.
The earth, jungle and moons
spun in a pinwheeled blur,
slowed, and settled to their proper
places. Standing in the sticky,
sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed
the robot apprehensively. Half
buried in mud, it stood quiet in
the shadowy light except for an
occasional, almost spasmodic
jerk of its blaster barrel. For
the first time that night Alan
allowed himself a slight smile.
"A blade in the old gear box,
eh? How does that feel, boy?"
He turned. "Well, I'd better
get out of here before the knife
slips or the monster cooks up
some more tricks with whatever
it's got for a brain." Digging
little footholds in the soft bank,
he climbed up and stood once
again in the rustling jungle
darkness.
"I wonder," he thought, "how
Pete could cram enough brain
into one of those things to make
it hunt and track so perfectly."
He tried to visualize the computing
circuits needed for the
operation of its tracking mechanism
alone. "There just isn't
room for the electronics. You'd
need a computer as big as the
one at camp headquarters."
In the distance the sky blazed
as a blaster roared in the jungle.
Then Alan heard the approaching
robot, crunching and snapping
its way through the undergrowth
like an onrushing forest
fire. He froze. "Good Lord!
They communicate with each
other! The one I jammed must
be calling others to help."
He began to move along the
bank, away from the crashing
sounds. Suddenly he stopped, his
eyes widened. "Of course! Radio!
I'll bet anything they're
automatically controlled by the
camp computer. That's where
their brain is!" He paused.
"Then, if that were put out of
commission ..." He jerked away
from the bank and half ran, half
pulled himself through the undergrowth
towards the camp.
Trees exploded to his left as
another robot fired in his direction,
too far away to be effective
but churning towards him
through the blackness.
Alan changed direction slightly
to follow a line between the
two robots coming up from
either side, behind him. His eyes
were well accustomed to the dark
now, and he managed to dodge
most of the shadowy vines and
branches before they could snag
or trip him. Even so, he stumbled
in the wiry underbrush and
his legs were a mass of stinging
slashes from ankle to thigh.
The crashing rumble of the
killer robots shook the night behind
him, nearer sometimes,
then falling slightly back, but
following constantly, more
unshakable than bloodhounds
because a man can sometimes cover
a scent, but no man can stop his
thoughts. Intermittently, like
photographers' strobes, blue
flashes would light the jungle
about him. Then, for seconds
afterwards his eyes would see
dancing streaks of yellow and
sharp multi-colored pinwheels
that alternately shrunk and expanded
as if in a surrealist's
nightmare. Alan would have to
pause and squeeze his eyelids
tight shut before he could see
again, and the robots would
move a little closer.
To his right the trees silhouetted
briefly against brilliance as
a third robot slowly moved up
in the distance. Without thinking,
Alan turned slightly to the
left, then froze in momentary
panic. "I should be at the camp
now. Damn, what direction am
I going?" He tried to think
back, to visualize the twists and
turns he'd taken in the jungle.
"All I need is to get lost."
He pictured the camp computer
with no one to stop it, automatically
sending its robots in
wider and wider forays, slowly
wiping every trace of life from
the planet. Technologically advanced
machines doing the job
for which they were built, completely,
thoroughly, without feeling,
and without human masters
to separate sense from futility.
Finally parts would wear out,
circuits would short, and one by
one the killers would crunch to
a halt. A few birds would still
fly then, but a unique animal
life, rare in the universe, would
exist no more. And the bones of
children, eager girls, and their
men would also lie, beside a
rusty hulk, beneath the alien
sun.
"Peggy!"
As if in answer, a tree beside
him breathed fire, then exploded.
In the brief flash of the
blaster shot, Alan saw the steel
glint of a robot only a hundred
yards away, much nearer than
he had thought. "Thank heaven
for trees!" He stepped back, felt
his foot catch in something,
clutched futilely at some leaves
and fell heavily.
Pain danced up his leg as he
grabbed his ankle. Quickly he
felt the throbbing flesh. "Damn
the rotten luck, anyway!" He
blinked the pain tears from his
eyes and looked up—into a robot's
blaster, jutting out of the
foliage, thirty yards away.
Instinctively, in one motion
Alan grabbed his pocket blaster
and fired. To his amazement the
robot jerked back, its gun wobbled
and started to tilt away.
Then, getting itself under control,
it swung back again to face
Alan. He fired again, and again
the robot reacted. It seemed familiar
somehow. Then he remembered
the robot on the river
bank, jiggling and swaying for
seconds after each shot. "Of
course!" He cursed himself for
missing the obvious. "The blaster
static blanks out radio
transmission from the computer
for a few seconds. They even do
it to themselves!"
Firing intermittently, he
pulled himself upright and hobbled
ahead through the bush.
The robot shook spasmodically
with each shot, its gun tilted upward
at an awkward angle.
Then, unexpectedly, Alan saw
stars, real stars brilliant in the
night sky, and half dragging his
swelling leg he stumbled out of
the jungle into the camp clearing.
Ahead, across fifty yards of
grass stood the headquarters
building, housing the robot-controlling
computer. Still firing at
short intervals he started across
the clearing, gritting his teeth
at every step.
Straining every muscle in
spite of the agonizing pain, Alan
forced himself to a limping run
across the uneven ground, carefully
avoiding the insect hills
that jutted up through the grass.
From the corner of his eye he
saw another of the robots standing
shakily in the dark edge of
the jungle waiting, it seemed,
for his small blaster to run dry.
"Be damned! You can't win
now!" Alan yelled between blaster
shots, almost irrational from
the pain that ripped jaggedly
through his leg. Then it happened.
A few feet from the
building's door his blaster quit.
A click. A faint hiss when he
frantically jerked the trigger
again and again, and the spent
cells released themselves from
the device, falling in the grass
at his feet. He dropped the useless
gun.
"No!" He threw himself on
the ground as a new robot suddenly
appeared around the edge
of the building a few feet away,
aimed, and fired. Air burned
over Alan's back and ozone tingled
in his nostrils.
Blinding itself for a few seconds
with its own blaster static,
the robot paused momentarily,
jiggling in place. In this
instant, Alan jammed his hands
into an insect hill and hurled the
pile of dirt and insects directly
at the robot's antenna. In a flash,
hundreds of the winged things
erupted angrily from the hole in
a swarming cloud, each part of
which was a speck of life
transmitting mental energy to the
robot's pickup devices.
Confused by the sudden dispersion
of mind impulses, the
robot fired erratically as Alan
crouched and raced painfully for
the door. It fired again, closer,
as he fumbled with the lock
release. Jagged bits of plastic and
stone ripped past him, torn loose
by the blast.
Frantically, Alan slammed
open the door as the robot, sensing
him strongly now, aimed
point blank. He saw nothing, his
mind thought of nothing but the
red-clad safety switch mounted
beside the computer. Time stopped.
There was nothing else in
the world. He half-jumped, half-fell
towards it, slowly, in tenths
of seconds that seemed measured
out in years.
The universe went black.
Later. Brilliance pressed upon
his eyes. Then pain returned, a
multi-hurting thing that crawled
through his body and dragged
ragged tentacles across his
brain. He moaned.
A voice spoke hollowly in the
distance. "He's waking. Call his
wife."
Alan opened his eyes in a
white room; a white light hung
over his head. Beside him, looking
down with a rueful smile,
stood a young man wearing
space medical insignia. "Yes,"
he acknowledged the question in
Alan's eyes, "you hit the switch.
That was three days ago. When
you're up again we'd all like to
thank you."
Suddenly a sobbing-laughing
green-eyed girl was pressed
tightly against him. Neither of
them spoke. They couldn't. There
was too much to say.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24977 | [
"Why did Pembroke ask Mary Ann about children?",
"What was the goal of Frank's newspaper ad?",
"Why did Frank shoot his new client at the beginning of the story?",
"Why it was Spencer shot by the police at the bar?",
"What is Puerto Pacifico?",
"Why are people insistent on pointing out others' flaws?",
"What is Frank's relationship with loyalty?",
"What is the significance of the glass statue that Frank finds in the store?",
"What type of person is Frank?",
"Why did Frank make a phone call after shooting the client at the beginning of the story?"
] | [
[
"He wants to know why there aren't children around",
"He wants to know if she would ever have children with him",
"He wants to see if this will be more than a one-night stand",
"Wanting children is considered an imperfection"
],
[
"To find clients for his new business.",
"To lure out people from Puerto Pacifico to use as evidence.",
"To carry out his orders in his mission on Earth.",
"To lure out people from Puerto Pacifico to connect with."
],
[
"He wanted to collect the body as evidence of an impending attack.",
"The man who walked into his office was dangerous and Frank needed to protect himself.",
"He wanted to hurt the people who caused the Elena Mia to sink.",
"He had put out an ad for people who wanted to get shot to escape life as it is."
],
[
"He had treated the women poorly, which is against the law.",
"He refused to tell the policeman what was wrong with him.",
"There was no reason, it was a random act of violence.",
"He had refused to pay his bar tab."
],
[
"A small city on the coast of California full of odd people",
"A city on a faraway planet where humans can travel for vacation",
"A coastal American city where aliens work on a plan of attack",
"The city on a planet used as part of an attack plan by a group of aliens"
],
[
"Being polite is considered too passive in the society.",
"Pointing out flaws is considered positive feedback for those pretending to be human.",
"Being insecure and not taking criticism is a sign of weakness in the society.",
"Pointing out flaws is part of the social rapport for this group, and is considered normal."
],
[
"Frank had not found an opportunity to show loyalty until the events of the story took place.",
"Frank is loyal to women, which he shows by pointing out their flaws.",
"Frank considers loyalty to be a weakness, and only takes care of himself.",
"Frank wishes that he could be loyal to someone, but he is self-serving by nature."
],
[
"It prompts a discussion of the worth of various materials in this town.",
"It is the first piece of evidence about the others who live on the planet.",
"It is proof that hedgehogs are held in high esteem in this society.",
"It shows him where he can find a craftsman to help them with the project."
],
[
"Frank is very careful around other people, and it is hard for him to show criticism.",
"Frank is reckless, but his independence allows him to go back home at the end of the story.",
"Frank is cautious and skilled enough to develop plans to get out of unexpected situations.",
"Frank is thoughtful in his interactions with others but tends to miss details."
],
[
"He needed to report the shooting to the police.",
"He wanted a call in a third party to take a look at his client.",
"He wanted to tell his partner that his newspaper at had worked.",
"He promised those in charge of him that he would report back every time he successfully made a kill."
]
] | [
1,
2,
1,
2,
4,
2,
1,
2,
3,
2
] | [
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | THE PERFECTIONISTS
By ARNOLD CASTLE
ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS
Is there something wrong with you?
Do you fail to fit in with your group?
Nervous, anxious, ill-at-ease? Happy
about it? Lucky you!
Frank Pembroke
sat behind
the desk of his shabby
little office over Lemark's Liquors
in downtown Los Angeles and
waited for his first customer. He
had been in business for a week
and as yet had had no callers.
Therefore, it was with a mingled
sense of excitement and satisfaction
that he greeted the tall,
dark, smooth-faced figure that
came up the stairs and into the
office shortly before noon.
"Good day, sir," said Pembroke
with an amiable smile. "I
see my advertisement has interested
you. Please stand in that
corner for just a moment."
Opening the desk drawer,
which was almost empty, Pembroke
removed an automatic pistol
fitted with a silencer. Pointing
it at the amazed customer, he
fired four .22 caliber longs into
the narrow chest. Then he made
a telephone call and sat down to
wait. He wondered how long it
would be before his next client
would arrive.
The series of events leading up
to Pembroke's present occupation
had commenced on a dismal,
overcast evening in the South
Pacific a year earlier. Bound for
Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso,
the Colombian tramp
steamer
Elena Mia
had encountered
a dense greenish fog which
seemed vaguely redolent of citrus
trees. Standing on the forward
deck, Pembroke was one of the
first to perceive the peculiar odor
and to spot the immense gray
hulk wallowing in the murky distance.
Then the explosion had come,
from far below the waterline,
and the decks were awash with
frantic crewmen, officers, and the
handful of passengers. Only two
lifeboats were launched before
the
Elena Mia
went down. Pembroke
was in the second. The
roar of the sinking ship was the
last thing he heard for some
time.
Pembroke came as close to being
a professional adventurer as
one can in these days of regimented
travel, organized peril,
and political restriction. He had
made for himself a substantial
fortune through speculation in a
great variety of properties, real
and otherwise. Life had given
him much and demanded little,
which was perhaps the reason
for his restiveness.
Loyalty to person or to people
was a trait Pembroke had never
recognized in himself, nor had it
ever been expected of him. And
yet he greatly envied those
staunch patriots and lovers who
could find it in themselves to
elevate the glory and safety of
others above that of themselves.
Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke
adapted quickly to the situation
in which he found himself
when he regained consciousness.
He awoke in a small room in
what appeared to be a typical
modern American hotel. The wallet
in his pocket contained exactly
what it should, approximately
three hundred dollars.
His next thought was of food.
He left the room and descended
via the elevator to the restaurant.
Here he observed that it
was early afternoon. Ordering
a full dinner, for he was unusually
hungry, he began to study the
others in the restaurant.
Many of the faces seemed familiar;
the crew of the ship,
probably. He also recognized several
of the passengers. However,
he made no attempt to speak to
them. After his meal, he bought
a good corona and went for a
walk. His situation could have
been any small western American
seacoast city. He heard the hiss
of the ocean in the direction the
afternoon sun was taking. In his
full-gaited walk, he was soon approaching
the beach.
On the sand he saw a number
of sun bathers. One in particular,
an attractive woman of about
thirty, tossed back her long,
chestnut locks and gazed up intently
at Pembroke as he passed.
Seldom had he enjoyed so ingenuous
an invitation. He halted
and stared down at her for a few
moments.
"You are looking for someone?"
she inquired.
"Much of the time," said the
man.
"Could it be me?"
"It could be."
"Yet you seem unsure," she
said.
Pembroke smiled, uneasily.
There was something not entirely
normal about her conversation.
Though the rest of her compensated
for that.
"Tell me what's wrong with
me," she went on urgently. "I'm
not good enough, am I? I mean,
there's something wrong with
the way I look or act. Isn't there?
Please help me, please!"
"You're not casual enough, for
one thing," said Pembroke, deciding
to play along with her for
the moment. "You're too tense.
Also you're a bit knock-kneed,
not that it matters. Is that what
you wanted to hear?"
"Yes, yes—I mean, I suppose
so. I can try to be more casual.
But I don't know what to do
about my knees," she said wistfully,
staring across at the
smooth, tan limbs. "Do you think
I'm okay otherwise? I mean, as a
whole I'm not so bad, am I? Oh,
please tell me."
"How about talking it over at
supper tonight?" Pembroke proposed.
"Maybe with less distraction
I'll have a better picture of
you—as a whole."
"Oh, that's very generous of
you," the woman told him. She
scribbled a name and an address
on a small piece of paper and
handed it to him. "Any time
after six," she said.
Pembroke left the beach and
walked through several small
specialty shops. He tried to get
the woman off his mind, but the
oddness of her conversation continued
to bother him. She was
right about being different, but
it was her concern about being
different that made her so. How
to explain
that
to her?
Then he saw the weird little
glass statuette among the usual
bric-a-brac. It rather resembled
a ground hog, had seven fingers
on each of its six limbs, and
smiled up at him as he stared.
"Can I help you, sir?" a middle-aged
saleswoman inquired.
"Oh, good heavens, whatever is
that thing doing here?"
Pembroke watched with lifted
eyebrows as the clerk whisked
the bizarre statuette underneath
the counter.
"What the hell was that?"
Pembroke demanded.
"Oh, you know—or don't you?
Oh, my," she concluded, "are you
one of the—strangers?"
"And if I were?"
"Well, I'd certainly appreciate
it if you'd tell me how I walk."
She came around in front of
the counter and strutted back
and forth a few times.
"They tell me I lean too far
forward," she confided. "But I
should think you'd fall down if
you didn't."
"Don't try to go so fast and
you won't fall down," suggested
Pembroke. "You're in too much
of a hurry. Also those fake flowers
on your blouse make you look
frumpy."
"Well, I'm supposed to look
frumpy," the woman retorted.
"That's the type of person I am.
But you can look frumpy and still
walk natural, can't you? Everyone
says you can."
"Well, they've got a point,"
said Pembroke. "Incidentally,
just where are we, anyway?
What city is this?"
"Puerto Pacifico," she told
him. "Isn't that a lovely name?
It means peaceful port. In Spanish."
That was fine. At least he now
knew where he was. But as he
left the shop he began checking
off every west coast state, city,
town, and inlet. None, to the best
of his knowledge, was called
Puerto Pacifico.
He headed for the nearest
service station and asked for a
map. The attendant gave him one
which showed the city, but nothing
beyond.
"Which way is it to San Francisco?"
asked Pembroke.
"That all depends on where
you are," the boy returned.
"Okay, then where am I?"
"Pardon me, there's a customer,"
the boy said. "This is
Puerto Pacifico."
Pembroke watched him hurry
off to service a car with a sense
of having been given the runaround.
To his surprise, the boy
came back a few minutes later
after servicing the automobile.
"Say, I've just figured out who
you are," the youngster told him.
"I'd sure appreciate it if you'd
give me a little help on my lingo.
Also, you gas up the car first,
then try to sell 'em the oil—right?"
"Right," said Pembroke wearily.
"What's wrong with your
lingo? Other than the fact that
it's not colloquial enough."
"Not enough slang, huh? Well,
I guess I'll have to concentrate
on that. How about the smile?"
"Perfect," Pembroke told him.
"Yeah?" said the boy delightedly.
"Say, come back again,
huh? I sure appreciate the help.
Keep the map."
"Thanks. One more thing,"
Pembroke said. "What's over
that way—outside the city?"
"Sand."
"How about that way?" he
asked, pointing north. "And that
way?" pointing south.
"More of the same."
"Any railroads?"
"That we ain't got."
"Buses? Airlines?"
The kid shook his head.
"Some city."
"Yeah, it's kinda isolated. A
lot of ships dock here, though."
"All cargo ships, I'll bet. No
passengers," said Pembroke.
"Right," said the attendant,
giving with his perfect smile.
"No getting out of here, is
there?"
"That's for sure," the boy said,
walking away to wait on another
customer. "If you don't like the
place, you've had it."
Pembroke returned to the
hotel. Going to the bar, he recognized
one of the
Elena Mia's
paying
passengers. He was a short,
rectangular little man in his fifties
named Spencer. He sat in a
booth with three young women,
all lovely, all effusive. The topic
of the conversation turned out
to be precisely what Pembroke
had predicted.
"Well, Louisa, I'd say your
only fault is the way you keep
wigglin' your shoulders up 'n'
down. Why'n'sha try holdin' 'em
straight?"
"I thought it made me look
sexy," the redhead said petulantly.
"Just be yourself, gal," Spencer
drawled, jabbing her intimately
with a fat elbow, "and
you'll qualify."
"Me, me," the blonde with a
feather cut was insisting. "What
is wrong with me?"
"You're perfect, sweetheart,"
he told her, taking her hand.
"Ah, come on," she pleaded.
"Everyone tells me I chew gum
with my mouth open. Don't you
hate that?"
"Naw, that's part of your
charm," Spencer assured her.
"How 'bout me, sugar," asked
the girl with the coal black hair.
"Ah, you're perfect, too. You
are all perfect. I've never seen
such a collection of dolls as parade
around this here city.
C'mon, kids—how 'bout another
round?"
But the dolls had apparently
lost interest in him. They got up
one by one and walked out of the
bar. Pembroke took his rum and
tonic and moved over to Spencer's
booth.
"Okay if I join you?"
"Sure," said the fat man.
"Wonder what the hell got into
those babes?"
"You said they were perfect.
They know they're not. You've
got to be rough with them in this
town," said Pembroke. "That's
all they want from us."
"Mister, you've been doing
some thinkin', I can see," said
Spencer, peering at him suspiciously.
"Maybe you've figured
out where we are."
"Your bet's as good as mine,"
said Pembroke. "It's not Wellington,
and it's not Brisbane, and
it's not Long Beach, and it's not
Tahiti. There are a lot of places
it's not. But where the hell it is,
you tell me.
"And, by the way," he added,
"I hope you like it in Puerto
Pacifico. Because there isn't any
place to go from here and there
isn't any way to get there if
there were."
"Pardon me, gentlemen, but
I'm Joe Valencia, manager of the
hotel. I would be very grateful if
you would give me a few minutes
of honest criticism."
"Ah, no, not you, too," groaned
Spencer. "Look, Joe, what's
the gag?"
"You are newcomers, Mr.
Spencer," Valencia explained.
"You are therefore in an excellent
position to point out our
faults as you see them."
"Well, so what?" demanded
Spencer. "I've got more important
things to do than to worry
about your troubles. You look
okay to me."
"Mr. Valencia," said Pembroke.
"I've noticed that you
walk with a very slight limp. If
you have a bad leg, I should
think you would do better to develop
a more pronounced limp.
Otherwise, you may appear to
be self-conscious about it."
Spencer opened his mouth to
protest, but saw with amazement
that it was exactly this that
Valencia was seeking. Pembroke
was amused at his companion's
reaction but observed that Spencer
still failed to see the point.
"Also, there is a certain effeminateness
in the way in which
you speak," said Pembroke. "Try
to be a little more direct, a little
more brusque. Speak in a monotone.
It will make you more acceptable."
"Thank you so much," said the
manager. "There is much food
for thought in what you have
said, Mr. Pembroke. However,
Mr. Spencer, your value has failed
to prove itself. You have only
yourself to blame. Cooperation is
all we require of you."
Valencia left. Spencer ordered
another martini. Neither he nor
Pembroke spoke for several minutes.
"Somebody's crazy around
here," the fat man muttered
after a few moments. "Is it me,
Frank?"
"No. You just don't belong
here, in this particular place,"
said Pembroke thoughtfully.
"You're the wrong type. But they
couldn't know that ahead of time.
The way they operate it's a
pretty hit-or-miss operation. But
they don't care one bit about us,
Spencer. Consider the men who
went down with the ship. That
was just part of the game."
"What the hell are you sayin'?"
asked Spencer in disbelief.
"You figure
they
sunk the ship?
Valencia and the waitress and
the three babes? Ah, come on."
"It's what you think that will
determine what you do, Spencer.
I suggest you change your attitude;
play along with them for a
few days till the picture becomes
a little clearer to you. We'll talk
about it again then."
Pembroke rose and started out
of the bar. A policeman entered
and walked directly to Spencer's
table. Loitering at the juke box,
Pembroke overheard the conversation.
"You Spencer?"
"That's right," said the fat
man sullenly.
"What don't you like about
me? The
truth
, buddy."
"Ah, hell! Nothin' wrong
with you at all, and nothin'll
make me say there is," said Spencer.
"You're the guy, all right. Too
bad, Mac," said the cop.
Pembroke heard the shots as
he strolled casually out into the
brightness of the hotel lobby.
While he waited for the elevator,
he saw them carrying the body
into the street. How many others,
he wondered, had gone out on
their backs during their first day
in Puerto Pacifico?
Pembroke shaved, showered,
and put on the new suit and shirt
he had bought. Then he took
Mary Ann, the woman he had
met on the beach, out to dinner.
She would look magnificent even
when fully clothed, he decided,
and the pale chartreuse gown she
wore hardly placed her in that
category. Her conversation seemed
considerably more normal
after the other denizens of
Puerto Pacifico Pembroke had
listened to that afternoon.
After eating they danced for
an hour, had a few more drinks,
then went to Pembroke's room.
He still knew nothing about her
and had almost exhausted his
critical capabilities, but not once
had she become annoyed with
him. She seemed to devour every
factual point of imperfection
about herself that Pembroke
brought to her attention. And,
fantastically enough, she actually
appeared to have overcome every
little imperfection he had been
able to communicate to her.
It was in the privacy of his
room that Pembroke became
aware of just how perfect, physically,
Mary Ann was. Too perfect.
No freckles or moles anywhere
on the visible surface of
her brown skin, which was more
than a mere sampling. Furthermore,
her face and body were
meticulously symmetrical. And
she seemed to be wholly ambidextrous.
"With so many beautiful
women in Puerto Pacifico," said
Pembroke probingly, "I find it
hard to understand why there are
so few children."
"Yes, children are decorative,
aren't they," said Mary Ann. "I
do wish there were more of
them."
"Why not have a couple of
your own?" he asked.
"Oh, they're only given to maternal
types. I'd never get one.
Anyway, I won't ever marry,"
she said. "I'm the paramour
type."
It was obvious that the liquor
had been having some effect.
Either that, or she had a basic
flaw of loquacity that no one else
had discovered. Pembroke decided
he would have to cover his
tracks carefully.
"What type am I?" he asked.
"Silly, you're real. You're not
a type at all."
"Mary Ann, I love you very
much," Pembroke murmured,
gambling everything on this one
throw. "When you go to Earth
I'll miss you terribly."
"Oh, but you'll be dead by
then," she pouted. "So I mustn't
fall in love with you. I don't want
to be miserable."
"If I pretended I was one of
you, if I left on the boat with
you, they'd let me go to Earth
with you. Wouldn't they?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sure they would."
"Mary Ann, you have two
other flaws I feel I should mention."
"Yes? Please tell me."
"In the first place," said Pembroke,
"you should be willing to
fall in love with me even if it
will eventually make you unhappy.
How can you be the paramour
type if you refuse to fall in
love foolishly? And when you
have fallen in love, you should be
very loyal."
"I'll try," she said unsurely.
"What else?"
"The other thing is that, as
my mistress, you must never
mention me to anyone. It would
place me in great danger."
"I'll never tell anyone anything
about you," she promised.
"Now try to love me," Pembroke
said, drawing her into his
arms and kissing with little
pleasure the smooth, warm perfection
of her tanned cheeks.
"Love me my sweet, beautiful,
affectionate Mary Ann. My paramour."
Making love to Mary Ann was
something short of ecstasy. Not
for any obvious reason, but because
of subtle little factors that
make a woman a woman. Mary
Ann had no pulse. Mary Ann did
not perspire. Mary Ann did not
fatigue gradually but all at once.
Mary Ann breathed regularly
under all circumstances. Mary
Ann talked and talked and talked.
But then, Mary Ann was not
a human being.
When she left the hotel at midnight,
Pembroke was quite sure
that she understood his plan and
that she was irrevocably in love
with him. Tomorrow might bring
his death, but it might also ensure
his escape. After forty-two
years of searching for a passion,
for a cause, for a loyalty, Frank
Pembroke had at last found his.
Earth and the human race that
peopled it. And Mary Ann would
help him to save it.
The next morning Pembroke
talked to Valencia about hunting.
He said that he planned to go
shooting out on the desert which
surrounded the city. Valencia
told him that there were no living
creatures anywhere but in
the city. Pembroke said he was
going out anyway.
He picked up Mary Ann at her
apartment and together they
went to a sporting goods store.
As he guessed there was a goodly
selection of firearms, despite the
fact that there was nothing to
hunt and only a single target
range within the city. Everything,
of course, had to be just
like Earth. That, after all, was
the purpose of Puerto Pacifico.
By noon they had rented a
jeep and were well away from
the city. Pembroke and Mary
Ann took turns firing at the paper
targets they had purchased. At
twilight they headed back to the
city. On the outskirts, where the
sand and soil were mixed and no
footprints would be left, Pembroke
hopped off. Mary Ann
would go straight to the police
and report that Pembroke had attacked
her and that she had shot
him. If necessary, she would conduct
the authorities to the place
where they had been target
shooting, but would be unable to
locate the spot where she had
buried the body. Why had she
buried it? Because at first she
was not going to report the incident.
She was frightened. It
was not airtight, but there would
probably be no further investigation.
And they certainly would
not prosecute Mary Ann for killing
an Earthman.
Now Pembroke had himself to
worry about. The first step was
to enter smoothly into the new
life he had planned. It wouldn't
be so comfortable as the previous
one, but should be considerably
safer. He headed slowly for the
"old" part of town, aging his
clothes against buildings and
fences as he walked. He had already
torn the collar of the shirt
and discarded his belt. By morning
his beard would grow to
blacken his face. And he would
look weary and hungry and aimless.
Only the last would be a deception.
Two weeks later Pembroke
phoned Mary Ann. The police
had accepted her story without
even checking. And when, when
would she be seeing him again?
He had aroused her passion and
no amount of long-distance love
could requite it. Soon, he assured
her, soon.
"Because, after all, you do owe
me something," she added.
And that was bad because it
sounded as if she had been giving
some womanly thought to the situation.
A little more of that and
she might go to the police again,
this time for vengeance.
Twice during his wanderings
Pembroke had seen the corpses
of Earthmen being carted out of
buildings. They had to be Earthmen
because they bled. Mary Ann
had admitted that she did not.
There would be very few Earthmen
left in Puerto Pacifico, and
it would be simple enough to locate
him if he were reported as
being on the loose. There was
no out but to do away with Mary
Ann.
Pembroke headed for the
beach. He knew she invariably
went there in the afternoon. He
loitered around the stalls where
hot dogs and soft drinks were
sold, leaning against a post in
the hot sun, hat pulled down over
his forehead. Then he noticed
that people all about him were
talking excitedly. They were discussing
a ship. It was leaving
that afternoon. Anyone who
could pass the interview would
be sent to Earth.
Pembroke had visited the
docks every day, without being
able to learn when the great
exodus would take place. Yet he
was certain the first lap would be
by water rather than by spaceship,
since no one he had talked
to in the city had ever heard of
spaceships. In fact, they knew
very little about their masters.
Now the ship had arrived and
was to leave shortly. If there was
any but the most superficial examination,
Pembroke would no
doubt be discovered and exterminated.
But since no one seemed
concerned about anything but his
own speech and behavior, he assumed
that they had all qualified
in every other respect. The reason
for transporting Earth People
to this planet was, of course,
to apply a corrective to any of
the Pacificos' aberrant mannerisms
or articulation. This was
the polishing up phase.
Pembroke began hobbling toward
the docks. Almost at once
he found himself face to face
with Mary Ann. She smiled happily
when she recognized him.
That
was a good thing.
"It is a sign of poor breeding
to smile at tramps," Pembroke
admonished her in a whisper.
"Walk on ahead."
She obeyed. He followed. The
crowd grew thicker. They neared
the docks and Pembroke saw that
there were now set up on the
roped-off wharves small interviewing
booths. When it was
their turn, he and Mary Ann
each went into separate ones.
Pembroke found himself alone in
the little room.
Then he saw that there was
another entity in his presence
confined beneath a glass dome. It
looked rather like a groundhog
and had seven fingers on each of
its six limbs. But it was larger
and hairier than the glass one
he had seen at the gift store.
With four of its limbs it tapped
on an intricate keyboard in front
of it.
"What is your name?" queried
a metallic voice from a speaker
on the wall.
"I'm Jerry Newton. Got no
middle initial," Pembroke said in
a surly voice.
"Occupation?"
"I work a lot o' trades. Fisherman,
fruit picker, fightin' range
fires, vineyards, car washer. Anything.
You name it. Been out of
work for a long time now,
though. Goin' on five months.
These here are hard times, no
matter what they say."
"What do you think of the
Chinese situation?" the voice inquired.
"Which situation's 'at?"
"Where's Seattle?"
"Seattle? State o' Washington."
And so it went for about five
minutes. Then he was told he
had qualified as a satisfactory
surrogate for a mid-twentieth
century American male, itinerant
type.
"You understand your mission,
Newton?" the voice asked. "You
are to establish yourself on
Earth. In time you will receive
instructions. Then you will attack.
You will not see us, your
masters, again until the atmosphere
has been sufficiently chlorinated.
In the meantime, serve
us well."
He stumbled out toward the
docks, then looked about for
Mary Ann. He saw her at last
behind the ropes, her lovely face
in tears.
Then she saw him. Waving
frantically, she called his name
several times. Pembroke mingled
with the crowd moving toward
the ship, ignoring her. But still
the woman persisted in her
shouting.
Sidling up to a well-dressed
man-about-town type, Pembroke
winked at him and snickered.
"You Frank?" he asked.
"Hell, no. But some poor
punk's sure red in the face, I'll
bet," the man-about-town said
with a chuckle. "Those high-strung
paramour types always
raising a ruckus. They never do
pass the interview. Don't know
why they even make 'em."
Suddenly Mary Ann was quiet.
"Ambulance squad," Pembroke's
companion explained.
"They'll take her off to the buggy
house for a few days and bring
her out fresh and ignorant as the
day she was assembled. Don't
know why they keep making 'em,
as I say. But I guess there's a
call for that type up there on
Earth."
"Yeah, I reckon there is at
that," said Pembroke, snickering
again as he moved away from the
other. "And why not? Hey?
Why not?"
Pembroke went right on hating
himself, however, till the
night he was deposited in a field
outside of Ensenada, broke but
happy, with two other itinerant
types. They separated in San
Diego, and it was not long before
Pembroke was explaining to the
police how he had drifted far
from the scene of the sinking of
the
Elena Mia
on a piece of
wreckage, and had been picked
up by a Chilean trawler. How he
had then made his way, with
much suffering, up the coast to
California. Two days later, his
identity established and his circumstances
again solvent, he was
headed for Los Angeles to begin
his save-Earth campaign.
Now, seated at his battered
desk in the shabby rented office
over Lemark's Liquors, Pembroke
gazed without emotion at
the two demolished Pacificos that
lay sprawled one atop the other
in the corner. His watch said
one-fifteen. The man from the
FBI should arrive soon.
There were footsteps on the
stairs for the third time that
day. Not the brisk, efficient steps
of a federal official, but the hesitant,
self-conscious steps of a
junior clerk type.
Pembroke rose as the young
man appeared at the door. His
face was smooth, unpimpled,
clean-shaven, without sweat on a
warm summer afternoon.
"Are you Dr. Von Schubert?"
the newcomer asked, peering into
the room. "You see, I've got a
problem—"
The four shots from Pembroke's
pistol solved his problem
effectively. Pembroke tossed his
third victim onto the pile, then
opened a can of lager, quaffing
it appreciatively. Seating himself
once more, he leaned back in
the chair, both feet upon the
desk.
He would be out of business
soon, once the FBI agent had got
there. Pembroke was only in it to
get the proof he would need to
convince people of the truth of
his tale. But in the meantime he
allowed himself to admire the
clipping of the newspaper ad he
had run in all the Los Angeles
papers for the past week. The
little ad that had saved mankind
from God-knew-what insidious
menace. It read:
ARE YOU IMPERFECT?
LET DR. VON SCHUBERT POINT OUT
YOUR FLAWS
IT IS HIS GOAL TO MAKE YOU THE
AVERAGE FOR YOUR TYPE
FEE—$3.75
MONEY BACK IF NOT SATISFIED!
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 25086 | [
"Why is Conners upset with Bridges?",
"How does Jerry get his message to the White House press secretary?",
"What do the Venusians want?",
"Why does Jerry visit Professor Coltz?",
"What happened to the Delegate?",
"Why didn't the Delegate have a robotic voice?",
"Why doesn't the robot arrive already put together?"
] | [
[
"Conners was chewed out by a Senator because Bridges was trying to get information,",
"Conners has a deal with the State Department that the paper won't print certain stories.",
"Conners received a report that Bridges was behaving unprofessionally.",
"Conners has a deal with the White House that the paper won't print certain stories."
],
[
"He bribes the press secretary's secretary with flashy diamond earrings.",
"He bribes the press secretary's secretary with diamond earrings and a bracelet.",
"He flatters the press secretary's secretary by comparing her to Lana Turner and Hedy Lamar.",
"He flatters the press secretary's secretary by calling her the names of beautiful movie stars."
],
[
"The Venusians want galactic peace.",
"The Venusians want to join the UN.",
"The Venusians want to atomize the Earth.",
"The Venusians don't want the people of Earth to use nuclear weapons."
],
[
"Jerry thinks Professor Coltz may be a Venutian in disguise.",
"Jerry remembered something Professor Coltz said when Jerry was a student.",
"Jerry remembered that Professor Coltz was interested in robotics.",
"Jerry thinks Professor Coltz may be a domestic terrorist, using an extraterrestrial visit as a cover."
],
[
"The Marines destroyed it.",
"It self-destructed.",
"It returned to Venus.",
"It was locked inside a bomb shelter."
],
[
"The robot was programmed by the Venusians to speak the many languages of Earth.",
"The robot was programmed by Professor Coltz and the group that helped him to speak eight languages.",
"The robot was voiced by Professor Coltz remotely.",
"The advanced Venusian technology allows for a natural-sounding voice."
],
[
"The spaceship is only 15 feet in total circumference. If the robot was already put together it wouldn't fit inside.",
"The Venusians think the task of building the robot will unite the people of Earth.",
"Professor Coltz's team thinks the task of building the robot will unite the people of Earth.",
"The robot is sent in pieces packed in a special material to protect it from the landing impact."
]
] | [
3,
2,
4,
2,
2,
3,
1
] | [
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | The saucer was interesting, but where was the delegate?
The
DELEGATE
FROM
VENUS
By HENRY SLESAR
ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK
Everybody was waiting to see
what the delegate from Venus
looked like. And all they got
for their patience was the
biggest surprise since David
clobbered Goliath.
"
Let
me put it this way,"
Conners said paternally.
"We expect a certain amount of
decorum from our Washington
news correspondents, and that's
all I'm asking for."
Jerry Bridges, sitting in the
chair opposite his employer's
desk, chewed on his knuckles
and said nothing. One part of
his mind wanted him to play it
cagey, to behave the way the
newspaper wanted him to behave,
to protect the cozy Washington
assignment he had waited
four years to get. But another
part of him, a rebel part,
wanted him to stay on the trail
of the story he felt sure was
about to break.
"I didn't mean to make trouble,
Mr. Conners," he said casually.
"It just seemed strange, all
these exchanges of couriers in
the past two days. I couldn't
help thinking something was
up."
"Even if that's true, we'll
hear about it through the usual
channels," Conners frowned.
"But getting a senator's secretary
drunk to obtain information—well,
that's not only indiscreet,
Bridges. It's downright
dirty."
Jerry grinned. "I didn't take
that
kind of advantage, Mr.
Conners. Not that she wasn't a
toothsome little dish ..."
"Just thank your lucky stars
that it didn't go any further.
And from now on—" He waggled
a finger at him. "Watch
your step."
Jerry got up and ambled to the
door. But he turned before leaving
and said:
"By the way. What do
you
think is going on?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Don't kid me, Mr. Conners.
Think it's war?"
"That'll be all, Bridges."
The reporter closed the door
behind him, and then strolled
out of the building into the sunlight.
He met Ruskin, the fat little
AP correspondent, in front of
the Pan-American Building on
Constitution Avenue. Ruskin
was holding the newspaper that
contained the gossip-column
item which had started the
whole affair, and he seemed
more interested in the romantic
rather than political implications.
As he walked beside him,
he said:
"So what really happened,
pal? That Greta babe really let
down her hair?"
"Where's your decorum?"
Jerry growled.
Ruskin giggled. "Boy, she's
quite a dame, all right. I think
they ought to get the Secret
Service to guard her. She really
fills out a size 10, don't she?"
"Ruskin," Jerry said, "you
have a low mind. For a week,
this town has been acting like
the
39 Steps
, and all you can
think about is dames. What's
the matter with you? Where
will you be when the big mushroom
cloud comes?"
"With Greta, I hope," Ruskin
sighed. "What a way to get
radioactive."
They split off a few blocks
later, and Jerry walked until he
came to the Red Tape Bar &
Grill, a favorite hangout of the
local journalists. There were
three other newsmen at the bar,
and they gave him snickering
greetings. He took a small table
in the rear and ate his meal in
sullen silence.
It wasn't the newsmen's jibes
that bothered him; it was the
certainty that something of
major importance was happening
in the capitol. There had
been hourly conferences at the
White House, flying visits by
State Department officials, mysterious
conferences involving
members of the Science Commission.
So far, the byword
had been secrecy. They knew
that Senator Spocker, chairman
of the Congressional Science
Committee, had been involved
in every meeting, but Senator
Spocker was unavailable. His
secretary, however, was a little
more obliging ...
Jerry looked up from his
coffee and blinked when he saw
who was coming through the
door of the Bar & Grill. So did
every other patron, but for different
reasons. Greta Johnson
had that effect upon men. Even
the confining effect of a mannishly-tailored
suit didn't hide
her outrageously feminine qualities.
She walked straight to his
table, and he stood up.
"They told me you might be
here," she said, breathing hard.
"I just wanted to thank you for
last night."
"Look, Greta—"
Wham!
Her hand, small and
delicate, felt like a slab of lead
when it slammed into his cheek.
She left a bruise five fingers
wide, and then turned and stalked
out.
He ran after her, the restaurant
proprietor shouting about
the unpaid bill. It took a rapid
dog-trot to reach her side.
"Greta, listen!" he panted.
"You don't understand about
last night. It wasn't the way
that lousy columnist said—"
She stopped in her tracks.
"I wouldn't have minded so
much if you'd gotten me drunk.
But to
use
me, just to get a
story—"
"But I'm a
reporter
, damn it.
It's my job. I'd do it again if
I thought you knew anything."
She was pouting now. "Well,
how do you suppose I feel,
knowing you're only interested
in me because of the Senator?
Anyway, I'll probably lose my
job, and then you won't have
any
use for me."
"Good-bye, Greta," Jerry said
sadly.
"What?"
"Good-bye. I suppose you
won't want to see me any more."
"Did I say that?"
"It just won't be any use.
We'll always have this thing between
us."
She looked at him for a moment,
and then touched his
bruised cheek with a tender,
motherly gesture.
"Your poor face," she murmured,
and then sighed. "Oh,
well. I guess there's no use
fighting it. Maybe if I
did
tell
you what I know, we could act
human
again."
"Greta!"
"But if you print one
word
of it, Jerry Bridges, I'll never
speak to you again!"
"Honey," Jerry said, taking
her arm, "you can trust me like
a brother."
"That's
not
the idea," Greta
said stiffly.
In a secluded booth at the rear
of a restaurant unfrequented by
newsmen, Greta leaned forward
and said:
"At first, they thought it was
another sputnik."
"
Who
did?"
"The State Department, silly.
They got reports from the observatories
about another sputnik
being launched by the Russians.
Only the Russians denied
it. Then there were joint meetings,
and nobody could figure
out
what
the damn thing was."
"Wait a minute," Jerry said
dizzily. "You mean to tell me
there's another of those metal
moons up there?"
"But it's not a moon. That's
the big point. It's a spaceship."
"A
what
?"
"A spaceship," Greta said
coolly, sipping lemonade. "They
have been in contact with it now
for about three days, and they're
thinking of calling a plenary
session of the UN just to figure
out what to do about it. The
only hitch is, Russia doesn't
want to wait that long, and is
asking for a hurry-up summit
meeting to make a decision."
"A decision about what?"
"About the Venusians, of
course."
"Greta," Jerry said mildly, "I
think you're still a little woozy
from last night."
"Don't be silly. The spaceship's
from Venus; they've already
established that. And the
people on it—I
guess
they're
people—want to know if they
can land their delegate."
"Their what?"
"Their delegate. They came
here for some kind of conference,
I guess. They know about
the UN and everything, and
they want to take part. They
say that with all the satellites
being launched, that our affairs
are
their
affairs, too. It's kind
of confusing, but that's what
they say."
"You mean these Venusians
speak English?"
"And Russian. And French.
And German. And everything I
guess. They've been having
radio talks with practically
every country for the past three
days. Like I say, they want to
establish diplomatic relations
or something. The Senator
thinks that if we don't agree,
they might do something drastic,
like blow us all up. It's kind
of scary." She shivered delicately.
"You're taking it mighty
calm," he said ironically.
"Well, how else can I take it?
I'm not even supposed to
know
about it, except that the Senator
is so careless about—" She
put her fingers to her lips. "Oh,
dear, now you'll really think I'm
terrible."
"Terrible? I think you're
wonderful!"
"And you promise not to print
it?"
"Didn't I say I wouldn't?"
"Y-e-s. But you know, you're
a liar sometimes, Jerry. I've noticed
that about you."
The press secretary's secretary,
a massive woman with
gray hair and impervious to
charm, guarded the portals of
his office with all the indomitable
will of the U. S. Marines.
But Jerry Bridges tried.
"You don't understand, Lana,"
he said. "I don't want to
see
Mr.
Howells. I just want you to
give
him something."
"My name's not Lana, and I
can't
deliver any messages."
"But this is something he
wants
to see." He handed her
an envelope, stamped URGENT.
"Do it for me, Hedy. And I'll
buy you the flashiest pair of
diamond earrings in Washington."
"Well," the woman said,
thawing slightly. "I
could
deliver
it with his next batch of mail."
"When will that be?"
"In an hour. He's in a terribly
important meeting right
now."
"You've got some mail right
there. Earrings and a bracelet
to match."
She looked at him with exasperation,
and then gathered up
a stack of memorandums and
letters, his own envelope atop
it. She came out of the press
secretary's office two minutes
later with Howells himself, and
Howells said: "You there,
Bridges. Come in here."
"Yes,
sir
!" Jerry said, breezing
by the waiting reporters
with a grin of triumph.
There were six men in the
room, three in military uniform.
Howells poked the envelope towards
Jerry, and snapped:
"This note of yours. Just what
do you think it means?"
"You know better than I do,
Mr. Howells. I'm just doing my
job; I think the public has a
right to know about this spaceship
that's flying around—"
His words brought an exclamation
from the others. Howells
sighed, and said:
"Mr. Bridges, you don't make
it easy for us. It's our opinion
that secrecy is essential, that
leakage of the story might cause
panic. Since you're the only unauthorized
person who knows of
it, we have two choices. One of
them is to lock you up."
Jerry swallowed hard.
"The other is perhaps more
practical," Howells said. "You'll
be taken into our confidence, and
allowed to accompany those officials
who will be admitted to the
landing site. But you will
not
be
allowed to relay the story to the
press until such a time as
all
correspondents are informed.
That won't give you a 'scoop' if
that's what you call it, but you'll
be an eyewitness. That should
be worth something."
"It's worth a lot," Jerry said
eagerly. "Thanks, Mr. Howells."
"Don't thank me, I'm not doing
you any
personal
favor. Now
about the landing tonight—"
"You mean the spaceship's
coming down?"
"Yes. A special foreign ministers
conference was held this
morning, and a decision was
reached to accept the delegate.
Landing instructions are being
given at Los Alamos, and the
ship will presumably land
around midnight tonight. There
will be a jet leaving Washington
Airport at nine, and you'll be
on it. Meanwhile, consider yourself
in custody."
The USAF jet transport
wasn't the only secrecy-shrouded
aircraft that took off that evening
from Washington Airport.
But Jerry Bridges, sitting in
the rear seat flanked by two
Sphinx-like Secret Service men,
knew that he was the only passenger
with non-official status
aboard.
It was only a few minutes
past ten when they arrived at
the air base at Los Alamos. The
desert sky was cloudy and starless,
and powerful searchlights
probed the thick cumulus. There
were sleek, purring black autos
waiting to rush the air passengers
to some unnamed destination.
They drove for twenty
minutes across a flat ribbon of
desert road, until Jerry sighted
what appeared to be a circle of
newly-erected lights in the middle
of nowhere. On the perimeter,
official vehicles were parked
in orderly rows, and four USAF
trailer trucks were in evidence,
their radarscopes turning slowly.
There was activity everywhere,
but it was well-ordered
and unhurried. They had done a
good job of keeping the excitement
contained.
He was allowed to leave the
car and stroll unescorted. He
tried to talk to some of the
scurrying officials, but to no
avail. Finally, he contented
himself by sitting on the sand,
his back against the grill of a
staff car, smoking one cigarette
after another.
As the minutes ticked off, the
activity became more frenetic
around him. Then the pace slowed,
and he knew the appointed
moment was approaching. Stillness
returned to the desert, and
tension was a tangible substance
in the night air.
The radarscopes spun slowly.
The searchlights converged
in an intricate pattern.
Then the clouds seemed to
part!
"Here she comes!" a voice
shouted. And in a moment, the
calm was shattered. At first, he
saw nothing. A faint roar was
started in the heavens, and it
became a growl that increased
in volume until even the shouting
voices could no longer be
heard. Then the crisscrossing
lights struck metal, glancing off
the gleaming body of a descending
object. Larger and larger
the object grew, until it assumed
the definable shape of a squat
silver funnel, falling in a perfect
straight line towards the center
of the light-ringed area. When it
hit, a dust cloud obscured it from
sight.
A loudspeaker blared out an
unintelligible order, but its message
was clear. No one moved
from their position.
Finally, a three-man team,
asbestos-clad, lead-shielded, stepped
out from the ring of spectators.
They carried geiger counters
on long poles before them.
Jerry held his breath as they
approached the object; only
when they were yards away did
he appreciate its size. It wasn't
large; not more than fifteen feet
in total circumference.
One of the three men waved
a gloved hand.
"It's okay," a voice breathed
behind him. "No radiation ..."
Slowly, the ring of spectators
closed tighter. They were twenty
yards from the ship when the
voice spoke to them.
"Greetings from Venus," it
said, and then repeated the
phrase in six languages. "The
ship you see is a Venusian Class
7 interplanetary rocket, built
for one-passenger. It is clear of
all radiation, and is perfectly
safe to approach. There is a
hatch which may be opened by
an automatic lever in the side.
Please open this hatch and remove
the passenger."
An Air Force General whom
Jerry couldn't identify stepped
forward. He circled the ship
warily, and then said something
to the others. They came closer,
and he touched a small lever on
the silvery surface of the funnel.
A door slid open.
"It's a box!" someone said.
"A crate—"
"Colligan! Moore! Schaffer!
Lend a hand here—"
A trio came forward and
hoisted the crate out of the ship.
Then the voice spoke again;
Jerry deduced that it must have
been activated by the decreased
load of the ship.
"Please open the crate. You
will find our delegate within.
We trust you will treat him
with the courtesy of an official
emissary."
They set to work on the crate,
its gray plastic material giving
in readily to the application of
their tools. But when it was
opened, they stood aside in
amazement and consternation.
There were a variety of metal
pieces packed within, protected
by a filmy packing material.
"Wait a minute," the general
said. "Here's a book—"
He picked up a gray-bound
volume, and opened its cover.
"'Instructions for assembling
Delegate,'" he read aloud.
"'First, remove all parts and
arrange them in the following
order. A-1, central nervous system
housing. A-2 ...'" He looked
up. "It's an instruction book,"
he whispered. "We're supposed
to
build
the damn thing."
The Delegate, a handsomely
constructed robot almost eight
feet tall, was pieced together
some three hours later, by a
team of scientists and engineers
who seemed to find the Venusian
instructions as elementary as a
blueprint in an Erector set. But
simple as the job was, they were
obviously impressed by the
mechanism they had assembled.
It stood impassive until they
obeyed the final instruction.
"Press Button K ..."
They found button K, and
pressed it.
The robot bowed.
"Thank you, gentlemen," it
said, in sweet, unmetallic accents.
"Now if you will please
escort me to the meeting
place ..."
It wasn't until three days
after the landing that Jerry
Bridges saw the Delegate again.
Along with a dozen assorted
government officials, Army officers,
and scientists, he was
quartered in a quonset hut in
Fort Dix, New Jersey. Then,
after seventy-two frustrating
hours, he was escorted by Marine
guard into New York City.
No one told him his destination,
and it wasn't until he saw the
bright strips of light across the
face of the United Nations
building that he knew where the
meeting was to be held.
But his greatest surprise was
yet to come. The vast auditorium
which housed the general
assembly was filled to its capacity,
but there were new faces
behind the plaques which designated
the member nations.
He couldn't believe his eyes at
first, but as the meeting got
under way, he knew that it was
true. The highest echelons of the
world's governments were represented,
even—Jerry gulped
at the realization—Nikita Khrushchev
himself. It was a summit
meeting such as he had never
dreamed possible, a summit
meeting without benefit of long
foreign minister's debate. And
the cause of it all, a placid,
highly-polished metal robot, was
seated blithely at a desk which
bore the designation:
VENUS.
The robot delegate stood up.
"Gentlemen," it said into the
microphone, and the great men
at the council tables strained to
hear the translator's version
through their headphones, "Gentlemen,
I thank you for your
prompt attention. I come as a
Delegate from a great neighbor
planet, in the interests of peace
and progress for all the solar
system. I come in the belief that
peace is the responsibility of individuals,
of nations, and now
of worlds, and that each is dependent
upon the other. I speak
to you now through the electronic
instrumentation which
has been created for me, and I
come to offer your planet not
merely a threat, a promise, or
an easy solution—but a challenge."
The council room stirred.
"Your earth satellites have
been viewed with interest by the
astronomers of our world, and
we foresee the day when contact
between our planets will be commonplace.
As for ourselves, we
have hitherto had little desire
to explore beyond our realm,
being far too occupied with internal
matters. But our isolation
cannot last in the face of
your progress, so we believe that
we must take part in your
affairs.
"Here, then, is our challenge.
Continue your struggle of ideas,
compete with each other for the
minds of men, fight your bloodless
battles, if you know no
other means to attain progress.
But do all this
without
unleashing
the terrible forces of power
now at your command. Once
unleashed, these forces may or
may not destroy all that you
have gained. But we, the scientists
of Venus, promise you this—that
on the very day your conflict
deteriorates into heedless
violence, we will not stand by
and let the ugly contagion
spread. On that day, we of
Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly,
and relentlessly—to destroy
your world completely."
Again, the meeting room exploded
in a babble of languages.
"The vessel which brought me
here came as a messenger of
peace. But envision it, men of
Earth, as a messenger of war.
Unstoppable, inexorable, it may
return, bearing a different Delegate
from Venus—a Delegate of
Death, who speaks not in words,
but in the explosion of atoms.
Think of thousands of such Delegates,
fired from a vantage
point far beyond the reach of
your retaliation. This is the
promise and the challenge that
will hang in your night sky from
this moment forward. Look at
the planet Venus, men of Earth,
and see a Goddess of Vengeance,
poised to wreak its wrath upon
those who betray the peace."
The Delegate sat down.
Four days later, a mysterious
explosion rocked the quiet sands
of Los Alamos, and the Venus
spacecraft was no more. Two
hours after that, the robot delegate,
its message delivered, its
mission fulfilled, requested to be
locked inside a bombproof
chamber. When the door was
opened, the Delegate was an exploded
ruin.
The news flashed with lightning
speed over the world, and
Jerry Bridges' eyewitness accounts
of the incredible event
was syndicated throughout the
nation. But his sudden celebrity
left him vaguely unsatisfied.
He tried to explain his feeling
to Greta on his first night back
in Washington. They were in his
apartment, and it was the first
time Greta had consented to pay
him the visit.
"Well, what's
bothering
you?"
Greta pouted. "You've had the
biggest story of the year under
your byline. I should think you'd
be tickled pink."
"It's not that," Jerry said
moodily. "But ever since I heard
the Delegate speak, something's
been nagging me."
"But don't you think he's done
good? Don't you think they'll be
impressed by what he said?"
"I'm not worried about that.
I think that damn robot did
more for peace than anything
that's ever come along in this
cockeyed world. But still ..."
Greta snuggled up to him on
the sofa. "You worry too much.
Don't you ever think of anything
else? You should learn to
relax. It can be fun."
She started to prove it to him,
and Jerry responded the way a
normal, healthy male usually
does. But in the middle of an
embrace, he cried out:
"Wait a minute!"
"What's the matter?"
"I just thought of something!
Now where the hell did I put
my old notebooks?"
He got up from the sofa and
went scurrying to a closet. From
a debris of cardboard boxes, he
found a worn old leather brief
case, and cackled with delight
when he found the yellowed
notebooks inside.
"What
are
they?" Greta said.
"My old school notebooks.
Greta, you'll have to excuse me.
But there's something I've got
to do, right away!"
"That's all right with me,"
Greta said haughtily. "I know
when I'm not wanted."
She took her hat and coat from
the hall closet, gave him one
last chance to change his mind,
and then left.
Five minutes later, Jerry
Bridges was calling the airlines.
It had been eleven years since
Jerry had walked across the
campus of Clifton University,
heading for the ivy-choked
main building. It was remarkable
how little had changed, but
the students seemed incredibly
young. He was winded by the
time he asked the pretty girl at
the desk where Professor Martin
Coltz could be located.
"Professor Coltz?" She stuck
a pencil to her mouth. "Well, I
guess he'd be in the Holland
Laboratory about now."
"Holland Laboratory? What's
that?"
"Oh, I guess that was after
your time, wasn't it?"
Jerry felt decrepit, but managed
to say: "It must be something
new since I was here.
Where is this place?"
He followed her directions,
and located a fresh-painted
building three hundred yards
from the men's dorm. He met a
student at the door, who told
him that Professor Coltz would
be found in the physics department.
The room was empty when
Jerry entered, except for the
single stooped figure vigorously
erasing a blackboard. He turned
when the door opened. If the
students looked younger, Professor
Coltz was far older than
Jerry remembered. He was a
tall man, with an unruly confusion
of straight gray hair. He
blinked when Jerry said:
"Hello, Professor. Do you remember
me? Jerry Bridges?"
"Of course! I thought of you
only yesterday, when I saw your
name in the papers—"
They sat at facing student
desks, and chatted about old
times. But Jerry was impatient
to get to the point of his visit,
and he blurted out:
"Professor Coltz, something's
been bothering me. It bothered
me from the moment I heard
the Delegate speak. I didn't
know what it was until last
night, when I dug out my old
college notebooks. Thank God
I kept them."
Coltz's eyes were suddenly
hooded.
"What do you mean, Jerry?"
"There was something about
the Robot's speech that sounded
familiar—I could have sworn
I'd heard some of the words
before. I couldn't prove anything
until I checked my old
notes, and here's what I found."
He dug into his coat pocket
and produced a sheet of paper.
He unfolded it and read aloud.
"'It's my belief that peace is
the responsibility of individuals,
of nations, and someday, even of
worlds ...' Sound familiar, Professor?"
Coltz shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't recall every silly thing
I said, Jerry."
"But it's an interesting coincidence,
isn't it, Professor?
These very words were spoken
by the Delegate from Venus."
"A coincidence—"
"Is it? But I also remember
your interest in robotics. I'll
never forget that mechanical
homing pigeon you constructed.
And you've probably learned
much more these past eleven
years."
"What are you driving at,
Jerry?"
"Just this, Professor. I had a
little daydream, recently, and I
want you to hear it. I dreamed
about a group of teachers, scientists,
and engineers, a group
who were suddenly struck by
an exciting, incredible idea. A
group that worked in the quiet
and secrecy of a University on a
fantastic scheme to force the
idea of peace into the minds of
the world's big shots. Does my
dream interest you, Professor?"
"Go on."
"Well, I dreamt that this
group would secretly launch an
earth satellite of their own, and
arrange for the nose cone to
come down safely at a certain
time and place. They would install
a marvelous electronic robot
within the cone, ready to be
assembled. They would beam a
radio message to earth from the
cone, seemingly as if it originated
from their 'spaceship.'
Then, when the Robot was assembled,
they would speak
through it to demand peace for
all mankind ..."
"Jerry, if you do this—"
"You don't have to say it,
Professor, I know what you're
thinking. I'm a reporter, and my
business is to tell the world
everything I know. But if I
did it, there might not be a
world for me to write about,
would there? No, thanks, Professor.
As far as I'm concerned,
what I told you was nothing
more than a daydream."
Jerry braked the convertible
to a halt, and put his arm
around Greta's shoulder. She
looked up at the star-filled night,
and sighed romantically.
Jerry pointed. "That one."
Greta shivered closer to him.
"And to think what that terrible
planet can do to us!"
"Oh, I dunno. Venus is also
the Goddess of Love."
He swung his other arm
around her, and Venus winked
approvingly.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
October 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26066 | [
"What is the moral of the story?",
"How does the Cosmic Express Ray work?",
"Why is the machine operator willing to risk his job by sending Eric and Nada to Venus?",
"Where do Eric and Nada's meals come from?",
"Why don't Eric and Nada build a shelter first?",
"Why does the Cosmic Express official assume Eric and Nada are the victims of the situation?",
"Would Eric and Nada have been rescued, had the Cosmic Express operator not been drunk?"
] | [
[
"Be careful what you wish for.",
"Climate change could lead to a world where humans could only survive indoors in an artificial climate.",
"Overpopulation can lead to a world without nature, only giant cities.",
"Make a plan and pack supplies before moving to a new place."
],
[
"Matter is converted into power and sent out as a radiant beam. The beam is then focused to convert it back into atoms at the destination.",
"A photographic lens picks up an object in one place and reproduces it in a different place using light rays.",
"A radiant beam converts matter into power in order to be sent and then converted back into atoms at a new destination.",
"Particles of electricity are united to form an atom."
],
[
"The operator is an alcoholic, and alcohol has been outlawed.",
"The operator thinks he sent them to Hong Kong,",
"The operator is a friend of Eric's, and he owes Eric a favor.",
"It does not occur to him that he is risking his job to send them."
],
[
"Their meals are synthesized using light rays to reproduce a picture of food onto a plate.",
"Their meals are delivered by a dumbwaiter.",
"They have a food replicator in their apartment.",
"Their meals are ordered on a device that sends messages to the apartment building kitchens."
],
[
"They are looking for dry sticks to rub together.",
"They are certain they will find tools.",
"They are looking for flint to make a fire.",
"They are looking for a cave."
],
[
"The official is more concerned about the drunk operator, given that alcohol is outlawed. It does not occur to the official that anyone would request to be sent to Venus.",
"There are only 16 designated Cosmic Express destinations, and Venus is not one of them.",
"The official knows Eric and Nada should be arrested but does not want the situation to become a scandal.",
"The Venus colony has not built a receiving station."
],
[
"Yes. Eventually, someone would have checked the logs and recovered their bodies.",
"No. The official only checked the logs because the operator was drunk.",
"No. The operator told them he wouldn't be responsible.",
"Yes. Eventually, someone would have checked the logs and started a search."
]
] | [
1,
1,
1,
4,
3,
1,
2
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
December 1961 and
was first published in
Amazing Stories
November 1930. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
A Classic Reprint from AMAZING STORIES, November, 1930
Copyright 1931, by Experimenter Publications Inc.
The Cosmic Express
By JACK WILLIAMSON
Introduction by Sam Moskowitz
The
year 1928 was a great
year of discovery for
AMAZING
STORIES
.
They were uncovering
new talent at such a great rate,
(Harl Vincent, David H. Keller,
E. E. Smith, Philip Francis Nowlan,
Fletcher Pratt and Miles J.
Breuer), that Jack Williamson
barely managed to become one of
a distinguished group of discoveries
by stealing the cover of the
December issue for his first story
The Metal Man.
A disciple of A. Merritt, he attempted
to imitate in style, mood
and subject the magic of that
late lamented master of fantasy.
The imitation found great favor
from the readership and almost
instantly Jack Williamson became
an important name on the
contents page of
AMAZING STORIES
.
He followed his initial success
with two short novels
, The
Green Girl
in
AMAZING STORIES
and
The Alien Intelligence
in
SCIENCE WONDER STORIES
,
another
Gernsback publication. Both of
these stories were close copies of
A. Merritt, whose style and method
Jack Williamson parlayed into
popularity for eight years.
Yet the strange thing about it
was that Jack Williamson was
one of the most versatile science
fiction authors ever to sit down
at the typewriter. When the
vogue for science-fantasy altered
to super science, he created the
memorable super lock-picker
Giles Habilula as the major attraction
in a rousing trio of space
operas
, The Legion of Space, The
Cometeers
and
One Against the
Legion.
When grim realism was
the order of the day, he produced
Crucible of Power
and when they
wanted extrapolated theory in
present tense, he assumed the
disguise of Will Stewart and
popularized the concept of contra
terrene matter in science fiction
with
Seetee Ship
and
Seetee
Shock.
Finally, when only psychological
studies of the future
would do, he produced
"With
Folded Hands ..." "... And
Searching Mind."
The Cosmic Express
is of special
interest because it was written
during Williamson's A. Merritt
"kick," when he was writing
little else but, and it gave the
earliest indication of a more general
capability. The lightness of
the handling is especially modern,
barely avoiding the farcical
by the validity of the notion that
wireless transmission of matter
is the next big transportation
frontier to be conquered. It is
especially important because it
stylistically forecast a later trend
to accept the background for
granted, regardless of the quantity
of wonders, and proceed with
the story. With only a few thousand
scanning-disk television sets
in existence at the time of the
writing, the surmise that this
media would be a natural for
westerns was particularly astute.
Jack Williamson was born in
1908 in the Arizona territory
when covered wagons were the
primary form of transportation
and apaches still raided the settlers.
His father was a cattle
man, but for young Jack, the
ranch was anything but glamorous.
"My days were filled," he remembers,
"with monotonous
rounds of what seemed an endless,
heart-breaking war with
drought and frost and dust-storms,
poison-weeds and hail,
for the sake of survival on the
Llano Estacado."
The discovery
of
AMAZING STORIES
was the escape
he sought and his goal was
to be a science fiction writer. He
labored to this end and the first
he knew that a story of his had
been accepted was when he
bought the December, 1929 issue
of
AMAZING STORIES
.
Since then,
he has written millions of words
of science fiction and has gone on
record as follows: "I feel that
science-fiction is the folklore of
the new world of science, and
the expression of man's reaction
to a technological environment.
By which I mean that it is the
most interesting and stimulating
form of literature today."
Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
tumbled out of the
rumpled bed-clothing, a striking
slender figure in purple-striped
pajamas. He smiled fondly across
to the other of the twin beds,
where Nada, his pretty bride,
lay quiet beneath light silk covers.
With a groan, he stood up
and began a series of fantastic
bending exercises. But after a
few half-hearted movements, he
gave it up, and walked through
an open door into a small bright
room, its walls covered with bookcases
and also with scientific appliances
that would have been
strange to the man of four or
five centuries before, when the
Age of Aviation was beginning.
Suddenly there was a sharp tingling
sensation where they touched
the polished surface.
Yawning, Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
stood before the great
open window, staring out. Below
him was a wide, park-like space,
green with emerald lawns, and
bright with flowering plants.
Two hundred yards across it rose
an immense pyramidal building—an
artistic structure, gleaming
with white marble and bright
metal, striped with the verdure
of terraced roof-gardens,
its slender peak rising to
help support the gray, steel-ribbed
glass roof above. Beyond,
the park stretched away in
illimitable vistas, broken with
the graceful columned buildings
that held up the great glass roof.
Above the glass, over this New
York of 2432 A. D., a freezing
blizzard was sweeping. But small
concern was that to the lightly
clad man at the window, who was
inhaling deeply the fragrant air
from the plants below—air kept,
winter and summer, exactly at
20° C.
With another yawn, Mr. Eric
Stokes-Harding turned back to
the room, which was bright with
the rich golden light that poured
in from the suspended globes of
the cold ato-light that illuminated
the snow-covered city.
With a distasteful grimace, he
seated himself before a broad,
paper-littered desk, sat a few
minutes leaning back, with his
hands clasped behind his head.
At last he straightened reluctantly,
slid a small typewriter
out of its drawer, and began
pecking at it impatiently.
For Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
was an author. There was a whole
shelf of his books on the wall, in
bright jackets, red and blue and
green, that brought a thrill of
pleasure to the young novelist's
heart when he looked up from his
clattering machine.
He wrote "thrilling action romances,"
as his enthusiastic publishers
and television directors
said, "of ages past, when men
were men. Red-blooded heroes responding
vigorously to the stirring
passions of primordial life!"
He
was impartial as to the
source of his thrills—provided
they were distant enough
from modern civilization. His
hero was likely to be an ape-man
roaring through the jungle, with
a bloody rock in one hand and
a beautiful girl in the other.
Or a cowboy, "hard-riding, hard-shooting,"
the vanishing hero of
the ancient ranches. Or a man
marooned with a lovely woman
on a desert South Sea island.
His heroes were invariably
strong, fearless, resourceful fellows,
who could handle a club on
equal terms with a cave-man, or
call science to aid them in defending
a beautiful mate from
the terrors of a desolate wilderness.
And a hundred million read
Eric's novels, and watched the
dramatization of them on the
television screens. They thrilled
at the simple, romantic lives his
heroes led, paid him handsome
royalties, and subconsciously
shared his opinion that civilization
had taken all the best from
the life of man.
Eric had settled down to the
artistic satisfaction of describing
the sensuous delight of his
hero in the roasted marrow-bones
of a dead mammoth, when
the pretty woman in the other
room stirred, and presently came
tripping into the study, gay and
vivacious, and—as her husband
of a few months most justly
thought—altogether beautiful in
a bright silk dressing gown.
Recklessly, he slammed the
machine back into its place, and
resolved to forget that his next
"red-blooded action thriller" was
due in the publisher's office at the
end of the month. He sprang up
to kiss his wife, held her embraced
for a long happy moment.
And then they went hand in
hand, to the side of the room and
punched a series of buttons on a
panel—a simple way of ordering
breakfast sent up the automatic
shaft from the kitchens below.
Nada Stokes-Harding was also
an author. She wrote poems—"back
to nature stuff"—simple
lyrics of the sea, of sunsets, of
bird songs, of bright flowers and
warm winds, of thrilling communion
with Nature, and growing
things. Men read her poems
and called her a genius. Even
though the whole world had
grown up into a city, the birds
were extinct, there were no wild
flowers, and no one had time to
bother about sunsets.
"Eric, darling," she said, "isn't
it terrible to be cooped up here
in this little flat, away from the
things we both love?"
"Yes, dear. Civilization has
ruined the world. If we could only
have lived a thousand years ago,
when life was simple and natural,
when men hunted and killed their
meat, instead of drinking synthetic
stuff, when men still had
the joys of conflict, instead of
living under glass, like hot-house
flowers."
"If we could only go somewhere—"
"There isn't anywhere to go. I
write about the West, Africa,
South Sea Islands. But they
were all filled up two hundred
years ago. Pleasure resorts, sanatoriums,
cities, factories."
"If only we lived on Venus!
I was listening to a lecture on
the television, last night. The
speaker said that the Planet
Venus is younger than the Earth,
that it has not cooled so much. It
has a thick, cloudy atmosphere,
and low, rainy forests. There's
simple, elemental life there—like
Earth had before civilization
ruined it."
"Yes, Kinsley, with his new infra-red
ray telescope, that penetrates
the cloud layers of the
planet, proved that Venus rotates
in about the same period as
Earth; and it must be much like
Earth was a million years ago."
"Eric, I wonder if we could go
there! It would be so thrilling to
begin life like the characters in
your stories, to get away from
this hateful civilization, and live
natural lives. Maybe a rocket—"
The
young author's eyes were
glowing. He skipped across the
floor, seized Nada, kissed her
ecstatically. "Splendid! Think of
hunting in the virgin forest, and
bringing the game home to you!
But I'm afraid there is no way.—Wait!
The Cosmic Express."
"The Cosmic Express?"
"A new invention. Just perfected
a few weeks ago, I understand.
By Ludwig Von der Valls,
the German physicist."
"I've quit bothering about science.
It has ruined nature, filled
the world with silly, artificial
people, doing silly, artificial
things."
"But this is quite remarkable,
dear. A new way to travel—by
ether!"
"By ether!"
"Yes. You know of course that
energy and matter are interchangeable
terms; both are simply
etheric vibration, of different
sorts."
"Of course. That's elementary."
She smiled proudly. "I can
give you examples, even of the
change. The disintegration of the
radium atom, making helium
and lead and
energy
. And Millikan's
old proof that his Cosmic
Ray is generated when particles
of electricity are united to form
an atom."
"Fine! I thought you said you
weren't a scientist." He glowed
with pride. "But the method, in
the new Cosmic Express, is simply
to convert the matter to be
carried into power, send it out
as a radiant beam and focus the
beam to convert it back into
atoms at the destination."
"But the amount of energy
must be terrific—"
"It is. You know short waves
carry more energy than long
ones. The Express Ray is an
electromagnetic vibration of frequency
far higher than that of
even the Cosmic Ray, and correspondingly
more powerful and
more penetrating."
The girl frowned, running slim
fingers through golden-brown
hair. "But I don't see how they
get any recognizable object, not
even how they get the radiation
turned back into matter."
"The beam is focused, just like
the light that passes through a
camera lens. The photographic
lens, using light rays, picks up a
picture and reproduces it again
on the plate—just the same as
the Express Ray picks up an
object and sets it down on the
other side of the world.
"An analogy from television
might help. You know that by
means of the scanning disc, the
picture is transformed into mere
rapid fluctuations in the brightness
of a beam of light. In a
parallel manner, the focal plane
of the Express Ray moves slowly
through the object, progressively,
dissolving layers of the
thickness of a single atom, which
are accurately reproduced at the
other focus of the instrument—which
might be in Venus!
"But the analogy of the lens
is the better of the two. For no
receiving instrument is required,
as in television. The object is
built up of an infinite series of
plane layers, at the focus of the
ray, no matter where that may
be. Such a thing would be impossible
with radio apparatus
because even with the best beam
transmission, all but a tiny fraction
of the power is lost, and
power is required to rebuild the
atoms. Do you understand,
dear?"
"Not altogether. But I should
worry! Here comes breakfast.
Let me butter your toast."
A bell had rung at the shaft.
She ran to it, and returned with
a great silver tray, laden with
dainty dishes, which she set on a
little side table. They sat down
opposite each other, and ate, getting
as much satisfaction from
contemplation of each other's
faces as from the excellent food.
When they had finished, she carried
the tray to the shaft, slid
it in a slot, and touched a button—thus
disposing of the culinary
cares of the morning.
She ran back to Eric, who was
once more staring distastefully
at his typewriter.
"Oh, darling! I'm thrilled to
death about the Cosmic Express!
If we could go to Venus, to a new
life on a new world, and get
away from all this hateful conventional
society—"
"We can go to their office—it's
only five minutes. The chap
that operates the machine for
the company is a pal of mine.
He's not supposed to take passengers
except between the offices
they have scattered about the
world. But I know his weak
point—"
Eric laughed, fumbled with a
hidden spring under his desk. A
small polished object, gleaming
silvery, slid down into his hand.
"Old friendship,
plus
this,
would make him—like spinach."
Five
minutes later Mr. Eric
Stokes-Harding and his pretty
wife were in street clothes,
light silk tunics of loose, flowing
lines—little clothing being required
in the artificially warmed
city. They entered an elevator
and dropped thirty stories to the
ground floor of the great building.
There they entered a cylindrical
car, with rows of seats down
the sides. Not greatly different
from an ancient subway car, except
that it was air-tight, and
was hurled by magnetic attraction
and repulsion through a
tube exhausted of air, at a speed
that would have made an old
subway rider gasp with amazement.
In five more minutes their car
had whipped up to the base of
another building, in the business
section, where there was no room
for parks between the mighty
structures that held the unbroken
glass roofs two hundred stories
above the concrete pavement.
An elevator brought them up a
hundred and fifty stories. Eric
led Nada down a long, carpeted
corridor to a wide glass door,
which bore the words:
COSMIC EXPRESS
stenciled in gold capitals across
it.
As they approached, a lean
man, carrying a black bag, darted
out of an elevator shaft opposite
the door, ran across the corridor,
and entered. They pushed in after
him.
They were in a little room,
cut in two by a high brass grill.
In front of it was a long bench
against the wall, that reminded
one of the waiting room in an old
railroad depot. In the grill was a
little window, with a lazy, brown-eyed
youth leaning on the shelf
behind it. Beyond him was a
great, glittering piece of mechanism,
half hidden by the brass.
A little door gave access to the
machine from the space before
the grill.
The thin man in black, whom
Eric now recognized as a prominent
French heart-specialist, was
dancing before the window, waving
his bag frantically, raving at
the sleepy boy.
"Queek! I have tell you zee
truth! I have zee most urgent
necessity to go queekly. A patient
I have in Paree, zat ees in
zee most creetical condition!"
"Hold your horses just a minute,
Mister. We got a client in
the machine now. Russian diplomat
from Moscow to Rio de
Janeiro.... Two hundred seventy
dollars and eighty cents,
please.... Your turn next. Remember
this is just an experimental
service. Regular installations
all over the world in a year....
Ready now. Come on in."
The youth took the money,
pressed a button. The door
sprang open in the grill, and the
frantic physician leaped through
it.
"Lie down on the crystal, face
up," the young man ordered.
"Hands at your sides, don't
breathe. Ready!"
He manipulated his dials and
switches, and pressed another
button.
"Why, hello, Eric, old man!"
he cried. "That's the lady you
were telling me about? Congratulations!"
A bell jangled before
him on the panel. "Just a minute.
I've got a call."
He punched the board again.
Little bulbs lit and glowed for a
second. The youth turned toward
the half-hidden machine, spoke
courteously.
"All right, madam. Walk out.
Hope you found the transit pleasant."
"But my Violet! My precious
Violet!" a shrill female voice
came from the machine. "Sir,
what have you done with my
darling Violet?"
"I'm sure I don't know, madam.
You lost it off your hat?"
"None of your impertinence,
sir! I want my dog."
"Ah, a dog. Must have jumped
off the crystal. You can have
him sent on for three hundred
and—"
"Young man, if any harm
comes to my Violet—I'll—I'll—I'll
appeal to the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!"
"Very good, madam. We appreciate
your patronage."
The
door flew open again.
A very fat woman, puffing
angrily, face highly colored,
clothing shimmering with artificial
gems, waddled pompously
out of the door through which
the frantic French doctor had
so recently vanished. She rolled
heavily across the room, and out
into the corridor. Shrill words
floated back:
"I'm going to see my lawyer!
My precious Violet—"
The sallow youth winked.
"And now what can I do for you,
Eric?"
"We want to go to Venus, if
that ray of yours can put us
there."
"To Venus? Impossible. My
orders are to use the Express
merely between the sixteen designated
stations, at New York,
San Francisco, Tokyo, London,
Paris—"
"See here, Charley," with a
cautious glance toward the door,
Eric held up the silver flask.
"For old time's sake, and for
this—"
The boy seemed dazed at sight
of the bright flask. Then, with a
single swift motion, he snatched
it out of Eric's hand, and bent
to conceal it below his instrument
panel.
"Sure, old boy. I'd send you to
heaven for that, if you'd give me
the micrometer readings to set
the ray with. But I tell you, this
is dangerous. I've got a sort of
television attachment, for focusing
the ray. I can turn that on
Venus—I've been amusing myself,
watching the life there, already.
Terrible place. Savage. I
can pick a place on high land to
set you down. But I can't be responsible
for what happens afterward."
"Simple, primitive life is what
we're looking for. And now what
do I owe you—"
"Oh, that's all right. Between
friends. Provided that stuff's
genuine! Walk in and lie down on
the crystal block. Hands at your
sides. Don't move."
The little door had swung
open again, and Eric led Nada
through. They stepped into a little
cell, completely surrounded
with mirrors and vast prisms
and lenses and electron tubes. In
the center was a slab of transparent
crystal, eight feet square
and two inches thick, with an
intricate mass of machinery below
it.
Eric helped Nada to a place
on the crystal, lay down at her
side.
"I think the Express Ray is
focused just at the surface of the
crystal, from below," he said. "It
dissolves our substance, to be
transmitted by the beam. It
would look as if we were melting
into the crystal."
"Ready," called the youth.
"Think I've got it for you. Sort
of a high island in the jungle.
Nothing bad in sight now. But,
I say—how're you coming back?
I haven't got time to watch you."
"Go ahead. We aren't coming
back."
"Gee! What is it? Elopement?
I thought you were married already.
Or is it business difficulties?
The Bears did make an awful
raid last night. But you better
let me set you down in Hong
Kong."
A bell jangled. "So long," the
youth called.
Nada and Eric felt themselves
enveloped in fire. Sheets of white
flame seemed to lap up about
them from the crystal block. Suddenly
there was a sharp tingling
sensation where they touched
the polished surface. Then blackness,
blankness.
The
next thing they knew, the
fires were gone from about
them. They were lying in something
extremely soft and fluid;
and warm rain was beating in
their faces. Eric sat up, found
himself in a mud-puddle. Beside
him was Nada, opening her eyes
and struggling up, her bright
garments stained with black
mud.
All about rose a thick jungle,
dark and gloomy—and very wet.
Palm-like, the gigantic trees
were, or fern-like, flinging clouds
of feathery green foliage high
against a somber sky of unbroken
gloom.
They stood up, triumphant.
"At last!" Nada cried. "We're
free! Free of that hateful old
civilization! We're back to Nature!"
"Yes, we're on our feet now,
not parasites on the machines."
"It's wonderful to have a fine,
strong man like you to trust in,
Eric. You're just like one of the
heroes in your books!"
"You're the perfect companion,
Nada.... But now we
must be practical. We must
build a fire, find weapons, set up
a shelter of some kind. I guess it
will be night, pretty soon. And
Charley said something about
savage animals he had seen in
the television.
"We'll find a nice dry cave,
and have a fire in front of the
door. And skins of animals to
sleep on. And pottery vessels to
cook in. And you will find seeds
and grown grain."
"But first we must find a flint-bed.
We need flint for tools, and
to strike sparks to make a fire
with. We will probably come
across a chunk of virgin copper,
too—it's found native."
Presently they set off through
the jungle. The mud seemed to
be very abundant, and of a most
sticky consistence. They sank
into it ankle deep at every step,
and vast masses of it clung to
their feet. A mile they struggled
on, without finding where a provident
nature had left them even
a single fragment of quartz, to
say nothing of a mass of pure
copper.
"A darned shame," Eric grumbled,
"to come forty million
miles, and meet such a reception
as this!"
Nada stopped. "Eric," she
said, "I'm tired. And I don't believe
there's any rock here, anyway.
You'll have to use wooden
tools, sharpened in the fire."
"Probably you're right. This
soil seemed to be of alluvial origin.
Shouldn't be surprised if
the native rock is some hundreds
of feet underground. Your
idea is better."
"You can make a fire by rubbing
sticks together, can't you?"
"It can be done, I'm sure. I've
never tried it, myself. We need
some dry sticks, first."
They resumed the weary
march, with a good fraction of
the new planet adhering to their
feet. Rain was still falling from
the dark heavens in a steady,
warm downpour. Dry wood
seemed scarce as the proverbial
hen's teeth.
"You didn't bring any matches,
dear?"
"Matches! Of course not!
We're going back to Nature."
"I hope we get a fire pretty
soon."
"If dry wood were gold dust,
we couldn't buy a hot dog."
"Eric, that reminds me that
I'm hungry."
He confessed to a few pangs of
his own. They turned their attention
to looking for banana
trees, and coconut palms, but
they did not seem to abound in
the Venerian jungle. Even small
animals that might have been
slain with a broken branch had
contrary ideas about the matter.
At last, from sheer weariness,
they stopped, and gathered
branches to make a sloping shelter
by a vast fallen tree-trunk.
"This will keep out the rain—maybe—"
Eric said hopefully.
"And tomorrow, when it has quit
raining—I'm sure we'll do better."
They crept in, as gloomy night
fell without. They lay in each
other's arms, the body warmth
oddly comforting. Nada cried a
little.
"Buck up," Eric advised her.
"We're back to nature—where
we've always wanted to be."
With
the darkness, the temperature
fell somewhat, and
a high wind rose, whipping cold
rain into the little shelter, and
threatening to demolish it.
Swarms of mosquito-like insects,
seemingly not inconvenienced in
the least by the inclement elements,
swarmed about them in
clouds.
Then came a sound from the
dismal stormy night, a hoarse,
bellowing roar, raucous, terrifying.
Nada clung against Eric.
"What is it, dear?" she chattered.
"Must be a reptile. Dinosaur,
or something of the sort. This
world seems to be in about the
same state as the Earth when
they flourished there.... But
maybe it won't find us."
The roar was repeated, nearer.
The earth trembled beneath a
mighty tread.
"Eric," a thin voice trembled.
"Don't you think—it might have
been better— You know the old
life was not so bad, after all."
"I was just thinking of our
rooms, nice and warm and
bright, with hot foods coming up
the shaft whenever we pushed
the button, and the gay crowds
in the park, and my old typewriter."
"Eric?" she called softly.
"Yes, dear."
"Don't you wish—we had
known better?"
"I do." If he winced at the
"we" the girl did not notice.
The roaring outside was closer.
And suddenly it was answered
by another raucous bellow, at
considerable distance, that echoed
strangely through the forest.
The fearful sounds were repeated,
alternately. And always
the more distant seemed nearer,
until the two sounds were together.
And then an infernal din
broke out in the darkness. Bellows.
Screams. Deafening
shrieks. Mighty splashes, as if
struggling Titans had upset
oceans. Thunderous crashes, as
if they were demolishing forests.
Eric and Nada clung to each
other, in doubt whether to stay
or to fly through the storm.
Gradually the sound of the conflict
came nearer, until the earth
shook beneath them, and they
were afraid to move.
Suddenly the great fallen tree
against which they had erected
the flimsy shelter was rolled
back, evidently by a chance blow
from the invisible monsters. The
pitiful roof collapsed on the bedraggled
humans. Nada burst
into tears.
"Oh, if only—if only—"
Suddenly
flame lapped up
about them, the same white
fire they had seen as they lay on
the crystal block. Dizziness, insensibility
overcame them. A few
moments later, they were lying
on the transparent table in the
Cosmic Express office, with all
those great mirrors and prisms
and lenses about them.
A bustling, red-faced official
appeared through the door in the
grill, fairly bubbling apologies.
"So sorry—an accident—inconceivable.
I can't see how he
got it! We got you back as soon
as we could find a focus. I sincerely
hope you haven't been injured."
"Why—what—what—"
"Why I happened in, found
our operator drunk. I've no idea
where he got the stuff. He muttered
something about Venus. I
consulted the auto-register, and
found two more passengers registered
here than had been recorded
at our other stations. I
looked up the duplicate beam coordinates,
and found that it had
been set on Venus. I got men on
the television at once, and we
happened to find you.
"I can't imagine how it happened.
I've had the fellow locked
up, and the 'dry-laws' are on the
job. I hope you won't hold us for
excessive damages."
"No, I ask nothing except that
you don't press charges against
the boy. I don't want him to suffer
for it in any way. My wife and
I will be perfectly satisfied to get
back to our apartment."
"I don't wonder. You look like
you've been through—I don't
know what. But I'll have you
there in five minutes. My private car—"
Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding, noted
author of primitive life and love,
ate a hearty meal with his pretty
spouse, after they had washed
off the grime of another planet.
He spent the next twelve hours
in bed.
At the end of the month he
delivered his promised story to
his publishers, a thrilling tale of
a man marooned on Venus, with
a beautiful girl. The hero made
stone tools, erected a dwelling
for himself and his mate, hunted
food for her, defended her from
the mammoth saurian monsters
of the Venerian jungles.
The book was a huge success.
THE END
|
train | 26741 | [
"What is the relationship between Paul and Rupert?",
"Where can a person go to be with friendly faces in Tangier?",
"What is Paul doing in Tangier?",
"What is Rupert doing in Tangier?",
"Why does Paul think aliens are watching Earth?",
"Why does Rupert like Tangier?",
"How does Rupert feel about Paul?",
"Why does Paul think an alien wouldn't be able to hide on Earth?"
] | [
[
"They are two Americans who happen to meet in Tangier.",
"They are friends from Liverpool, vacationing in Tangier.",
"They play cards together in Tangier.",
"They are acquaintances. They met in Tangier."
],
[
"The Place de France",
"The Boulevard Pasteur",
"The Cafe de Paris",
"The Grand Socco"
],
[
"He is on a business trip to find a source of protein.",
"He is on a business trip scouting locations for thrill-seeking tourists.",
"He is vacationing.",
"He is in Tangier to watch the satellite launch."
],
[
"He is on a business trip to find a source of protein.",
"He is vacationing.",
"He is on a mission to encourage international conflict.",
"He is in Tangier to watch the satellite launch."
],
[
"The aliens are watching Earth's civilization go through wars and struggles as a form of amusement.",
"They want to invite Earth to join the Galactic League of civilized planets.",
"Man has invented the H-Bomb. The aliens are scared.",
"The aliens are preparing to harvest humans as a food source."
],
[
"Tangier is full of criminals and subversives of various sorts.",
"Tangier is right in the center of things.",
"No one questions what he's doing in Tangier.",
"The current exchange rate makes Tangier a cheap place to live."
],
[
"Rupert thinks of Paul as a kindred spirit.",
"Rupert is annoyed that Paul sat down at his table.",
"Rupert suspects Paul might be a Russian spy.",
"Paul is easy-going, but Rupert doesn't know him that well."
],
[
"Aliens don't look like Earthlings.",
"An alien would not be able to mimic a human enough to fit in with society.",
"An alien wouldn't be able to assimilate into Earth's backward culture.",
"The Earth has so many intelligence agencies, at least one would be watching when an alien gave itself away."
]
] | [
4,
3,
1,
3,
1,
3,
4,
4
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1
] | One can't be too cautious about the
people one meets in Tangier. They're all
weirdies of one kind or another.
Me? Oh,
I'm A Stranger
Here Myself
By MACK REYNOLDS
The
Place de France is the
town's hub. It marks the end
of Boulevard Pasteur, the main
drag of the westernized part of
the city, and the beginning of
Rue de la Liberté, which leads
down to the Grand Socco and
the medina. In a three-minute
walk from the Place de France
you can go from an ultra-modern,
California-like resort to the
Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.
It's quite a town, Tangier.
King-size sidewalk cafes occupy
three of the strategic
corners on the Place de France.
The Cafe de Paris serves the
best draft beer in town, gets all
the better custom, and has three
shoeshine boys attached to the
establishment. You can sit of a
sunny morning and read the
Paris edition of the New York
Herald Tribune
while getting
your shoes done up like mirrors
for thirty Moroccan francs
which comes to about five cents
at current exchange.
You can sit there, after the
paper's read, sip your expresso
and watch the people go by.
Tangier is possibly the most
cosmopolitan city in the world.
In native costume you'll see
Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue
Man, and occasionally a Senegalese
from further south. In
European dress you'll see Japs
and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,
Levantines and Filipinos, North
Americans and South Americans,
and, of course, even Europeans—from
both sides of the
Curtain.
In Tangier you'll find some of
the world's poorest and some of
the richest. The poorest will try
to sell you anything from a
shoeshine to their not very lily-white
bodies, and the richest will
avoid your eyes, afraid
you
might try to sell them something.
In spite of recent changes, the
town still has its unique qualities.
As a result of them the permanent
population includes
smugglers and black-marketeers,
fugitives from justice and international
con men, espionage
and counter-espionage agents,
homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,
drug addicts, displaced
persons, ex-royalty, and subversives
of every flavor. Local law
limits the activities of few of
these.
Like I said, it's quite a town.
I looked up from my
Herald
Tribune
and said, "Hello, Paul.
Anything new cooking?"
He sank into the chair opposite
me and looked around for
the waiter. The tables were all
crowded and since mine was a
face he recognized, he assumed
he was welcome to intrude. It was
more or less standard procedure
at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't
a place to go if you wanted to
be alone.
Paul said, "How are you,
Rupert? Haven't seen you for
donkey's years."
The waiter came along and
Paul ordered a glass of beer.
Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced
little man. I vaguely remembered
somebody saying he
was from Liverpool and in
exports.
"What's in the newspaper?"
he said, disinterestedly.
"Pogo and Albert are going
to fight a duel," I told him, "and
Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll
singer."
He grunted.
"Oh," I said, "the intellectual
type." I scanned the front page.
"The Russkies have put up
another manned satellite."
"They have, eh? How big?"
"Several times bigger than
anything we Americans have."
The beer came and looked
good, so I ordered a glass too.
Paul said, "What ever happened
to those poxy flying
saucers?"
"What flying saucers?"
A French girl went by with a
poodle so finely clipped as to look
as though it'd been shaven. The
girl was in the latest from
Paris. Every pore in place. We
both looked after her.
"You know, what everybody
was seeing a few years ago. It's
too bad one of these bloody manned
satellites wasn't up then.
Maybe they would've seen one."
"That's an idea," I said.
We didn't say anything else for
a while and I began to wonder
if I could go back to my paper
without rubbing him the wrong
way. I didn't know Paul very
well, but, for that matter, it's
comparatively seldom you ever
get to know anybody very well
in Tangier. Largely, cards are
played close to the chest.
My beer came and a plate of
tapas for us both. Tapas at the
Cafe de Paris are apt to be
potato salad, a few anchovies,
olives, and possibly some cheese.
Free lunch, they used to call it
in the States.
Just to say something, I said,
"Where do you think they came
from?" And when he looked
blank, I added, "The Flying
Saucers."
He grinned. "From Mars or
Venus, or someplace."
"Ummmm," I said. "Too bad
none of them ever crashed, or
landed on the Yale football field
and said
Take me to your cheerleader
,
or something."
Paul yawned and said, "That
was always the trouble with those
crackpot blokes' explanations of
them. If they were aliens from
space, then why not show themselves?"
I ate one of the potato chips.
It'd been cooked in rancid olive
oil.
I said, "Oh, there are various
answers to that one. We could
probably sit around here and
think of two or three that made
sense."
Paul was mildly interested.
"Like what?"
"Well, hell, suppose for instance
there's this big Galactic League
of civilized planets. But it's restricted,
see. You're not eligible
for membership until you, well,
say until you've developed space
flight. Then you're invited into
the club. Meanwhile, they send
secret missions down from time
to time to keep an eye on your
progress."
Paul grinned at me. "I see you
read the same poxy stuff I do."
A Moorish girl went by dressed
in a neatly tailored gray
jellaba, European style high-heeled
shoes, and a pinkish silk
veil so transparent that you
could see she wore lipstick. Very
provocative, dark eyes can be
over a veil. We both looked
after her.
I said, "Or, here's another
one. Suppose you have a very
advanced civilization on, say,
Mars."
"Not Mars. No air, and too
bloody dry to support life."
"Don't interrupt, please," I
said with mock severity. "This
is a very old civilization and as
the planet began to lose its
water and air, it withdrew underground.
Uses hydroponics and
so forth, husbands its water and
air. Isn't that what we'd do, in
a few million years, if Earth lost
its water and air?"
"I suppose so," he said. "Anyway,
what about them?"
"Well, they observe how man
is going through a scientific
boom, an industrial boom, a
population boom. A boom, period.
Any day now he's going to have
practical space ships. Meanwhile,
he's also got the H-Bomb and
the way he beats the drums on
both sides of the Curtain, he's
not against using it, if he could
get away with it."
Paul said, "I got it. So they're
scared and are keeping an eye on
us. That's an old one. I've read
that a dozen times, dished up
different."
I shifted my shoulders. "Well,
it's one possibility."
"I got a better one. How's
this. There's this alien life form
that's way ahead of us. Their
civilization is so old that they
don't have any records of when
it began and how it was in the
early days. They've gone beyond
things like wars and depressions
and revolutions, and greed for
power or any of these things
giving us a bad time here on
Earth. They're all like scholars,
get it? And some of them are
pretty jolly well taken by Earth,
especially the way we are right
now, with all the problems, get
it? Things developing so fast we
don't know where we're going
or how we're going to get there."
I finished my beer and clapped
my hands for Mouley. "How do
you mean,
where we're going
?"
"Well, take half the countries
in the world today. They're trying
to industrialize, modernize,
catch up with the advanced countries.
Look at Egypt, and Israel,
and India and China, and Yugoslavia
and Brazil, and all the
rest. Trying to drag themselves
up to the level of the advanced
countries, and all using different
methods of doing it. But look
at the so-called advanced countries.
Up to their bottoms in
problems. Juvenile delinquents,
climbing crime and suicide rates,
the loony-bins full of the balmy,
unemployed, threat of war,
spending all their money on armaments
instead of things like
schools. All the bloody mess of
it. Why, a man from Mars would
be fascinated, like."
Mouley came shuffling up in
his babouche slippers and we
both ordered another schooner
of beer.
Paul said seriously, "You
know, there's only one big snag
in this sort of talk. I've sorted
the whole thing out before, and
you always come up against this
brick wall. Where are they, these
observers, or scholars, or spies
or whatever they are? Sooner
or later we'd nab one of them.
You know, Scotland Yard, or
the F.B.I., or Russia's secret
police, or the French Sûreté, or
Interpol. This world is so deep
in police, counter-espionage outfits
and security agents that an
alien would slip up in time, no
matter how much he'd been
trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip
up, and they'd nab him."
I shook my head. "Not necessarily.
The first time I ever considered
this possibility, it seemed
to me that such an alien would
base himself in London or New
York. Somewhere where he could
use the libraries for research,
get the daily newspapers and
the magazines. Be right in the
center of things. But now I don't
think so. I think he'd be right
here in Tangier."
"Why Tangier?"
"It's the one town in the world
where anything goes. Nobody
gives a damn about you or your
affairs. For instance, I've known
you a year or more now, and I
haven't the slightest idea of how
you make your living."
"That's right," Paul admitted.
"In this town you seldom even
ask a man where's he's from. He
can be British, a White Russian,
a Basque or a Sikh and nobody
could care less. Where are
you
from, Rupert?"
"California," I told him.
"No, you're not," he grinned.
I was taken aback. "What do
you mean?"
"I felt your mind probe back
a few minutes ago when I was
talking about Scotland Yard or
the F.B.I. possibly flushing an
alien. Telepathy is a sense not
trained by the humanoids. If
they had it, your job—and mine—would
be considerably more
difficult. Let's face it, in spite of
these human bodies we're disguised
in, neither of us is
humanoid. Where are you really
from, Rupert?"
"Aldebaran," I said. "How
about you?"
"Deneb," he told me, shaking.
We had a laugh and ordered
another beer.
"What're you doing here on
Earth?" I asked him.
"Researching for one of our
meat trusts. We're protein
eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered
quite a delicacy. How
about you?"
"Scouting the place for thrill
tourists. My job is to go around
to these backward cultures and
help stir up inter-tribal, or international,
conflicts—all according
to how advanced they
are. Then our tourists come in—well
shielded, of course—and get
their kicks watching it."
Paul frowned. "That sort of
practice could spoil an awful
lot of good meat."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
December 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26957 | [
"What is a star mother?",
"Why doesn't Martha want the general to bring Terry home?",
"How has being a star mother changed Martha?",
"What does Martha think about the TV reporter?",
"Why doesn't Martha's description of Terry fit what the reporter considers to be the norm?",
"Why does Martha wear Terry's jacket?",
"How long did Martha spend outside looking at the stars waiting for Terry's first pass?",
"Why does Martha seem so calm when Terry's death is confirmed?"
] | [
[
"A star mother is a mother who becomes a celebrity.",
"A star mother is the mother of an astronaut.",
"A star mother is the mother of someone in the military.",
" A star mother is the mother of a celebrity."
],
[
"Martha does not want to be blamed for spending taxpayers' money on an expensive search and rescue operation.",
"Martha feels Terry would want to spend eternity amongst the stars.",
"Martha does not want the media circus to continue.",
"Martha knows the same kind of accident or worse could happen to the search and rescue team."
],
[
"Martha has become more extroverted",
"She has a new appreciation for the stars.",
"She has become conceited thanks to her newfound fame.",
"Martha's new celebrity status has doubled her egg business."
],
[
"She thinks the reporter is terribly polite.",
"She thinks the reporter is a suave young man.",
"She thinks the reporter is twisting her words to fit his narrative.",
"She thinks the reporter is pushy."
],
[
"Terry is passionate about space exploration.",
"Terry didn't like football.",
"Terry is an only child.",
"Terry is shy. A bookworm, who doesn't play sports."
],
[
"The reporter asked her to wear Terry's jacket.",
"She could see her breath in the air.",
"She wants to feel close to Terry.",
"Terry's jacket reminds the neighbors that she is a star mother."
],
[
"Two to three hours",
"Less than an hour",
"More than three hours",
"Between one and two hours"
],
[
"Martha made peace with Terry's death in the hours since the general's last telegram.",
"After communing with the stars in the afternoon, Martha realizes that this is the way Terry would want to go.",
"Martha is very angry with the general and is doing everything in her power to not yell at him.",
"Martha is in shock. The reality of Terry's death has yet to set in."
]
] | [
2,
2,
2,
3,
4,
3,
3,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | STAR MOTHER
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
A touching story of the most
enduring love in all eternity.
That
night her son was the
first star.
She stood motionless in the
garden, one hand pressed against
her heart, watching him rise
above the fields where he had
played as a boy, where he had
worked as a young man; and she
wondered whether he was thinking
of those fields now, whether
he was thinking of her standing
alone in the April night with her
memories; whether he was
thinking of the verandahed
house behind her, with its empty
rooms and silent halls, that once
upon a time had been his birthplace.
Higher still and higher he
rose in the southern sky, and
then, when he had reached his
zenith, he dropped swiftly down
past the dark edge of the Earth
and disappeared from sight. A
boy grown up too soon, riding
round and round the world on
a celestial carousel, encased in
an airtight metal capsule in an
airtight metal chariot ...
Why don't they leave the stars
alone?
she thought.
Why don't
they leave the stars to God?
The general's second telegram
came early the next morning:
Explorer XII
doing splendidly.
Expect to bring your son down
sometime tomorrow
.
She went about her work as
usual, collecting the eggs and
allocating them in their cardboard
boxes, then setting off in
the station wagon on her Tuesday
morning run. She had expected
a deluge of questions
from her customers. She was not
disappointed. "Is Terry really
way up there all alone, Martha?"
"Aren't you
scared
, Martha?" "I
do hope they can get him back
down all right, Martha." She
supposed it must have given
them quite a turn to have their
egg woman change into a star
mother overnight.
She hadn't expected the TV interview,
though, and she would
have avoided it if it had been
politely possible. But what could
she do when the line of cars and
trucks pulled into the drive and
the technicians got out and started
setting up their equipment in
the backyard? What could she
say when the suave young man
came up to her and said, "We
want you to know that we're all
very proud of your boy up there,
ma'am, and we hope you'll do us
the honor of answering a few
questions."
Most of the questions concerned
Terry, as was fitting.
From the way the suave young
man asked them, though, she got
the impression that he was trying
to prove that her son was
just like any other average
American boy, and such just
didn't happen to be the case. But
whenever she opened her mouth
to mention, say, how he used to
study till all hours of the night,
or how difficult it had been for
him to make friends because of
his shyness, or the fact that he
had never gone out for football—whenever
she started to mention
any of these things, the
suave young man was in great
haste to interrupt her and to
twist her words, by requestioning,
into a different meaning
altogether, till Terry's behavior
pattern seemed to coincide with
the behavior pattern which the
suave young man apparently considered
the norm, but which, if
followed, Martha was sure,
would produce not young men
bent on exploring space but
young men bent on exploring
trivia.
A few of the questions concerned
herself: Was Terry her
only child? ("Yes.") What had
happened to her husband? ("He
was killed in the Korean War.")
What did she think of the new
law granting star mothers top
priority on any and all information
relating to their sons? ("I
think it's a fine law ... It's too
bad they couldn't have shown
similar humanity toward the
war mothers of World War II.")
It was late in the afternoon
by the time the TV crew got
everything repacked into their
cars and trucks and made their
departure. Martha fixed herself
a light supper, then donned an
old suede jacket of Terry's and
went out into the garden to wait
for the sun to go down. According
to the time table the general
had outlined in his first telegram,
Terry's first Tuesday
night passage wasn't due to occur
till 9:05. But it seemed only
right that she should be outside
when the stars started to come
out. Presently they did, and she
watched them wink on, one by
one, in the deepening darkness
of the sky. She'd never been
much of a one for the stars;
most of her life she'd been much
too busy on Earth to bother with
things celestial. She could remember,
when she was much
younger and Bill was courting
her, looking up at the moon
sometimes; and once in a while,
when a star fell, making a wish.
But this was different. It was
different because now she had
a personal interest in the sky, a
new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.
And how bright they became
when you kept looking at them!
They seemed to come alive, almost,
pulsing brilliantly down
out of the blackness of the night ...
And they were different colors,
too, she noticed with a start.
Some of them were blue and
some were red, others were yellow
... green ... orange ...
It grew cold in the April garden
and she could see her breath.
There was a strange crispness,
a strange clarity about the
night, that she had never known
before ... She glanced at her
watch, was astonished to see that
the hands indicated two minutes
after nine. Where had the time
gone? Tremulously she faced the
southern horizon ... and saw
her Terry appear in his shining
chariot, riding up the star-pebbled
path of his orbit, a star in
his own right, dropping swiftly
now, down, down, and out of
sight beyond the dark wheeling
mass of the Earth ... She took
a deep, proud breath, realized
that she was wildly waving her
hand and let it fall slowly to her
side. Make a wish! she thought,
like a little girl, and she wished
him pleasant dreams and a safe
return and wrapped the wish in
all her love and cast it starward.
Sometime tomorrow, the general's
telegram had said—
That meant sometime today!
She rose with the sun and fed
the chickens, fixed and ate her
breakfast, collected the eggs and
put them in their cardboard
boxes, then started out on her
Wednesday morning run. "My
land, Martha, I don't see how
you stand it with him way up
there! Doesn't it get on your
nerves
?" ("Yes ... Yes, it
does.") "Martha, when are they
bringing him back down?"
("Today ...
Today
!") "It must
be wonderful being a star mother,
Martha." ("Yes, it is—in a
way.")
Wonderful ... and terrible.
If only he can last it out for
a few more hours, she thought.
If only they can bring him down
safe and sound. Then the vigil
will be over, and some other
mother can take over the awesome
responsibility of having a
son become a star—
If only ...
The general's third telegram
arrived that afternoon:
Regret
to inform you that meteorite impact
on satellite hull severely
damaged capsule-detachment
mechanism, making ejection impossible.
Will make every effort
to find another means of accomplishing
your son's return.
Terry!—
See the little boy playing beneath
the maple tree, moving his
tiny cars up and down the tiny
streets of his make-believe village;
the little boy, his fuzz of
hair gold in the sunlight, his
cherub-cheeks pink in the summer
wind—
Terry!—
Up the lane the blue-denimed
young man walks, swinging his
thin tanned arms, his long legs
making near-grownup strides
over the sun-seared grass; the
sky blue and bright behind him,
the song of cicada rising and
falling in the hazy September
air—
Terry ...
—probably won't get a chance
to write you again before take-off,
but don't worry, Ma. The
Explorer XII
is the greatest bird
they ever built. Nothing short of
a direct meteorite hit can hurt
it, and the odds are a million to
one ...
Why don't they leave the stars
alone? Why don't they leave the
stars to God?
The afternoon shadows lengthened
on the lawn and the sun
grew red and swollen over the
western hills. Martha fixed supper,
tried to eat, and couldn't.
After a while, when the light
began to fade, she slipped into
Terry's jacket and went outside.
Slowly the sky darkened and
the stars began to appear. At
length
her
star appeared, but its
swift passage blurred before her
eyes. Tires crunched on the
gravel then, and headlights
washed the darkness from the
drive. A car door slammed.
Martha did not move.
Please
God
, she thought,
let it be Terry
,
even though she knew that it
couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps
sounded behind her, paused.
Someone coughed softly. She
turned then—
"Good evening, ma'am."
She saw the circlet of stars
on the gray epaulet; she saw the
stern handsome face; she saw
the dark tired eyes. And she
knew. Even before he spoke
again, she knew—
"The same meteorite that
damaged the ejection mechanism,
ma'am. It penetrated the
capsule, too. We didn't find out
till just a while ago—but there
was nothing we could have done
anyway ... Are you all right,
ma'am?"
"Yes. I'm all right."
"I wanted to express my regrets
personally. I know how you
must feel."
"It's all right."
"We will, of course, make
every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so
that he can
have a fitting burial on Earth."
"No," she said.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
She raised her eyes to the
patch of sky where her son had
passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.
Sirius blossomed
there, blue-white and beautiful.
She raised her eyes still higher—and
beheld the vast parterre
of Orion with its central motif
of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung
blooms of Betelguese and
Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...
And higher yet—and there
flamed the exquisite flower beds
of Taurus and Gemini, there
burgeoned the riotous wreath of
the Crab; there lay the pulsing
petals of the Pleiades ... And
down the ecliptic garden path,
wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted
the ocher rose of Mars ...
"No," she said again.
The general had raised his
eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered
them. "I think I understand,
ma'am. And I'm glad
that's the way you want it ...
The stars
are
beautiful tonight,
aren't they."
"More beautiful than they've
ever been," she said.
After the general had gone,
she looked up once more at the
vast and variegated garden of
the sky where her son lay buried,
then she turned and walked
slowly back to the memoried
house.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
January 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 27110 | [
"Why does Loy Chuk want to bring the mummy back to life?",
"How did Ned become a mummy?",
"Why did Loy Chuk's people live underground?",
"How does Loy Chuk communicate with Ned?",
"How does Loy Chuk bring the mummy to life?",
"Why can't Loy Chuk use time travel to send Ned back to Earth before his death?",
"Why does Loy Chuk build an artificial environment for Ned?",
"How did Loy Chuk's team find Ned at the bottom of the Pit?"
] | [
[
"Loy Chuk wants to experiment on the man.",
"Loy Chuk wants to study the man.",
"Loy Chuk thinks, if he can find a female specimen, he can restart the human race.",
"Loy Chuk just wants to prove it can be done."
],
[
"Loy Chuk's workers wrapped Ned's body in strips of cloth to preserve it in transport.",
"The earth became a desert wasteland. All the moisture was leached from the corpse.",
"A combination of the alkali and mud his body had been soaked in. Also, the years of dryness after the world became a desert.",
"The body had been devoid of moisture for a million years."
],
[
"Subterranean passages protect against desert sand storms.",
"Subterranean passages protect against larger predators.",
"Loy Chuk comes from a rodent species. Rodents usually live in underground burrows.",
"The temperature above ground at night is very cold."
],
[
"Loy Chuk communicates with Ned through telepathy.",
"Loy Chuk has a device that translates his speech into English.",
"Loy Chuk has a device that lets him speak English.",
"Loy Chuk has a device that converts his thoughts into English."
],
[
"While rehydrating the body, Loy Chuk sent electricity into the body using a metal helmet.",
"After rehydrating the body, Loy Chuk sent electricity into the body using a metal helmet.",
"While rehydrating the body, Loy Chuk used electrodes to send energy throughout the body.",
"After rehydrating the body, Loy Chuk used electrodes to send energy throughout the body."
],
[
"The government of Kar-Rah turned down Loy Chuk's request to use time travel.",
"There is no such thing as time travel.",
"No one has figured out time travel.",
"Humans took the secrets of time travel with them when they left Earth."
],
[
"He needs to keep Ned calm. If Ned believes himself to back in his own time, he will remain calm.",
"He realizes Ned is mentally unstable from the trauma of being brought back to life. He doesn't want Ned to commit suicide.",
"He needs a habitat for Ned until they can figure out time travel.",
"He needs a habitat for Ned, so he can study Ned in a natural setting."
],
[
"The workers noticed red debris.",
"The workers noticed a flaky rust formation.",
"The workers noticed a glint of metal.",
"The workers found him during an excavation."
]
] | [
2,
3,
4,
4,
3,
3,
4,
4
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1
] | THE
ETERNAL
WALL
By RAYMOND Z. GALLUN
A scream of brakes, the splash
into icy waters, a long descent
into alkaline depths ... it was
death. But Ned Vince lived
again—a million years later!
"See
you in half an hour,
Betty," said Ned Vince
over the party telephone. "We'll
be out at the Silver Basket before
ten-thirty...."
Ned Vince was eager for the
company of the girl he loved.
That was why he was in a hurry
to get to the neighboring town
of Hurley, where she lived. His
old car rattled and roared as he
swung it recklessly around Pit
Bend.
There was where Death tapped
him on the shoulder. Another car
leaped suddenly into view, its
lights glaring blindingly past a
high, up-jutting mass of Jurassic
rock at the turn of the road.
Dazzled, and befuddled by his
own rash speed, Ned Vince had
only swift young reflexes to rely
on to avoid a fearful, telescoping
collision. He flicked his wheel
smoothly to the right; but the
County Highway Commission
hadn't yet tarred the traffic-loosened
gravel at the Bend.
An incredible science, millions of years old, lay in the minds of these creatures.
Ned could scarcely have chosen
a worse place to start sliding and
spinning. His car hit the white-painted
wooden rail sideways,
crashed through, tumbled down
a steep slope, struck a huge boulder,
bounced up a little, and
arced outward, falling as gracefully
as a swan-diver toward the
inky waters of the Pit, fifty feet
beneath....
Ned Vince was still dimly conscious
when that black, quiet
pool geysered around him in a
mighty splash. He had only a
dazing welt on his forehead, and
a gag of terror in his throat.
Movement was slower now, as
he began to sink, trapped inside
his wrecked car. Nothing that he
could imagine could mean doom
more certainly than this. The Pit
was a tremendously deep pocket
in the ground, spring-fed. The
edges of that almost bottomless
pool were caked with a rim of
white—for the water, on which
dead birds so often floated, was
surcharged with alkali. As that
heavy, natronous liquid rushed
up through the openings and
cracks beneath his feet, Ned
Vince knew that his friends and
his family would never see his
body again, lost beyond recovery
in this abyss.
The car was deeply submerged.
The light had blinked out on the
dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute
darkness. A flood rushed
in at the shattered window. He
clawed at the door, trying to
open it, but it was jammed in
the crash-bent frame, and he
couldn't fight against the force
of that incoming water. The
welt, left by the blow he had received
on his forehead, put a
thickening mist over his brain,
so that he could not think clearly.
Presently, when he could no
longer hold his breath, bitter
liquid was sucked into his lungs.
His last thoughts were those
of a drowning man. The machine-shop
he and his dad had
had in Harwich. Betty Moore,
with the smiling Irish eyes—like
in the song. Betty and he
had planned to go to the State
University this Fall. They'd
planned to be married sometime....
Goodbye, Betty ...
The ripples that had ruffled
the surface waters in the Pit,
quieted again to glassy smoothness.
The eternal stars shone
calmly. The geologic Dakota
hills, which might have seen the
dinosaurs, still bulked along the
highway. Time, the Brother of
Death, and the Father of
Change, seemed to wait....
"Kaalleee! Tik!... Tik, tik,
tik!... Kaalleee!..."
The excited cry, which no human
throat could quite have duplicated
accurately, arose thinly
from the depths of a powder-dry
gulch, water-scarred from an inconceivable
antiquity. The noon-day
Sun was red and huge. The
air was tenuous, dehydrated,
chill.
"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik,
tik!..."
At first there was only one
voice uttering those weird, triumphant
sounds. Then other
vocal organs took up that trilling
wail, and those short, sharp
chuckles of eagerness. Other
questioning, wondering notes
mixed with the cadence. Lacking
qualities identifiable as human,
the disturbance was still like the
babble of a group of workmen
who have discovered something
remarkable.
The desolate expanse around
the gulch, was all but without
motion. The icy breeze tore tiny
puffs of dust from grotesque,
angling drifts of soil, nearly
waterless for eons. Patches of
drab lichen grew here and there
on the up-jutting rocks, but in
the desert itself, no other life
was visible. Even the hills had
sagged away, flattened by incalculable
ages of erosion.
At a mile distance, a crumbling
heap of rubble arose. Once
it had been a building. A gigantic,
jagged mass of detritus
slanted upward from its crest—red
debris that had once been
steel. A launching catapult for
the last space ships built by the
gods in exodus, perhaps it was—half
a million years ago. Man
was gone from the Earth. Glacial
ages, war, decadence, disease,
and a final scattering of those
ultimate superhumans to newer
worlds in other solar systems,
had done that.
"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, tik!..."
The sounds were not human.
They were more like the chatter
and wail of small desert animals.
But there was a seeming paradox
here in the depths of that
gulch, too. The glint of metal,
sharp and burnished. The flat,
streamlined bulk of a flying machine,
shiny and new. The bell-like
muzzle of a strange excavator-apparatus,
which seemed to
depend on a blast of atoms to
clear away rock and soil. Thus
the gulch had been cleared of the
accumulated rubbish of antiquity.
Man, it seemed, had a successor,
as ruler of the Earth.
Loy Chuk had flown his geological
expedition out from the
far lowlands to the east, out
from the city of Kar-Rah. And
he was very happy now—flushed
with a vast and unlooked-for
success.
He crouched there on his
haunches, at the dry bottom of
the Pit. The breeze rumpled his
long, brown fur. He wasn't very
different in appearance from his
ancestors. A foot tall, perhaps,
as he squatted there in that antique
stance of his kind. His tail
was short and furred, his undersides
creamy. White whiskers
spread around his inquisitive,
pink-tipped snout.
But his cranium bulged up and
forward between shrewd, beady
eyes, betraying the slow heritage
of time, of survival of the fittest,
of evolution. He could think and
dream and invent, and the civilization
of his kind was already
far beyond that of the ancient
Twentieth Century.
Loy Chuk and his fellow workers
were gathered, tense and
gleeful, around the things their
digging had exposed to the daylight.
There was a gob of junk—scarcely
more than an irregular
formation of flaky rust. But imbedded
in it was a huddled form,
brown and hard as old wood. The
dry mud that had encased it
like an airtight coffin, had by
now been chipped away by the
tiny investigators; but soiled
clothing still clung to it, after
perhaps a million years. Metal
had gone into decay—yes. But
not this body. The answer to this
was simple—alkali. A mineral
saturation that had held time
and change in stasis. A perfect
preservative for organic tissue,
aided probably during most of
those passing eras by desert dryness.
The Dakotas had turned
arid very swiftly. This body was
not a mere fossil. It was a
mummy.
"Kaalleee!" Man, that meant.
Not the star-conquering demi-gods,
but the ancestral stock
that had built the first
machines on Earth, and in the
early Twenty-first Century, the
first interplanetary rockets. No
wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers
were happy in their
paleontological enthusiasm! A
strange accident, happening in a
legendary antiquity, had aided
them in their quest for knowledge.
At last Loy Chuk gave a soft,
chirping signal. The chant of
triumph ended, while instruments
flicked in his tiny hands.
The final instrument he used to
test the mummy, looked like a
miniature stereoscope, with complicated
details. He held it over
his eyes. On the tiny screen
within, through the agency of
focused X-rays, he saw magnified
images of the internal organs
of this ancient human
corpse.
What his probing gaze revealed
to him, made his pleasure
even greater than before. In
twittering, chattering sounds, he
communicated his further knowledge
to his henchmen. Though
devoid of moisture, the mummy
was perfectly preserved, even to
its brain cells! Medical and biological
sciences were far advanced
among Loy Chuk's kind.
Perhaps, by the application of
principles long known to them,
this long-dead body could be
made to live again! It might
move, speak, remember its past!
What a marvelous subject for
study it would make, back there
in the museums of Kar-Rah!
"Tik, tik, tik!..."
But Loy silenced this fresh,
eager chattering with a command.
Work was always more
substantial than cheering.
With infinite care—small,
sharp hand-tools were used, now—the
mummy of Ned Vince was
disengaged from the worthless
rust of his primitive automobile.
With infinite care it was crated
in a metal case, and hauled into
the flying machine.
Flashing flame, the latter
arose, bearing the entire hundred
members of the expedition.
The craft shot eastward at bullet-like
speed. The spreading
continental plateau of North
America seemed to crawl backward,
beneath. A tremendous
sand desert, marked with low,
washed-down mountains, and the
vague, angular, geometric
mounds of human cities that
were gone forever.
Beyond the eastern rim of the
continent, the plain dipped downward
steeply. The white of dried
salt was on the hills, but there
was a little green growth here,
too. The dead sea-bottom of the
vanished Atlantic was not as
dead as the highlands.
Far out in a deep valley, Kar-Rah,
the city of the rodents,
came into view—a crystalline
maze of low, bubble-like structures,
glinting in the red sunshine.
But this was only its surface
aspect. Loy Chuk's people
had built their homes mostly underground,
since the beginning
of their foggy evolution. Besides,
in this latter day, the
nights were very cold, the shelter
of subterranean passages and
rooms was welcome.
The mummy was taken to Loy
Chuk's laboratory, a short distance
below the surface. Here at
once, the scientist began his
work. The body of the ancient
man was put in a large vat.
Fluids submerged it, slowly
soaking from that hardened flesh
the alkali that had preserved it
for so long. The fluid was
changed often, until woody muscles
and other tissues became
pliable once more.
Then the more delicate processes
began. Still submerged in
liquid, the corpse was submitted
to a flow of restorative energy,
passing between complicated
electrodes. The cells of antique
flesh and brain gradually took on
a chemical composition nearer to
that of the life that they had
once known.
At last the final liquid was
drained away, and the mummy
lay there, a mummy no more, but
a pale, silent figure in its tatters
of clothing. Loy Chuk put an odd,
metal-fabric helmet on its head,
and a second, much smaller helmet
on his own. Connected with
this arrangement, was a black
box of many uses. For hours he
worked with his apparatus,
studying, and guiding the recording
instruments. The time
passed swiftly.
At last, eager and ready for
whatever might happen now,
Loy Chuk pushed another switch.
With a cold, rosy flare, energy
blazed around that moveless
form.
For Ned Vince, timeless eternity
ended like a gradual fading
mist. When he could see clearly
again, he experienced that inevitable
shock of vast change
around him. Though it had been
dehydrated, his brain had been
kept perfectly intact through the
ages, and now it was restored.
So his memories were as vivid as
yesterday.
Yet, through that crystalline
vat in which he lay, he could see
a broad, low room, in which he
could barely have stood erect. He
saw instruments and equipment
whose weird shapes suggested
alienness, and knowledge beyond
the era he had known! The walls
were lavender and phosphorescent.
Fossil bone-fragments were
mounted in shallow cases. Dinosaur
bones, some of them
seemed, from their size. But
there was a complete skeleton of
a dog, too, and the skeleton of a
man, and a second man-skeleton
that was not quite human. Its
neck-vertebrae were very thick
and solid, its shoulders were
wide, and its skull was gigantic.
All this weirdness had a violent
effect on Ned Vince—a sudden,
nostalgic panic. Something
was fearfully wrong!
The nervous terror of the unknown
was on him. Feeble and
dizzy after his weird resurrection,
which he could not understand,
remembering as he did
that moment of sinking to certain
death in the pool at Pit
Bend, he caught the edge of the
transparent vat, and pulled himself
to a sitting posture. There
was a muffled murmur around
him, as of some vast, un-Earthly
metropolis.
"Take it easy, Ned Vince...."
The words themselves, and the
way they were assembled, were
old, familiar friends. But the
tone was wrong. It was high,
shrill, parrot-like, and mechanical.
Ned's gaze searched for the
source of the voice—located the
black box just outside of his
crystal vat. From that box the
voice seemed to have originated.
Before it crouched a small,
brownish animal with a bulging
head. The animal's tiny-fingered
paws—hands they were, really—were
touching rows of keys.
To Ned Vince, it was all utterly
insane and incomprehensible.
A rodent, looking like a prairie dog,
a little; but plainly possessing
a high order of intelligence.
And a voice whose soothingly
familiar words were more repugnant
somehow, simply because
they could never belong in a
place as eerie as this.
Ned Vince did not know how
Loy Chuk had probed his brain,
with the aid of a pair of helmets,
and the black box apparatus. He
did not know that in the latter,
his language, taken from his
own revitalized mind, was recorded,
and that Loy Chuk had
only to press certain buttons to
make the instrument express his
thoughts in common, long-dead
English. Loy, whose vocal organs
were not human, would have had
great difficulty speaking English
words, anyway.
Ned's dark hair was wildly
awry. His gaunt, young face
held befuddled terror. He gasped
in the thin atmosphere. "I've
gone nuts," he pronounced with
a curious calm. "Stark—starin'—nuts...."
Loy's box, with its recorded
English words and its sonic detectors,
could translate for its
master, too. As the man spoke,
Loy read the illuminated symbols
in his own language, flashed
on a frosted crystal plate before
him. Thus he knew what Ned
Vince was saying.
Loy Chuk pressed more keys,
and the box reproduced his answer:
"No, Ned, not nuts. Not a
bit of it! There are just a lot of
things that you've got to get
used to, that's all. You drowned
about a million years ago. I discovered
your body. I brought you
back to life. We have science
that can do that. I'm Loy
Chuk...."
It took only a moment for the
box to tell the full story in clear,
bold, friendly terms. Thus Loy
sought, with calm, human logic,
to make his charge feel at home.
Probably, though, he was a fool,
to suppose that he could succeed,
thus.
Vince started to mutter,
struggling desperately to reason
it out. "A prairie dog," he said.
"Speaking to me. One million
years. Evolution. The scientists
say that people grew up from
fishes in the sea. Prairie dogs
are smart. So maybe super-prairie-dogs
could come from
them. A lot easier than men
from fish...."
It was all sound logic. Even
Ned Vince knew that. Still, his
mind, tuned to ordinary, simple
things, couldn't quite realize all
the vast things that had happened
to himself, and to the
world. The scope of it all was too
staggeringly big. One million
years. God!...
Ned Vince made a last effort
to control himself. His knuckles
tightened on the edge of the vat.
"I don't know what you've been
talking about," he grated wildly.
"But I want to get out of here!
I want to go back where I came
from! Do you understand—whoever,
or whatever you are?"
Loy Chuk pressed more keys.
"But you can't go back to the
Twentieth Century," said the
box. "Nor is there any better
place for you to be now, than
Kar-Rah. You are the only man
left on Earth. Those men that
exist in other star systems are
not really your kind anymore,
though their forefathers originated
on this planet. They have
gone far beyond you in evolution.
To them you would be only a
senseless curiosity. You are
much better off with my people—our
minds are much more like
yours. We will take care of you,
and make you comfortable...."
But Ned Vince wasn't listening,
now. "You are the only
man left on Earth." That had
been enough for him to hear. He
didn't more than half believe it.
His mind was too confused for
conviction about anything. Everything
he saw and felt and
heard might be some kind of
nightmare. But then it might all
be real instead, and that was
abysmal horror. Ned was no
coward—death and danger of
any ordinary Earthly kind, he
could have faced bravely. But the
loneliness here, and the utter
strangeness, were hideous like
being stranded alone on another
world!
His heart was pounding heavily,
and his eyes were wide. He
looked across this eerie room.
There was a ramp there at the
other side, leading upward instead
of a stairway. Fierce impulse
to escape this nameless
lair, to try to learn the facts for
himself, possessed him. He
bounded out of the vat, and
with head down, dashed for the
ramp.
He had to go most of the way
on his hands and knees, for the
up-slanting passage was low. Excited
animal chucklings around
him, and the occasional touch of
a furry body, hurried his feverish
scrambling. But he emerged
at last at the surface.
He stood there panting in that
frigid, rarefied air. It was night.
The Moon was a gigantic, pock-marked
bulk. The constellations
were unrecognizable. The rodent
city was a glowing expanse of
shallow, crystalline domes, set
among odd, scrub trees and
bushes. The crags loomed on all
sides, all their jaggedness lost
after a million years of erosion
under an ocean that was gone.
In that ghastly moonlight, the
ground glistened with dry salt.
"Well, I guess it's all true,
huh?" Ned Vince muttered in a
flat tone.
Behind him he heard an excited,
squeaky chattering. Rodents
in pursuit. Looking back,
he saw the pinpoint gleams of
countless little eyes. Yes, he
might as well be an exile on another
planet—so changed had the
Earth become.
A wave of intolerable homesickness
came over him as he
sensed the distances of time that
had passed—those inconceivable
eons, separating himself from
his friends, from Betty, from almost
everything that was familiar.
He started to run, away
from those glittering rodent
eyes. He sensed death in that
cold sea-bottom, but what of it?
What reason did he have left to
live? He'd be only a museum
piece here, a thing to be caged
and studied....
Prison or a madhouse would
be far better. He tried to get
hold of his courage. But what
was there to inspire it? Nothing!
He laughed harshly as he
ran, welcoming that bitter, killing
cold. Nostalgia had him in
its clutch, and there was no answer
in his hell-world, lost beyond
the barrier of the years....
Loy Chuk and his followers
presently came upon Ned Vince's
unconscious form, a mile from
the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying
machine they took him back, and
applied stimulants. He came to,
in the same laboratory room as
before. But he was firmly
strapped to a low platform this
time, so that he could not escape
again. There he lay, helpless,
until presently an idea occurred
to him. It gave him a few crumbs
of hope.
"Hey, somebody!" he called.
"You'd better get some rest,
Ned Vince," came the answer
from the black box. It was Loy
Chuk speaking again.
"But listen!" Ned protested.
"You know a lot more than we
did in the Twentieth Century.
And—well—there's that thing
called time-travel, that I used to
read about. Maybe you know how
to make it work! Maybe you
could send me back to my own
time after all!"
Little Loy Chuk was in a
black, discouraged mood, himself.
He could understand the
utter, sick dejection of this
giant from the past, lost from
his own kind. Probably insanity
looming. In far less extreme circumstances
than this, death from
homesickness had come.
Loy Chuk was a scientist. In
common with all real scientists,
regardless of the species from
which they spring, he loved the
subjects of his researches. He
wanted this ancient man to live
and to be happy. Or this creature
would be of scant value for
study.
So Loy considered carefully
what Ned Vince had suggested.
Time-travel. Almost a legend. An
assault upon an intangible wall
that had baffled far keener wits
than Loy's. But he was bent,
now, on the well-being of this
anachronism he had so miraculously
resurrected—this human,
this Kaalleee....
Loy jabbed buttons on the
black box. "Yes, Ned Vince,"
said the sonic apparatus. "Time-travel.
Perhaps that is the only
thing to do—to send you back
to your own period of history.
For I see that you will never be
yourself, here. It will be hard to
accomplish, but we'll try. Now
I shall put you under an anesthetic...."
Ned felt better immediately,
for there was real hope now,
where there had been none before.
Maybe he'd be back in his
home-town of Harwich again.
Maybe he'd see the old machine-shop,
there. And the trees greening
out in Spring. Maybe he'd
be seeing Betty Moore in Hurley,
soon.... Ned relaxed, as a tiny
hypo-needle bit into his arm....
As soon as Ned Vince passed
into unconsciousness, Loy Chuk
went to work once more, using
that pair of brain-helmets again,
exploring carefully the man's
mind. After hours of research,
he proceeded to prepare his
plans. The government of Kar-Rah
was a scientific oligarchy,
of which Loy was a prime member.
It would be easy to get the
help he needed.
A horde of small, grey-furred
beings and their machines, toiled
for many days.
Ned Vince's mind swam
gradually out of the blur that
had enveloped it. He was wandering
aimlessly about in a familiar
room. The girders of the
roof above were of red-painted
steel. His tool-benches were
there, greasy and littered with
metal filings, just as they had
always been. He had a tractor to
repair, and a seed-drill. Outside
of the machine-shop, the old,
familiar yellow sun was shining.
Across the street was the small
brown house, where he lived.
With a sudden startlement, he
saw Betty Moore in the doorway.
She wore a blue dress, and a mischievous
smile curved her lips.
As though she had succeeded in
creeping up on him, for a surprise.
"Why, Ned," she chuckled.
"You look as though you've been
dreaming, and just woke up!"
He grimaced ruefully as she
approached. With a kind of fierce
gratitude, he took her in his
arms. Yes, she was just like
always.
"I guess I
was
dreaming,
Betty," he whispered, feeling
that mighty sense of relief. "I
must have fallen asleep at the
bench, here, and had a nightmare.
I thought I had an accident
at Pit Bend—and that a
lot of worse things happened....
But it wasn't true ..."
Ned Vince's mind, over which
there was still an elusive fog that
he did not try to shake off, accepted
apparent facts simply.
He did not know anything
about the invisible radiations
beating down upon him, soothing
and dimming his brain, so that
it would never question or doubt,
or observe too closely the incongruous
circumstances that must
often appear. The lack of traffic
in the street without, for instance—and
the lack of people
besides himself and Betty.
He didn't know that this machine-shop
was built from his
own memories of the original.
He didn't know that this Betty
was of the same origin—a miraculous
fabrication of metal
and energy-units and soft plastic.
The trees outside were only
lantern-slide illusions.
It was all built inside a great,
opaque dome. But there were
hidden television systems, too.
Thus Loy Chuk's kind could
study this ancient man—this
Kaalleee. Thus, their motives
were mostly selfish.
Loy, though, was not observing,
now. He had wandered far
out into cold, sad sea-bottom, to
ponder. He squeaked and chatted
to himself, contemplating the
magnificent, inexorable march of
the ages. He remembered the ancient
ruins, left by the final supermen.
"The Kaalleee believes himself
home," Loy was thinking. "He
will survive and be happy. But
there was no other way. Time is
an Eternal Wall. Our archeological
researches among the cities
of the supermen show the truth.
Even they, who once ruled Earth,
never escaped from the present
by so much as an instant...."
THE END
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
April 1956 and
was first published in
Amazing Stories
November 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 27588 | [
"What is Trella's relationship to Dom Blessing?",
"What is Dom Blessings's relationship to Dr. Mansard?",
"Why doesn't Trella tell Quest about her mission? ",
"How does Jakdane feel about Trella?",
"Why couldn't Dr. Mansard and his wife leave Jupiter?",
"What is the Jupiter weapon?",
"Why does Quest say he is lucky?",
"Why is Jakdane going to Earth?"
] | [
[
"Trella is Dom Blessing's employer.",
"Trella is Dom Blessing's sister.",
"Trella is Dom Blessing's employee.",
"Trella is Dom Blessing's mistress."
],
[
"Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's assistant.",
"Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's business partner.",
"Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's employer.",
"Dom Blessing was Dr. Mansard's best friend."
],
[
"Trella is afraid Quest won't love her if he finds out about her mission.",
"Trella is worried Quest will take his father's papers and leave her.",
"Trella was told specifically to stay away from Quest.",
"Trella's employer wants the mission kept confidential."
],
[
"Jakdane thinks of Trella as a little sister.",
"Jakdane has always had a crush on Trella, but they are just friends.",
"Jakdane is obsessed with Trella. That is why he's on the same ship to Earth.",
"Jakdane thinks Trella might be stalking him. She is on the same ship to Earth."
],
[
"A human would not survive the force of acceleration that would be needed to break free of Jupiter's gravity.",
"Dr. Mansard and his wife ran out of oxygen before they could complete the repairs to their ship.",
"Dr. Mansard and his wife were torn apart by gravitational forces when they tried to leave Jupiter.",
"Dr. Mansard and his wife were unable to repair their ship after crash landing on Jupiter."
],
[
"Asrange is the Jupiter weapon.",
"The surgiscope is the Jupiter weapon.",
"No one knows what the Jupiter weapon is, but the plans are in Dr. Mansard's notes.",
"The Jupiter weapon is Quest himself."
],
[
"Quest considers himself lucky that Trella is in love with him.",
"Quest considers himself lucky that he is not actually an android.",
"Quest considers himself lucky that Asrange did not kill him.",
"Quest considers himself lucky that he did not commit murder. He is not a murderer at heart."
],
[
"Jakdane is a corporate spy from Moon 5 on a mission to infiltrate Dom Blessing's organization.",
"Jakdane is following Trella to Earth because he is stalking her.",
"Jakdane is transferring from his company's office on Ganymede to the corporate headquarters on Earth.",
"Jakdane is the captain of the ship that Trella and Quest are taking to earth. "
]
] | [
3,
1,
4,
2,
1,
4,
4,
4
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to
the original text are marked
like this
.
The original text appears when hovering the cursor over the marked text.
This e-text was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
March 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
50
THE
JUPITER
WEAPON
By CHARLES L. FONTENAY
He was a living weapon of
destruction—
immeasurably
powerful, utterly invulnerable.
There was only one
question: Was he human?
Trella
feared she was in
for trouble even before Motwick's
head dropped forward on
his arms in a drunken stupor.
The two evil-looking men at the
table nearby had been watching
her surreptitiously, and now
they shifted restlessly in their
chairs.
Trella had not wanted to come
to the Golden Satellite. It was a
squalid saloon in the rougher
section of Jupiter's View, the
terrestrial dome-colony on Ganymede.
Motwick,
already
drunk,
had insisted.
A woman could not possibly
make her way through these
streets alone to the better section
of town, especially one clad
in a silvery evening dress. Her
only hope was that this place
had a telephone. Perhaps she
could call one of Motwick's
friends; she had no one on Ganymede
she could call a real friend
herself.
Tentatively, she pushed her
chair back from the table and
arose. She had to brush close by
the other table to get to the bar.
As she did, the dark, slick-haired
man reached out and grabbed
her around the waist with a
steely arm.
Trella swung with her whole
body, and slapped him so hard
he nearly fell from his chair. As
she walked swiftly toward the
bar, he leaped up to follow her.
There were only two other
people in the Golden Satellite:
the fat, mustached bartender
and a short, square-built man at
the bar. The latter swung
around at the pistol-like report
of her slap, and she saw that,
though no more than four and a
half feet tall, he was as heavily
muscled as a lion.
51
His face was clean and open,
with close-cropped blond hair
and honest blue eyes. She ran to
him.
“Help me!” she cried. “Please
help me!”
He began to back away from
her.
“I can't,” he muttered in a
deep voice. “I can't help you. I
can't do anything.”
The dark man was at her
heels. In desperation, she dodged
around the short man and took
refuge behind him. Her protector
was obviously unwilling, but
the dark man, faced with his
massiveness, took no chances.
He stopped and shouted:
“Kregg!”
The other man at the table
arose, ponderously, and lumbered
toward them. He was immense,
at least six and a half
feet tall, with a brutal, vacant
face.
Evading her attempts to stay
behind him, the squat man began
to move down the bar away
from the approaching Kregg.
The dark man moved in on
Trella again as Kregg overtook
his quarry and swung a huge
fist like a sledgehammer.
Exactly what happened, Trella
wasn't sure. She had the impression
that Kregg's fist connected
squarely with the short man's
chin
before
he dodged to one
side in a movement so fast it
was a blur. But that couldn't
have been, because the short
man wasn't moved by that blow
that would have felled a steer,
and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing
his injured fist.
“The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I
hit the damn bar!”
At this juncture, the bartender
took a hand. Leaning far
over the bar, he swung a full
bottle in a complete arc. It
smashed on Kregg's head,
splashing the floor with liquor,
and Kregg sank stunned to his
knees. The dark man, who had
grabbed Trella's arm, released
her and ran for the door.
Moving agilely around the end
of the bar, the bartender stood
over Kregg, holding the jagged-edged
bottleneck in his hand
menacingly.
“Get out!” rumbled the bartender.
“I'll have no coppers
raiding my place for the likes of
you!”
Kregg stumbled to his feet
and staggered out. Trella ran to
the unconscious Motwick's side.
“That means you, too, lady,”
said the bartender beside her.
“You and your boy friend get
out of here. You oughtn't to
have come here in the first
place.”
“May I help you, Miss?” asked
a deep, resonant voice behind
her.
She straightened from her
anxious examination of Motwick.
The squat man was standing
there, an apologetic look on
his face.
She looked contemptuously at
the massive muscles whose help
had been denied her. Her arm
ached where the dark man had
grasped it. The broad face before
52
her was not unhandsome,
and the blue eyes were disconcertingly
direct, but she despised
him for a coward.
“I'm sorry I couldn't fight
those men for you, Miss, but I
just couldn't,” he said miserably,
as though reading her thoughts.
“But no one will bother you on
the street if I'm with you.”
“A lot of protection you'd be
if they did!” she snapped. “But
I'm desperate. You can carry
him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”
The gravity of Ganymede was
hardly more than that of Earth's
moon, but the way the man
picked up the limp Motwick with
one hand and tossed him over a
shoulder was startling: as
though he lifted a feather pillow.
He followed Trella out the door
of the Golden Satellite and fell
in step beside her. Immediately
she was grateful for his presence.
The dimly lighted street
was not crowded, but she didn't
like the looks of the men she
saw.
The transparent dome of Jupiter's
View was faintly visible
in the reflected night lights of
the colonial city, but the lights
were overwhelmed by the giant,
vari-colored disc of Jupiter itself,
riding high in the sky.
“I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,”
said her companion. “I'm just in
from Jupiter.”
“I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said,
favoring him with a green-eyed
glance. “You mean Io, don't you—or
Moon Five?”
“No,” he said, grinning at
her. He had an engaging grin,
with even white teeth. “I meant
Jupiter.”
“You're lying,” she said flatly.
“No one has ever landed on
Jupiter. It would be impossible
to blast off again.”
“My parents landed on Jupiter,
and I blasted off from it,”
he said soberly. “I was born
there. Have you ever heard of
Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”
“I certainly have,” she said,
her interest taking a sudden
upward turn. “He developed the
surgiscope, didn't he? But his
ship was drawn into Jupiter and
lost.”
“It was drawn into Jupiter,
but he landed it successfully,”
said Quest. “He and my mother
lived on Jupiter until the oxygen
equipment wore out at last. I
was born and brought up there,
and I was finally able to build
a small rocket with a powerful
enough drive to clear the
planet.”
She looked at him. He was
short, half a head shorter than
she, but broad and powerful as
a man might be who had grown
up in heavy gravity. He trod the
street with a light, controlled
step, seeming to deliberately
hold himself down.
“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in
landing on Jupiter, why didn't
anyone ever hear from him
again?” she demanded.
“Because,” said Quest, “his
radio was sabotaged, just as his
ship's drive was.”
“Jupiter strength,” she murmured,
looking him over coolly.
53
“You wear Motwick on your
shoulder like a scarf. But you
couldn't bring yourself to help
a woman against two thugs.”
He flushed.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “That's
something I couldn't help.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. It's not that
I'm afraid, but there's something
in me that makes me back
away from the prospect of fighting
anyone.”
Trella sighed. Cowardice was
a state of mind. It was peculiarly
inappropriate, but not unbelievable,
that the strongest and
most agile man on Ganymede
should be a coward. Well, she
thought with a rush of sympathy,
he couldn't help being
what he was.
They had reached the more
brightly lighted section of the
city now. Trella could get a cab
from here, but the Stellar Hotel
wasn't far. They walked on.
Trella had the desk clerk call
a cab to deliver the unconscious
Motwick to his home. She and
Quest had a late sandwich in the
coffee shop.
“I landed here only a week
ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly
admiring her honey-colored
hair and comely face. “I'm heading
for Earth on the next spaceship.”
“We'll be traveling companions,
then,” she said. “I'm going
back on that ship, too.”
For some reason she decided
against telling him that the
assignment on which she had
come to the Jupiter system was
to gather his own father's notebooks
and take them back to
Earth.
Motwick was an irresponsible
playboy whom Trella had known
briefly on Earth, and Trella was
glad to dispense with his company
for the remaining three
weeks before the spaceship
blasted off. She found herself
enjoying the steadier companionship
of Quest.
As a matter of fact, she found
herself enjoying his companionship
more than she intended to.
She found herself falling in love
with him.
Now this did not suit her at
all. Trella had always liked her
men tall and dark. She had determined
that when she married
it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.
She was not at all happy about
being so strongly attracted to a
man several inches shorter than
she. She was particularly unhappy
about feeling drawn to a
man who was a coward.
The ship that they boarded on
Moon Nine was one of the newer
ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second
velocity
and take a hyperbolic path to
Earth, but it would still require
fifty-four days to make the trip.
So Trella was delighted to find
that the ship was the
Cometfire
and its skipper was her old
friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired
Jakdane Gille.
“Jakdane,” she said, flirting
with him with her eyes as in
54
days gone by, “I need a chaperon
this trip, and you're ideal for
the job.”
“I never thought of myself in
quite that light, but maybe
I'm getting old,” he answered,
laughing. “What's your trouble,
Trella?”
“I'm in love with that huge
chunk of man who came aboard
with me, and I'm not sure I
ought to be,” she confessed. “I
may need protection against myself
till we get to Earth.”
“If it's to keep you out of another
fellow's clutches, I'm your
man,” agreed Jakdane heartily.
“I always had a mind to save
you for myself. I'll guarantee
you won't have a moment alone
with him the whole trip.”
“You don't have to be that
thorough about it,” she protested
hastily. “I want to get a little
enjoyment out of being in love.
But if I feel myself weakening
too much, I'll holler for help.”
The
Cometfire
swung around
great Jupiter in an opening arc
and plummeted ever more swiftly
toward the tight circles of the
inner planets. There were four
crew members and three passengers
aboard the ship's tiny personnel
sphere, and Trella was
thrown with Quest almost constantly.
She enjoyed every minute
of it.
She told him only that she
was a messenger, sent out to
Ganymede to pick up some important
papers and take them
back to Earth. She was tempted
to tell him what the papers were.
Her employer had impressed upon
her that her mission was confidential,
but surely Dom
Blessing
could not object to Dr.
Mansard's son knowing about it.
All these things had happened
before she was born, and she
did not know what Dom Blessing's
relation to Dr. Mansard
had been, but it must have been
very close. She knew that Dr.
Mansard had invented the surgiscope.
This was an instrument with
a three-dimensional screen as its
heart. The screen was a cubical
frame in which an apparently
solid image was built up of an
object under an electron microscope.
The actual cutting instrument
of the surgiscope was an ion
stream. By operating a tool in
the three-dimensional screen,
corresponding movements were
made by the ion stream on the
object under the microscope.
The
principle
was the same as
that used in operation of remote
control “hands” in atomic laboratories
to handle hot material,
and with the surgiscope very
delicate operations could be performed
at the cellular level.
Dr. Mansard and his wife had
disappeared into the turbulent
atmosphere of Jupiter just after
his invention of the surgiscope,
and it had been developed by
Dom Blessing. Its success had
built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated,
which Blessing headed.
Through all these years since
Dr. Mansard's disappearance,
55
Blessing had been searching the
Jovian moons for a second, hidden
laboratory of Dr. Mansard.
When it was found at last, he
sent Trella, his most trusted
secretary, to Ganymede to bring
back to him the notebooks found
there.
Blessing would, of course, be
happy to learn that a son of Dr.
Mansard lived, and would see
that he received his rightful
share of the inheritance. Because
of this, Trella was tempted
to tell Quest the good news
herself; but she decided against
it. It was Blessing's privilege to
do this his own way, and he
might not appreciate her meddling.
At midtrip, Trella made a rueful
confession to Jakdane.
“It seems I was taking unnecessary
precautions when I asked
you to be a chaperon,” she said.
“I kept waiting for Quest to do
something, and when he didn't
I told him I loved him.”
“What did he say?”
“It's very peculiar,” she said
unhappily. “He said he
can't
love me. He said he wants to
love me and he feels that he
should, but there's something in
him that refuses to permit it.”
She expected Jakdane to salve
her wounded feelings with a
sympathetic pleasantry, but he
did not. Instead, he just looked
at her very thoughtfully and
said no more about the matter.
He explained his attitude
after Asrange ran amuck.
Asrange was the third passenger.
He was a lean, saturnine
individual who said little and
kept to himself as much as possible.
He was distantly polite in
his relations with both crew and
other passengers, and never
showed the slightest spark of
emotion … until the day Quest
squirted coffee on him.
It was one of those accidents
that can occur easily in space.
The passengers and the two
crewmen on that particular waking
shift (including Jakdane)
were eating lunch on the center-deck.
Quest picked up his bulb
of coffee, but inadvertently
pressed it before he got it to his
lips. The coffee squirted all over
the front of Asrange's clean
white tunic.
“I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest
in distress.
The man's eyes went wide and
he snarled. So quickly it seemed
impossible, he had unbuckled
himself from his seat and hurled
himself backward from the table
with an incoherent cry. He
seized the first object his hand
touched—it happened to be a
heavy wooden cane leaning
against Jakdane's bunk—propelled
himself like a projectile at
Quest.
Quest rose from the table in
a sudden uncoiling of movement.
He did not unbuckle his safety
belt—he rose and it snapped like
a string.
For a moment Trella thought
he was going to meet Asrange's
assault. But he fled in a long
leap toward the companionway
leading to the astrogation deck
56
above. Landing feet-first in the
middle of the table and rebounding,
Asrange pursued with the
stick upraised.
In his haste, Quest missed the
companionway in his leap and
was cornered against one of the
bunks. Asrange descended on
him like an avenging angel and,
holding onto the bunk with one
hand, rained savage blows on his
head and shoulders with the
heavy stick.
Quest made no effort to retaliate.
He cowered under the attack,
holding his hands in front
of him as if to ward it off. In a
moment, Jakdane and the other
crewman had reached Asrange
and pulled him off.
When they had Asrange in
irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,
who was now sitting unhappily
at the table.
“Take it easy,” he advised.
“I'll wake the psychosurgeon
and have him look you over. Just
stay there.”
Quest shook his head.
“Don't bother him,” he said.
“It's nothing but a few bruises.”
“Bruises? Man, that club
could have broken your skull!
Or a couple of ribs, at the very
least.”
“I'm all right,” insisted
Quest; and when the skeptical
Jakdane insisted on examining
him carefully, he had to admit
it. There was hardly a mark on
him from the blows.
“If it didn't hurt you any
more than that, why didn't you
take that stick away from him?”
demanded Jakdane. “You could
have, easily.”
“I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,
and turned his face
away.
Later, alone with Trella on
the control deck, Jakdane gave
her some sober advice.
“If you think you're in love
with Quest, forget it,” he said.
“Why? Because he's a coward?
I know that ought to make
me despise him, but it doesn't
any more.”
“Not because he's a coward.
Because he's an android!”
“What? Jakdane, you can't be
serious!”
“I am. I say he's an android,
an artificial imitation of a man.
It all figures.
“Look, Trella, he said he was
born on Jupiter. A human could
stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside
a dome or a ship, but what
human could stand the rocket acceleration
necessary to break
free of Jupiter? Here's a man
strong enough to break a spaceship
safety belt just by getting
up out of his chair against it,
tough enough to take a beating
with a heavy stick without being
injured. How can you believe
he's really human?”
Trella remembered the thug
Kregg striking Quest in the face
and then crying that he had injured
his hand on the bar.
“But he said Dr. Mansard was
his father,” protested Trella.
“Robots and androids frequently
look on their makers as
their parents,” said Jakdane.
“Quest may not even know he's
57
artificial. Do you know how
Mansard died?”
“The oxygen equipment failed,
Quest said.”
“Yes. Do you know when?”
“No. Quest never did tell me,
that I remember.”
“He told me: a year before
Quest made his rocket flight to
Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment
failed, how do you think
Quest
lived in the poisonous atmosphere
of Jupiter, if he's human?”
Trella was silent.
“For the protection of humans,
there are two psychological
traits built into every robot
and android,” said Jakdane
gently. “The first is that they
can never, under any circumstances,
attack a human being,
even in self defense. The second
is that, while they may understand
sexual desire objectively,
they can never experience it
themselves.
“Those characteristics fit your
man Quest to a T, Trella. There
is no other explanation for him:
he must be an android.”
Trella did not want to believe
Jakdane was right, but his reasoning
was unassailable. Looking
upon Quest as an android,
many things were explained: his
great strength, his short, broad
build, his immunity to injury,
his refusal to defend himself
against a human, his inability to
return Trella's love for him.
It was not inconceivable that
she should have unknowingly
fallen in love with an android.
Humans could love androids,
with real affection, even knowing
that they were artificial.
There were instances of android
nursemaids who were virtually
members of the families owning
them.
She was glad now that she
had not told Quest of her mission
to Ganymede. He thought
he was Dr. Mansard's son, but
an android had no legal right of
inheritance from his owner. She
would leave it to Dom Blessing
to decide what to do about Quest.
Thus she did not, as she had
intended originally, speak to
Quest about seeing him again
after she had completed her assignment.
Even if Jakdane was
wrong and Quest was human—as
now seemed unlikely—Quest
had told her he could not love
her. Her best course was to try
to forget him.
Nor did Quest try to arrange
with her for a later meeting.
“It has been pleasant knowing
you, Trella,” he said when they
left the G-boat at White Sands.
A faraway look came into his
blue eyes, and he added: “I'm
sorry things couldn't have been
different, somehow.”
“Let's don't be sorry for what
we can't help,” she said gently,
taking his hand in farewell.
Trella took a fast plane from
White Sands, and twenty-four
hours later walked up the front
steps of the familiar brownstone
house on the outskirts of Washington.
Dom Blessing himself met her
at the door, a stooped, graying
58
man who peered at her over his
spectacles.
“You have the papers, eh?”
he said, spying the brief case.
“Good, good. Come in and we'll
see what we have, eh?”
She accompanied him through
the bare, windowless anteroom
which had always seemed to her
such a strange feature of this
luxurious house, and they entered
the big living room. They sat
before a fire in the old-fashioned
fireplace and Blessing opened the
brief case with trembling hands.
“There are things here,” he
said, his eyes sparkling as he
glanced through the notebooks.
“Yes, there are things here. We
shall make something of these,
Miss Trella, eh?”
“I'm glad they're something
you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she
said. “There's something else I
found on my trip, that I think
I should tell you about.”
She told him about Quest.
“He thinks he's the son of Dr.
Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently
he is, without knowing
it, an android Dr. Mansard built
on Jupiter.”
“He came back to Earth with
you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.
“Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision
whether to let him go on
living as a man or to tell him
he's an android and claim ownership
as Dr. Mansard's heir.”
Trella planned to spend a few
days resting in her employer's
spacious home, and then to take
a short vacation before resuming
her duties as his confidential
secretary. The next morning
when she came down from her
room, a change had been made.
Two armed men were with
Dom Blessing at breakfast and
accompanied him wherever he
went. She discovered that two
more men with guns were stationed
in the bare anteroom and
a guard was stationed at every
entrance to the house.
“Why all the protection?” she
asked Blessing.
“A wealthy man must be careful,”
said Blessing cheerfully.
“When we don't understand all
the implications of new circumstances,
we must be prepared for
anything, eh?”
There was only one new circumstance
Trella could think
of. Without actually intending
to, she exclaimed:
“You aren't afraid of Quest?
Why, an android can't hurt a
human!”
Blessing peered at her over his
spectacles.
“And what if he isn't an android,
eh? And if he is—what if
old Mansard didn't build in the
prohibition against harming humans
that's required by law?
What about that, eh?”
Trella was silent, shocked.
There was something here she
hadn't known about, hadn't even
suspected. For some reason, Dom
Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund
Mansard … or his heir … or
his mechanical servant.
She was sure that Blessing
was wrong, that Quest, whether
man or android, intended no
59
harm to him. Surely, Quest
would have said something of
such bitterness during their long
time together on Ganymede and
aspace, since he did not know of
Trella's connection with Blessing.
But, since this was to be
the atmosphere of Blessing's
house, she was glad that he decided
to assign her to take the
Mansard papers to the New
York laboratory.
Quest came the day before she
was scheduled to leave.
Trella was in the living room
with Blessing, discussing the instructions
she was to give to the
laboratory officials in New York.
The two bodyguards were with
them. The other guards were at
their posts.
Trella heard the doorbell ring.
The heavy oaken front door was
kept locked now, and the guards
in the anteroom examined callers
through a tiny window.
Suddenly alarm bells rang all
over the house. There was a terrific
crash outside the room as
the front door splintered. There
were shouts and the sound of a
shot.
“The steel doors!” cried Blessing,
turning white. “Let's get
out of here.”
He and his bodyguards ran
through the back of the house
out of the garage.
Blessing, ahead of the rest,
leaped into one of the cars and
started the engine.
The door from the house shattered
and Quest burst through.
The two guards turned and fired
together.
He could be hurt by bullets.
He was staggered momentarily.
Then, in a blur of motion, he
sprang forward and swept the
guards aside with one hand with
such force that they skidded
across the floor and lay in an
unconscious heap against the
rear of the garage. Trella had
opened the door of the car, but
it was wrenched from her hand
as Blessing stepped on the accelerator
and it leaped into the
driveway with spinning wheels.
Quest was after it, like a
chunky deer, running faster
than Trella had ever seen a man
run before.
Blessing slowed for the turn
at the end of the driveway and
glanced back over his shoulder.
Seeing Quest almost upon him,
he slammed down the accelerator
and twisted the wheel hard.
The car whipped into the
street, careened, and rolled over
and over, bringing up against a
tree on the other side in a twisted
tangle of wreckage.
With a horrified gasp, Trella
ran down the driveway toward
the smoking heap of metal.
Quest was already beside it,
probing it. As she reached his
side, he lifted the torn body of
Dom Blessing. Blessing was
dead.
“I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.
“I would have murdered
him.”
“But why, Quest? I knew he
was afraid of you, but he didn't
tell me why.”
“It was conditioned into me,”
answered Quest “I didn't know
60
it until just now, when it ended,
but my father conditioned me
psychologically from my birth
to the task of hunting down
Dom Blessing and killing him. It
was an unconscious drive in me
that wouldn't release me until
the task was finished.
“You see, Blessing was my father's
assistant on Ganymede.
Right after my father completed
development of the surgiscope,
he and my mother blasted off for
Io. Blessing wanted the valuable
rights to the surgiscope, and he
sabotaged the ship's drive so it
would fall into Jupiter.
“But my father was able to
control it in the heavy atmosphere
of Jupiter, and landed it
successfully. I was born there,
and he conditioned me to come
to Earth and track down Blessing.
I know now that it was
part of the conditioning that I
was unable to fight any other
man until my task was finished:
it might have gotten me in trouble
and diverted me from that
purpose.”
More gently than Trella would
have believed possible for his
Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest
took her in his arms.
“Now I can say I love you,”
he said. “That was part of the
conditioning too: I couldn't love
any woman until my job was
done.”
Trella disengaged herself.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't
you know this, too, now: that
you're not a man, but an android?”
He looked at her in astonishment,
stunned by her words.
“What in space makes you
think that?” he demanded.
“Why, Quest, it's obvious,”
she cried, tears in her eyes.
“Everything about you … your
build, suited for Jupiter's gravity …
your strength … the
fact that you were able to live
in Jupiter's atmosphere after
the oxygen equipment failed.
I know you think Dr. Mansard
was your father, but androids
often believe that.”
He grinned at her.
“I'm no android,” he said confidently.
“Do you forget my father
was inventor of the surgiscope?
He knew I'd have to grow
up on Jupiter, and he operated
on the genes before I was born.
He altered my inherited characteristics
to adapt me to the climate
of Jupiter … even to
being able to breathe a chlorine
atmosphere as well as an oxygen
atmosphere.”
Trella looked at him. He was
not badly hurt, any more than
an elephant would have been,
but his tunic was stained with
red blood where the bullets had
struck him. Normal android
blood was green.
“How can you be sure?” she
asked doubtfully.
“Androids are made,” he answered
with a laugh. “They
don't grow up. And I remember
my boyhood on Jupiter very
well.”
He took her in his arms again,
and this time she did not resist.
His lips were very human.
THE END
|
train | 27665 | [
"What is the Commission?",
"Why are the children of Ridgeville so smart?",
"How do the children feel about Mr. Henderson?",
"How is Hilary's product going to kill the razor industry?",
"Why does the group want to buy a hydraulic press?",
"Why did Hilary pour detergent into the fountain?",
"Why will the group be out of the mouse business by the fall?",
"Why does Mr. Henderson want to work for the children?"
] | [
[
"The Commission is a group of elected officials that run the town of Ridgeville.",
"The Commission is a metallurgy company and the main employer in Ridgeville. ",
"The Commission is a chemical company and the main employer in Ridgeville.",
"The Commission is a laboratory and the main employer in Ridgeville."
],
[
"An accident that included chemical fallout occurred, around the time that the children were conceived.",
"Tommy and Mary have high IQ's and the other three are androids, built by the Commission.",
"The children are androids, built by the Commission.",
"The children of Ridgeville were genetically engineered by the Commission."
],
[
"The children do not like Mr. Henderson.",
"The children feel Mr. Henderson is a bit chintzy.",
"The children feel Mr. Henderson is holding them back from their true potential.",
"The children like Mr. Henderson, but they know they are smarter than he is."
],
[
"Before-shave breaks off whiskers, just apply and wipe away. ",
"Before-shave dissolves whiskers permanently.",
"Before-shave dissolves whiskers for four to six weeks at a time.",
"Before-shave will never kill the razor industry. That's just wishful thinking."
],
[
"They want to make cages for the mice.",
"They want to make ball bearings.",
"They want to make kites.",
"They want to make detergent."
],
[
"He didn't, it was Mary.",
"He didn't, it was Tommy.",
"He didn't, it was Doris.",
"He didn't, it was Peter."
],
[
"They are selling the mice to the Commission.",
"When the cold weather comes in the fall, the mice won't survive in the cold barn.",
"Tommy refused to sell the mice.",
"The mice are breeding so fast, they will not be a novelty much longer."
],
[
"The parents of the children work for the Commission and Henderson is scared of the Commission.",
"He needs the money to pay for his mortgage.",
"He does not want to work for the children. The children will work for Mr. Henderson.",
"The children are incredibly successful."
]
] | [
4,
1,
4,
1,
2,
2,
4,
4
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—
one way or another
JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT
BY WILLIAM LEE
ILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR
"What would you think," I asked
Marjorie over supper, "if I should undertake
to lead a junior achievement
group this summer?"
She pondered it while she went to
the kitchen to bring in the dessert.
It was dried apricot pie, and very
tasty, I might add.
"Why, Donald," she said, "it could
be quite interesting, if I understand
what a junior achievement group is.
What gave you the idea?"
"It wasn't my idea, really," I admitted.
"Mr. McCormack called me
to the office today, and told me that
some of the children in the lower
grades wanted to start one. They
need adult guidance of course, and
one of the group suggested my name."
I should explain, perhaps, that I
teach a course in general science in
our Ridgeville Junior High School,
and another in general physics in the
Senior High School. It's a privilege
which I'm sure many educators must
envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our
new school is a fine one, and our
academic standards are high. On the
other hand, the fathers of most of
my students work for the Commission
and a constant awareness of the Commission
and its work pervades the
town. It is an uneasy privilege then,
at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned
brand of science to these
children of a new age.
"That's very nice," said Marjorie.
"What does a junior achievement
group do?"
"It has the purpose," I told her,
"of teaching the members something
about commerce and industry. They
manufacture simple compositions
like polishing waxes and sell them
from door-to-door. Some groups have
built up tidy little bank accounts
which are available for later educational
expenses."
"Gracious, you wouldn't have to
sell from door-to-door, would you?"
"Of course not. I'd just tell the
kids how to do it."
Marjorie put back her head and
laughed, and I was forced to join her,
for we both recognize that my understanding
and "feel" for commercial
matters—if I may use that expression—is
almost nonexistent.
"Oh, all right," I said, "laugh at
my commercial aspirations. But don't
worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack
said we could get Mr. Wells from
Commercial Department to help out
if he was needed. There is one problem,
though. Mr. McCormack is going
to put up fifty dollars to buy any
raw materials wanted and he rather
suggested that I might advance another
fifty. The question is, could we
do it?"
Marjorie did mental arithmetic.
"Yes," she said, "yes, if it's something
you'd like to do."
We've had to watch such things
rather closely for the last ten—no,
eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,
fifty-odd miles to the south, we
had our home almost paid for, when
the accident occurred. It was in the
path of the heaviest fallout, and we
couldn't have kept on living there
even if the town had stayed. When
Ridgeville moved to its present site,
so, of course, did we, which meant
starting mortgage payments all over
again.
Thus it was that on a Wednesday
morning about three weeks later, I
was sitting at one end of a plank picnic
table with five boys and girls
lined up along the sides. This was to
be our headquarters and factory for
the summer—a roomy unused barn
belonging to the parents of one of
the group members, Tommy Miller.
"O.K.," I said, "let's relax. You
don't need to treat me as a teacher,
you know. I stopped being a school
teacher when the final grades went in
last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My
job here is only to advise, and I'm
going to do that as little as possible.
You're going to decide what to do,
and if it's safe and legal and possible
to do with the starting capital we
have, I'll go along with it and help
in any way I can. This is your meeting."
Mr. McCormack had told me, and
in some detail, about the youngsters
I'd be dealing with. The three who
were sitting to my left were the ones
who had proposed the group in the
first place.
Doris Enright was a grave young
lady of ten years, who might, I
thought, be quite a beauty in a few
more years, but was at the moment
rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.
Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack
were skinny kids, too. The three
were of an age and were all tall for
ten-year-olds.
I had the impression during that
first meeting that they looked rather
alike, but this wasn't so. Their features
were quite different. Perhaps
from association, for they were close
friends, they had just come to have
a certain similarity of restrained gesture
and of modulated voice. And
they were all tanned by sun and wind
to a degree that made their eyes seem
light and their teeth startlingly white.
The two on my right were cast in
a different mold. Mary McCready
was a big husky redhead of twelve,
with a face full of freckles and an
infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,
a few months younger, was just an
average, extroverted, well adjusted
youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted
and butch-barbered.
The group exchanged looks to see
who would lead off, and Peter Cope
seemed to be elected.
"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior
achievement group is a bunch of kids
who get together to manufacture and
sell things, and maybe make some
money."
"Is that what you want to do," I
asked, "make money?"
"Why not?" Tommy asked.
"There's something wrong with making
money?"
"Well, sure, I suppose we want to,"
said Hilary. "We'll need some money
to do the things we want to do later."
"And what sort of things would
you like to make and sell?" I asked.
The usual products, of course, with
these junior achievement efforts, are
chemical specialties that can be made
safely and that people will buy and
use without misgivings—solvent to
free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove
road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that
sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had
told me, though, that I might find
these youngsters a bit more ambitious.
"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,"
he had said, "have exceptionally
high IQ's—around one forty
or one fifty. The other three are hard
to classify. They have some of the
attributes of exceptional pupils, but
much of the time they seem to have
little interest in their studies. The
junior achievement idea has sparked
their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just
what they need."
Mary said, "Why don't we make a
freckle remover? I'd be our first customer."
"The thing to do," Tommy offered,
"is to figure out what people in
Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it
to them."
"I'd like to make something by
powder metallurgy techniques," said
Pete. He fixed me with a challenging
eye. "You should be able to make
ball bearings by molding, then densify
them by electroplating."
"And all we'd need is a hydraulic
press," I told him, "which, on a guess,
might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's
think of something easier."
Pete mulled it over and nodded
reluctantly. "Then maybe something
in the electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly
of some kind."
"How about a new detergent?" Hilary
put in.
"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?"
I asked.
He was scornful. "No, they're formulations—you
know, mixtures.
That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a
brand new synthetic detergent. I've
got an idea for one that ought to be
good even in the hard water we've
got around here."
"Well, now," I said, "organic synthesis
sounds like another operation
calling for capital investment. If we
should keep the achievement group
going for several summers, it might
be possible later on to carry out a
safe synthesis of some sort. You're
Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been
dipping into your father's library?"
"Some," said Hilary, "and I've got
a home laboratory."
"How about you, Doris?" I prompted.
"Do you have a special field of interest?"
"No." She shook her head in mock
despondency. "I'm not very technical.
Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the
group wanted to raise some mice, I'd
be willing to turn over a project I've
had going at home."
"You could sell mice?" Tommy demanded
incredulously.
"Mice," I echoed, then sat back and
thought about it. "Are they a pure
strain? One of the recognized laboratory
strains? Healthy mice of the
right strain," I explained to Tommy,
"might be sold to laboratories. I have
an idea the Commission buys a supply
every month."
"No," said Doris, "these aren't laboratory
mice. They're fancy ones. I
got the first four pairs from a pet
shop in Denver, but they're red—sort
of chipmunk color, you know. I've
carried them through seventeen generations
of careful selection."
"Well, now," I admitted, "the market
for red mice might be rather limited.
Why don't you consider making
an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,
glycerine, water, a little color
and perfume. You could buy some
bottles and have some labels printed.
You'd be in business before you
knew it."
There was a pause, then Tommy
inquired, "How do you sell it?"
"Door-to-door."
He made a face. "Never build up
any volume. Unless it did something
extra. You say we'd put color in it.
How about enough color to leave
your face looking tanned. Men won't
use cosmetics and junk, but if they
didn't have to admit it, they might
like the shave lotion."
Hilary had been deep in thought.
He said suddenly, "Gosh, I think I
know how to make a—what do you
want to call it—a before-shave lotion."
"What would that be?" I asked.
"You'd use it before you shaved."
"I suppose there might be people
who'd prefer to use it beforehand,"
I conceded.
"There will be people," he said
darkly, and subsided.
Mrs. Miller came out to the barn
after a while, bringing a bucket of
soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves
of bread and ingredients for a variety
of sandwiches. The parents had
agreed to underwrite lunches at the
barn and Betty Miller philosophically
assumed the role of commissary
officer. She paused only to say hello
and to ask how we were progressing
with our organization meeting.
I'd forgotten all about organization,
and that, according to all the
articles I had perused, is most important
to such groups. It's standard practice
for every member of the group
to be a company officer. Of course a
young boy who doesn't know any better,
may wind up a sales manager.
Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested
nominating company officers,
but they seemed not to be interested.
Peter Cope waved it off by remarking
that they'd each do what came
naturally. On the other hand, they
pondered at some length about a
name for the organization, without
reaching any conclusions, so we returned
to the problem of what to
make.
It was Mary, finally, who advanced
the thought of kites. At first there
was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,
"You know, we could work up something
new. Has anybody ever seen a
kite made like a wind sock?"
Nobody had. Pete drew figures in
the air with his hands. "How about
the hole at the small end?"
"I'll make one tonight," said Doris,
"and think about the small end.
It'll work out all right."
I wished that the youngsters weren't
starting out by inventing a new
article to manufacture, and risking an
almost certain disappointment, but to
hold my guidance to the minimum, I
said nothing, knowing that later I
could help them redesign it along
standard lines.
At supper I reviewed the day's
happenings with Marjorie and tried
to recall all of the ideas which had
been propounded. Most of them were
impractical, of course, for a group of
children to attempt, but several of
them appeared quite attractive.
Tommy, for example, wanted to
put tooth powder into tablets that
one would chew before brushing the
teeth. He thought there should be
two colors in the same bottle—orange
for morning and blue for night,
the blue ones designed to leave the
mouth alkaline at bed time.
Pete wanted to make a combination
nail and wood screw. You'd
drive it in with a hammer up to the
threaded part, then send it home with
a few turns of a screwdriver.
Hilary, reluctantly forsaking his
ideas on detergents, suggested we
make black plastic discs, like poker
chips but thinner and as cheap as
possible, to scatter on a snowy sidewalk
where they would pick up extra
heat from the sun and melt the
snow more rapidly. Afterward one
would sweep up and collect the discs.
Doris added to this that if you
could make the discs light enough to
float, they might be colored white
and spread on the surface of a reservoir
to reduce evaporation.
These latter ideas had made unknowing
use of some basic physics,
and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few
minutes into the role of teacher and
told them a little bit about the laws
of radiation and absorption of heat.
"My," said Marjorie, "they're really
smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller
does sound like a born salesman.
Somehow I don't think you're going
to have to call in Mr. Wells."
I do feel just a little embarrassed
about the kite, even now. The fact
that it flew surprised me. That it flew
so confoundedly well was humiliating.
Four of them were at the barn
when I arrived next morning; or
rather on the rise of ground just beyond
it, and the kite hung motionless
and almost out of sight in the pale
sky. I stood and watched for a moment,
then they saw me.
"Hello, Mr. Henderson," Mary said,
and proffered the cord which was
wound on a fishing reel. I played the
kite up and down for a few minutes,
then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,
a wind sock, but the hole at the
small end was shaped—by wire—into
the general form of a kidney bean.
It was beautifully made, and had a
sort of professional look about it.
"It flies too well," Mary told Doris.
"A kite ought to get caught in a tree
sometimes."
"You're right," Doris agreed. "Let's
see it." She gave the wire at the small
end the slightest of twists. "There, it
ought to swoop."
Sure enough, in the moderate
breeze of that morning, the kite
swooped and yawed to Mary's entire
satisfaction. As we trailed back to the
barn I asked Doris, "How did you
know that flattening the lower edge
of the hole would create instability?"
She looked doubtful.
"Why it would have to, wouldn't
it? It changed the pattern of air pressures."
She glanced at me quickly.
"Of course, I tried a lot of different
shapes while I was making it."
"Naturally," I said, and let it go at
that. "Where's Tommy?"
"He stopped off at the bank," Pete
Cope told me, "to borrow some money.
We'll want to buy materials to
make some of these kites."
"But I said yesterday that Mr. McCormack
and I were going to advance
some cash to get started."
"Oh, sure, but don't you think it
would be better to borrow from a
bank? More businesslike?"
"Doubtless," I said, "but banks generally
want some security." I would
have gone on and explained matters
further, except that Tommy walked
in and handed me a pocket check
book.
"I got two hundred and fifty," he
volunteered—not without a hint of
complacency in his voice. "It didn't
take long, but they sure made it out
a big deal. Half the guys in the bank
had to be called in to listen to the
proposition. The account's in your
name, Mr. Henderson, and you'll have
to make out the checks. And they
want you to stop in at the bank and
give them a specimen signature. Oh,
yes, and cosign the note."
My heart sank. I'd never had any
dealings with banks except in the
matter of mortgages, and bank people
make me most uneasy. To say
nothing of finding myself responsible
for a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar
note—over two weeks salary. I made
a mental vow to sign very few checks.
"So then I stopped by at Apex
Stationers," Tommy went on, "and ordered
some paper and envelopes. We
hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I
figured what's to lose, and picked one.
Ridge Industries, how's that?" Everybody
nodded.
"Just three lines on the letterhead,"
he explained. "Ridge Industries—Ridgeville—Montana."
I got my voice back and said, "Engraved,
I trust."
"Well, sure," he replied. "You can't
afford to look chintzy."
My appetite was not at its best
that evening, and Marjorie recognized
that something was concerning
me, but she asked no questions, and
I only told her about the success of
the kite, and the youngsters embarking
on a shopping trip for paper, glue
and wood splints. There was no use
in both of us worrying.
On Friday we all got down to work,
and presently had a regular production
line under way; stapling the
wood splints, then wetting them with
a resin solution and shaping them
over a mandrel to stiffen, cutting the
plastic film around a pattern, assembling
and hanging the finished kites
from an overhead beam until the cement
had set. Pete Cope had located
a big roll of red plastic film from
somewhere, and it made a wonderful-looking
kite. Happily, I didn't know
what the film cost until the first kites
were sold.
By Wednesday of the following
week we had almost three hundred
kites finished and packed into flat
cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't
care if I never saw another. Tommy,
who by mutual consent, was our
authority on sales, didn't want to sell
any until we had, as he put it, enough
to meet the demand, but this quantity
seemed to satisfy him. He said he
would sell them the next week and
Mary McCready, with a fine burst of
confidence, asked him in all seriousness
to be sure to hold out a dozen.
Three other things occurred that
day, two of which I knew about immediately.
Mary brought a portable
typewriter from home and spent part
of the afternoon banging away at
what seemed to me, since I use two
fingers only, a very creditable speed.
And Hilary brought in a bottle of
his new detergent. It was a syrupy
yellow liquid with a nice collar of
suds. He'd been busy in his home
laboratory after all, it seemed.
"What is it?" I asked. "You never
told us."
Hilary grinned. "Lauryl benzyl
phosphonic acid, dipotassium salt, in
20% solution."
"Goodness." I protested, "it's been
twenty-five years since my last course
in chemistry. Perhaps if I saw the
formula—."
He gave me a singularly adult
smile and jotted down a scrawl of
symbols and lines. It meant little to
me.
"Is it good?"
For answer he seized the ice bucket,
now empty of its soda bottles,
trickled in a few drops from the bottle
and swished the contents. Foam
mounted to the rim and spilled over.
"And that's our best grade of Ridgeville
water," he pointed out. "Hardest
in the country."
The third event of Wednesday
came to my ears on Thursday morning.
I was a little late arriving at the
barn, and was taken a bit aback to
find the roadway leading to it rather
full of parked automobiles, and the
barn itself rather full of people, including
two policemen. Our Ridgeville
police are quite young men, but
in uniform they still look ominous
and I was relieved to see that they
were laughing and evidently enjoying
themselves.
"Well, now," I demanded, in my
best classroom voice. "What is all
this?"
"Are you Henderson?" the larger
policeman asked.
"I am indeed," I said, and a flash
bulb went off. A young lady grasped
my arm.
"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come
outside where it's quieter and tell me
all about it."
"Perhaps," I countered, "somebody
should tell me."
"You mean you don't know, honestly?
Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've
had for ages. It'll make the city papers."
She led me around the corner
of the barn to a spot of comparative
quiet.
"You didn't know that one of your
junior whatsisnames poured detergent
in the Memorial Fountain basin
last night?"
I shook my head numbly.
"It was priceless. Just before rush
hour. Suds built up in the basin and
overflowed, and down the library
steps and covered the whole street.
And the funniest part was they kept
right on coming. You couldn't imagine
so much suds coming from that
little pool of water. There was a
three-block traffic jam and Harry got
us some marvelous pictures—men
rolling up their trousers to wade
across the street. And this morning,"
she chortled, "somebody phoned in
an anonymous tip to the police—of
course it was the same boy that did
it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here
we are. And we just saw a demonstration
of that fabulous kite and saw
all those simply captivating mice."
"Mice?"
"Yes, of course. Who would ever
have thought you could breed mice
with those cute furry tails?"
Well, after a while things quieted
down. They had to. The police left
after sobering up long enough to
give me a serious warning against
letting such a thing happen again.
Mr. Miller, who had come home to
see what all the excitement was, went
back to work and Mrs. Miller went
back to the house and the reporter
and photographer drifted off to file
their story, or whatever it is they do.
Tommy was jubilant.
"Did you hear what she said? It'll
make the city papers. I wish we had
a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh
boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can
you make some more of that stuff?
And Doris, how many mice do you
have?"
Those mice! I have always kept
my enthusiasm for rodents within
bounds, but I must admit they were
charming little beasts, with tails as
bushy as miniature squirrels.
"How many generations?" I asked
Doris.
"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now.
Want to see the genetic charts?"
I won't try to explain it as she did
to me, but it was quite evident that
the new mice were breeding true.
Presently we asked Betty Miller to
come back down to the barn for a
conference. She listened and asked
questions. At last she said, "Well, all
right, if you promise me they can't
get out of their cages. But heaven
knows what you'll do when fall
comes. They won't live in an unheated
barn and you can't bring them
into the house."
"We'll be out of the mouse business
by then," Doris predicted. "Every pet
shop in the country will have
them and they'll be down to nothing
apiece."
Doris was right, of course, in spite
of our efforts to protect the market.
Anyhow that ushered in our cage
building phase, and for the next
week—with a few interruptions—we
built cages, hundreds of them, a good
many for breeding, but mostly for
shipping.
It was rather regrettable that, after
the
Courier
gave us most of the third
page, including photographs, we rarely
had a day without a few visitors.
Many of them wanted to buy mice or
kites, but Tommy refused to sell any
mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint
those who wanted kites. The
Supermarket took all we had—except
a dozen—and at a dollar fifty
each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather
frightened me, but he set the value
of the mice at ten dollars a pair
and got it without any arguments.
Our beautiful stationery arrived,
and we had some invoice forms printed
up in a hurry—not engraved, for
a wonder.
It was on Tuesday—following the
Thursday—that a lanky young man
disentangled himself from his car
and strolled into the barn. I looked
up from the floor where I was tacking
squares of screening onto wooden
frames.
"Hi," he said. "You're Donald
Henderson, right? My name is McCord—Jeff
McCord—and I work in
the Patent Section at the Commission's
downtown office. My boss sent
me over here, but if he hadn't, I
think I'd have come anyway. What
are you doing to get patent protection
on Ridge Industries' new developments?"
I got my back unkinked and dusted
off my knees. "Well, now," I said,
"I've been wondering whether something
shouldn't be done, but I know
very little about such matters—."
"Exactly," he broke in, "we guessed
that might be the case, and there are
three patent men in our office who'd
like to chip in and contribute some
time. Partly for the kicks and partly
because we think you may have some
things worth protecting. How about
it? You worry about the filing and
final fees. That's sixty bucks per
brainstorm. We'll worry about everything
else."
"What's to lose," Tommy interjected.
And so we acquired a patent attorney,
several of them, in fact.
The day that our application on
the kite design went to Washington,
Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers
scattered from New York to Los
Angeles, sent a kite to each one and
offered to license the design. Result,
one licensee with a thousand dollar
advance against next season's royalties.
It was a rainy morning about three
weeks later that I arrived at the barn.
Jeff McCord was there, and the whole
team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his
feet from the picnic table and said,
"Hi."
"Hi yourself," I told him. "You
look pleased."
"I am," he replied, "in a cautious
legal sense, of course. Hilary and I
were just going over the situation on
his phosphonate detergent. I've spent
the last three nights studying the patent
literature and a few standard
texts touching on phosphonates.
There are a zillion patents on synthetic
detergents and a good round
fifty on phosphonates, but it looks"—he
held up a long admonitory hand—"it
just looks as though we had a clear
spot. If we do get protection, you've
got a real salable property."
"That's fine, Mr. McCord," Hilary
said, "but it's not very important."
"No?" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow
at me, and I handed him a small
bottle. He opened and sniffed at it
gingerly. "What gives?"
"Before-shave lotion," Hilary told
him. "You've shaved this morning,
but try some anyway."
Jeff looked momentarily dubious,
then puddled some in his palm and
moistened his jaw line. "Smells
good," he noted, "and feels nice and
cool. Now what?"
"Wipe your face." Jeff located a
handkerchief and wiped, looked at
the cloth, wiped again, and stared.
"What is it?"
"A whisker stiffener. It makes each
hair brittle enough to break off right
at the surface of your skin."
"So I perceive. What is it?"
"Oh, just a mixture of stuff. Cookbook
chemistry. Cysteine thiolactone
and a fat-soluble magnesium compound."
"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And
do your whiskers grow back the next
day?"
"Right on schedule," I said.
McCord unfolded his length and
stood staring out into the rain. Presently
he said, "Henderson, Hilary
and I are heading for my office. We
can work there better than here, and
if we're going to break the hearts of
the razor industry, there's no better
time to start than now."
When they had driven off I turned
and said, "Let's talk a while. We can
always clean mouse cages later.
Where's Tommy?"
"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get
a loan."
"What on earth for? We have over
six thousand in the account."
"Well," Peter said, looking a little
embarrassed, "we were planning to
buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris
put some embroidery on that scheme
of mine for making ball bearings."
He grabbed a sheet of paper. "Look,
we make a roller bearing, this shape
only it's a permanent magnet. Then
you see—." And he was off.
"What did they do today, dear?"
Marge asked as she refilled my coffee
cup.
"Thanks," I said. "Let's see, it was
a big day. We picked out a hydraulic
press, Doris read us the first chapter
of the book she's starting, and we
found a place over a garage on
Fourth Street that we can rent for
winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is
starting action to get the company
incorporated."
"Winter quarters," Marge repeated.
"You mean you're going to try to
keep the group going after school
starts?"
"Why not? The kids can sail
through their courses without thinking
about them, and actually they
won't put in more than a few hours
a week during the school year."
"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?"
"Child labor nothing. They're the
employers. Jeff McCord and I will
be the only employees—just at first,
anyway."
Marge choked on something. "Did
you say you'd be an employee?"
"Sure," I told her. "They've offered
me a small share of the company,
and I'd be crazy to turn it down. After
all, what's to lose?"
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Analog Science Fact & Fiction
July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24192 | [
"Why are they throwing a parade for Hank?",
"What was Hank's mission?",
"How did Hank die?",
"Why was Hank lying down for months?",
"Who invented the regenerative brain and organ process?",
"Why does Hank wait for Edith to leave before he changes clothes?",
"How does Edith feel about Hank's return?",
"Why does Hank want to eat alone?",
"Why does Edith want Hank to go out on the town?",
"Why do people keep asking Hank what he saw?"
] | [
[
"Hank is back from a mission to Mars.",
"Hank is back from an experimental continent-to-continent flight.",
"Hank is back from the dead.",
"Hank is back from beyond the Great Frontier."
],
[
"Hank's mission was to touch down on Mars in preparation for a future colony.",
"Hank's mission was to experience death and be brought back to life.",
"Hank's mission was to build a colony on the moon.",
"Hank's mission was to pilot an experimental continent-to-continent flight."
],
[
"Hank's spacecraft exploded when it hit Earth's atmosphere on the way home from Mars.",
"Hank's experimental continent-to-continent flight vessel exploded.",
"Hank died when he crashed his car on the way to the mission launch.",
"Hank's spacecraft exploded when it hit Earth's atmosphere on the way home from the moon."
],
[
"Hank's body was lying in a cryostasis tank while the doctors figured out how to bring him back to life.",
"Hank was lying in a stasis tank on the way back from the moon.",
"Hank was lying in a stasis tank on the way back from Mars.",
"Hank's body was lying in a tank designed to regenerate his body processes."
],
[
"General Carlisle",
"Captain Davidson",
"Vasco De Gama",
"Corporal Berringer"
],
[
"Edith bought separate beds while he was gone. Undressing in front of her may make her uncomfortable.",
"The new bedroom arrangement put them in separate beds. He doesn't want Edith to feel uncomfortable by his undressing.",
"He doesn't want Edith to see the scars on his body. It will just remind her he died.",
"He doesn't want Edith to see the scars on his body. Scars may put a damper on the romance."
],
[
"Edith is happy that Hank has returned, but she is scared he might have changed.",
"Edith is happy that Hank has returned if he is Hank. He may be a Martian shapeshifter.",
"Edith is happy that Hank has returned, but she is scared that he may be a zombie or a vampire.",
"Edith is happy that Hank has returned if he is Hank. He may be an experimental android developed by the Air Force."
],
[
"Aunt Lucille won't shut up about the Ladies' Garden Club.",
"His family is not treating him like a normal person. Hank just wants to feel normal.",
"His family is talking too loudly at dinner, and there are too many people in the room. Hank is experiencing sensory overload.",
"His family was watching him eat like an animal in a zoo. Hank just wants to feel normal."
],
[
"Edith promised Hank's mother that she would make an effort to return to normalcy, as death had not parted them after all.",
"Edith is making an effort to return to normalcy, even though she is scared. She loves Hank.",
"Edith promised General Carlisle that she would make an effort to return to normalcy. She was aware of the new return-to-life policy before Hank left on the mission.",
"Edith wants to get Hank out of the house so Ralphie can have his friends over. Ralphie's friends don't want to visit while Hank is at the house."
],
[
"Hank was dead for months. People want to know about the afterlife.",
"Hank was on the moon for months. People want to know what life was like there.",
"Hank was dead for months. People want to know which religion got it right.",
"Hank was out in space for months. People want to know what he saw on Mars."
]
] | [
3,
4,
2,
4,
1,
3,
1,
2,
2,
1
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | THE FIRST ONE
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by von Dongen
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.]
The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may be
welcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as a
hero...?
There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usual
speeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which had
once been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city had
since engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everything
wasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite as
at-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,
one of the crew of the spaceship
Washington
, first to set Americans
upon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. His
Honor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.
Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, the
hometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphal
tour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he sat
between the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,
and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the National
Guard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several of
the churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct their
parishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendous
national interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made them
come around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust as
they'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as the
newspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—the
Galloping Twenties.
He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired man
and he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, than
any man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, a
kiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some old
friends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.
He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhaps
he would talk.
Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he had
returned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the great
mariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,
passing, and then the arrival.
The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let him
off at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.
They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,
almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He had
wanted it to be as before.
The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who had
escorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.
He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through with
strangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standing
beside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,
their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He was
still too much the First One to have his gaze met.
He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornate
flagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamental
knocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He was
surprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watching
at a window.
And perhaps she
had
been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.
The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and she
hadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd loved
in high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.
Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutual
support, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. They
looked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,
"It's good to be home!"
Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the other
arm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the old
jokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, the
and-
then
-I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.
She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt the
difference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency to
Ralphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he could
think of nothing else to say, "What a big fella, what a big fella."
Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on the
floor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. "I
didn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough."
So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, that
everything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, General
Carlisle, had said it would early this morning before he left
Washington.
"Give it some time," Carlisle had said. "You need the time; they need
the time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive."
Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,
a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she sat
down beside him—but she had hesitated. He
wasn't
being sensitive; she
had hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.
Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco De
Gama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but more
so. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had worked
with him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantastic
journey—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed genius
in uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.
The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.
He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boy
already tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large of
feature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himself
twenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in a
way that few ten-year-old faces are.
"How's it going in school?" he asked.
"Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation."
"Well, then, before summer vacation?"
"Pretty good."
Edith said, "He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, and
he made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank."
He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering the
warmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears as
he left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They had
feared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even in
continent-to-continent experimental flight.
They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.
But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made the
long journey. Ralphie suddenly said, "I got to go, Dad. I promised Walt
and the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It's
Harmon, you know. I got to keep my word." Without waiting for an answer,
he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—and
ran from the room and from the house.
He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her in
his arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. "I'm very
tired. I'd like to lie down a while." Which wasn't true, because he'd
been lying down all the months of the way back.
She said, "Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around and
make small talk and pick up just where you left off."
He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talk
and pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;
they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.
She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and past
the small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It was
newly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by an
ornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked more
ominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wire
fence around the experimental station.
"Which one is mine," he asked, and tried to smile.
She also tried to smile. "The one near the window. You always liked the
fresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped you
to get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.
You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that you
were going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from it
to this bed again."
"Not this bed," he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.
"No, not this bed," she said quickly. "Your lodge donated the bedroom
set and I really didn't know—" She waved her hand, her face white.
He was sure then that she
had
known, and that the beds and the barrier
between them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He went
to the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,
began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scars
still showed. He waited for her to leave the room.
She said, "Well then, rest up, dear," and went out.
He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the opposite
wall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, the
scars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicing
diagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.
There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'd
been treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seen
them.
Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms would
keep them from her until they were gone.
Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving Walter
Reed Hospital early this morning; which was something he found
distasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,
he began to understand that there would be many things, previously
beneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;
Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probably
changed—because they thought
he
had changed.
He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He let
himself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never known
before.
But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance began
filtering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the same
man who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family and
friends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he could
communicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First One
would again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—a
return to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwash
instead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly be
granted to him.
He slept.
Dinner was at seven
p.m.
His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucille
came. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and ate
in the dining room at the big table.
Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. His
family had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack of
talkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially with
company present—to describe everything and anything that had happened
to him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especially
with his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had been
good-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.
This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. "Stiff"
was perhaps the word.
They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,
efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He looked
at Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,
"Younger than ever." It was nothing new; he'd said it many many times
before, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quip
something like, "Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean." This time
she burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more was
the fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comfort
her; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.
He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touched
her left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't move
it—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-cool
embrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let it
drop out of sight.
So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,
the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.
The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joe
began to talk. "The greatest little development of circular uniform
houses you ever did see," he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.
"Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before—" At that point he
looked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested in
this normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,
mumbled, "Soup's getting cold," and began to eat. His hand shook a
little; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.
Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' Tuesday
Garden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat between
Joe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he felt
alone—and said, "I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rose
bushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower or
trowel."
Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching of
the lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,
and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, "I
have a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room a
while." She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusive
mother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had often
irritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barely
touched his shoulder and fled.
So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rare
slices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. He
cut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphie
and said, "Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard."
Ralphie said, "Yeah, Dad." Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork and
murmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and said
Lucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was going
into the living room for a while. "She'll be back for dessert, of
course," he said, his laugh sounding forced.
Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at
Ralphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe was
chewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked at
Lucille; she was disappearing into the living room.
He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glass
overturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. They
were all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his big
right fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such a
scene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as the
First One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fear
of, that he could have smashed more than a table.
Edith said, "Hank!"
He said, voice hoarse, "Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick of
the lot of you."
Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing food
down his throat. Mother said, "Henry dear—" He didn't answer. She began
to cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never said
anything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have been
the time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something about
getting together again soon and "drop out and see the new development"
and he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.
He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the special
dessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.
She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. She
hesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called the
boy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of the
table. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,
"Hey, I promised—"
"You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball or
something; anything to get away from your father."
Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, "Aw, no, Dad."
Edith said, "He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an evening
together—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly."
Ralphie said, "Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to."
Hank stood up. "The question is not whether I want to. You both know I
want to. The question is whether
you
want to."
They answered together that of course they wanted to. But their
eyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said he
was going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would in
all probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and that
they shouldn't count on him for normal social life.
He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.
But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a
lighted room. "Phil and Rhona are here." He blinked at her. She smiled,
and it seemed her old smile. "They're so anxious to see you, Hank. I
could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want
to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will."
He sat up. "Phil," he muttered. "Phil and Rhona." They'd had wonderful
times together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest and
closest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.
Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!
It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'd
also expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him to
expect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil sounded
very much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter and
full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, and
clapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so much
more gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than was
good for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go along
on the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.
They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to
Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee
and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he
merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.
There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been there
many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized
him. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as
if he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.
At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he
said, "I haven't danced with my girl Rhona." His tongue was thick, his
mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her
face—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual
of flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were going
to be sick.
"So let's rock," he said and stood up.
They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.
And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,
mechanical dancing doll.
The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,
"Beddy-bye time."
Hank said, "First one dance with my loving wife."
He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waited
for her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.
Because while she put herself against him, there was something in her
face—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him know
she was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time when
the music ended, he was ready to go home.
They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear of
Phil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,
Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his old
self. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self with
the First One.
They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, and
Phil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen and
looked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fence
paralleling the road. "Hey," he said, pointing, "do you know why that's
the most popular place on earth?"
Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made a
little sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on a
while longer, not yet aware of his supposed
faux pas
.
"You know why?" he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughter
rumbling up from his chest. "You know why, folks?"
Rhona said, "Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—"
Hank said, "No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?"
Phil said, "Because people are—" And then he caught himself and waved
his hand and muttered, "I forgot the punch line."
"Because people are dying to get in," Hank said, and looked through the
window, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleeting
tombstones.
The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have been
nothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. "Maybe you should
let me out right here," Hank said. "I'm home—or that's what everyone
seems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe that
would satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula or
another monster from the movies."
Edith said, "Oh, Hank, don't, don't!"
The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went four
blocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. He
didn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone path
and entered the house.
"Hank," Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, "I'm so sorry—"
"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'll
all work out in time."
"Yes," she said quickly, "that's it. I need a little time. We all need a
little time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.
I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurt
you terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we're
frightened."
"I'm going to stay in the guest room," he said, "for as long as
necessary. For good if need be."
"How could it be for good? How, Hank?"
That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since
returning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,
even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.
"There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks right
now. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment I
did—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He was
smashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almost
ready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to save
all they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy man
loses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,
he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain and
organ process—the process that made it all possible. So people have to
get used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly old
superstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some of
us; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing."
Edith said, "Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please
believe that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and—" She paused.
"There's one question."
He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him by
everyone from the president of the United States on down.
"I saw nothing," he said. "It was as if I slept those six and a half
months—slept without dreaming."
She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he was
satisfied.
Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories of
how they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered and
pulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his own
home.
THE END
|
train | 24278 | [
"Why does the UN want to arrest Umluana?",
"Why don't Harry's parents want him to join the UN?",
"Why did Rashid join the UN?",
"How does Read feel about Rashid?",
"Why wasn't Read wearing his green beret when arrested Umluana?",
"Why can't they transmit Umluana as planned?",
"Why are the Belderkans shooting if they might hit Umlauna?",
"Why would the psychologists be surprised to see Read blow up the tank?"
] | [
[
"Umluana conspired to attack Belderkan.",
"Umluana conspired to attack another nation.",
"Umluana has violated the Nuclear Disarmament Treaty.",
"Umluana is the head of a gang called The Golden Spacemen."
],
[
"Harry's parents think he is too lazy to succeed in the UN.",
"Harry's parents want him to go to trade school.",
"Harry's parents feel that joining the UN means he is turning his back on America.",
"Harry's parents don't want him to be a soldier."
],
[
"Rashid joined the UN to get away from a gang called The Golden Spacemen.",
"Rashid joined the UN because he wants world peace at any cost.",
"Rashid joined the UN after he was fired from Cambridge.",
"Rashid joined the UN because he wanted to go to war."
],
[
"Read thinks Rashid is a very special man.",
"Read thinks Sergeant Rashid is the ideal UN soldier. Rashid is completely devoted to world peace at any cost.",
"Read thinks Rashid is weak because Rashid wants to help the wounded.",
"Read thinks Rashid is crazy for using Molotov cocktails."
],
[
"His beret was knocked off his head in the scuffle.",
"Read doesn't really like wearing hats.",
"Read was in plain clothes. They were undercover.",
"Read forgot that he placed it in his pocket earlier."
],
[
"The controls at the Geneva receiving station have been destroyed.",
"The controls at the Miaka station have been destroyed.",
"The controls at the UN receiving station have been destroyed.",
"The controls at the Belderkan Preserve have been destroyed."
],
[
"The Belderkans don't like Umlauna. He tried to invade their country.",
"The Belderkans want Umlauna dead. That's why Read and Rashid are rescuing him.",
"If they shoot Umlauna, he'll be a martyr for their cause. That is okay.",
"The Belderkans don't realize that Umlauna is with Read and Rashid. "
],
[
"Read's psych tests said he only cared about himself.",
"Read's psych tests said he would likely fall apart under pressure.",
"Read's psych tests said he was only driven by pride.",
"Read's psych tests said he was a coward."
]
] | [
3,
3,
2,
2,
3,
4,
3,
3
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE
GREEN
BERET
By TOM PURDOM
It's not so much the decisions a man does make that mark
him as a Man—but the ones he refrains from making. Like the
decision "I've had enough!"
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Read locked the door and drew his pistol. Sergeant Rashid handed
Premier Umluana the warrant.
"We're from the UN Inspector Corps," Sergeant Rashid said. "I'm
very sorry, but we have to arrest you and bring you in for trial
by the World Court."
If Umluana noticed Read's gun, he didn't show it. He read the
warrant carefully. When he finished, he said something in Dutch.
"I don't know your language," Rashid said.
"Then I'll speak English." Umluana was a small man with wrinkled
brow, glasses and a mustache. His skin was a shade lighter than
Read's. "The Inspector General doesn't have the power to arrest a
head of state—especially the Premier of Belderkan. Now, if
you'll excuse me, I must return to my party."
In the other room people laughed and talked. Glasses clinked in
the late afternoon. Read knew two armed men stood just outside
the door. "If you leave, Premier, I'll have to shoot you."
"I don't think so," Umluana said. "No, if you kill me, all Africa
will rise against the world. You don't want me dead. You want me
in court."
Read clicked off the safety.
"Corporal Read is very young," Rashid said, "but he's a crack
shot. That's why I brought him with me. I think he
likes
to
shoot, too."
Umluana turned back to Rashid a second too soon. He saw the
sergeant's upraised hand before it collided with his neck.
"Help!
Kidnap.
"
Rashid judo chopped him and swung the inert body over his
shoulders. Read pulled a flat grenade from his vest pocket. He
dropped it and yellow psycho gas hissed from the valve.
"Let's be off," Rashid said.
The door lock snapped as they went out the window. Two men with
rifles plunged into the gas; sighing, they fell to the floor in a
catatonic trance.
A little car skimmed across the lawn. Bearing the Scourge of
Africa, Rashid struggled toward it. Read walked backward,
covering their retreat.
The car stopped, whirling blades holding it a few inches off the
lawn. They climbed in.
"How did it go?" The driver and another inspector occupied the
front seat.
"They'll be after us in half a minute."
The other inspector carried a light machine gun and a box of
grenades. "I better cover," he said.
"Thanks," Rashid said.
The inspector slid out of the car and ran to a clump of bushes.
The driver pushed in the accelerator. As they swerved toward the
south, Read saw a dozen armed men run out of the house. A grenade
arced from the bushes and the pursuers recoiled from the cloud
that rose before them.
"Is he all right?" the driver asked.
"I don't think I hurt him." Rashid took a syrette from his vest
pocket. "Well, Read, it looks like we're in for a fight. In a few
minutes Miaka Station will know we're coming. And God knows what
will happen at the Game Preserve."
Read wanted to jump out of the car. He could die any minute. But
he had set his life on a well-oiled track and he couldn't get off
until they reached Geneva.
"They don't know who's coming," he said. "They don't make them
tough enough to stop this boy."
Staring straight ahead, he didn't see the sergeant smile.
Two types of recruits are accepted by the UN Inspector Corps:
those with a fanatic loyalty to the ideals of peace and world
order, and those who are loyal to nothing but themselves. Read
was the second type.
A tall, lanky Negro he had spent his school days in one of the
drab suburbs that ring every prosperous American city. It was the
home of factory workers, clerks, semiskilled technicians, all who
do the drudge work of civilization and know they will never do
more. The adults spent their days with television, alcohol and
drugs; the young spent their days with gangs, sex, television and
alcohol. What else was there? Those who could have told him
neither studied nor taught at his schools. What he saw on the
concrete fields between the tall apartment houses marked the
limits of life's possibilities.
He had belonged to a gang called The Golden Spacemen. "Nobody
fools with me," he bragged. "When Harry Read's out, there's a
tiger running loose." No one knew how many times he nearly ran
from other clubs, how carefully he picked the safest spot on the
battle line.
"A man ought to be a man," he once told a girl. "He ought to do a
man's work. Did you ever notice how our fathers look, how they
sleep so much? I don't want to be like that. I want to be
something proud."
He joined the UN Inspector Corps at eighteen, in 1978. The
international cops wore green berets, high buttonless boots, bush
jackets. They were very special men.
For the first time in his life, his father said something about
his ambitions.
"Don't you like America, Harry? Do you
want
to be without a
country? This is the best country in the world. All my life I've
made a good living. Haven't you had everything you ever wanted?
I've been a king compared to people overseas. Why, you stay here
and go to trade school and in two years you'll be living just
like me."
"I don't want that," Read said.
"What do you mean, you don't want that?"
"You could join the American Army," his mother said. "That's as
good as a trade school. If you have to be a soldier."
"I want to be a UN man. I've already enlisted. I'm in! What do
you care what I do?"
The UN Inspector Corps had been founded to enforce the Nuclear
Disarmament Treaty of 1966. Through the years it had acquired
other jobs. UN men no longer went unarmed. Trained to use small
arms and gas weapons, they guarded certain borders, bodyguarded
diplomats and UN officials, even put down riots that threatened
international peace. As the UN evolved into a strong world
government, the UN Inspector Corps steadily acquired new powers.
Read went through six months training on Madagascar.
Twice he nearly got expelled for picking fights with smaller men.
Rather than resign, he accepted punishment which assigned him to
weeks of dull, filthy extra labor. He hated the restrictions and
the iron fence of regulations. He hated boredom, loneliness and
isolation.
And yet he responded with enthusiasm. They had given him a job. A
job many people considered important.
He took his turn guarding the still disputed borders of Korea. He
served on the rescue teams that patrol the busy Polar routes. He
mounted guard at the 1980 World's Fair in Rangoon.
"I liked Rangoon," he even told a friend. "I even liked Korea.
But I think I liked the Pole job best. You sit around playing
cards and shooting the bull and then there's a plane crash or
something and you go out and win a medal. That's great for me.
I'm lazy and I like excitement."
One power implied in the UN Charter no Secretary General or
Inspector General had ever tried to use. The power to arrest any
head of state whose country violated international law. Could the
World Court try and imprison a politician who had conspired to
attack another nation?
For years Africa had been called "The South America of the Old
World." Revolution followed revolution. Colonies became
democracies. Democracies became dictatorships or dissolved in
civil war. Men planted bases on the moon and in four years,
1978-82, ringed the world with matter transmitters; but the black
population of Africa still struggled toward political equality.
Umluana took control of Belderkan in 1979. The tiny, former Dutch
colony, had been a tottering democracy for ten years. The very
day he took control the new dictator and his African party began
to build up the Belderkan Army. For years he had preached a new
Africa, united, free of white masters, the home of a vigorous and
perfect Negro society. His critics called him a hypocritical
racist, an opportunist using the desires of the African people to
build himself an empire.
He began a propaganda war against neighboring South Africa,
promising the liberation of that strife-torn land. Most Negro
leaders, having just won representation in the South African
Parliament, told him to liberate his own country. They believed
they could use their first small voice in the government to win
true freedom for their people.
But the radio assault and the arms buildup continued. Early in
1982, South Africa claimed the Belderkan Army exceeded the size
agreed to in the Disarmament Treaty. The European countries and
some African nations joined in the accusation. China called the
uproar a vicious slur on a new African nation. The United States
and Russia, trying not to get entangled, asked for more
investigation by the UN.
But the evidence was clear. Umluana was defying world law. If he
got away with it, some larger and more dangerous nation might
follow his precedent. And the arms race would begin again.
The Inspector General decided. They would enter Belderkan, arrest
Umluana and try him by due process before the World Court. If the
plan succeeded, mankind would be a long step farther from nuclear
war.
Read didn't know much about the complicated political reasons for
the arrest. He liked the Corp and he liked being in the Corp. He
went where they sent him and did what they told him to do.
The car skimmed above the tree-tops. The driver and his two
passengers scanned the sky.
A plane would have been a faster way to get out of the country.
But then they would have spent hours flying over Africa, with
Belderkan fighters in hot pursuit, other nations joining the
chase and the world uproar gaining volume. By transmitter, if all
went well, they could have Umluana in Geneva in an hour.
They were racing toward Miaka, a branch transmitter station. From
Miaka they would transmit to the Belderkan Preserve, a famous
tourist attraction whose station could transmit to any point on
the globe. Even now a dozen inspectors were taking over the Game
Preserve station and manning its controls.
They had made no plans to take over Miaka. They planned to get
there before it could be defended.
"There's no military base near Miaka," Rashid said. "We might get
there before the Belderkans."
"Here comes our escort," Read said.
A big car rose from the jungle. This one had a recoilless rifle
mounted on the roof. The driver and the gunner waved and fell in
behind them.
"One thing," Read said, "I don't think they'll shoot at us while
he's
in the car."
"Don't be certain, corporal. All these strong-arm movements are
alike. I'll bet Umluana's lieutenants are hoping he'll become a
dead legend. Then they can become live conquerors."
Sergeant Rashid came from Cairo. He had degrees in science and
history from Cambridge but only the Corp gave him work that
satisfied his conscience. He hated war. It was that simple.
Read looked back. He saw three spots of sunlight about two
hundred feet up and a good mile behind.
"Here they come, Sarge."
Rashid turned his head. He waved frantically. The two men in the
other car waved back.
"Shall I duck under the trees?" the driver asked.
"Not yet. Not until we have to."
Read fingered the machine gun he had picked up when he got in the
car. He had never been shot at. Twice he had faced an unarmed
mob, but a few shots had sent them running.
Birds flew screaming from their nests. Monkeys screeched and
threw things at the noisy, speeding cars. A little cloud of birds
surrounded each vehicle.
The escort car made a sharp turn and charged their pursuers. The
big rifle fired twice. Read saw the Belderkan cars scatter.
Suddenly machine-gun bullets cracked and whined beside him.
"Evade," Rashid said. "Don't go down."
Without losing any forward speed, the driver took them straight
up. Read's stomach bounced.
A shell exploded above them. The car rocked. He raised his eyes
and saw a long crack in the roof.
"Hit the floor," Rashid said.
They knelt on the cramped floor. Rashid put on his gas mask and
Read copied him. Umluana breathed like a furnace, still
unconscious from the injection Rashid had given him.
I can't do anything
, Read thought.
They're too far away to
shoot back. All we can do is run.
The sky was clear and blue. The jungle was a noisy bazaar of
color. In the distance guns crashed. He listened to shells
whistle by and the whipcrack of machine-gun bullets. The car
roller-coastered up and down. Every time a shell passed, he
crawled in waves down his own back.
Another explosion, this time very loud.
Rashid raised his eyes above the seat and looked out the rear
window. "Two left. Keep down, Read."
"Can't we go down?" Read said.
"They'll get to Miaka before us."
He shut his eyes when he heard another loud explosion.
Sergeant Rashid looked out the window again. He swore bitterly in
English and Egyptian. Read raised his head. The two cars behind
them weren't fighting each other. A long way back the tree-tops
burned.
"How much farther?" Rashid said. The masks muffled their voices.
"There it is now. Shall I take us right in?"
"I think you'd better."
The station was a glass diamond in a small clearing. The driver
slowed down, then crashed through the glass walls and hovered by
the transmitter booth.
Rashid opened the door and threw out two grenades. Read jumped
out and the two of them struggled toward the booth with Umluana.
The driver, pistol in hand, ran for the control panel.
There were three technicians in the station and no passengers.
All three panicked when the psycho gas enveloped them. They ran
howling for the jungle.
Through the window of his mask, Read saw their pursuers land in
the clearing. Machine-gun bullets raked the building. They got
Umluana in the booth and hit the floor. Read took aim and opened
fire on the largest car.
"Now, I can shoot back," he said. "Now we'll see what they do."
"Are you ready, Rashid?" yelled the driver.
"Man, get us out of here!"
The booth door shut. When it opened, they were at the Game
Preserve.
The station jutted from the side of a hill. A glass-walled
waiting room surrounded the bank of transmitter booths. Read
looked out the door and saw his first battlefield.
Directly in front of him, his head shattered by a bullet, a dead
inspector lay behind an overturned couch.
Read had seen dozens of training films taken during actual
battles or after atomic attacks. He had laughed when other
recruits complained. "That's the way this world is. You people
with the weak stomachs better get used to it."
Now he slid against the rear wall of the transmitter booth.
A wounded inspector crawled across the floor to the booth. Read
couldn't see his wound, only the pain scratched on his face and
the blood he deposited on the floor.
"Did you get Umluana?" he asked Sergeant Rashid.
"He's in the booth. What's going on?" Rashid's Middle East Oxford
seemed more clipped than ever.
"They hit us with two companies of troops a few minutes ago. I
think half our men are wounded."
"Can we get out of here?"
"They machine-gunned the controls."
Rashid swore. "You heard him, Read! Get out there and help those
men."
He heard the screams of the wounded, the crack of rifles and
machine guns, all the terrifying noise of war. But since his
eighteenth year he had done everything his superiors told him to
do.
He started crawling toward an easy-chair that looked like good
cover. A bullet cracked above his head, so close he felt the
shock wave. He got up, ran panicky, crouched, and dove behind the
chair.
An inspector cracked the valve on a smoke grenade. A white fog
spread through the building. They could see anyone who tried to
rush them but the besiegers couldn't pick out targets.
Above the noise, he heard Rashid.
"I'm calling South Africa Station for a copter. It's the only way
out of here. Until it comes, we've got to hold them back."
Read thought of the green beret he had stuffed in his pocket that
morning. He stuck it on his head and cocked it. He didn't need
plain clothes anymore and he wanted to wear at least a part of
his uniform.
Bullets had completely shattered the wall in front of him. He
stared through the murk, across the broken glass. He was Corporal
Harry Read, UN Inspector Corps—a very special man. If he didn't
do a good job here, he wasn't the man he claimed to be. This
might be the only real test he would ever face.
He heard a shout in rapid French. He turned to his right. Men in
red loincloths ran zigzagging toward the station. They carried
light automatic rifles. Half of them wore gas masks.
"Shoot the masks," he yelled. "Aim for the masks."
The machine gun kicked and chattered on his shoulder. He picked a
target and squeezed off a burst. Tensely, he hunted for another
mask. Three grenades arced through the air and yellow gas spread
across the battlefield. The attackers ran through it. A few yards
beyond the gas, some of them turned and ran for their own lines.
In a moment only half a dozen masked men still advanced. The
inspectors fired a long, noisy volley. When they stopped only
four attackers remained on their feet. And they were running for
cover.
The attackers had come straight up a road that led from the Game
Preserve to the station. They had not expected any resistance.
The UN men had already taken over the station, chased out the
passengers and technicians and taken up defense positions; they
had met the Belderkans with a dozen grenades and sent them
scurrying for cover. The fight so far had been vicious but
disorganized. But the Belderkans had a few hundred men and knew
they had wrecked the transmitter controls.
The first direct attack had been repulsed. They could attack many
more times and continue to spray the building with bullets. They
could also try to go around the hill and attack the station from
above; if they did, the inspectors had a good view of the hill
and should see them going up.
The inspectors had taken up good defensive positions. In spite of
their losses, they still had enough firepower to cover the area
surrounding the station.
Read surveyed his sector of fire. About two hundred yards to his
left, he saw the top of a small ditch. Using the ditch for cover,
the Belderkans could sneak to the top of the hill.
Gas grenades are only three inches long. They hold cubic yards of
gas under high pressure. Read unclipped a telescoping rod from
his vest pocket. He opened it and a pair of sights flipped up. A
thin track ran down one side.
He had about a dozen grenades left, three self-propelling. He
slid an SP grenade into the rod's track and estimated windage and
range. Sighting carefully, not breathing, muscles relaxed, the
rod rock steady, he fired and lobbed the little grenade into the
ditch. He dropped another grenade beside it.
The heavy gas would lie there for hours.
Sergeant Rashid ran crouched from man to man. He did what he
could to shield the wounded.
"Well, corporal, how are you?"
"Not too bad, sergeant. See that ditch out there? I put a little
gas in it."
"Good work. How's your ammunition?"
"A dozen grenades. Half a barrel of shells."
"The copter will be here in half an hour. We'll put Umluana on,
then try to save ourselves. Once he's gone, I think we ought to
surrender."
"How do you think they'll treat us?"
"That we'll have to see."
An occasional bullet cracked and whined through the misty room.
Near him a man gasped frantically for air. On the sunny field a
wounded man screamed for help.
"There's a garage downstairs," Rashid said. "In case the copter
doesn't get here on time, I've got a man filling wine bottles
with gasoline."
"We'll stop them, Sarge. Don't worry."
Rashid ran off. Read stared across the green land and listened to
the pound of his heart. What were the Belderkans planning? A mass
frontal attack? To sneak in over the top of the hill?
He didn't think, anymore than a rabbit thinks when it lies hiding
from the fox or a panther thinks when it crouches on a branch
above the trail. His skin tightened and relaxed on his body.
"Listen," said a German.
Far down the hill he heard the deep-throated rumble of a big
motor.
"Armor," the German said.
The earth shook. The tank rounded the bend. Read watched the
squat, angular monster until its stubby gun pointed at the
station. It stopped less than two hundred yards away.
A loud-speaker blared.
ATTENTION UN SOLDIERS.
ATTENTION UN SOLDIERS.
YOU MAY THINK US SAVAGES
BUT WE HAVE MODERN WEAPONS.
WE HAVE ATOMIC WARHEADS,
ALL GASES, ROCKETS
AND FLAME THROWERS. IF
YOU DO NOT SURRENDER
OUR PREMIER, WE WILL DESTROY YOU.
"They know we don't have any big weapons," Read said. "They know
we have only gas grenades and small arms."
He looked nervously from side to side. They couldn't bring the
copter in with that thing squatting out there.
A few feet away, sprawled behind a barricade of tables, lay a man
in advanced shock. His deadly white skin shone like ivory. They
wouldn't even look like that. One nuclear shell from that gun and
they'd be vaporized. Or perhaps the tank had sonic projectors;
then the skin would peel off their bones. Or they might be
burned, or cut up by shrapnel, or gassed with some new mist their
masks couldn't filter.
Read shut his eyes. All around him he heard heavy breathing,
mumbled comments, curses. Clothes rustled as men moved restlessly.
But already the voice of Sergeant Rashid resounded in the murky
room.
"We've got to knock that thing out before the copter comes.
Otherwise, he can't land. I have six Molotov cocktails here. Who
wants to go hunting with me?"
For two years Read had served under Sergeant Rashid. To him, the
sergeant was everything a UN inspector should be. Rashid's
devotion to peace had no limits.
Read's psych tests said pride alone drove him on. That was good
enough for the UN; they only rejected men whose loyalties might
conflict with their duties. But an assault on the tank required
something more than a hunger for self-respect.
Read had seen the inspector who covered their getaway. He had
watched their escort charge three-to-one odds. He had seen
another inspector stay behind at Miaka Station. And here, in this
building, lay battered men and dead men.
All UN inspectors. All part of his life.
And he was part of their life. Their blood, their sacrifice, and
pain, had become a part of him.
"I'll take a cocktail, Sarge."
"Is that Read?"
"Who else did you expect?"
"Nobody. Anybody else?"
"I'll go," the Frenchman said. "Three should be enough. Give us a
good smoke screen."
Rashid snapped orders. He put the German inspector in charge of
Umluana. Read, the Frenchman and himself, he stationed at
thirty-foot intervals along the floor.
"Remember," Rashid said. "We have to knock out that gun."
Read had given away his machine gun. He held a gas-filled bottle
in each hand. His automatic nestled in its shoulder holster.
Rashid whistled.
Dozens of smoke grenades tumbled through the air. Thick mist
engulfed the tank. Read stood up and ran forward. He crouched but
didn't zigzag. Speed counted most here.
Gunfire shook the hill. The Belderkans couldn't see them but they
knew what was going on and they fired systematically into the
smoke.
Bullets ploughed the ground beside him. He raised his head and
found the dim silhouette of the tank. He tried not to think about
bullets ploughing through his flesh.
A bullet slammed into his hip. He fell on his back, screaming.
"Sarge.
Sarge.
"
"I'm hit, too," Rashid said. "Don't stop if you can move."
Listen to him. What's he got, a sprained ankle?
But he didn't feel any pain. He closed his eyes and threw himself
onto his stomach. And nearly fainted from pain. He screamed and
quivered. The pain stopped. He stretched out his hands, gripping
the wine bottles, and inched forward. Pain stabbed him from
stomach to knee.
"I can't move, Sarge."
"Read, you've got to. I think you're the only—"
"What?"
Guns clattered. Bullets cracked.
"Sergeant Rashid! Answer me."
He heard nothing but the lonely passage of the bullets in the
mist.
"I'm a UN man," he mumbled. "You people up there know what a UN
man is? You know what happens when you meet one?"
When he reached the tank, he had another bullet in his right arm.
But they didn't know he was coming and when you get within ten
feet of a tank, the men inside can't see you.
He just had to stand up and drop the bottle down the gun barrel.
That was all—with a broken hip and a wounded right arm.
He knew they would see him when he stood up but he didn't think
about that. He didn't think about Sergeant Rashid, about the
complicated politics of Africa, about crowded market streets. He
had to kill the tank. That was all he thought about. He had
decided something in the world was more important than himself,
but he didn't know it or realize the psychologists would be
surprised to see him do this. He had made many decisions in the
last few minutes. He had ceased to think about them or anything
else.
With his cigarette lighter, he lit the rag stuffed in the end of
the bottle.
Biting his tongue, he pulled himself up the front of the tank.
His long arm stretched for the muzzle of the gun. He tossed the
bottle down the dark throat.
As he fell, the machine-gun bullets hit him in the chest, then in
the neck. He didn't feel them. He had fainted the moment he felt
the bottle leave his hand.
The copter landed ten minutes later. Umluana left in a shower of
bullets. A Russian private, the ranking man alive in the station,
surrendered the survivors to the Belderkans.
His mother hung the Global Medal above the television set.
"He must have been brave," she said. "We had a fine son."
"He was our only son," her husband said. "What did he volunteer
for? Couldn't somebody else have done it?"
His wife started to cry. Awkwardly, he embraced her. He wondered
what his son had wanted that he couldn't get at home.
THE END
|
train | 24517 | [
"Who are the Chingsi?",
"What happened to the Whale?",
"What is the Minnow?",
"Who is James?",
"What was the mission of the Whale?",
"Why does Matt feel the need to warn people about the Chingsi?",
"Where is Matt from?"
] | [
[
"The Chingsi are the inhabitants of Alpha Centauri.",
"A race of cat-like humanoids from the planet Chang.",
"Chingsi is what the people of China call themselves in this story.",
"The Chingsi are genetically mutated cats."
],
[
"Charlie sabotaged the deuterium fusion drive. The drive shut down, and the Whale crashed into the Pacific.",
"The ion rockets on the Whale exploded. It then crashed into the Pacific.",
"The Cazamian laser exploded, causing the Whale to crash down into the Pacific.",
"The Whale came out of its star-jump in the wrong position. It then crashed into the Pacific."
],
[
"The Minnow is Charlie's spaceship.",
"The Minnow is the most powerful ship ever built.",
"The Minnow is a shuttlecraft.",
"The Minnow is an escape pod."
],
[
"James is the captain of the Minnow.",
"James is the ship's navigator.",
"James is the ship's doctor.",
"James is the captain of the Whale."
],
[
"The mission is to make peace with Alpha Centauri.",
"The mission is to invade Chang.",
"The mission is a test flight and astronomical survey.",
"The mission is to make contact with Chang."
],
[
"Matt is convinced the Chingsi are bad luck.",
"Matt is convinced that Charlie deliberately destroyed the Whale.",
"Matt is convinced the Chingsi are evil.",
"Matt is convinced that Charlie deliberately destroyed the Minnow."
],
[
"Matt is from France.",
"Matt is from the United States.",
"Matt is from a colony on Mars.",
"Matt is from a colony on the Moon."
]
] | [
2,
4,
3,
4,
3,
1,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0
] | ACCIDENTAL DEATH
BY PETER BAILY
The most
dangerous of weapons
is the one you don't know is loaded.
Illustrated by Schoenherr
The
wind howled out of
the northwest, blind
with snow and barbed
with ice crystals. All
the way up the half-mile
precipice it fingered and wrenched
away at groaning ice-slabs. It
screamed over the top, whirled snow
in a dervish dance around the hollow
there, piled snow into the long furrow
plowed ruler-straight through
streamlined hummocks of snow.
The sun glinted on black rock
glazed by ice, chasms and ridges and
bridges of ice. It lit the snow slope
to a frozen glare, penciled black
shadow down the long furrow, and
flashed at the furrow's end on a
thing of metal and plastics, an artifact
thrown down in the dead wilderness.
Nothing grew, nothing flew, nothing
walked, nothing talked. But the
thing in the hollow was stirring in
stiff jerks like a snake with its back
broken or a clockwork toy running
down. When the movements stopped,
there was a click and a strange
sound began. Thin, scratchy, inaudible
more than a yard away, weary
but still cocky, there leaked from the
shape in the hollow the sound of a
human voice.
"I've tried my hands and arms
and they seem to work," it began.
"I've wiggled my toes with entire
success. It's well on the cards that
I'm all in one piece and not broken
up at all, though I don't see how it
could happen. Right now I don't
feel like struggling up and finding
out. I'm fine where I am. I'll just lie
here for a while and relax, and get
some of the story on tape. This suit's
got a built-in recorder, I might as
well use it. That way even if I'm not
as well as I feel, I'll leave a message.
You probably know we're back
and wonder what went wrong.
"I suppose I'm in a state of shock.
That's why I can't seem to get up.
Who wouldn't be shocked after luck
like that?
"I've always been lucky, I guess.
Luck got me a place in the
Whale
.
Sure I'm a good astronomer but so
are lots of other guys. If I were ten
years older, it would have been an
honor, being picked for the first long
jump in the first starship ever. At my
age it was luck.
"You'll want to know if the ship
worked. Well, she did. Went like a
bomb. We got lined up between
Earth and Mars, you'll remember,
and James pushed the button marked
'Jump'. Took his finger off the button
and there we were:
Alpha Centauri
.
Two months later your time,
one second later by us. We covered
our whole survey assignment like
that, smooth as a pint of old and
mild which right now I could certainly
use. Better yet would be a pint
of hot black coffee with sugar in.
Failing that, I could even go for a
long drink of cold water. There was
never anything wrong with the
Whale
till right at the end and even then I
doubt if it was the ship itself that
fouled things up.
"That was some survey assignment.
We astronomers really lived.
Wait till you see—but of course you
won't. I could weep when I think of
those miles of lovely color film, all
gone up in smoke.
"I'm shocked all right. I never said
who I was. Matt Hennessy, from Farside
Observatory, back of the Moon,
just back from a proving flight
cum
astronomical survey in the starship
Whale
. Whoever you are who finds
this tape, you're made. Take it to
any radio station or newspaper office.
You'll find you can name your price
and don't take any wooden nickels.
"Where had I got to? I'd told you
how we happened to find Chang,
hadn't I? That's what the natives called
it. Walking, talking natives on a
blue sky planet with 1.1 g gravity
and a twenty per cent oxygen atmosphere
at fifteen p.s.i. The odds
against finding Chang on a six-sun
survey on the first star jump ever
must be up in the googols. We certainly
were lucky.
"The Chang natives aren't very
technical—haven't got space travel
for instance. They're good astronomers,
though. We were able to show
them our sun, in their telescopes. In
their way, they're a highly civilized
people. Look more like cats than
people, but they're people all right.
If you doubt it, chew these facts
over.
"One, they learned our language
in four weeks. When I say they, I
mean a ten-man team of them.
"Two, they brew a near-beer that's
a lot nearer than the canned stuff we
had aboard the
Whale
.
"Three, they've a great sense of
humor. Ran rather to silly practical
jokes, but still. Can't say I care for
that hot-foot and belly-laugh stuff
myself, but tastes differ.
"Four, the ten-man language team
also learned chess and table tennis.
"But why go on? People who talk
English, drink beer, like jokes and
beat me at chess or table-tennis are
people for my money, even if they
look like tigers in trousers.
"It was funny the way they won
all the time at table tennis. They certainly
weren't so hot at it. Maybe
that ten per cent extra gravity put us
off our strokes. As for chess, Svendlov
was our champion. He won
sometimes. The rest of us seemed to
lose whichever Chingsi we played.
There again it wasn't so much that
they were good. How could they be,
in the time? It was more that we all
seemed to make silly mistakes when
we played them and that's fatal in
chess. Of course it's a screwy situation,
playing chess with something
that grows its own fur coat, has yellow
eyes an inch and a half long
and long white whiskers. Could
you
have kept your mind on the game?
"And don't think I fell victim to
their feline charm. The children were
pets, but you didn't feel like patting
the adults on their big grinning
heads. Personally I didn't like the one
I knew best. He was called—well, we
called him Charley, and he was the
ethnologist, ambassador, contact man,
or whatever you like to call him, who
came back with us. Why I disliked
him was because he was always trying
to get the edge on you. All the
time he had to be top. Great sense
of humor, of course. I nearly broke
my neck on that butter-slide he fixed
up in the metal alleyway to the
Whale's
engine room. Charley laughed
fit to bust, everyone laughed, I
even laughed myself though doing it
hurt me more than the tumble had.
Yes, life and soul of the party, old
Charley ...
"My last sight of the
Minnow
was
a cabin full of dead and dying men,
the sweetish stink of burned flesh
and the choking reek of scorching insulation,
the boat jolting and shuddering
and beginning to break up,
and in the middle of the flames, still
unhurt, was Charley. He was laughing ...
"My God, it's dark out here. Wonder
how high I am. Must be all of
fifty miles, and doing eight hundred
miles an hour at least. I'll be doing
more than that when I land. What's
final velocity for a fifty-mile fall?
Same as a fifty thousand mile fall, I
suppose; same as escape; twenty-four
thousand miles an hour. I'll make a
mess ...
"That's better. Why didn't I close
my eyes before? Those star streaks
made me dizzy. I'll make a nice
shooting star when I hit air. Come to
think of it, I must be deep in air
now. Let's take a look.
"It's getting lighter. Look at those
peaks down there! Like great knives.
I don't seem to be falling as fast as
I expected though. Almost seem to be
floating. Let's switch on the radio
and tell the world hello. Hello, earth
... hello, again ... and good-by ...
"Sorry about that. I passed out. I
don't know what I said, if anything,
and the suit recorder has no playback
or eraser. What must have happened
is that the suit ran out of
oxygen, and I lost consciousness due
to anoxia. I dreamed I switched on
the radio, but I actually switched on
the emergency tank, thank the Lord,
and that brought me round.
"Come to think of it, why not
crack the suit and breath fresh air
instead of bottled?
"No. I'd have to get up to do that.
I think I'll just lie here a little bit
longer and get properly rested up
before I try anything big like standing
up.
"I was telling about the return
journey, wasn't I? The long jump
back home, which should have dumped
us between the orbits of Earth
and Mars. Instead of which, when
James took his finger off the button,
the mass-detector showed nothing
except the noise-level of the universe.
"We were out in that no place for
a day. We astronomers had to establish
our exact position relative to the
solar system. The crew had to find
out exactly what went wrong. The
physicists had to make mystic passes
in front of meters and mutter about
residual folds in stress-free space.
Our task was easy, because we were
about half a light-year from the sun.
The crew's job was also easy: they
found what went wrong in less than
half an hour.
"It still seems incredible. To program
the ship for a star-jump, you
merely told it where you were and
where you wanted to go. In practical
terms, that entailed first a series of
exact measurements which had to be
translated into the somewhat abstruse
co-ordinate system we used based on
the topological order of mass-points
in the galaxy. Then you cut a tape on
the computer and hit the button.
Nothing was wrong with the computer.
Nothing was wrong with the
engines. We'd hit the right button
and we'd gone to the place we'd aimed
for. All we'd done was aim for
the wrong place. It hurts me to tell
you this and I'm just attached personnel
with no space-flight tradition. In
practical terms, one highly trained
crew member had punched a wrong
pattern of holes on the tape. Another
equally skilled had failed to notice
this when reading back. A childish
error, highly improbable; twice repeated,
thus squaring the improbability.
Incredible, but that's what
happened.
"Anyway, we took good care with
the next lot of measurements. That's
why we were out there so long. They
were cross-checked about five times.
I got sick so I climbed into a spacesuit
and went outside and took some
photographs of the Sun which I hoped
would help to determine hydrogen
density in the outer regions. When
I got back everything was ready. We
disposed ourselves about the control
room and relaxed for all we were
worth. We were all praying that this
time nothing would go wrong, and
all looking forward to seeing Earth
again after four months subjective
time away, except for Charley, who
was still chuckling and shaking his
head, and Captain James who was
glaring at Charley and obviously
wishing human dignity permitted him
to tear Charley limb from limb. Then
James pressed the button.
"Everything twanged like a bowstring.
I felt myself turned inside out,
passed through a small sieve, and
poured back into shape. The entire
bow wall-screen was full of Earth.
Something was wrong all right, and
this time it was much, much worse.
We'd come out of the jump about
two hundred miles above the Pacific,
pointed straight down, traveling at a
relative speed of about two thousand
miles an hour.
"It was a fantastic situation. Here
was the
Whale
, the most powerful
ship ever built, which could cover
fifty light-years in a subjective time
of one second, and it was helpless.
For, as of course you know, the
star-drive couldn't be used again for
at least two hours.
"The
Whale
also had ion rockets
of course, the standard deuterium-fusion
thing with direct conversion.
As again you know, this is good for
interplanetary flight because you can
run it continuously and it has extremely
high exhaust velocity. But in
our situation it was no good because
it has rather a low thrust. It would
have taken more time than we had to
deflect us enough to avoid a smash.
We had five minutes to abandon
ship.
"James got us all into the
Minnow
at a dead run. There was no time to
take anything at all except the clothes
we stood in. The
Minnow
was meant
for short heavy hops to planets or
asteroids. In addition to the ion drive
it had emergency atomic rockets,
using steam for reaction mass. We
thanked God for that when Cazamian
canceled our downwards velocity
with them in a few seconds. We
curved away up over China and from
about fifty miles high we saw the
Whale
hit the Pacific. Six hundred
tons of mass at well over two thousand
miles an hour make an almighty
splash. By now you'll have divers
down, but I doubt they'll salvage
much you can use.
"I wonder why James went down
with the ship, as the saying is? Not
that it made any difference. It must
have broken his heart to know that
his lovely ship was getting the chopper.
Or did he suspect another human
error?
"We didn't have time to think
about that, or even to get the radio
working. The steam rockets blew
up. Poor Cazamian was burnt to a
crisp. Only thing that saved me was
the spacesuit I was still wearing. I
snapped the face plate down because
the cabin was filling with fumes. I
saw Charley coming out of the toilet—that's
how he'd escaped—and I
saw him beginning to laugh. Then
the port side collapsed and I fell out.
"I saw the launch spinning away,
glowing red against a purplish black
sky. I tumbled head over heels towards
the huge curved shield of
earth fifty miles below. I shut my
eyes and that's about all I remember.
I don't see how any of us could have
survived. I think we're all dead.
"I'll have to get up and crack this
suit and let some air in. But I can't.
I fell fifty miles without a parachute.
I'm dead so I can't stand up."
There was silence for a while except
for the vicious howl of the wind.
Then snow began to shift on the
ledge. A man crawled stiffly out and
came shakily to his feet. He moved
slowly around for some time. After
about two hours he returned to the
hollow, squatted down and switched
on the recorder. The voice began
again, considerably wearier.
"Hello there. I'm in the bleakest
wilderness I've ever seen. This place
makes the moon look cozy. There's
precipice around me every way but
one and that's up. So it's up I'll have
to go till I find a way to go down.
I've been chewing snow to quench
my thirst but I could eat a horse. I
picked up a short-wave broadcast on
my suit but couldn't understand a
word. Not English, not French, and
there I stick. Listened to it for fifteen
minutes just to hear a human voice
again. I haven't much hope of reaching
anyone with my five milliwatt
suit transmitter but I'll keep trying.
"Just before I start the climb there
are two things I want to get on tape.
The first is how I got here. I've remembered
something from my military
training, when I did some parachute
jumps. Terminal velocity for a
human body falling through air is
about one hundred twenty m.p.h.
Falling fifty miles is no worse than
falling five hundred feet. You'd be
lucky to live through a five hundred
foot fall, true, but I've been lucky.
The suit is bulky but light and probably
slowed my fall. I hit a sixty mile
an hour updraft this side of the
mountain, skidded downhill through
about half a mile of snow and fetched
up in a drift. The suit is part
worn but still operational. I'm fine.
"The second thing I want to say is
about the Chingsi, and here it is:
watch out for them. Those jokers are
dangerous. I'm not telling how because
I've got a scientific reputation
to watch. You'll have to figure it out
for yourselves. Here are the clues:
(1) The Chingsi talk and laugh but
after all they aren't human. On
an alien world a hundred light-years
away, why shouldn't alien
talents develop? A talent that's
so uncertain and rudimentary
here that most people don't believe
it, might be highly developed
out there.
(2) The
Whale
expedition did fine
till it found Chang. Then it hit
a seam of bad luck. Real stinking
bad luck that went on and
on till it looks fishy. We lost
the ship, we lost the launch, all
but one of us lost our lives. We
couldn't even win a game of
ping-pong.
"So what is luck, good or bad?
Scientifically speaking, future chance
events are by definition chance. They
can turn out favorable or not. When
a preponderance of chance events has
occurred unfavorably, you've got bad
luck. It's a fancy name for a lot of
chance results that didn't go your
way. But the gambler defines it differently.
For him, luck refers to the
future, and you've got bad luck when
future chance events won't go your
way. Scientific investigations into this
have been inconclusive, but everyone
knows that some people are lucky and
others aren't. All we've got are hints
and glimmers, the fumbling touch of
a rudimentary talent. There's the evil
eye legend and the Jonah, bad luck
bringers. Superstition? Maybe; but
ask the insurance companies about
accident prones. What's in a name?
Call a man unlucky and you're superstitious.
Call him accident prone and
that's sound business sense. I've said
enough.
"All the same, search the space-flight
records, talk to the actuaries.
When a ship is working perfectly
and is operated by a hand-picked
crew of highly trained men in perfect
condition, how often is it wrecked
by a series of silly errors happening
one after another in defiance of
probability?
"I'll sign off with two thoughts,
one depressing and one cheering. A
single Chingsi wrecked our ship and
our launch. What could a whole
planetful of them do?
"On the other hand, a talent that
manipulates chance events is bound
to be chancy. No matter how highly
developed it can't be surefire. The
proof is that I've survived to tell the
tale."
At twenty below zero and fifty
miles an hour the wind ravaged the
mountain. Peering through his polarized
vizor at the white waste and the
snow-filled air howling over it, sliding
and stumbling with every step
on a slope that got gradually steeper
and seemed to go on forever, Matt
Hennessy began to inch his way up
the north face of Mount Everest.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
February 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24521 | [
"Why does Malloy send James Nordon to the peace talks?",
"Why doesn't Malloy go to the peace talks himself?",
"How does Malloy feel about Miss Drayson?",
"Who are the Karna?",
"Does Earth want peace with Karn?",
"Why are the peace talks on Saarkkad V?",
"Who are the kind of men who are sent to Sararkkad IV?",
"Why doesn't Bertrand Malloy appear in public?",
"Why do the Karna demand the conference begin in three days?"
] | [
[
"Nordon has trouble making decisions but will commit once the Karna present him with a choice that is not rigged in the Karna's favor.",
"Nordon is going to the peace talks to assist Braynek in case of a trap.",
"Nordon is the best negotiator Earth has to offer.",
"Nordon is a trained assassin. He will be ready to take out the ambassador from Karn if there is any funny business."
],
[
"Malloy is too sick to travel to the peace conference. He also hates aliens.",
"Malloy needs to stay on Saarkkad IV to keep the drug supply lines flowing.",
"Malloy is too far from Saarkkad V to get to the peace conference on time. He also hates aliens.",
"Malloy has a psychological disorder that prevents him from leaving the house. He also hates aliens."
],
[
"Malloy thinks Miss Drayson is a great secretary because she doesn't give away information.",
"Malloy is getting ready to fire Miss Drayson for not protecting confidential information.",
"Malloy suspects Miss Drayson may be a spy for Karn.",
"Malloy is secretly in love with Miss Drayson."
],
[
"The Karna are the second most powerful race in the galaxy. They are skilled negotiators.",
"The Karna are a race of warriors bent on destroying the Earth.",
"The Karna are a peaceful species trying to negotiate a surrender to Earth.",
"The Karna are a predator race who are trying to invade the Earth, to use humans as a food source."
],
[
"The Earth is ready for peace, as interstellar war is costly.",
"Earth needs to eliminate the Karna to protect the galaxy.",
"The Earth does not want peace with the planet Karn. The Karna are an evil race.",
"The Earth wants peace but doesn't trust the Karna to hold up their end of the bargain."
],
[
"Saarkkad V is not inhabited by intelligent life.",
"The Karna consider Saarkkad V to be neutral territory.",
"The inhabitants of Saarkkad V don't pose a danger to the Karna or to the humans.",
"Saarkkad V is halfway between Earth and Karn."
],
[
"Men who are hardened criminals.",
"Men who have mental illnesses.",
"Men who are physically challenged.",
"Men who are mentally challenged."
],
[
"Threats have been made against Malloy's life. He needs to stay out of sight.",
"Malloy is too frail to leave his apartment.",
"He holds a prestigious title. Prestigious men aren't seen in public.",
"He is agoraphobic."
],
[
"There is an immediate threat to the planet of Karn, and the Karna desperately need help from Earth.",
"The Karna are hoping to disrupt Earth's supply chain.",
"The Karna want to make Earth look bad in the eyes of the other planets.",
"The Karna are skilled negotiators and want to control the peace talks."
]
] | [
1,
4,
1,
1,
1,
2,
2,
4,
4
] | [
1,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | IN CASE OF FIRE
By RANDALL GARRETT
There are times when a broken tool is better
than a sound one, or a twisted personality
more useful than a whole one. For
instance, a whole beer bottle isn't half
the weapon that half a beer bottle is ...
Illustrated by Martinez
In his
office apartment,
on the top floor of the
Terran Embassy Building
in Occeq City, Bertrand
Malloy leafed
casually through the dossiers of the
four new men who had been assigned
to him. They were typical of the kind
of men who were sent to him, he
thought. Which meant, as usual, that
they were atypical. Every man in the
Diplomatic Corps who developed a
twitch or a quirk was shipped to
Saarkkad IV to work under Bertrand
Malloy, Permanent Terran Ambassador
to His Utter Munificence, the
Occeq of Saarkkad.
Take this first one, for instance.
Malloy ran his finger down the columns
of complex symbolism that
showed the complete psychological
analysis of the man. Psychopathic
paranoia. The man wasn't technically
insane; he could be as lucid as the next
man most of the time. But he was
morbidly suspicious that every man's
hand was turned against him. He
trusted no one, and was perpetually
on his guard against imaginary plots
and persecutions.
Number two suffered from some
sort of emotional block that left him
continually on the horns of one dilemma
or another. He was psychologically
incapable of making a decision
if he were faced with two or more
possible alternatives of any major
importance.
Number three ...
Malloy sighed and pushed the dossiers
away from him. No two men
were alike, and yet there sometimes
seemed to be an eternal sameness
about all men. He considered himself
an individual, for instance, but wasn't
the basic similarity there, after all?
He was—how old? He glanced at
the Earth calendar dial that was automatically
correlated with the Saarkkadic
calendar just above it. Fifty-nine
next week. Fifty-nine years old. And
what did he have to show for it besides
flabby muscles, sagging skin, a
wrinkled face, and gray hair?
Well, he had an excellent record in
the Corps, if nothing else. One of the
top men in his field. And he had his
memories of Diane, dead these ten
years, but still beautiful and alive in
his recollections. And—he grinned
softly to himself—he had Saarkkad.
He glanced up at the ceiling, and
mentally allowed his gaze to penetrate
it to the blue sky beyond it.
Out there was the terrible emptiness
of interstellar space—a great, yawning,
infinite chasm capable of swallowing
men, ships, planets, suns, and
whole galaxies without filling its insatiable
void.
Malloy closed his eyes. Somewhere
out there, a war was raging. He
didn't even like to think of that, but
it was necessary to keep it in mind.
Somewhere out there, the ships of
Earth were ranged against the ships
of the alien Karna in the most important
war that Mankind had yet
fought.
And, Malloy knew, his own position
was not unimportant in that war.
He was not in the battle line, nor
even in the major production line, but
it was necessary to keep the drug supply
lines flowing from Saarkkad, and
that meant keeping on good terms
with the Saarkkadic government.
The Saarkkada themselves were humanoid
in physical form—if one allowed
the term to cover a wide range
of differences—but their minds just
didn't function along the same lines.
For nine years, Bertrand Malloy
had been Ambassador to Saarkkad,
and for nine years, no Saarkkada had
ever seen him. To have shown himself
to one of them would have
meant instant loss of prestige.
To their way of thinking, an important
official was aloof. The greater
his importance, the greater must be
his isolation. The Occeq of Saarkkad
himself was never seen except by a
handful of picked nobles, who, themselves,
were never seen except by their
underlings. It was a long, roundabout
way of doing business, but it was the
only way Saarkkad would do any
business at all. To violate the rigid
social setup of Saarkkad would mean
the instant closing off of the supply
of biochemical products that the
Saarkkadic laboratories produced
from native plants and animals—products
that were vitally necessary
to Earth's war, and which could be
duplicated nowhere else in the
known universe.
It was Bertrand Malloy's job to
keep the production output high and
to keep the materiel flowing towards
Earth and her allies and outposts.
The job would have been a snap
cinch in the right circumstances; the
Saarkkada weren't difficult to get
along with. A staff of top-grade men
could have handled them without
half trying.
But Malloy didn't have top-grade
men. They couldn't be spared from
work that required their total capacity.
It's inefficient to waste a man on a
job that he can do without half trying
where there are more important jobs
that will tax his full output.
So Malloy was stuck with the culls.
Not the worst ones, of course; there
were places in the galaxy that were
less important than Saarkkad to the
war effort. Malloy knew that, no matter
what was wrong with a man, as
long as he had the mental ability to
dress himself and get himself to
work, useful work could be found for
him.
Physical handicaps weren't at all
difficult to deal with. A blind man can
work very well in the total darkness
of an infrared-film darkroom. Partial
or total losses of limbs can be compensated
for in one way or another.
The mental disabilities were harder
to deal with, but not totally impossible.
On a world without liquor, a
dipsomaniac could be channeled easily
enough; and he'd better not try fermenting
his own on Saarkkad unless
he brought his own yeast—which
was impossible, in view of the sterilization
regulations.
But Malloy didn't like to stop at
merely thwarting mental quirks; he
liked to find places where they were
useful
.
The phone chimed. Malloy flipped
it on with a practiced hand.
"Malloy here."
"Mr. Malloy?" said a careful voice.
"A special communication for you has
been teletyped in from Earth. Shall I
bring it in?"
"Bring it in, Miss Drayson."
Miss Drayson was a case in point.
She was uncommunicative. She liked
to gather in information, but she
found it difficult to give it up once it
was in her possession.
Malloy had made her his private
secretary. Nothing—but
nothing
—got
out of Malloy's office without his
direct order. It had taken Malloy a
long time to get it into Miss Drayson's
head that it was perfectly all
right—even desirable—for her to
keep secrets from everyone except
Malloy.
She came in through the door,
a rather handsome woman in her middle
thirties, clutching a sheaf of
papers in her right hand as though
someone might at any instant snatch
it from her before she could turn it
over to Malloy.
She laid them carefully on the
desk. "If anything else comes in, I'll
let you know immediately, sir," she
said. "Will there be anything else?"
Malloy let her stand there while he
picked up the communique. She wanted
to know what his reaction was
going to be; it didn't matter because
no one would ever find out from her
what he had done unless she was
ordered to tell someone.
He read the first paragraph, and his
eyes widened involuntarily.
"Armistice," he said in a low
whisper. "There's a chance that the
war may be over."
"Yes, sir," said Miss Drayson in a
hushed voice.
Malloy read the whole thing
through, fighting to keep his emotions
in check. Miss Drayson stood
there calmly, her face a mask; her
emotions were a secret.
Finally, Malloy looked up. "I'll let
you know as soon as I reach a decision,
Miss Drayson. I think I hardly
need say that no news of this is to
leave this office."
"Of course not, sir."
Malloy watched her go out the door
without actually seeing her. The war
was over—at least for a while. He
looked down at the papers again.
The Karna, slowly being beaten
back on every front, were suing for
peace. They wanted an armistice conference—immediately.
Earth was willing. Interstellar war
is too costly to allow it to continue
any longer than necessary, and this
one had been going on for more than
thirteen years now. Peace was necessary.
But not peace at any price.
The trouble was that the Karna had
a reputation for losing wars and winning
at the peace table. They were
clever, persuasive talkers. They could
twist a disadvantage to an advantage,
and make their own strengths look
like weaknesses. If they won the armistice,
they'd be able to retrench and
rearm, and the war would break out
again within a few years.
Now—at this point in time—they
could be beaten. They could be forced
to allow supervision of the production
potential, forced to disarm, rendered
impotent. But if the armistice went to
their own advantage ...
Already, they had taken the offensive
in the matter of the peace talks.
They had sent a full delegation to
Saarkkad V, the next planet out from
the Saarkkad sun, a chilly world inhabited
only by low-intelligence animals.
The Karna considered this to be
fully neutral territory, and Earth
couldn't argue the point very well. In
addition, they demanded that the conference
begin in three days, Terrestrial
time.
The trouble was that interstellar
communication beams travel a devil
of a lot faster than ships. It would
take more than a week for the Earth
government to get a vessel to Saarkkad
V. Earth had been caught unprepared
for an armistice. They
objected.
The Karna pointed out that the
Saarkkad sun was just as far from
Karn as it was from Earth, that it
was only a few million miles from a
planet which was allied with Earth,
and that it was unfair for Earth to
take so much time in preparing for an
armistice. Why hadn't Earth been prepared?
Did they intend to fight to the
utter destruction of Karn?
It wouldn't have been a problem at
all if Earth and Karn had fostered the
only two intelligent races in the galaxy.
The sort of grandstanding the
Karna were putting on had to be
played to an audience. But there were
other intelligent races throughout the
galaxy, most of whom had remained
as neutral as possible during the
Earth-Karn war. They had no intention
of sticking their figurative noses
into a battle between the two most
powerful races in the galaxy.
But whoever won the armistice
would find that some of the now-neutral
races would come in on their
side if war broke out again. If the
Karna played their cards right, their
side would be strong enough next
time to win.
So Earth had to get a delegation to
meet with the Karna representatives
within the three-day limit or lose what
might be a vital point in the negotiations.
And that was where Bertrand Malloy
came in.
He had been appointed Minister
and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to
the Earth-Karn peace conference.
He looked up at the ceiling again.
"What
can
I do?" he said softly.
On the second day after the arrival
of the communique, Malloy
made his decision. He flipped on his
intercom and said: "Miss Drayson,
get hold of James Nordon and Kylen
Braynek. I want to see them both immediately.
Send Nordon in first, and
tell Braynek to wait."
"Yes, sir."
"And keep the recorder on. You
can file the tape later."
"Yes, sir."
Malloy knew the woman would
listen in on the intercom anyway, and
it was better to give her permission to
do so.
James Nordon was tall, broad-shouldered,
and thirty-eight. His hair
was graying at the temples, and his
handsome face looked cool and efficient.
Malloy waved him to a seat.
"Nordon, I have a job for you. It's
probably one of the most important
jobs you'll ever have in your life. It
can mean big things for you—promotion
and prestige if you do it well."
Nordon nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."
Malloy explained the problem of
the Karna peace talks.
"We need a man who can outthink
them," Malloy finished, "and judging
from your record, I think you're that
man. It involves risk, of course. If
you make the wrong decisions, your
name will be mud back on Earth. But
I don't think there's much chance of
that, really. Do you want to handle
small-time operations all your life?
Of course not.
"You'll be leaving within an hour
for Saarkkad V."
Nordon nodded again. "Yes, sir;
certainly. Am I to go alone?"
"No," said Malloy, "I'm sending
an assistant with you—a man named
Kylen Braynek. Ever heard of him?"
Nordon shook his head. "Not that
I recall, Mr. Malloy. Should I have?"
"Not necessarily. He's a pretty
shrewd operator, though. He knows a
lot about interstellar law, and he's
capable of spotting a trap a mile away.
You'll be in charge, of course, but I
want you to pay special attention to
his advice."
"I will, sir," Nordon said gratefully.
"A man like that can be useful."
"Right. Now, you go into the anteroom
over there. I've prepared a summary
of the situation, and you'll have
to study it and get it into your head
before the ship leaves. That isn't
much time, but it's the Karna who are
doing the pushing, not us."
As soon as Nordon had left, Malloy
said softly: "Send in Braynek,
Miss Drayson."
Kylen Braynek was a smallish man
with mouse-brown hair that lay flat
against his skull, and hard, penetrating,
dark eyes that were shadowed by
heavy, protruding brows. Malloy asked
him to sit down.
Again Malloy went through the explanation
of the peace conference.
"Naturally, they'll be trying to
trick you every step of the way," Malloy
went on. "They're shrewd and
underhanded; we'll simply have to
be more shrewd and more underhanded.
Nordon's job is to sit
quietly and evaluate the data; yours
will be to find the loopholes they're
laying out for themselves and plug
them. Don't antagonize them, but
don't baby them, either. If you see
anything underhanded going on, let
Nordon know immediately."
"They won't get anything by me,
Mr. Malloy."
By the time the ship from Earth
got there, the peace conference had
been going on for four days. Bertrand
Malloy had full reports on the whole
parley, as relayed to him through the
ship that had taken Nordon and Braynek
to Saarkkad V.
Secretary of State Blendwell stopped
off at Saarkkad IV before going
on to V to take charge of the conference.
He was a tallish, lean man with
a few strands of gray hair on the top
of his otherwise bald scalp, and he
wore a hearty, professional smile that
didn't quite make it to his calculating
eyes.
He took Malloy's hand and shook
it warmly. "How are you, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Fine, Mr. Secretary. How's everything
on Earth?"
"Tense. They're waiting to see
what is going to happen on Five. So
am I, for that matter." His eyes were
curious. "You decided not to go
yourself, eh?"
"I thought it better not to. I sent a
good team, instead. Would you like
to see the reports?"
"I certainly would."
Malloy handed them to the secretary,
and as he read, Malloy watched
him. Blendwell was a political appointee—a
good man, Malloy had to
admit, but he didn't know all the
ins and outs of the Diplomatic Corps.
When Blendwell looked up from
the reports at last, he said: "Amazing!
They've held off the Karna at
every point! They've beaten them
back! They've managed to cope with
and outdo the finest team of negotiators
the Karna could send."
"I thought they would," said Malloy,
trying to appear modest.
The secretary's eyes narrowed.
"I've heard of the work you've been
doing here with ... ah ... sick men.
Is this one of your ... ah ... successes?"
Malloy nodded. "I think so. The
Karna put us in a dilemma, so I
threw a dilemma right back at them."
"How do you mean?"
"Nordon had a mental block
against making decisions. If he took
a girl out on a date, he'd have trouble
making up his mind whether to kiss
her or not until she made up his mind
for him, one way or the other. He's
that kind of guy. Until he's presented
with one, single, clear decision which
admits of no alternatives, he can't
move at all.
"As you can see, the Karna tried
to give us several choices on each
point, and they were all rigged. Until
they backed down to a single point
and proved that it
wasn't
rigged,
Nordon couldn't possibly make up his
mind. I drummed into him how important
this was, and the more importance
there is attached to his decisions,
the more incapable he becomes
of making them."
The Secretary nodded slowly.
"What about Braynek?"
"Paranoid," said Malloy. "He
thinks everyone is plotting against
him. In this case, that's all to the good
because the Karna
are
plotting against
him. No matter what they put forth,
Braynek is convinced that there's a
trap in it somewhere, and he digs to
find out what the trap is. Even if
there isn't a trap, the Karna can't
satisfy Braynek, because he's convinced
that there
has
to be—somewhere.
As a result, all his advice to
Nordon, and all his questioning on
the wildest possibilities, just serves
to keep Nordon from getting unconfused.
"These two men are honestly doing
their best to win at the peace conference,
and they've got the Karna reeling.
The Karna can see that we're not
trying to stall; our men are actually
working at trying to reach a decision.
But what the Karna don't see is that
those men, as a team, are unbeatable
because, in this situation, they're psychologically
incapable of losing."
Again the Secretary of State nodded
his approval, but there was still
a question in his mind. "Since you
know all that, couldn't you have handled
it yourself?"
"Maybe, but I doubt it. They might
have gotten around me someway by
sneaking up on a blind spot. Nordon
and Braynek have blind spots, but
they're covered with armor. No, I'm
glad I couldn't go; it's better this
way."
The Secretary of State raised an
eyebrow. "
Couldn't
go, Mr. Ambassador?"
Malloy looked at him. "Didn't you
know? I wondered why you appointed
me, in the first place. No, I
couldn't go. The reason why I'm here,
cooped up in this office, hiding from
the Saarkkada the way a good Saarkkadic
bigshot should, is because I
like
it that way. I suffer from agoraphobia
and xenophobia.
"I have to be drugged to be put on
a spaceship because I can't take all
that empty space, even if I'm protected
from it by a steel shell." A
look of revulsion came over his face.
"And I can't
stand
aliens!"
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
March 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24958 | [
"Why is the Earth worse than the aliens imagine?",
"Why does Ethaniel think the humans look defenseless?",
"What is the aliens' mission?",
"Why are Bal and Ethaniel so cold?",
"How do Bal and Ethaniel feel about the humans?",
"Why do Bal and Ethaniel think they have to make time to save Earth?",
"Why doesn't the Earth shoot the spaceship out of the sky?",
"Why do the aliens believe they have succeeded in saving Earth?"
] | [
[
"The Earth has missiles and is close to space travel.",
"The humans are rough and desperate.",
"A meteor shower could be interpreted as an enemy attack by the humans' clumsy instruments.",
"The humans don't like aliens."
],
[
"Without space travel, the humans seem defenseless against an alien attack.",
"Without wings, the humans look small and defenseless.",
"Without wings, the humans look like children.",
"Without space weapon technology, the humans seem defenseless against an alien attack."
],
[
"Bal and Ethaniel are on a mission to Earth to set up an interstellar trade route.",
"Bal and Ethaniel are on a mission to Willafours.",
"Bal and Ethaniel only have one week to save the Earth, but that is their mission.",
"Bal and Ethaniel are on a mission to steal the big bomb from the humans."
],
[
"People are mistaking them for the types of angles seen in Renaissance paintings. It is likely they are wearing little or no clothing.",
"They are cold because the clothing synthesizer on their spaceship was not equipped with the materials needed to make cold-weather gear.",
"They are cold because the planet they come from has a much warmer climate, and they were not prepared for cold weather.",
"Bal and Ethaniel are cold because it is winter where they have landed on Earth."
],
[
"Bal and Ethaniel think humans are very similar beings to themselves. ",
"Bal and Ethaniel think humans are crude, rough, and desperate. ",
"Bal and Ethaniel think humans are not very intelligent and superstitious.",
"Bal and Ethaniel are scared of the humans because humans seem to be trigger-happy."
],
[
"No one else knows Earth and its big bomb problem exisits. It will be quite a long time before anyone passes out this way again. By then, it will be too late for the Earth.",
"If Bal and Ethaniel don't make time to save the Earth from the big bomb, the shockwave may also destroy their spacecraft.",
"If Bal and Ethaniel don't make time to save the Earth from the big bomb, the shockwave may also destroy Willafours.",
"Not saving the humans would be like letting their own people die."
],
[
"The Earth does not have weapons that are capable of going as high as the spaceship. Nor are their weapons capable of penetrating the spaceship's hull.",
"Bal and Ethaniel are using the spaceship to broadcast a message of peace in all the languages of the world.",
"The combination of the Christmas holiday, aliens that look like angels, and what looks to be the star of Bethlehem, has convinced the people of Earth that Bal and Ethaniel are friends and not foes.",
"The spaceship is lit up as brightly as a star. The light is bright enough to convince the humans that firing upon it would be futile."
],
[
"The humans did come to a formal agreement before the aliens left them.",
"The humans realized they were not alone in the universe. They dropped all their petty differences to defend themselves against an alien invasion.",
"The humans painted many pictures of the aliens to commemorate the historic event of first contact, a sign they will hold to the agreement made.",
"The humans were kneeling before the aliens in deference, a sign that they will hold to the agreement made."
]
] | [
1,
2,
2,
4,
1,
1,
3,
1
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | SECOND LANDING
By FLOYD WALLACE
A gentle fancy for the Christmas Season—an
oft-told tale with a wistful twistful of Something
that left the Earth with a wing and a prayer.
Earth
was so far away that
it wasn't visible. Even the
sun was only a twinkle. But this
vast distance did not mean that
isolation could endure forever.
Instruments within the ship intercepted
radio broadcasts and,
within the hour, early TV signals.
Machines compiled dictionaries
and grammars and began
translating the major languages.
The history of the planet was
tabulated as facts became available.
The course of the ship changed
slightly; it was not much out of
the way to swing nearer Earth.
For days the two within the ship
listened and watched with little
comment. They had to decide
soon.
"We've got to make or break,"
said the first alien.
"You know what I'm in favor
of," said the second.
"I can guess," said Ethaniel,
who had spoken first. "The place
is a complete mess. They've never
done anything except fight
each other—and invent better
weapons."
"It's not what they've done,"
said Bal, the second alien. "It's
what they're going to do, with
that big bomb."
"The more reason for stopping,"
said Ethaniel. "The big
bomb can destroy them. Without
our help they may do just that."
"I may remind you that in two
months twenty-nine days we're
due in Willafours," said Bal.
"Without looking at the charts
I can tell you we still have more
than a hundred light-years to
go."
"A week," said Ethaniel. "We
can spare a week and still get
there on time."
"A week?" said Bal. "To settle
their problems? They've had two
world wars in one generation
and that the third and final one
is coming up you can't help feeling
in everything they do."
"It won't take much," said
Ethaniel. "The wrong diplomatic
move, or a trigger-happy soldier
could set it off. And it wouldn't
have to be deliberate. A meteor
shower could pass over and their
clumsy instruments could interpret
it as an all-out enemy
attack."
"Too bad," said Bal. "We'll
just have to forget there ever
was such a planet as Earth."
"Could you? Forget so many
people?"
"I'm doing it," said Bal. "Just
give them a little time and they
won't be here to remind me that
I have a conscience."
"My memory isn't convenient,"
said Ethaniel. "I ask you
to look at them."
Bal rustled, flicking the screen
intently. "Very much like ourselves,"
he said at last. "A bit
shorter perhaps, and most certainly
incomplete. Except for the
one thing they lack, and that's
quite odd, they seem exactly like
us. Is that what you wanted me
to say?"
"It is. The fact that they are
an incomplete version of ourselves
touches me. They actually
seem defenseless, though I suppose
they're not."
"Tough," said Bal. "Nothing
we can do about it."
"There is. We can give them
a week."
"In a week we can't negate
their entire history. We can't
begin to undo the effect of the
big bomb."
"You can't tell," said Ethaniel.
"We can look things over."
"And then what? How much
authority do we have?"
"Very little," conceded Ethaniel.
"Two minor officials on the
way to Willafours—and we run
directly into a problem no one
knew existed."
"And when we get to Willafours
we'll be busy. It will be a
long time before anyone comes
this way again."
"A very long time. There's
nothing in this region of space
our people want," said Ethaniel.
"And how long can Earth last?
Ten years? Even ten months?
The tension is building by the
hour."
"What can I say?" said Bal.
"I suppose we can stop and look
them over. We're not committing
ourselves by looking."
They went much closer to
Earth, not intending to commit
themselves. For a day they circled
the planet, avoiding radar
detection, which for them was
not difficult, testing, and sampling.
Finally Ethaniel looked up
from the monitor screen. "Any
conclusions?"
"What's there to think? It's
worse than I imagined."
"In what way?"
"Well, we knew they had the
big bomb. Atmospheric analysis
showed that as far away as we
were."
"I know."
"We also knew they could deliver
the big bomb, presumably
by some sort of aircraft."
"That was almost a certainty.
They'd have no use for the big
bomb without aircraft."
"What's worse is that I now
find they also have missiles,
range one thousand miles and
upward. They either have or are
near a primitive form of space
travel."
"Bad," said Ethaniel. "Sitting
there, wondering when it's going
to hit them. Nervousness could
set it off."
"It could, and the missiles
make it worse," said Bal. "What
did you find out at your end?"
"Nothing worthwhile. I was
looking at the people while you
were investigating their weapons."
"You must think something."
"I wish I knew what to think.
There's so little time," Ethaniel
said. "Language isn't the difficulty.
Our machines translate
their languages easily and I've
taken a cram course in two or
three of them. But that's not
enough, looking at a few plays,
listening to advertisements, music,
and news bulletins. I should
go down and live among them,
read books, talk to scholars, work
with them, play."
"You could do that and you'd
really get to know them. But
that takes time—and we don't
have it."
"I realize that."
"A flat yes or no," said Bal.
"No. We can't help them," said
Ethaniel. "There is nothing we
can do for them—but we have to
try."
"Sure, I knew it before we
started," said Bal. "It's happened
before. We take the trouble to
find out what a people are like
and when we can't help them we
feel bad. It's going to be that
way again." He rose and stretched.
"Well, give me an hour to
think of some way of going at
it."
It was longer than that before
they met again. In the meantime
the ship moved much closer to
Earth. They no longer needed instruments
to see it. The planet
revolved outside the visionports.
The southern plains were green,
coursed with rivers; the oceans
were blue; and much of the
northern hemisphere was glistening
white. Ragged clouds covered
the pole, and a dirty pall
spread over the mid-regions of
the north.
"I haven't thought of anything
brilliant," said Ethaniel.
"Nor I," said Bal. "We're going
to have to go down there
cold. And it will be cold."
"Yes. It's their winter."
"I did have an idea," said Bal.
"What about going down as supernatural
beings?"
"Hardly," said Ethaniel. "A
hundred years ago it might have
worked. Today they have satellites.
They are not primitives."
"I suppose you're right," said
Bal. "I did think we ought to
take advantage of our physical
differences."
"If we could I'd be all for it.
But these people are rough and
desperate. They wouldn't be
fooled by anything that crude."
"Well, you're calling it," said
Bal.
"All right," said Ethaniel.
"You take one side and I the
other. We'll tell them bluntly
what they'll have to do if they're
going to survive, how they can
keep their planet in one piece so
they can live on it."
"That'll go over big. Advice is
always popular."
"Can't help it. That's all we
have time for."
"Special instructions?"
"None. We leave the ship here
and go down in separate landing
craft. You can talk with me any
time you want to through our
communications, but don't unless
you have to."
"They can't intercept the
beams we use."
"They can't, and even if they
did they wouldn't know what to
do with our language. I want
them to think that we don't
need
to talk things over."
"I get it. Makes us seem better
than we are. They think we know
exactly what we're doing even
though we don't."
"If we're lucky they'll think
that."
Bal looked out of the port at
the planet below. "It's going to
be cold where I'm going. You too.
Sure we don't want to change
our plans and land in the southern
hemisphere? It's summer
there."
"I'm afraid not. The great
powers are in the north. They
are the ones we have to reach to
do the job."
"Yeah, but I was thinking of
that holiday you mentioned.
We'll be running straight into it.
That won't help us any."
"I know, they don't like their
holidays interrupted. It can't be
helped. We can't wait until it's
over."
"I'm aware of that," said Bal.
"Fill me in on that holiday, anything
I ought to know. Probably
religious in origin. That so?"
"It was religious a long time
ago," said Ethaniel. "I didn't
learn anything exact from radio
and TV. Now it seems to be
chiefly a time for eating, office
parties, and selling merchandise."
"I see. It has become a business
holiday."
"That's a good description. I
didn't get as much of it as I
ought to have. I was busy studying
the people, and they're hard
to pin down."
"I see. I was thinking there
might be some way we could tie
ourselves in with this holiday.
Make it work for us."
"If there is I haven't thought
of it."
"You ought to know. You're
running this one." Bal looked
down at the planet. Clouds were
beginning to form at the twilight
edge. "I hate to go down
and leave the ship up here with
no one in it."
"They can't touch it. No matter
how they develop in the next
hundred years they still won't be
able to get in or damage it in
any way."
"It's myself I'm thinking
about. Down there, alone."
"I'll be with you. On the other
side of the Earth."
"That's not very close. I'd like
it better if there were someone
in the ship to bring it down in a
hurry if things get rough. They
don't think much of each other.
I don't imagine they'll like aliens
any better."
"They may be unfriendly,"
Ethaniel acknowledged. Now he
switched a monitor screen until
he looked at the slope of a mountain.
It was snowing and men
were cutting small green trees in
the snow. "I've thought of a
trick."
"If it saves my neck I'm for
it."
"I don't guarantee anything,"
said Ethaniel. "This is what I
was thinking of: instead of hiding
the ship against the sun
where there's little chance it will
be seen, we'll make sure that
they do see it. Let's take it
around to the night side of the
planet and light it up."
"Say, pretty good," said Bal.
"They can't imagine that we'd
light up an unmanned ship," said
Ethaniel. "Even if the thought
should occur to them they'll have
no way of checking it. Also, they
won't be eager to harm us with
our ship shining down on them."
"That's thinking," said Bal,
moving to the controls. "I'll move
the ship over where they can see
it best and then I'll light it up.
I'll really light it up."
"Don't spare power."
"Don't worry about that.
They'll see it. Everybody on
Earth will see it." Later, with the
ship in position, glowing against
the darkness of space, pulsating
with light, Bal said: "You know,
I feel better about this. We may
pull it off. Lighting the ship may
be just the help we need."
"It's not we who need help, but
the people of Earth," said Ethaniel.
"See you in five days." With
that he entered a small landing
craft, which left a faintly luminescent
trail as it plunged toward
Earth. As soon as it was
safe to do so, Bal left in another
craft, heading for the other side
of the planet.
And the spaceship circled
Earth, unmanned, blazing and
pulsing with light. No star in the
winter skies of the planet below
could equal it in brilliancy. Once
a man-made satellite came near
but it was dim and was lost sight
of by the people below. During
the day the ship was visible as
a bright spot of light. At evening
it seemed to burn through
the sunset colors.
And the ship circled on,
bright, shining, seeming to be a
little piece clipped from the center
of a star and brought near
Earth to illuminate it. Never, or
seldom, had Earth seen anything
like it.
In five days the two small landing
craft that had left it arched
up from Earth and joined the
orbit of the large ship. The two
small craft slid inside the large
one and doors closed behind
them. In a short time the aliens
met again.
"We did it," said Bal exultantly
as he came in. "I don't know
how we did it and I thought we
were going to fail but at the last
minute they came through."
Ethaniel smiled. "I'm tired,"
he said, rustling.
"Me too, but mostly I'm cold,"
said Bal, shivering. "Snow.
Nothing but snow wherever I
went. Miserable climate. And yet
you had me go out walking after
that first day."
"From my own experience it
seemed to be a good idea," said
Ethaniel. "If I went out walking
one day I noticed that the next
day the officials were much more
cooperative. If it worked for me
I thought it might help you."
"It did. I don't know why, but
it did," said Bal. "Anyway, this
agreement they made isn't the
best but I think it will keep them
from destroying themselves."
"It's as much as we can expect,"
said Ethaniel. "They may
have small wars after this, but
never the big one. In fifty or a
hundred years we can come back
and see how much they've
learned."
"I'm not sure I want to," said
Bal. "Say, what's an angel?"
"Why?"
"When I went out walking
people stopped to look. Some
knelt in the snow and called me
an angel."
"Something like that happened
to me," said Ethaniel.
"I didn't get it but I didn't let
it upset me," said Bal. "I smiled
at them and went about my business."
He shivered again. "It was
always cold. I walked out, but
sometimes I flew back. I hope
that was all right."
In the cabin Bal spread his
great wings. Renaissance painters
had never seen his like but
knew exactly how he looked. In
their paintings they had pictured
him innumerable times.
"I don't think it hurt us that
you flew," said Ethaniel. "I did
so myself occasionally."
"But you don't know what an
angel is?"
"No. I didn't have time to find
out. Some creature of their folklore
I suppose. You know, except
for our wings they're very much
like ourselves. Their legends are
bound to resemble ours."
"Sure," said Bal. "Anyway,
peace on Earth."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
January
1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24966 | [
"Why is Alan in the jungle?",
"Why is Alan so surprised to hear blaster fighting?",
"Why are the robots hunting Alan?",
"How is Alan able to evade so many robots?",
"Why are the robots incinerating all the living creatures?",
"How does Alan interrupt the robots' communication signal?",
"Why did Pete build killer robots?",
"Where are the rest of the men from the scout ship?"
] | [
[
"Alan is hiding from the killer robots in the jungle.",
"Alan is with a group of colonists, who are going to build a new colony on the jungle planet.",
"Alan is hunting pumas in the jungle.",
"Alan is camping with friends in the jungle."
],
[
"Alan is surprised because he came with a team of scientists, not soldiers.",
"Alan is surprised because he was sure they had escaped the enemy soldiers when they ran into the jungle for cover.",
"Alan is surprised because the planet is only inhabited by animals, not intelligent life. ",
"Alan is surprised because the Waiameans don't have advanced weapons capabilities."
],
[
"The robots aren't hunting Alan specifically. They are hunting all life forms.",
"The robots are hunting Alan because he invaded Waiamea.",
"The robots aren't hunting Alan. They're hunting pumas. Alan got in the way.",
"The robots are hunting Alan because he was illegally poaching pumas in the jungle."
],
[
"Luckily for Alan, the robots are shooting at all the living creatures, including bugs. ",
"Luckily for Alan, the robots are being attacked by pumas.",
"Luckily for Alan, the robots are having a difficult time navigating the jungle terrain.",
"Luckily for Alan, a sticky oozing blob-like creature was dissolving the robots one by one."
],
[
"A radio frequency from Waiamea scrambled the robots' programming.",
"Pete did not read the directions when assembling the robots.",
"Pete lost his mind on the journey to Waiamea and programmed the robots to kill everyone and everything.",
"Pete built the robots to hunt by following brain waves."
],
[
"Alan jambs his knife into the fallen robot, which disrupts the signal.",
"Alan hurls the oozing blob-like creature at the robot. The blob dissolves the robot with its acid and that is what disrupts the signal.",
"Alan uses his pocket blaster to disrupt the signal.",
"Alan throws a handful of an anthill at the robot, using the brain waves of hundred of ants to disrupt the signal. "
],
[
"Pete did not intentionally build killer robots. The robots became sentient and decided organic life forms were the enemy.",
"Pete did not intentionally build killer robots. Clearly, something went wrong.",
"Pete did not intentionally build killer robots. The Waiameans must have reprogrammed them to kill the colonists.",
"Pete lost his mind during the voyage to Waiamea. He just wants to watch the planet burn."
],
[
"They fled in the scout ship once the robots started shooting. They are safe aboard the big ship again.",
"Their bodies were disintegrated by the robots' weapons.",
"They are hiding on the scout ship from Pete and his evil robots.",
"They put themselves into stasis on the scout ship. Now the robots will not be able to track their brain waves."
]
] | [
2,
3,
1,
1,
4,
3,
2,
2
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | SURVIVAL
TACTICS
By AL SEVCIK
ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK
The robots were built to serve
Man; to do his work, see to his
comforts, make smooth his way.
Then the robots figured out an
additional service—putting Man
out of his misery.
There
was a sudden crash
that hung sharply in the air,
as if a tree had been hit by
lightning some distance away.
Then another. Alan stopped,
puzzled. Two more blasts, quickly
together, and the sound of a
scream faintly.
Frowning, worrying about the
sounds, Alan momentarily forgot
to watch his step until his foot
suddenly plunged into an ant
hill, throwing him to the jungle
floor. "Damn!" He cursed again,
for the tenth time, and stood
uncertainly in the dimness.
From tall, moss-shrouded trees,
wrist-thick vines hung quietly,
scraping the spongy ground like
the tentacles of some monstrous
tree-bound octopus. Fitful little
plants grew straggly in the
shadows of the mossy trunks,
forming a dense underbrush that
made walking difficult. At midday
some few of the blue sun's
rays filtered through to the
jungle floor, but now, late afternoon
on the planet, the shadows
were long and gloomy.
Alan peered around him at the
vine-draped shadows, listening
to the soft rustlings and faint
twig-snappings of life in the
jungle. Two short, popping
sounds echoed across the stillness,
drowned out almost immediately
and silenced by an
explosive crash. Alan started,
"Blaster fighting! But it can't
be!"
Suddenly anxious, he slashed
a hurried X in one of the trees
to mark his position then turned
to follow a line of similar marks
back through the jungle. He
tried to run, but vines blocked
his way and woody shrubs
caught at his legs, tripping him
and holding him back. Then,
through the trees he saw the
clearing of the camp site, the
temporary home for the scout
ship and the eleven men who,
with Alan, were the only humans
on the jungle planet, Waiamea.
Stepping through the low
shrubbery at the edge of the
site, he looked across the open
area to the two temporary structures,
the camp headquarters
where the power supplies and
the computer were; and the
sleeping quarters. Beyond, nose
high, stood the silver scout ship
that had brought the advance
exploratory party of scientists
and technicians to Waiamea
three days before. Except for a
few of the killer robots rolling
slowly around the camp site on
their quiet treads, there was no
one about.
"So, they've finally got those
things working." Alan smiled
slightly. "Guess that means I
owe Pete a bourbon-and-soda
for sure. Anybody who can
build a robot that hunts by homing
in on animals' mind impulses ..."
He stepped forward
just as a roar of blue flame dissolved
the branches of a tree,
barely above his head.
Without pausing to think,
Alan leaped back, and fell
sprawling over a bush just as
one of the robots rolled silently
up from the right, lowering its
blaster barrel to aim directly at
his head. Alan froze. "My God,
Pete built those things wrong!"
Suddenly a screeching whirlwind
of claws and teeth hurled
itself from the smoldering
branches and crashed against the
robot, clawing insanely at the
antenna and blaster barrel.
With an awkward jerk the robot
swung around and fired its blaster,
completely dissolving the
lower half of the cat creature
which had clung across the barrel.
But the back pressure of the
cat's body overloaded the discharge
circuits. The robot started
to shake, then clicked sharply
as an overload relay snapped
and shorted the blaster cells.
The killer turned and rolled back
towards the camp, leaving Alan
alone.
Shakily, Alan crawled a few
feet back into the undergrowth
where he could lie and watch the
camp, but not himself be seen.
Though visibility didn't make
any difference to the robots, he
felt safer, somehow, hidden. He
knew now what the shooting
sounds had been and why there
hadn't been anyone around the
camp site. A charred blob lying
in the grass of the clearing confirmed
his hypothesis. His stomach
felt sick.
"I suppose," he muttered to
himself, "that Pete assembled
these robots in a batch and then
activated them all at once, probably
never living to realize that
they're tuned to pick up human
brain waves, too. Damn!
Damn!" His eyes blurred and
he slammed his fist into the soft
earth.
When he raised his eyes again
the jungle was perceptibly darker.
Stealthy rustlings in the
shadows grew louder with the
setting sun. Branches snapped
unaccountably in the trees overhead
and every now and then
leaves or a twig fell softly to the
ground, close to where he lay.
Reaching into his jacket, Alan
fingered his pocket blaster. He
pulled it out and held it in his
right hand. "This pop gun
wouldn't even singe a robot, but
it just might stop one of those
pumas."
They said the blast with your name on it would find
you anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.
Slowly Alan looked around,
sizing up his situation. Behind
him the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.
He shuddered. "Not a
very healthy spot to spend the
night. On the other hand, I certainly
can't get to the camp with
a pack of mind-activated mechanical
killers running around.
If I can just hold out until morning,
when the big ship arrives ...
The big ship! Good
Lord, Peggy!" He turned white;
oily sweat punctuated his forehead.
Peggy, arriving tomorrow
with the other colonists, the
wives and kids! The metal killers,
tuned to blast any living
flesh, would murder them the
instant they stepped from the
ship!
A pretty girl, Peggy, the girl
he'd married just three weeks
ago. He still couldn't believe it.
It was crazy, he supposed, to
marry a girl and then take off
for an unknown planet, with her
to follow, to try to create a home
in a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,
but Peggy and her green eyes
that changed color with the
light, with her soft brown hair,
and her happy smile, had ended
thirty years of loneliness and
had, at last, given him a reason
for living. "Not to be killed!"
Alan unclenched his fists and
wiped his palms, bloody where
his fingernails had dug into the
flesh.
There was a slight creak above
him like the protesting of a
branch too heavily laden. Blaster
ready, Alan rolled over onto his
back. In the movement, his elbow
struck the top of a small
earthy mound and he was instantly
engulfed in a swarm of
locust-like insects that beat disgustingly
against his eyes and
mouth. "Fagh!" Waving his
arms before his face he jumped
up and backwards, away from
the bugs. As he did so, a dark
shapeless thing plopped from
the trees onto the spot where he
had been lying stretched out.
Then, like an ambient fungus,
it slithered off into the jungle
undergrowth.
For a split second the jungle
stood frozen in a brilliant blue
flash, followed by the sharp report
of a blaster. Then another.
Alan whirled, startled. The
planet's double moon had risen
and he could see a robot rolling
slowly across the clearing in his
general direction, blasting indiscriminately
at whatever mind
impulses came within its pickup
range, birds, insects, anything.
Six or seven others also left the
camp headquarters area and
headed for the jungle, each to a
slightly different spot.
Apparently the robot hadn't
sensed him yet, but Alan didn't
know what the effective range
of its pickup devices was. He
began to slide back into the
jungle. Minutes later, looking
back he saw that the machine,
though several hundred yards
away, had altered its course and
was now headed directly for
him.
His stomach tightened. Panic.
The dank, musty smell of the
jungle seemed for an instant to
thicken and choke in his throat.
Then he thought of the big ship
landing in the morning, settling
down slowly after a lonely two-week
voyage. He thought of a
brown-haired girl crowding with
the others to the gangway, eager
to embrace the new planet, and
the next instant a charred nothing,
unrecognizable, the victim
of a design error or a misplaced
wire in a machine. "I have to
try," he said aloud. "I have to
try." He moved into the blackness.
Powerful as a small tank, the
killer robot was equipped to
crush, slash, and burn its way
through undergrowth. Nevertheless,
it was slowed by the
larger trees and the thick, clinging
vines, and Alan found that
he could manage to keep ahead
of it, barely out of blaster range.
Only, the robot didn't get tired.
Alan did.
The twin moons cast pale, deceptive
shadows that wavered
and danced across the jungle
floor, hiding debris that tripped
him and often sent him sprawling
into the dark. Sharp-edged
growths tore at his face and
clothes, and insects attracted by
the blood matted against his
pants and shirt. Behind, the robot
crashed imperturbably after
him, lighting the night with fitful
blaster flashes as some
winged or legged life came within
its range.
There was movement also, in
the darkness beside him, scrapings
and rustlings and an occasional
low, throaty sound like an
angry cat. Alan's fingers tensed
on his pocket blaster. Swift
shadowy forms moved quickly in
the shrubs and the growling became
suddenly louder. He fired
twice, blindly, into the undergrowth.
Sharp screams punctuated
the electric blue discharge as
a pack of small feline creatures
leaped snarling and clawing
back into the night.
Mentally, Alan tried to figure
the charge remaining in his blaster.
There wouldn't be much.
"Enough for a few more shots,
maybe. Why the devil didn't I
load in fresh cells this morning!"
The robot crashed on, louder
now, gaining on the tired human.
Legs aching and bruised,
stinging from insect bites, Alan
tried to force himself to run
holding his hands in front of
him like a child in the dark. His
foot tripped on a barely visible
insect hill and a winged swarm
exploded around him. Startled,
Alan jerked sideways, crashing
his head against a tree. He
clutched at the bark for a second,
dazed, then his knees
buckled. His blaster fell into the
shadows.
The robot crashed loudly behind
him now. Without stopping
to think, Alan fumbled along the
ground after his gun, straining
his eyes in the darkness. He
found it just a couple of feet to
one side, against the base of a
small bush. Just as his fingers
closed upon the barrel his other
hand slipped into something
sticky that splashed over his
forearm. He screamed in pain
and leaped back, trying frantically
to wipe the clinging,
burning blackness off his arm.
Patches of black scraped off onto
branches and vines, but the rest
spread slowly over his arm as
agonizing as hot acid, or as flesh
being ripped away layer by
layer.
Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,
Alan stumbled forward.
Sharp muscle spasms shot from
his shoulder across his back and
chest. Tears streamed across his
cheeks.
A blue arc slashed at the trees
a mere hundred yards behind.
He screamed at the blast. "Damn
you, Pete! Damn your robots!
Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!"
He stepped into emptiness.
Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washed
by the water, the pain began to
fall away. He wanted to lie there
forever in the dark, cool, wetness.
For ever, and ever, and ...
The air thundered.
In the dim light he could see
the banks of the stream, higher
than a man, muddy and loose.
Growing right to the edge of the
banks, the jungle reached out
with hairy, disjointed arms as
if to snag even the dirty little
stream that passed so timidly
through its domain.
Alan, lying in the mud of the
stream bed, felt the earth shake
as the heavy little robot rolled
slowly and inexorably towards
him. "The Lord High Executioner,"
he thought, "in battle
dress." He tried to stand but his
legs were almost too weak and
his arm felt numb. "I'll drown
him," he said aloud. "I'll drown
the Lord High Executioner." He
laughed. Then his mind cleared.
He remembered where he was.
Alan trembled. For the first
time in his life he understood
what it was to live, because for
the first time he realized that he
would sometime die. In other
times and circumstances he
might put it off for a while, for
months or years, but eventually,
as now, he would have to watch,
still and helpless, while death
came creeping. Then, at thirty,
Alan became a man.
"Dammit, no law says I have
to flame-out
now
!" He forced
himself to rise, forced his legs
to stand, struggling painfully in
the shin-deep ooze. He worked
his way to the bank and began to
dig frenziedly, chest high, about
two feet below the edge.
His arm where the black thing
had been was swollen and tender,
but he forced his hands to dig,
dig, dig, cursing and crying to
hide the pain, and biting his
lips, ignoring the salty taste of
blood. The soft earth crumbled
under his hands until he had a
small cave about three feet deep
in the bank. Beyond that the
soil was held too tightly by the
roots from above and he had to
stop.
The air crackled blue and a
tree crashed heavily past Alan
into the stream. Above him on
the bank, silhouetting against
the moons, the killer robot stopped
and its blaster swivelled
slowly down. Frantically, Alan
hugged the bank as a shaft of
pure electricity arced over him,
sliced into the water, and exploded
in a cloud of steam. The
robot shook for a second, its
blaster muzzle lifted erratically
and for an instant it seemed almost
out of control, then it
quieted and the muzzle again
pointed down.
Pressing with all his might,
Alan slid slowly along the bank
inches at a time, away from the
machine above. Its muzzle turned
to follow him but the edge of
the bank blocked its aim. Grinding
forward a couple of feet,
slightly overhanging the bank,
the robot fired again. For a split
second Alan seemed engulfed in
flame; the heat of hell singed his
head and back, and mud boiled
in the bank by his arm.
Again the robot trembled. It
jerked forward a foot and its
blaster swung slightly away. But
only for a moment. Then the gun
swung back again.
Suddenly, as if sensing something
wrong, its tracks slammed
into reverse. It stood poised for
a second, its treads spinning
crazily as the earth collapsed underneath
it, where Alan had
dug, then it fell with a heavy
splash into the mud, ten feet
from where Alan stood.
Without hesitation Alan
threw himself across the blaster
housing, frantically locking his
arms around the barrel as the
robot's treads churned furiously
in the sticky mud, causing it to
buck and plunge like a Brahma
bull. The treads stopped and the
blaster jerked upwards wrenching
Alan's arms, then slammed
down. Then the whole housing
whirled around and around, tilting
alternately up and down like
a steel-skinned water monster
trying to dislodge a tenacious
crab, while Alan, arms and legs
wrapped tightly around the blaster
barrel and housing, pressed
fiercely against the robot's metal
skin.
Slowly, trying to anticipate
and shift his weight with the
spinning plunges, Alan worked
his hand down to his right hip.
He fumbled for the sheath clipped
to his belt, found it, and extracted
a stubby hunting knife.
Sweat and blood in his eyes,
hardly able to move on the wildly
swinging turret, he felt down
the sides to the thin crack between
the revolving housing and
the stationary portion of the robot.
With a quick prayer he
jammed in the knife blade—and
was whipped headlong into the
mud as the turret literally snapped
to a stop.
The earth, jungle and moons
spun in a pinwheeled blur,
slowed, and settled to their proper
places. Standing in the sticky,
sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyed
the robot apprehensively. Half
buried in mud, it stood quiet in
the shadowy light except for an
occasional, almost spasmodic
jerk of its blaster barrel. For
the first time that night Alan
allowed himself a slight smile.
"A blade in the old gear box,
eh? How does that feel, boy?"
He turned. "Well, I'd better
get out of here before the knife
slips or the monster cooks up
some more tricks with whatever
it's got for a brain." Digging
little footholds in the soft bank,
he climbed up and stood once
again in the rustling jungle
darkness.
"I wonder," he thought, "how
Pete could cram enough brain
into one of those things to make
it hunt and track so perfectly."
He tried to visualize the computing
circuits needed for the
operation of its tracking mechanism
alone. "There just isn't
room for the electronics. You'd
need a computer as big as the
one at camp headquarters."
In the distance the sky blazed
as a blaster roared in the jungle.
Then Alan heard the approaching
robot, crunching and snapping
its way through the undergrowth
like an onrushing forest
fire. He froze. "Good Lord!
They communicate with each
other! The one I jammed must
be calling others to help."
He began to move along the
bank, away from the crashing
sounds. Suddenly he stopped, his
eyes widened. "Of course! Radio!
I'll bet anything they're
automatically controlled by the
camp computer. That's where
their brain is!" He paused.
"Then, if that were put out of
commission ..." He jerked away
from the bank and half ran, half
pulled himself through the undergrowth
towards the camp.
Trees exploded to his left as
another robot fired in his direction,
too far away to be effective
but churning towards him
through the blackness.
Alan changed direction slightly
to follow a line between the
two robots coming up from
either side, behind him. His eyes
were well accustomed to the dark
now, and he managed to dodge
most of the shadowy vines and
branches before they could snag
or trip him. Even so, he stumbled
in the wiry underbrush and
his legs were a mass of stinging
slashes from ankle to thigh.
The crashing rumble of the
killer robots shook the night behind
him, nearer sometimes,
then falling slightly back, but
following constantly, more
unshakable than bloodhounds
because a man can sometimes cover
a scent, but no man can stop his
thoughts. Intermittently, like
photographers' strobes, blue
flashes would light the jungle
about him. Then, for seconds
afterwards his eyes would see
dancing streaks of yellow and
sharp multi-colored pinwheels
that alternately shrunk and expanded
as if in a surrealist's
nightmare. Alan would have to
pause and squeeze his eyelids
tight shut before he could see
again, and the robots would
move a little closer.
To his right the trees silhouetted
briefly against brilliance as
a third robot slowly moved up
in the distance. Without thinking,
Alan turned slightly to the
left, then froze in momentary
panic. "I should be at the camp
now. Damn, what direction am
I going?" He tried to think
back, to visualize the twists and
turns he'd taken in the jungle.
"All I need is to get lost."
He pictured the camp computer
with no one to stop it, automatically
sending its robots in
wider and wider forays, slowly
wiping every trace of life from
the planet. Technologically advanced
machines doing the job
for which they were built, completely,
thoroughly, without feeling,
and without human masters
to separate sense from futility.
Finally parts would wear out,
circuits would short, and one by
one the killers would crunch to
a halt. A few birds would still
fly then, but a unique animal
life, rare in the universe, would
exist no more. And the bones of
children, eager girls, and their
men would also lie, beside a
rusty hulk, beneath the alien
sun.
"Peggy!"
As if in answer, a tree beside
him breathed fire, then exploded.
In the brief flash of the
blaster shot, Alan saw the steel
glint of a robot only a hundred
yards away, much nearer than
he had thought. "Thank heaven
for trees!" He stepped back, felt
his foot catch in something,
clutched futilely at some leaves
and fell heavily.
Pain danced up his leg as he
grabbed his ankle. Quickly he
felt the throbbing flesh. "Damn
the rotten luck, anyway!" He
blinked the pain tears from his
eyes and looked up—into a robot's
blaster, jutting out of the
foliage, thirty yards away.
Instinctively, in one motion
Alan grabbed his pocket blaster
and fired. To his amazement the
robot jerked back, its gun wobbled
and started to tilt away.
Then, getting itself under control,
it swung back again to face
Alan. He fired again, and again
the robot reacted. It seemed familiar
somehow. Then he remembered
the robot on the river
bank, jiggling and swaying for
seconds after each shot. "Of
course!" He cursed himself for
missing the obvious. "The blaster
static blanks out radio
transmission from the computer
for a few seconds. They even do
it to themselves!"
Firing intermittently, he
pulled himself upright and hobbled
ahead through the bush.
The robot shook spasmodically
with each shot, its gun tilted upward
at an awkward angle.
Then, unexpectedly, Alan saw
stars, real stars brilliant in the
night sky, and half dragging his
swelling leg he stumbled out of
the jungle into the camp clearing.
Ahead, across fifty yards of
grass stood the headquarters
building, housing the robot-controlling
computer. Still firing at
short intervals he started across
the clearing, gritting his teeth
at every step.
Straining every muscle in
spite of the agonizing pain, Alan
forced himself to a limping run
across the uneven ground, carefully
avoiding the insect hills
that jutted up through the grass.
From the corner of his eye he
saw another of the robots standing
shakily in the dark edge of
the jungle waiting, it seemed,
for his small blaster to run dry.
"Be damned! You can't win
now!" Alan yelled between blaster
shots, almost irrational from
the pain that ripped jaggedly
through his leg. Then it happened.
A few feet from the
building's door his blaster quit.
A click. A faint hiss when he
frantically jerked the trigger
again and again, and the spent
cells released themselves from
the device, falling in the grass
at his feet. He dropped the useless
gun.
"No!" He threw himself on
the ground as a new robot suddenly
appeared around the edge
of the building a few feet away,
aimed, and fired. Air burned
over Alan's back and ozone tingled
in his nostrils.
Blinding itself for a few seconds
with its own blaster static,
the robot paused momentarily,
jiggling in place. In this
instant, Alan jammed his hands
into an insect hill and hurled the
pile of dirt and insects directly
at the robot's antenna. In a flash,
hundreds of the winged things
erupted angrily from the hole in
a swarming cloud, each part of
which was a speck of life
transmitting mental energy to the
robot's pickup devices.
Confused by the sudden dispersion
of mind impulses, the
robot fired erratically as Alan
crouched and raced painfully for
the door. It fired again, closer,
as he fumbled with the lock
release. Jagged bits of plastic and
stone ripped past him, torn loose
by the blast.
Frantically, Alan slammed
open the door as the robot, sensing
him strongly now, aimed
point blank. He saw nothing, his
mind thought of nothing but the
red-clad safety switch mounted
beside the computer. Time stopped.
There was nothing else in
the world. He half-jumped, half-fell
towards it, slowly, in tenths
of seconds that seemed measured
out in years.
The universe went black.
Later. Brilliance pressed upon
his eyes. Then pain returned, a
multi-hurting thing that crawled
through his body and dragged
ragged tentacles across his
brain. He moaned.
A voice spoke hollowly in the
distance. "He's waking. Call his
wife."
Alan opened his eyes in a
white room; a white light hung
over his head. Beside him, looking
down with a rueful smile,
stood a young man wearing
space medical insignia. "Yes,"
he acknowledged the question in
Alan's eyes, "you hit the switch.
That was three days ago. When
you're up again we'd all like to
thank you."
Suddenly a sobbing-laughing
green-eyed girl was pressed
tightly against him. Neither of
them spoke. They couldn't. There
was too much to say.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24977 | [
"How does Pembrook feel about Mary Ann?",
"Why does Pembrook shoot the man in the corner?",
"What is Puerto Pacifico?",
"What is wrong with the citizens of Puerto Pacifico?",
"How did Pembroke get to Puerto Pacifico?",
"Why do the cops shoot Spencer?",
"Why is the qualification interviewer under a glass dome?",
"What caused the explosion that sunk the Elena Mia?"
] | [
[
"Pembrook is in love with Mary Ann.",
"Pembrook feels betrayed by Mary Ann because she was plotting to kill him.",
"At, first Mary Ann was a means to an end, but now Pembrook is in love with her.",
"Mary Ann is a means to an end for Pembrook."
],
[
"The man in the corner is one of the strangers.",
"The man in the corner is an android sent by alien masters to facilitate an invasion of Earth.",
"The man in the corner was an alien invader.",
"The man in the corner came to kill Pembrook."
],
[
"Puerto Pacifico is a training ground for the androids that the aliens are sending to prepare Earth for invasion.",
"Puerto Pacifico is a training ground for the android forces that are preparing to invade Earth.",
"Puerto Pacifico is a training ground for the aliens who will be replacing key humans on Earth in preparation for invasion.",
"Pembroke has died and Puerto Pacifico is his purgatory."
],
[
"The citizens of Puerto Pacifico are aliens, not humans.",
"The citizens of Puerto Pacifico are newly-awakened AI beings, trying to blend in with humanity.",
"The citizens of Puerto Pacifico don't realize they are dead.",
"The citizens of Puerto Pacifico are androids, not humans."
],
[
"Pembroke traveled to Puerto Pacifico on a ship called the Elena Mia.",
"Pembroke traveled to Puerto Pacifico on a Colombian ship called The Valparaiso.",
"Pembroke arrived in Puerto Pacifico on the lifeboat he used to escape the sinking ship.",
"The aliens placed Pembroke in Puerto Pacifico after destroying his ship."
],
[
"Spencer is not cooperating.",
"Spencer was on to them. He was about to expose their whole operation.",
"They thought Spencer was an android.",
"Spencer was speaking too brusquely to the three women in the bar."
],
[
"The interviewer is protecting themself from aliens.",
"The glass dome is to protect the interviewer from human contact.",
"The interviewer has a compromised immune system.",
"The interviewer is an alien, and it does not breathe oxygen."
],
[
"An alien craft fired on the Elena Mia from under the water.",
"A Colombian ship fired a torpedo on the Elena Mia, causing it to explode.",
"The Elena Mia ran into an iceberg. The ice pierced the ship's electronics causing an explosion.",
"The androids tampered with the Elena Mia's electronics causing an explosion."
]
] | [
4,
2,
1,
4,
4,
1,
4,
1
] | [
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0
] | THE PERFECTIONISTS
By ARNOLD CASTLE
ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS
Is there something wrong with you?
Do you fail to fit in with your group?
Nervous, anxious, ill-at-ease? Happy
about it? Lucky you!
Frank Pembroke
sat behind
the desk of his shabby
little office over Lemark's Liquors
in downtown Los Angeles and
waited for his first customer. He
had been in business for a week
and as yet had had no callers.
Therefore, it was with a mingled
sense of excitement and satisfaction
that he greeted the tall,
dark, smooth-faced figure that
came up the stairs and into the
office shortly before noon.
"Good day, sir," said Pembroke
with an amiable smile. "I
see my advertisement has interested
you. Please stand in that
corner for just a moment."
Opening the desk drawer,
which was almost empty, Pembroke
removed an automatic pistol
fitted with a silencer. Pointing
it at the amazed customer, he
fired four .22 caliber longs into
the narrow chest. Then he made
a telephone call and sat down to
wait. He wondered how long it
would be before his next client
would arrive.
The series of events leading up
to Pembroke's present occupation
had commenced on a dismal,
overcast evening in the South
Pacific a year earlier. Bound for
Sydney, two days out of Valparaiso,
the Colombian tramp
steamer
Elena Mia
had encountered
a dense greenish fog which
seemed vaguely redolent of citrus
trees. Standing on the forward
deck, Pembroke was one of the
first to perceive the peculiar odor
and to spot the immense gray
hulk wallowing in the murky distance.
Then the explosion had come,
from far below the waterline,
and the decks were awash with
frantic crewmen, officers, and the
handful of passengers. Only two
lifeboats were launched before
the
Elena Mia
went down. Pembroke
was in the second. The
roar of the sinking ship was the
last thing he heard for some
time.
Pembroke came as close to being
a professional adventurer as
one can in these days of regimented
travel, organized peril,
and political restriction. He had
made for himself a substantial
fortune through speculation in a
great variety of properties, real
and otherwise. Life had given
him much and demanded little,
which was perhaps the reason
for his restiveness.
Loyalty to person or to people
was a trait Pembroke had never
recognized in himself, nor had it
ever been expected of him. And
yet he greatly envied those
staunch patriots and lovers who
could find it in themselves to
elevate the glory and safety of
others above that of themselves.
Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke
adapted quickly to the situation
in which he found himself
when he regained consciousness.
He awoke in a small room in
what appeared to be a typical
modern American hotel. The wallet
in his pocket contained exactly
what it should, approximately
three hundred dollars.
His next thought was of food.
He left the room and descended
via the elevator to the restaurant.
Here he observed that it
was early afternoon. Ordering
a full dinner, for he was unusually
hungry, he began to study the
others in the restaurant.
Many of the faces seemed familiar;
the crew of the ship,
probably. He also recognized several
of the passengers. However,
he made no attempt to speak to
them. After his meal, he bought
a good corona and went for a
walk. His situation could have
been any small western American
seacoast city. He heard the hiss
of the ocean in the direction the
afternoon sun was taking. In his
full-gaited walk, he was soon approaching
the beach.
On the sand he saw a number
of sun bathers. One in particular,
an attractive woman of about
thirty, tossed back her long,
chestnut locks and gazed up intently
at Pembroke as he passed.
Seldom had he enjoyed so ingenuous
an invitation. He halted
and stared down at her for a few
moments.
"You are looking for someone?"
she inquired.
"Much of the time," said the
man.
"Could it be me?"
"It could be."
"Yet you seem unsure," she
said.
Pembroke smiled, uneasily.
There was something not entirely
normal about her conversation.
Though the rest of her compensated
for that.
"Tell me what's wrong with
me," she went on urgently. "I'm
not good enough, am I? I mean,
there's something wrong with
the way I look or act. Isn't there?
Please help me, please!"
"You're not casual enough, for
one thing," said Pembroke, deciding
to play along with her for
the moment. "You're too tense.
Also you're a bit knock-kneed,
not that it matters. Is that what
you wanted to hear?"
"Yes, yes—I mean, I suppose
so. I can try to be more casual.
But I don't know what to do
about my knees," she said wistfully,
staring across at the
smooth, tan limbs. "Do you think
I'm okay otherwise? I mean, as a
whole I'm not so bad, am I? Oh,
please tell me."
"How about talking it over at
supper tonight?" Pembroke proposed.
"Maybe with less distraction
I'll have a better picture of
you—as a whole."
"Oh, that's very generous of
you," the woman told him. She
scribbled a name and an address
on a small piece of paper and
handed it to him. "Any time
after six," she said.
Pembroke left the beach and
walked through several small
specialty shops. He tried to get
the woman off his mind, but the
oddness of her conversation continued
to bother him. She was
right about being different, but
it was her concern about being
different that made her so. How
to explain
that
to her?
Then he saw the weird little
glass statuette among the usual
bric-a-brac. It rather resembled
a ground hog, had seven fingers
on each of its six limbs, and
smiled up at him as he stared.
"Can I help you, sir?" a middle-aged
saleswoman inquired.
"Oh, good heavens, whatever is
that thing doing here?"
Pembroke watched with lifted
eyebrows as the clerk whisked
the bizarre statuette underneath
the counter.
"What the hell was that?"
Pembroke demanded.
"Oh, you know—or don't you?
Oh, my," she concluded, "are you
one of the—strangers?"
"And if I were?"
"Well, I'd certainly appreciate
it if you'd tell me how I walk."
She came around in front of
the counter and strutted back
and forth a few times.
"They tell me I lean too far
forward," she confided. "But I
should think you'd fall down if
you didn't."
"Don't try to go so fast and
you won't fall down," suggested
Pembroke. "You're in too much
of a hurry. Also those fake flowers
on your blouse make you look
frumpy."
"Well, I'm supposed to look
frumpy," the woman retorted.
"That's the type of person I am.
But you can look frumpy and still
walk natural, can't you? Everyone
says you can."
"Well, they've got a point,"
said Pembroke. "Incidentally,
just where are we, anyway?
What city is this?"
"Puerto Pacifico," she told
him. "Isn't that a lovely name?
It means peaceful port. In Spanish."
That was fine. At least he now
knew where he was. But as he
left the shop he began checking
off every west coast state, city,
town, and inlet. None, to the best
of his knowledge, was called
Puerto Pacifico.
He headed for the nearest
service station and asked for a
map. The attendant gave him one
which showed the city, but nothing
beyond.
"Which way is it to San Francisco?"
asked Pembroke.
"That all depends on where
you are," the boy returned.
"Okay, then where am I?"
"Pardon me, there's a customer,"
the boy said. "This is
Puerto Pacifico."
Pembroke watched him hurry
off to service a car with a sense
of having been given the runaround.
To his surprise, the boy
came back a few minutes later
after servicing the automobile.
"Say, I've just figured out who
you are," the youngster told him.
"I'd sure appreciate it if you'd
give me a little help on my lingo.
Also, you gas up the car first,
then try to sell 'em the oil—right?"
"Right," said Pembroke wearily.
"What's wrong with your
lingo? Other than the fact that
it's not colloquial enough."
"Not enough slang, huh? Well,
I guess I'll have to concentrate
on that. How about the smile?"
"Perfect," Pembroke told him.
"Yeah?" said the boy delightedly.
"Say, come back again,
huh? I sure appreciate the help.
Keep the map."
"Thanks. One more thing,"
Pembroke said. "What's over
that way—outside the city?"
"Sand."
"How about that way?" he
asked, pointing north. "And that
way?" pointing south.
"More of the same."
"Any railroads?"
"That we ain't got."
"Buses? Airlines?"
The kid shook his head.
"Some city."
"Yeah, it's kinda isolated. A
lot of ships dock here, though."
"All cargo ships, I'll bet. No
passengers," said Pembroke.
"Right," said the attendant,
giving with his perfect smile.
"No getting out of here, is
there?"
"That's for sure," the boy said,
walking away to wait on another
customer. "If you don't like the
place, you've had it."
Pembroke returned to the
hotel. Going to the bar, he recognized
one of the
Elena Mia's
paying
passengers. He was a short,
rectangular little man in his fifties
named Spencer. He sat in a
booth with three young women,
all lovely, all effusive. The topic
of the conversation turned out
to be precisely what Pembroke
had predicted.
"Well, Louisa, I'd say your
only fault is the way you keep
wigglin' your shoulders up 'n'
down. Why'n'sha try holdin' 'em
straight?"
"I thought it made me look
sexy," the redhead said petulantly.
"Just be yourself, gal," Spencer
drawled, jabbing her intimately
with a fat elbow, "and
you'll qualify."
"Me, me," the blonde with a
feather cut was insisting. "What
is wrong with me?"
"You're perfect, sweetheart,"
he told her, taking her hand.
"Ah, come on," she pleaded.
"Everyone tells me I chew gum
with my mouth open. Don't you
hate that?"
"Naw, that's part of your
charm," Spencer assured her.
"How 'bout me, sugar," asked
the girl with the coal black hair.
"Ah, you're perfect, too. You
are all perfect. I've never seen
such a collection of dolls as parade
around this here city.
C'mon, kids—how 'bout another
round?"
But the dolls had apparently
lost interest in him. They got up
one by one and walked out of the
bar. Pembroke took his rum and
tonic and moved over to Spencer's
booth.
"Okay if I join you?"
"Sure," said the fat man.
"Wonder what the hell got into
those babes?"
"You said they were perfect.
They know they're not. You've
got to be rough with them in this
town," said Pembroke. "That's
all they want from us."
"Mister, you've been doing
some thinkin', I can see," said
Spencer, peering at him suspiciously.
"Maybe you've figured
out where we are."
"Your bet's as good as mine,"
said Pembroke. "It's not Wellington,
and it's not Brisbane, and
it's not Long Beach, and it's not
Tahiti. There are a lot of places
it's not. But where the hell it is,
you tell me.
"And, by the way," he added,
"I hope you like it in Puerto
Pacifico. Because there isn't any
place to go from here and there
isn't any way to get there if
there were."
"Pardon me, gentlemen, but
I'm Joe Valencia, manager of the
hotel. I would be very grateful if
you would give me a few minutes
of honest criticism."
"Ah, no, not you, too," groaned
Spencer. "Look, Joe, what's
the gag?"
"You are newcomers, Mr.
Spencer," Valencia explained.
"You are therefore in an excellent
position to point out our
faults as you see them."
"Well, so what?" demanded
Spencer. "I've got more important
things to do than to worry
about your troubles. You look
okay to me."
"Mr. Valencia," said Pembroke.
"I've noticed that you
walk with a very slight limp. If
you have a bad leg, I should
think you would do better to develop
a more pronounced limp.
Otherwise, you may appear to
be self-conscious about it."
Spencer opened his mouth to
protest, but saw with amazement
that it was exactly this that
Valencia was seeking. Pembroke
was amused at his companion's
reaction but observed that Spencer
still failed to see the point.
"Also, there is a certain effeminateness
in the way in which
you speak," said Pembroke. "Try
to be a little more direct, a little
more brusque. Speak in a monotone.
It will make you more acceptable."
"Thank you so much," said the
manager. "There is much food
for thought in what you have
said, Mr. Pembroke. However,
Mr. Spencer, your value has failed
to prove itself. You have only
yourself to blame. Cooperation is
all we require of you."
Valencia left. Spencer ordered
another martini. Neither he nor
Pembroke spoke for several minutes.
"Somebody's crazy around
here," the fat man muttered
after a few moments. "Is it me,
Frank?"
"No. You just don't belong
here, in this particular place,"
said Pembroke thoughtfully.
"You're the wrong type. But they
couldn't know that ahead of time.
The way they operate it's a
pretty hit-or-miss operation. But
they don't care one bit about us,
Spencer. Consider the men who
went down with the ship. That
was just part of the game."
"What the hell are you sayin'?"
asked Spencer in disbelief.
"You figure
they
sunk the ship?
Valencia and the waitress and
the three babes? Ah, come on."
"It's what you think that will
determine what you do, Spencer.
I suggest you change your attitude;
play along with them for a
few days till the picture becomes
a little clearer to you. We'll talk
about it again then."
Pembroke rose and started out
of the bar. A policeman entered
and walked directly to Spencer's
table. Loitering at the juke box,
Pembroke overheard the conversation.
"You Spencer?"
"That's right," said the fat
man sullenly.
"What don't you like about
me? The
truth
, buddy."
"Ah, hell! Nothin' wrong
with you at all, and nothin'll
make me say there is," said Spencer.
"You're the guy, all right. Too
bad, Mac," said the cop.
Pembroke heard the shots as
he strolled casually out into the
brightness of the hotel lobby.
While he waited for the elevator,
he saw them carrying the body
into the street. How many others,
he wondered, had gone out on
their backs during their first day
in Puerto Pacifico?
Pembroke shaved, showered,
and put on the new suit and shirt
he had bought. Then he took
Mary Ann, the woman he had
met on the beach, out to dinner.
She would look magnificent even
when fully clothed, he decided,
and the pale chartreuse gown she
wore hardly placed her in that
category. Her conversation seemed
considerably more normal
after the other denizens of
Puerto Pacifico Pembroke had
listened to that afternoon.
After eating they danced for
an hour, had a few more drinks,
then went to Pembroke's room.
He still knew nothing about her
and had almost exhausted his
critical capabilities, but not once
had she become annoyed with
him. She seemed to devour every
factual point of imperfection
about herself that Pembroke
brought to her attention. And,
fantastically enough, she actually
appeared to have overcome every
little imperfection he had been
able to communicate to her.
It was in the privacy of his
room that Pembroke became
aware of just how perfect, physically,
Mary Ann was. Too perfect.
No freckles or moles anywhere
on the visible surface of
her brown skin, which was more
than a mere sampling. Furthermore,
her face and body were
meticulously symmetrical. And
she seemed to be wholly ambidextrous.
"With so many beautiful
women in Puerto Pacifico," said
Pembroke probingly, "I find it
hard to understand why there are
so few children."
"Yes, children are decorative,
aren't they," said Mary Ann. "I
do wish there were more of
them."
"Why not have a couple of
your own?" he asked.
"Oh, they're only given to maternal
types. I'd never get one.
Anyway, I won't ever marry,"
she said. "I'm the paramour
type."
It was obvious that the liquor
had been having some effect.
Either that, or she had a basic
flaw of loquacity that no one else
had discovered. Pembroke decided
he would have to cover his
tracks carefully.
"What type am I?" he asked.
"Silly, you're real. You're not
a type at all."
"Mary Ann, I love you very
much," Pembroke murmured,
gambling everything on this one
throw. "When you go to Earth
I'll miss you terribly."
"Oh, but you'll be dead by
then," she pouted. "So I mustn't
fall in love with you. I don't want
to be miserable."
"If I pretended I was one of
you, if I left on the boat with
you, they'd let me go to Earth
with you. Wouldn't they?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sure they would."
"Mary Ann, you have two
other flaws I feel I should mention."
"Yes? Please tell me."
"In the first place," said Pembroke,
"you should be willing to
fall in love with me even if it
will eventually make you unhappy.
How can you be the paramour
type if you refuse to fall in
love foolishly? And when you
have fallen in love, you should be
very loyal."
"I'll try," she said unsurely.
"What else?"
"The other thing is that, as
my mistress, you must never
mention me to anyone. It would
place me in great danger."
"I'll never tell anyone anything
about you," she promised.
"Now try to love me," Pembroke
said, drawing her into his
arms and kissing with little
pleasure the smooth, warm perfection
of her tanned cheeks.
"Love me my sweet, beautiful,
affectionate Mary Ann. My paramour."
Making love to Mary Ann was
something short of ecstasy. Not
for any obvious reason, but because
of subtle little factors that
make a woman a woman. Mary
Ann had no pulse. Mary Ann did
not perspire. Mary Ann did not
fatigue gradually but all at once.
Mary Ann breathed regularly
under all circumstances. Mary
Ann talked and talked and talked.
But then, Mary Ann was not
a human being.
When she left the hotel at midnight,
Pembroke was quite sure
that she understood his plan and
that she was irrevocably in love
with him. Tomorrow might bring
his death, but it might also ensure
his escape. After forty-two
years of searching for a passion,
for a cause, for a loyalty, Frank
Pembroke had at last found his.
Earth and the human race that
peopled it. And Mary Ann would
help him to save it.
The next morning Pembroke
talked to Valencia about hunting.
He said that he planned to go
shooting out on the desert which
surrounded the city. Valencia
told him that there were no living
creatures anywhere but in
the city. Pembroke said he was
going out anyway.
He picked up Mary Ann at her
apartment and together they
went to a sporting goods store.
As he guessed there was a goodly
selection of firearms, despite the
fact that there was nothing to
hunt and only a single target
range within the city. Everything,
of course, had to be just
like Earth. That, after all, was
the purpose of Puerto Pacifico.
By noon they had rented a
jeep and were well away from
the city. Pembroke and Mary
Ann took turns firing at the paper
targets they had purchased. At
twilight they headed back to the
city. On the outskirts, where the
sand and soil were mixed and no
footprints would be left, Pembroke
hopped off. Mary Ann
would go straight to the police
and report that Pembroke had attacked
her and that she had shot
him. If necessary, she would conduct
the authorities to the place
where they had been target
shooting, but would be unable to
locate the spot where she had
buried the body. Why had she
buried it? Because at first she
was not going to report the incident.
She was frightened. It
was not airtight, but there would
probably be no further investigation.
And they certainly would
not prosecute Mary Ann for killing
an Earthman.
Now Pembroke had himself to
worry about. The first step was
to enter smoothly into the new
life he had planned. It wouldn't
be so comfortable as the previous
one, but should be considerably
safer. He headed slowly for the
"old" part of town, aging his
clothes against buildings and
fences as he walked. He had already
torn the collar of the shirt
and discarded his belt. By morning
his beard would grow to
blacken his face. And he would
look weary and hungry and aimless.
Only the last would be a deception.
Two weeks later Pembroke
phoned Mary Ann. The police
had accepted her story without
even checking. And when, when
would she be seeing him again?
He had aroused her passion and
no amount of long-distance love
could requite it. Soon, he assured
her, soon.
"Because, after all, you do owe
me something," she added.
And that was bad because it
sounded as if she had been giving
some womanly thought to the situation.
A little more of that and
she might go to the police again,
this time for vengeance.
Twice during his wanderings
Pembroke had seen the corpses
of Earthmen being carted out of
buildings. They had to be Earthmen
because they bled. Mary Ann
had admitted that she did not.
There would be very few Earthmen
left in Puerto Pacifico, and
it would be simple enough to locate
him if he were reported as
being on the loose. There was
no out but to do away with Mary
Ann.
Pembroke headed for the
beach. He knew she invariably
went there in the afternoon. He
loitered around the stalls where
hot dogs and soft drinks were
sold, leaning against a post in
the hot sun, hat pulled down over
his forehead. Then he noticed
that people all about him were
talking excitedly. They were discussing
a ship. It was leaving
that afternoon. Anyone who
could pass the interview would
be sent to Earth.
Pembroke had visited the
docks every day, without being
able to learn when the great
exodus would take place. Yet he
was certain the first lap would be
by water rather than by spaceship,
since no one he had talked
to in the city had ever heard of
spaceships. In fact, they knew
very little about their masters.
Now the ship had arrived and
was to leave shortly. If there was
any but the most superficial examination,
Pembroke would no
doubt be discovered and exterminated.
But since no one seemed
concerned about anything but his
own speech and behavior, he assumed
that they had all qualified
in every other respect. The reason
for transporting Earth People
to this planet was, of course,
to apply a corrective to any of
the Pacificos' aberrant mannerisms
or articulation. This was
the polishing up phase.
Pembroke began hobbling toward
the docks. Almost at once
he found himself face to face
with Mary Ann. She smiled happily
when she recognized him.
That
was a good thing.
"It is a sign of poor breeding
to smile at tramps," Pembroke
admonished her in a whisper.
"Walk on ahead."
She obeyed. He followed. The
crowd grew thicker. They neared
the docks and Pembroke saw that
there were now set up on the
roped-off wharves small interviewing
booths. When it was
their turn, he and Mary Ann
each went into separate ones.
Pembroke found himself alone in
the little room.
Then he saw that there was
another entity in his presence
confined beneath a glass dome. It
looked rather like a groundhog
and had seven fingers on each of
its six limbs. But it was larger
and hairier than the glass one
he had seen at the gift store.
With four of its limbs it tapped
on an intricate keyboard in front
of it.
"What is your name?" queried
a metallic voice from a speaker
on the wall.
"I'm Jerry Newton. Got no
middle initial," Pembroke said in
a surly voice.
"Occupation?"
"I work a lot o' trades. Fisherman,
fruit picker, fightin' range
fires, vineyards, car washer. Anything.
You name it. Been out of
work for a long time now,
though. Goin' on five months.
These here are hard times, no
matter what they say."
"What do you think of the
Chinese situation?" the voice inquired.
"Which situation's 'at?"
"Where's Seattle?"
"Seattle? State o' Washington."
And so it went for about five
minutes. Then he was told he
had qualified as a satisfactory
surrogate for a mid-twentieth
century American male, itinerant
type.
"You understand your mission,
Newton?" the voice asked. "You
are to establish yourself on
Earth. In time you will receive
instructions. Then you will attack.
You will not see us, your
masters, again until the atmosphere
has been sufficiently chlorinated.
In the meantime, serve
us well."
He stumbled out toward the
docks, then looked about for
Mary Ann. He saw her at last
behind the ropes, her lovely face
in tears.
Then she saw him. Waving
frantically, she called his name
several times. Pembroke mingled
with the crowd moving toward
the ship, ignoring her. But still
the woman persisted in her
shouting.
Sidling up to a well-dressed
man-about-town type, Pembroke
winked at him and snickered.
"You Frank?" he asked.
"Hell, no. But some poor
punk's sure red in the face, I'll
bet," the man-about-town said
with a chuckle. "Those high-strung
paramour types always
raising a ruckus. They never do
pass the interview. Don't know
why they even make 'em."
Suddenly Mary Ann was quiet.
"Ambulance squad," Pembroke's
companion explained.
"They'll take her off to the buggy
house for a few days and bring
her out fresh and ignorant as the
day she was assembled. Don't
know why they keep making 'em,
as I say. But I guess there's a
call for that type up there on
Earth."
"Yeah, I reckon there is at
that," said Pembroke, snickering
again as he moved away from the
other. "And why not? Hey?
Why not?"
Pembroke went right on hating
himself, however, till the
night he was deposited in a field
outside of Ensenada, broke but
happy, with two other itinerant
types. They separated in San
Diego, and it was not long before
Pembroke was explaining to the
police how he had drifted far
from the scene of the sinking of
the
Elena Mia
on a piece of
wreckage, and had been picked
up by a Chilean trawler. How he
had then made his way, with
much suffering, up the coast to
California. Two days later, his
identity established and his circumstances
again solvent, he was
headed for Los Angeles to begin
his save-Earth campaign.
Now, seated at his battered
desk in the shabby rented office
over Lemark's Liquors, Pembroke
gazed without emotion at
the two demolished Pacificos that
lay sprawled one atop the other
in the corner. His watch said
one-fifteen. The man from the
FBI should arrive soon.
There were footsteps on the
stairs for the third time that
day. Not the brisk, efficient steps
of a federal official, but the hesitant,
self-conscious steps of a
junior clerk type.
Pembroke rose as the young
man appeared at the door. His
face was smooth, unpimpled,
clean-shaven, without sweat on a
warm summer afternoon.
"Are you Dr. Von Schubert?"
the newcomer asked, peering into
the room. "You see, I've got a
problem—"
The four shots from Pembroke's
pistol solved his problem
effectively. Pembroke tossed his
third victim onto the pile, then
opened a can of lager, quaffing
it appreciatively. Seating himself
once more, he leaned back in
the chair, both feet upon the
desk.
He would be out of business
soon, once the FBI agent had got
there. Pembroke was only in it to
get the proof he would need to
convince people of the truth of
his tale. But in the meantime he
allowed himself to admire the
clipping of the newspaper ad he
had run in all the Los Angeles
papers for the past week. The
little ad that had saved mankind
from God-knew-what insidious
menace. It read:
ARE YOU IMPERFECT?
LET DR. VON SCHUBERT POINT OUT
YOUR FLAWS
IT IS HIS GOAL TO MAKE YOU THE
AVERAGE FOR YOUR TYPE
FEE—$3.75
MONEY BACK IF NOT SATISFIED!
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 23588 | [
"Which group of people shares the most similarities with the group of patients in the mental institution, as they are described by the author?",
"Why does Thaddeus Funston smile at the sight of the demolished arts and crafts building?",
"What is Thurgood's primary fear regarding the explosion at the arts and crafts building?",
"What is the main theme of this story?",
"What is the significance of the lifting-off of the Washington Monument at the story's conclusion?"
] | [
[
"A circus troupe",
"A disorderly mob",
"An artists' collective",
"A Kindergarten class"
],
[
"His prophecy of an alien invasion was fulfilled",
"He is gleeful at the idea of part of the mental hospital being destroyed",
"His self-constructed clay atom bomb was effectively detonated",
"He knows the explosion will distract the hospital staff and give him an opportunity to escape"
],
[
"Job demotion",
"Additional detonations",
"Radiation poisoning",
"Reputational damage"
],
[
"Fear and exploitation of the mentally ill",
"The perilous impact of government secrets",
"The damaging impact of mental illness on perception",
"Society's rejection of divergent thought"
],
[
"Mental 'illness' could and should, in many cases, be viewed as an asset, rather than a deficit",
"Society is too quick to dismiss the thoughts and behaviors of people living with mental illness as irrational or absurd",
"People living with mental illness pose risks and/or threats to society and should be entrusted to government care",
"People living with mental illness(es) may possess abilities not understood by humans living without mental illness"
]
] | [
4,
3,
4,
4,
2
] | [
1,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction November 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
A FILBERT IS A NUT
BY RICK RAPHAEL
That the gentleman in question was a nut was beyond question. He was an institutionalized
psychotic. He was nutty enough to think he could make an atom bomb out of modeling clay!
Illustrated by Freas
Miss Abercrombie, the manual therapist patted the old man on the
shoulder. "You're doing just fine, Mr. Lieberman. Show it to me when you
have finished."
The oldster in the stained convalescent suit gave her a quick, shy smile
and went back to his aimless smearing in the finger paints.
Miss Abercrombie smoothed her smock down over trim hips and surveyed the
other patients working at the long tables in the hospital's arts and
crafts shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites,
lounged beside the locked door and chatted idly about the Dodgers'
prospects for the pennant.
Through the barred windows of the workshop, rolling green hills were
seen, their tree-studded flanks making a pleasant setting for the mental
institution. The crafts building was a good mile away from the main
buildings of the hospital and the hills blocked the view of the austere
complex of buildings that housed the main wards.
The therapist strolled down the line of tables, pausing to give a word
of advice here, and a suggestion there.
She stopped behind a frowning, intense patient, rapidly shaping blobs of
clay into odd-sized strips and forms. As he finished each piece, he
carefully placed it into a hollow shell hemisphere of clay.
"And what are we making today, Mr. Funston?" Miss Abercrombie asked.
The flying fingers continued to whip out the bits of shaped clay as the
patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to
draw away from the woman.
"We mustn't be antisocial, Mr. Funston," Miss Abercrombie said lightly,
but firmly. "You've been coming along famously and you must remember to
answer when someone talks to you. Now what are you making? It looks very
complicated." She stared professionally at the maze of clay parts.
Thaddeus Funston continued to mold the clay bits and put them in place.
Without looking up from his bench he muttered a reply.
"Atom bomb."
A puzzled look crossed the therapist's face. "Pardon me, Mr. Funston. I
thought you said an 'atom bomb.'"
"Did," Funston murmured.
Safely behind the patient's back, Miss Abercrombie smiled ever so
slightly. "Why that's very good, Mr. Funston. That shows real creative
thought. I'm very pleased."
She patted him on the shoulder and moved down the line of patients.
A few minutes later, one of the attendants glanced at his watch, stood
up and stretched.
"All right, fellows," he called out, "time to go back. Put up your
things."
There was a rustle of paint boxes and papers being shuffled and chairs
being moved back. A tall, blond patient with a flowing mustache, put one
more dab of paint on his canvas and stood back to survey the meaningless
smears. He sighed happily and laid down his palette.
At the clay table, Funston feverishly fabricated the last odd-shaped bit
of clay and slapped it into place. With a furtive glance around him, he
clapped the other half of the clay sphere over the filled hemisphere and
then stood up. The patients lined up at the door, waiting for the walk
back across the green hills to the main hospital. The attendants made a
quick count and then unlocked the door. The group shuffled out into the
warm, afternoon sunlight and the door closed behind them.
Miss Abercrombie gazed around the cluttered room and picked up her chart
book of patient progress. Moving slowly down the line of benches, she
made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each
patient.
At the clay table, she carefully lifted the top half of the clay ball
and stared thoughtfully at the jumbled maze of clay strips laced through
the lower hemisphere. She placed the lid back in place and jotted
lengthily in her chart book.
When she had completed her rounds, she slipped out of the smock, tucked
the chart book under her arm and left the crafts building for the day.
The late afternoon sun felt warm and comfortable as she walked the mile
to the main administration building where her car was parked.
As she drove out of the hospital grounds, Thaddeus Funston stood at the
barred window of his locked ward and stared vacantly over the hills
towards the craft shop. He stood there unmoving until a ward attendant
came and took his arm an hour later to lead him off to the patients'
mess hall.
The sun set, darkness fell over the stilled hospital grounds and the
ward lights winked out at nine o'clock, leaving just a single light
burning in each ward office. A quiet wind sighed over the still-warm
hills.
At 3:01 a.m., Thaddeus Funston stirred in his sleep and awakened. He sat
up in bed and looked around the dark ward. The quiet breathing and
occasional snores of thirty other sleeping patients filled the room.
Funston turned to the window and stared out across the black hills that
sheltered the deserted crafts building.
He gave a quick cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face.
The brilliance of a hundred suns glared in the night and threw stark
shadows on the walls of the suddenly-illuminated ward.
An instant later, the shattering roar and blast of the explosion struck
the hospital buildings in a wave of force and the bursting crash of a
thousand windows was lost in the fury of the explosion and the wild
screams of the frightened and demented patients.
It was over in an instant, and a stunned moment later, recessed ceiling
lights began flashing on throughout the big institution.
Beyond the again-silent hills, a great pillar of smoke, topped by a
small mushroom-shaped cloud, rose above the gaping hole that had been
the arts and crafts building.
Thaddeus Funston took his hands from his face and lay back in his bed
with a small, secret smile on his lips. Attendants and nurses scurried
through the hospital, seeing how many had been injured in the
explosion.
None had. The hills had absorbed most of the shock and apart from a
welter of broken glass, the damage had been surprisingly slight.
The roar and flash of the explosion had lighted and rocked the
surrounding countryside. Soon firemen and civil defense disaster units
from a half-dozen neighboring communities had gathered at the
still-smoking hole that marked the site of the vanished crafts building.
Within fifteen minutes, the disaster-trained crews had detected heavy
radiation emanating from the crater and there was a scurry of men and
equipment back to a safe distance, a few hundred yards away.
At 5:30 a.m., a plane landed at a nearby airfield and a platoon of
Atomic Energy Commission experts, military intelligence men, four FBI
agents and an Army full colonel disembarked.
At 5:45 a.m. a cordon was thrown around both the hospital and the blast
crater.
In Ward 4-C, Thaddeus Funston slept peacefully and happily.
"It's impossible and unbelievable," Colonel Thomas Thurgood said for the
fifteenth time, later that morning, as he looked around the group of
experts gathered in the tent erected on the hill overlooking the crater.
"How can an atom bomb go off in a nut house?"
"It apparently was a very small bomb, colonel," one of the haggard AEC
men offered timidly. "Not over three kilotons."
"I don't care if it was the size of a peanut," Thurgood screamed. "How
did it get here?"
A military intelligence agent spoke up. "If we knew, sir, we wouldn't be
standing around here. We don't know, but the fact remains that it WAS an
atomic explosion."
Thurgood turned wearily to the small, white-haired man at his side.
"Let's go over it once more, Dr. Crane. Are you sure you knew everything
that was in that building?" Thurgood swept his hand in the general
direction of the blast crater.
"Colonel, I've told you a dozen times," the hospital administrator said
with exasperation, "this was our manual therapy room. We gave our
patients art work. It was a means of getting out of their systems,
through the use of their hands, some of the frustrations and problems
that led them to this hospital. They worked with oil and water paints
and clay. If you can make an atomic bomb from vermillion pigments, then
Madame Curie was a misguided scrubwoman."
"All I know is that you say this was a crafts building. O.K. So it was,"
Thurgood sighed. "I also know that an atomic explosion at 3:02 this
morning blew it to hell and gone.
"And I've got to find out how it happened."
Thurgood slumped into a field chair and gazed tiredly up at the little
doctor.
"Where's that girl you said was in charge of this place?"
"We've already called for Miss Abercrombie and she's on her way here
now," the doctor snapped.
Outside the tent, a small army of military men and AEC technicians moved
around the perimeter of the crater, scintillators in hand, examining
every tiny scrap that might have been a part of the building at one
time.
A jeep raced down the road from the hospital and drew up in front of the
tent. An armed MP helped Miss Abercrombie from the vehicle.
She walked to the edge of the hill and looked down with a stunned
expression.
"He did make an atom bomb," she cried.
Colonel Thurgood, who had snapped from his chair at her words, leaped
forward to catch her as she collapsed in a faint.
At 4:00 p.m., the argument was still raging in the long, narrow staff
room of the hospital administration building.
Colonel Thurgood, looking more like a patient every minute, sat on the
edge of his chair at the head of a long table and pounded with his fist
on the wooden surface, making Miss Abercrombie's chart book bounce with
every beat.
"It's ridiculous," Thurgood roared. "We'll all be the laughingstocks of
the world if this ever gets out. An atomic bomb made out of clay. You
are all nuts. You're in the right place, but count me out."
At his left, Miss Abercrombie cringed deeper into her chair at the
broadside. Down both sides of the long table, psychiatrists, physicists,
strategists and radiologists sat in various stages of nerve-shattered
weariness.
"Miss Abercrombie," one of the physicists spoke up gently, "you say that
after the patients had departed the building, you looked again at
Funston's work?"
The therapist nodded unhappily.
"And you say that, to the best of your knowledge," the physicist
continued, "there was nothing inside the ball but other pieces of clay."
"I'm positive that's all there was in it," Miss Abercrombie cried.
There was a renewed buzz of conversation at the table and the senior AEC
man present got heads together with the senior intelligence man. They
conferred briefly and then the intelligence officer spoke.
"That seems to settle it, colonel. We've got to give this Funston
another chance to repeat his bomb. But this time under our supervision."
Thurgood leaped to his feet, his face purpling.
"Are you crazy?" he screamed. "You want to get us all thrown into this
filbert factory? Do you know what the newspapers would do to us if they
ever got wind of the fact, that for one, tiny fraction of a second,
anyone of us here entertained the notion that a paranoidal idiot with
the IQ of an ape could make an atomic bomb out of kid's modeling clay?
"They'd crucify us, that's what they'd do!"
At 8:30 that night, Thaddeus Funston, swathed in an Army officer's
greatcoat that concealed the strait jacket binding him and with an
officer's cap jammed far down over his face, was hustled out of a small
side door of the hospital and into a waiting staff car. A few minutes
later, the car pulled into the flying field at the nearby community and
drove directly to the military transport plane that stood at the end of
the runway with propellers turning.
Two military policemen and a brace of staff psychiatrists sworn to
secrecy under the National Atomic Secrets Act, bundled Thaddeus aboard
the plane. They plopped him into a seat directly in front of Miss
Abercrombie and with a roar, the plane raced down the runway and into
the night skies.
The plane landed the next morning at the AEC's atomic testing grounds in
the Nevada desert and two hours later, in a small hot, wooden shack
miles up the barren desert wastelands, a cluster of scientists and
military men huddled around a small wooden table.
There was nothing on the table but a bowl of water and a great lump of
modeling clay. While the psychiatrists were taking the strait jacket off
Thaddeus in the staff car outside, Colonel Thurgood spoke to the weary
Miss Abercrombie.
"Now you're positive this is just about the same amount and the same
kind of clay he used before?"
"I brought it along from the same batch we had in the store room at the
hospital," she replied, "and it's the same amount."
Thurgood signaled to the doctors and they entered the shack with
Thaddeus Funston between them. The colonel nudged Miss Abercrombie.
She smiled at Funston.
"Now isn't this nice, Mr. Funston," she said. "These nice men have
brought us way out here just to see you make another atom bomb like the
one you made for me yesterday."
A flicker of interest lightened Thaddeus' face. He looked around the
shack and then spotted the clay on the table. Without hesitation, he
walked to the table and sat down. His fingers began working the damp
clay, making first the hollow, half-round shell while the nation's top
atomic scientists watched in fascination.
His busy fingers flew through the clay, shaping odd, flat bits and clay
parts that were dropped almost aimlessly into the open hemisphere in
front of him.
Miss Abercrombie stood at his shoulder as Thaddeus hunched over the
table just as he had done the previous day. From time to time she
glanced at her watch. The maze of clay strips grew and as Funston
finished shaping the other half hemisphere of clay, she broke the tense
silence.
"Time to go back now, Mr. Funston. You can work some more tomorrow." She
looked at the men and nodded her head.
The two psychiatrists went to Thaddeus' side as he put the upper lid of
clay carefully in place. Funston stood up and the doctors escorted him
from the shack.
There was a moment of hushed silence and then pandemonium burst. The
experts converged on the clay ball, instruments blossoming from nowhere
and cameras clicking.
For two hours they studied and gently probed the mass of child's clay
and photographed it from every angle.
Then they left for the concrete observatory bunker, several miles down
range where Thaddeus and the psychiatrists waited inside a ring of
stony-faced military policemen.
"I told you this whole thing was asinine," Thurgood snarled as the
scientific teams trooped into the bunker.
Thaddeus Funston stared out over the heads of the MPs through the open
door, looking uprange over the heat-shimmering desert. He gave a sudden
cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face.
A brilliance a hundred times brighter than the glaring Nevada sun lit
the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically-operated door
slammed shut just before the wave of the blast hit the structure.
Six hours and a jet plane trip later, Thaddeus, once again in his strait
jacket, sat between his armed escorts in a small room in the Pentagon.
Through the window he could see the hurried bustle of traffic over the
Potomac and beyond, the domed roof of the Capitol.
In the conference room next door, the joint chiefs of staff were
closeted with a gray-faced and bone-weary Colonel Thurgood and his
baker's dozen of AEC brains. Scraps of the hot and scornful talk drifted
across a half-opened transom into the room where Thaddeus Funston sat in
a neatly-tied bundle.
In the conference room, a red-faced, four-star general cast a chilling
glance at the rumpled figure of Colonel Thurgood.
"I've listened to some silly stories in my life, colonel," the general
said coldly, "but this takes the cake. You come in here with an insane
asylum inmate in a strait jacket and you have the colossal gall to sit
there and tell me that this poor soul has made not one, but two atomic
devices out of modeling clay and then has detonated them."
The general paused.
"Why don't you just tell me, colonel, that he can also make spaceships
out of sponge rubber?" the general added bitingly.
In the next room, Thaddeus Funston stared out over the sweeping panorama
of the Washington landscape. He stared hard.
In the distance, a white cloud began billowing up from the base of the
Washington Monument, and with an ear-shattering, glass-splintering roar,
the great shaft rose majestically from its base and vanished into space
on a tail of flame.
THE END
|
train | 23592 | [
"Which two terms, respectively, most accurately describe Phil's and Mary's sentiments about Phil becoming a space pilot?",
"How might the story's conclusion have differed if Phil, in the beginning of the story, had agreed to Mary's wish?",
"What term best describes Phil's personality change from the introduction of the story to the conclusion?",
"How does the author characterize the mood of the pre-launch location, prior to Phil's arrival?",
"How does Phil respond to Mary's concerns regarding the space mission?",
"What is most ironic about the conclusion of the story?",
"What is the general's primary concern regarding the leader of the mission?",
"Which of the following best serves as a metaphor for Phil and Mary's relationship, by the end of the story?",
"What best represents the theme of the story?"
] | [
[
"Adamant; ambivalent",
"Open-minded; resentful",
"Content; reluctant",
"Enthusiastic; resistant"
],
[
"The conclusion would likely not have differed -- Phil would lose his sense of purpose and thus his vitality in a relationship",
"Phil would have agreed to Mary's wishes, but left to go on the mission without telling here",
"Phil would eventually come to accept Mary's fear and let go of his dream to go to the moon",
"Phil would have tried to keep a positive attitude and wait his turn for the next mission"
],
[
"Distressed",
"Delirious",
"Despondent",
"Deflated"
],
[
"Apprehensive",
"Monotonous",
"Frightening",
"Energized"
],
[
"He strives to communicate that he should not have to choose between his relationship and his lifelong passion",
"He lovingly teases her about her emotions, but ultimately them as unfounded and hyperbolic",
"He tries to present reassuring evidence and be honest about his fears if he is not allowed to fulfill the mission",
"He insists that she trusts in his competency and readiness for the mission at hand"
],
[
"While Sammy is the least qualified to go into space, he was the only replacement for Phil",
"Everything that used to give Phil joy will now represent pain and suffering",
"Mary's fear of losing Phil became a self-fulfilling prophecy",
"Phil trained all of his life for one moment, and gave it all up within the period of one day"
],
[
"Exceptional leadership skills",
"Strongest intellectual quotient",
"Peak body and brain function",
"Unwavering belief in the mission"
],
[
"Mary's cigarette burned down too far",
"The new, government-built town",
"The barbed wire fence",
"The broken zipper on Phil's space suit"
],
[
"Compromise is essential to long-lasting, happy successful relationships",
"It is better to be honest about something bothering you than to withhold it and possibly cause a shared goal to fail",
"Keeping one's family happy and intact is ultimately more important than any personal or professional goal",
"Rigid thinking and ultimatums in relationships rarely result in desired outcomes"
]
] | [
4,
1,
4,
4,
3,
3,
3,
2,
4
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction December 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
BREAKAWAY
BY STANLEY GIMBLE
Illustrated by Freas
She surely got her wish ... but there was some question about getting
what she wanted.
Phil Conover pulled the zipper of his flight suit up the front of his
long, thin body and came into the living room. His face, usually serious
and quietly handsome, had an alive, excited look. And the faint lines
around his dark, deep-set eyes were accentuated when he smiled at his
wife.
"All set, honey. How do I look in my monkey suit?"
His wife was sitting stiffly on the flowered couch that was still not
theirs completely. In her fingers she held a cigarette burned down too
far. She said, "You look fine, Phil. You look just right." She managed a
smile. Then she leaned forward and crushed the cigarette in the ash
tray on the maple coffee table and took another from the pack.
He came to her and touched his hands to her soft blond hair, raising her
face until she was looking into his eyes. "You're the most beautiful
girl I know. Did I ever tell you that?"
"Yes, I think so. Yes, I'm sure you did," she said, finishing the
ritual; but her voice broke, and she turned her head away. Phil sat
beside her and put his arm around her small shoulders. He had stopped
smiling.
"Honey, look at me," he said. "It isn't going to be bad. Honestly it
isn't. We know exactly how it will be. If anything could go wrong, they
wouldn't be sending me; you know that. I told you that we've sent five
un-manned ships up and everyone came back without a hitch."
She turned, facing him. There were tears starting in the corners of her
wide, brown eyes, and she brushed them away with her hand.
"Phil, don't go. Please don't. They can send Sammy. Sammy doesn't have a
wife. Can't he go? They'd understand, Phil. Please!" She was holding his
arms tightly with her hands, and the color had drained from her cheeks.
"Mary, you know I can't back out now. How could I? It's been three
years. You know how much I've wanted to be the first man to go. Nothing
would ever be right with me again if I didn't go. Please don't make it
hard." He stopped talking and held her to him and stroked the back of
her head. He could feel her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He
released her and stood up.
"I've got to get started, Mary. Will you come to the field with me?"
"Yes, I'll come to say good-by." She paused and dropped her eyes. "Phil,
if you go, I won't be here when you get back—if you get back. I won't
be here because I won't be the wife of a space pilot for the rest of my
life. It isn't the kind of life I bargained for. No matter how much I
love you, I just couldn't take that, Phil. I'm sorry. I guess I'm not
the noble sort of wife."
She finished and took another cigarette from the pack on the coffee
table and put it to her lips. Her hand was trembling as she touched the
lighter to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply. Phil stood watching
her, the excitement completely gone from his eyes.
"I wish you had told me this a long time ago, Mary," Phil said. His
voice was dry and low. "I didn't know you felt this way about it."
"Yes, you did. I told you how I felt. I told you I could never be the
wife of a space pilot. But I don't think I ever really believed it was
possible—not until this morning when you said tonight was the take-off.
It's so stupid to jeopardize everything we've got for a ridiculous
dream!"
He sat down on the edge of the couch and took her hands between his.
"Mary, listen to me," he said. "It isn't a dream. It's real. There's
nothing means anything more to me than you do—you know that. But no
man ever had the chance to do what I'm going to do tonight—no man ever.
If I backed out now for any reason, I'd never be able to look at the sky
again. I'd be through."
She looked at him without seeing him, and there was nothing at all in
her eyes.
"Let's go, if you're still going," she finally said.
They drove through the streets of the small town with its small
bungalows, each alike. There were no trees and very little grass. It was
a new town, a government built town, and it had no personality yet. It
existed only because of the huge ship standing poised in the take-off
zone five miles away in the desert. Its future as a town rested with the
ship, and the town seemed to feel the uncertainty of its future, seemed
ready to stop existing as a town and to give itself back to the desert,
if such was its destiny.
Phil turned the car off the highway onto the rutted dirt road that led
across the sand to the field where the ship waited. In the distance they
could see the beams of the searchlights as they played across the
take-off zone and swept along the top of the high wire fence stretching
out of sight to right and left. At the gate they were stopped by the
guard. He read Phil's pass, shined his flashlight in their faces, and
then saluted. "Good luck, colonel," he said, and shook Phil's hand.
"Thanks, sergeant. I'll be seeing you next week," Phil said, and smiled.
They drove between the rows of wooden buildings that lined the field,
and he parked near the low barbed fence ringing the take-off zone. He
turned off the ignition, and sat quietly for a moment before lighting a
cigarette. Then he looked at his wife. She was staring through the
windshield at the rocket two hundred yards away. Its smooth polished
surface gleamed in the spotlight glare, and it sloped up and up until
the eye lost the tip against the stars.
"She's beautiful, Mary. You've never seen her before, have you?"
"No, I've never seen her before," she said. "Hadn't you better go?" Her
voice was strained and she held her hands closed tightly in her lap.
"Please go now, Phil," she said.
He leaned toward her and touched her cheek. Then she was in his arms,
her head buried against his shoulder.
"Good-by, darling," she said.
"Wish me luck, Mary?" he asked.
"Yes, good luck, Phil," she said. He opened the car door and got out.
The noise of men and machines scurrying around the ship broke the spell
of the rocket waiting silently for flight.
"Mary, I—" he began, and then turned and strode toward the
administration building without looking back.
Inside the building it was like a locker room before the big game. The
tension stood alone, and each man had the same happy, excited look that
Phil had worn earlier. When he came into the room, the noise and bustle
stopped. They turned as one man toward him, and General Small came up to
him and took his hand.
"Hello, Phil. We were beginning to think you weren't coming. You all
set, son?"
"Yes, sir, I'm all set, I guess," Phil said.
"I'd like you to meet the Secretary of Defense, Phil. He's over here by
the radar."
As they crossed the room, familiar faces smiled, and each man shook his
hand or touched his arm. He saw Sammy, alone, by the coffee urn. Sammy
waved to him, but he didn't smile. Phil wanted to talk to him, to say
something; but there was nothing to be said now. Sammy's turn would come
later.
"Mr. Secretary," the general said, "this is Colonel Conover. He'll be
the first man in history to see the other side of the Moon. Colonel—the
Secretary of Defense."
"How do you do, sir. I'm very proud to meet you," Phil said.
"On the contrary, colonel. I'm very proud to meet you. I've been looking
at that ship out there and wondering. I almost wish I were a young man
again. I'd like to be going. It's a thrilling thought—man's first
adventure into the universe. You're lighting a new dawn of history,
colonel. It's a privilege few men have ever had; and those who have had
it didn't realize it at the time. Good luck, and God be with you."
"Thank you, sir. I'm aware of all you say. It frightens me a little."
The general took Phil's arm and they walked to the briefing room. There
were chairs set up for the scientists and Air Force officers directly
connected with the take-off. They were seated now in a semicircle in
front of a huge chart of the solar system. Phil took his seat, and the
last minute briefing began. It was a routine he knew by heart. He had
gone over and over it a thousand times, and he only half listened now.
He kept thinking of Mary outside, alone by the fence.
The voice of the briefing officer was a dull hum in his ears.
"... And orbit at 18,000-mph. You will then accelerate for the breakaway
to 24,900-mph for five minutes and then free-coast for 116 hours
until—"
Phil asked a few questions about weather and solar conditions. And then
the session was done. They rose and looked at each other, the same
unanswered questions on each man's face. There were forced smiles and
handshakes. They were ready now.
"Phil," the general said, and took him aside.
"Sir?"
"Phil, you're ... you feel all right, don't you, son?"
"Yes, sir. I feel fine. Why?"
"Phil, I've spent nearly every day with you for three years. I know you
better than I know myself in many ways. And I've studied the
psychologist's reports on you carefully. Maybe it's just nervousness,
Phil, but I think there's something wrong. Is there?"
"No, sir. There's nothing wrong," Phil said, but his voice didn't carry
conviction. He reached for a cigarette.
"Phil, if there is anything—anything at all—you know what it might
mean. You've got to be in the best mental and physical condition of your
life tonight. You know better than any man here what that means to our
success. I think there is something more than just natural apprehension
wrong with you. Want to tell me?"
Outside, the take-off zone crawled with men and machines at the base of
the rocket. For ten hours, the final check-outs had been in progress;
and now the men were checking again, on their own time. The thing they
had worked toward for six years was ready to happen, and each one felt
that he was sending just a little bit of himself into the sky. Beyond
the ring of lights and moving men, on the edge of the field, Mary stood.
Her hands moved slowly over the top of the fence, twisting the barbs of
wire. But her eyes were on the ship.
And then they were ready. A small group of excited men came out from the
administration building and moved forward. The check-out crews climbed
into their machines and drove back outside the take-off zone. And,
alone, one man climbed the steel ladder up the side of the
rocket—ninety feet into the air. At the top he waved to the men on the
ground and then disappeared through a small port.
Mary waved to him. "Good-by," she said to herself, but the words stuck
tight in her throat.
The small group at the base of the ship turned and walked back to the
fence. And for an eternity the great ship stood alone, waiting. Then,
from deep inside, a rumble came, increasing in volume to a gigantic roar
that shook the earth and tore at the ears. Slowly, the first manned
rocket to the Moon lifted up and up to the sky.
For a long time after the rocket had become a tiny speck of light in the
heavens, she stood holding her face in her hands and crying softly to
herself. And then she felt the touch of a hand on her arm. She turned.
"Phil! Oh, Phil." She held tightly to him and repeated his name over and
over.
"They wouldn't let me go, Mary," he said finally. "The general would not
let me go."
She looked at him. His face was drawn tight, and there were tears on his
cheeks. "Thank, God," she said. "It doesn't matter, darling. The only
thing that matters is you didn't go."
"You're right, Mary," he said. His voice was low—so low she could
hardly hear him. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now." He stood with
his hands at his sides, watching her. And then turned away and walked
toward the car.
THE END
|
train | 23767 | [
"Which term best represents Kolin's feelings toward Slichow?",
"Of what does Kolin and his peers need to be most careful of managing, lest they be perceived as treasonous?",
"What component of being the first to venture out into the unknown, dangerous planet is slightly exciting to Kolin and his peers? (being out of authority's watch)",
"What effect do the purple berries in the forest LEAST likely produce in humans? ",
"What does Johnny Ashlew best represent?",
"What do the vines in the forest represent?",
"What does \"the Life\" best represent?",
"What was Kolin's primary motivation in transforming to his new form?"
] | [
[
"Indignant",
"Obedient",
"Jealous",
"Inconspicuous"
],
[
"Their language",
"Their guise",
"Their rations",
"Their thoughts"
],
[
"Escaping the authoritarian rule of Haurtoz",
"Experiencing a break from constant supervision",
"Sabotaging Chief Steward Slichow's plans",
"Consuming real food without having to share it"
],
[
"Creating hallucinations and delusions",
"Blending in to one's surroundings",
"Intoxicating the body and mind",
"Relaxing and letting one's guard down"
],
[
"Slichow's greatest fear",
"Kolin's ego speaking its truth",
"Subtle omniscience",
"Freedom from conformity"
],
[
"The nature of rampant colonialism",
"The possibility to be who one wishes to be",
"The destructive power of nature",
"The lower end of social strata"
],
[
"Freedom to live authentically",
"Escapism and abandonment of responsibility",
"Temptation and deviation from shared goals",
"Immortality and a return to wholeness"
],
[
"Desire for power over authority",
"Desire to out-smart Johnny Ashlew",
"Desire to liberate the people of Haurtoz",
"Desire to be free from conformity"
]
] | [
1,
2,
2,
2,
4,
1,
1,
3
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | By H. B. Fyfe
THE TALKATIVE
TREE
Dang vines! Beats all how some plants
have no manners—but what do you expect,
when they used to be men!
All
things considered—the
obscure star, the undetermined
damage to the
stellar drive and the way the
small planet's murky atmosphere
defied precision scanners—the
pilot made a reasonably
good landing. Despite
sour feelings for the space
service of Haurtoz, steward
Peter Kolin had to admit that
casualties might have been
far worse.
Chief Steward Slichow led
his little command, less two
third-class ration keepers
thought to have been trapped
in the lower hold, to a point
two hundred meters from the
steaming hull of the
Peace
State
. He lined them up as if
on parade. Kolin made himself
inconspicuous.
"Since the crew will be on
emergency watches repairing
the damage," announced the
Chief in clipped, aggressive
tones, "I have volunteered my
section for preliminary scouting,
as is suitable. It may be
useful to discover temporary
sources in this area of natural
foods."
Volunteered HIS section!
thought Kolin rebelliously.
Like the Supreme Director
of Haurtoz! Being conscripted
into this idiotic space fleet
that never fights is bad
enough without a tin god on
jets like Slichow!
Prudently, he did not express
this resentment overtly.
His well-schooled features
revealed no trace of the idea—or
of any other idea. The
Planetary State of Haurtoz
had been organized some fifteen
light-years from old
Earth, but many of the home
world's less kindly techniques
had been employed. Lack of
complete loyalty to the state
was likely to result in a siege
of treatment that left the subject
suitably "re-personalized."
Kolin had heard of instances
wherein mere unenthusiastic
posture had betrayed
intentions to harbor
treasonable thoughts.
"You will scout in five details
of three persons each,"
Chief Slichow said. "Every
hour, each detail will send
one person in to report, and
he will be replaced by one of
the five I shall keep here to
issue rations."
Kolin permitted himself to
wonder when anyone might
get some rest, but assumed a
mildly willing look. (Too eager
an attitude could arouse
suspicion of disguising an improper
viewpoint.) The maintenance
of a proper viewpoint
was a necessity if the Planetary
State were to survive
the hostile plots of Earth and
the latter's decadent colonies.
That, at least, was the official
line.
Kolin found himself in a
group with Jak Ammet, a
third cook, and Eva Yrtok,
powdered foods storekeeper.
Since the crew would be eating
packaged rations during
repairs, Yrtok could be spared
to command a scout detail.
Each scout was issued a
rocket pistol and a plastic water
tube. Chief Slichow emphasized
that the keepers of
rations could hardly, in an
emergency, give even the appearance
of favoring themselves
in regard to food. They
would go without. Kolin
maintained a standard expression
as the Chief's sharp
stare measured them.
Yrtok, a dark, lean-faced
girl, led the way with a quiet
monosyllable. She carried the
small radio they would be
permitted to use for messages
of utmost urgency. Ammet
followed, and Kolin brought
up the rear.
To
reach their assigned
sector, they had to climb
a forbidding ridge of rock
within half a kilometer. Only
a sparse creeper grew along
their way, its elongated leaves
shimmering with bronze-green
reflections against a
stony surface; but when they
topped the ridge a thick forest
was in sight.
Yrtok and Ammet paused
momentarily before descending.
Kolin shared their sense of
isolation. They would be out
of sight of authority and responsible
for their own actions.
It was a strange sensation.
They marched down into
the valley at a brisk pace, becoming
more aware of the
clouds and atmospheric haze.
Distant objects seemed
blurred by the mist, taking on
a somber, brooding grayness.
For all Kolin could tell, he
and the others were isolated
in a world bounded by the
rocky ridge behind them and
a semi-circle of damp trees
and bushes several hundred
meters away. He suspected
that the hills rising mistily
ahead were part of a continuous
slope, but could not be
sure.
Yrtok led the way along
the most nearly level ground.
Low creepers became more
plentiful, interspersed with
scrubby thickets of tangled,
spike-armored bushes. Occasionally,
small flying things
flickered among the foliage.
Once, a shrub puffed out an
enormous cloud of tiny
spores.
"Be a job to find anything
edible here," grunted Ammet,
and Kolin agreed.
Finally, after a longer hike
than he had anticipated, they
approached the edge of the
deceptively distant forest.
Yrtok paused to examine some
purple berries glistening dangerously
on a low shrub. Kolin
regarded the trees with
misgiving.
"Looks as tough to get
through as a tropical jungle,"
he remarked.
"I think the stuff puts out
shoots that grow back into
the ground to root as they
spread," said the woman.
"Maybe we can find a way
through."
In two or three minutes,
they reached the abrupt border
of the odd-looking trees.
Except for one thick
trunked giant, all of them
were about the same height.
They craned their necks to estimate
the altitude of the
monster, but the top was hidden
by the wide spread of
branches. The depths behind
it looked dark and impenetrable.
"We'd better explore along
the edge," decided Yrtok.
"Ammet, now is the time to
go back and tell the Chief
which way we're—
Ammet!
"
Kolin looked over his shoulder.
Fifty meters away, Ammet
sat beside the bush with
the purple berries, utterly
relaxed.
"He must have tasted
some!" exclaimed Kolin. "I'll
see how he is."
He ran back to the cook and
shook him by the shoulder.
Ammet's head lolled loosely
to one side. His rather heavy
features were vacant, lending
him a doped appearance. Kolin
straightened up and beckoned
to Yrtok.
For some reason, he had
trouble attracting her attention.
Then he noticed that she
was kneeling.
"Hope she didn't eat some
stupid thing too!" he grumbled,
trotting back.
As he reached her, whatever
Yrtok was examining
came to life and scooted into
the underbrush with a flash
of greenish fur. All Kolin
saw was that it had several
legs too many.
He pulled Yrtok to her
feet. She pawed at him weakly,
eyes as vacant as Ammet's.
When he let go in sudden
horror, she folded gently to
the ground. She lay comfortably
on her side, twitching
one hand as if to brush something
away.
When she began to smile
dreamily, Kolin backed away.
The
corners of his mouth
felt oddly stiff; they had
involuntarily drawn back to
expose his clenched teeth. He
glanced warily about, but
nothing appeared to threaten
him.
"It's time to end this scout,"
he told himself. "It's dangerous.
One good look and I'm
jetting off! What I need is
an easy tree to climb."
He considered the massive
giant. Soaring thirty or forty
meters into the thin fog and
dwarfing other growth, it
seemed the most promising
choice.
At first, Kolin saw no way,
but then the network of vines
clinging to the rugged trunk
suggested a route. He tried
his weight gingerly, then began
to climb.
"I should have brought
Yrtok's radio," he muttered.
"Oh, well, I can take it when
I come down, if she hasn't
snapped out of her spell by
then. Funny … I wonder if
that green thing bit her."
Footholds were plentiful
among the interlaced lianas.
Kolin progressed rapidly.
When he reached the first
thick limbs, twice head
height, he felt safer.
Later, at what he hoped was
the halfway mark, he hooked
one knee over a branch and
paused to wipe sweat from his
eyes. Peering down, he discovered
the ground to be obscured
by foliage.
"I should have checked
from down there to see how
open the top is," he mused.
"I wonder how the view will
be from up there?"
"Depends on what you're
looking for, Sonny!" something
remarked in a soughing wheeze.
Kolin, slipping, grabbed
desperately for the branch.
His fingers clutched a handful
of twigs and leaves, which
just barely supported him until
he regained a grip with
the other hand.
The branch quivered resentfully
under him.
"Careful, there!" whooshed
the eerie voice. "It took me
all summer to grow those!"
Kolin could feel the skin
crawling along his backbone.
"Who
are
you?" he gasped.
The answering sigh of
laughter gave him a distinct
chill despite its suggestion of
amiability.
"Name's Johnny Ashlew.
Kinda thought you'd start
with
what
I am. Didn't figure
you'd ever seen a man grown
into a tree before."
Kolin looked about, seeing
little but leaves and fog.
"I have to climb down," he
told himself in a reasonable
tone. "It's bad enough that the
other two passed out without
me going space happy too."
"What's your hurry?" demanded
the voice. "I can talk
to you just as easy all the way
down, you know. Airholes in
my bark—I'm not like an
Earth tree."
Kolin examined the bark of
the crotch in which he sat. It
did seem to have assorted
holes and hollows in its rough
surface.
"I never saw an Earth tree,"
he admitted. "We came from
Haurtoz."
"Where's that? Oh, never
mind—some little planet. I
don't bother with them all,
since I came here and found
out I could be anything I
wanted."
"What do you mean, anything
you wanted?" asked
Kolin, testing the firmness of
a vertical vine.
"Just
what I said," continued
the voice, sounding
closer in his ear as his
cheek brushed the ridged bark
of the tree trunk. "And, if
I do have to remind you, it
would be nicer if you said
'Mr. Ashlew,' considering my
age."
"Your age? How old—?"
"Can't really count it in
Earth years any more. Lost
track. I always figured bein'
a tree was a nice, peaceful
life; and when I remembered
how long some of them live,
that settled it. Sonny, this
world ain't all it looks like."
"It isn't, Mr. Ashlew?"
asked Kolin, twisting about
in an effort to see what the
higher branches might hide.
"Nope. Most everything
here is run by the Life—that
is, by the thing that first
grew big enough to do some
thinking, and set its roots
down all over until it had
control. That's the outskirts
of it down below."
"The other trees? That jungle?"
"It's more'n a jungle, Sonny.
When I landed here, along
with the others from the
Arcturan Spark
, the planet
looked pretty empty to me,
just like it must have to—Watch
it, there, Boy! If I
didn't twist that branch over
in time, you'd be bouncing off
my roots right now!"
"Th-thanks!" grunted Kolin,
hanging on grimly.
"Doggone vine!" commented
the windy whisper. "
He
ain't one of my crowd. Landed
years later in a ship from
some star towards the center
of the galaxy. You should
have seen his looks before
the Life got in touch with his
mind and set up a mental field
to help him change form. He
looks twice as good as a
vine!"
"He's very handy," agreed
Kolin politely. He groped for
a foothold.
"Well … matter of fact, I
can't get through to him
much, even with the Life's
mental field helping. Guess
he started living with a different
way of thinking. It
burns me. I thought of being
a tree, and then he came along
to take advantage of it!"
Kolin braced himself securely
to stretch tiring muscles.
"Maybe I'd better stay a
while," he muttered. "I don't
know where I am."
"You're about fifty feet
up," the sighing voice informed
him. "You ought to
let me tell you how the Life
helps you change form. You
don't
have
to be a tree."
"No?"
"
Uh
-uh! Some of the boys
that landed with me wanted
to get around and see things.
Lots changed to animals or
birds. One even stayed a man—on
the outside anyway.
Most of them have to change
as the bodies wear out, which
I don't, and some made bad
mistakes tryin' to be things
they saw on other planets."
"I wouldn't want to do
that, Mr. Ashlew."
"There's just one thing.
The Life don't like taking
chances on word about this
place gettin' around. It sorta
believes in peace and quiet.
You might not get back to
your ship in any form that
could tell tales."
"Listen!" Kolin blurted
out. "I wasn't so much enjoying
being what I was that
getting back matters to me!"
"Don't like your home planet,
whatever the name was?"
"Haurtoz. It's a rotten
place. A Planetary State! You
have to think and even look
the way that's standard thirty
hours a day, asleep or
awake. You get scared to
sleep for fear you might
dream
treason and they'd find
out somehow."
"Whooeee! Heard about
them places. Must be tough
just to live."
Suddenly, Kolin found himself
telling the tree about life
on Haurtoz, and of the officially
announced threats to
the Planetary State's planned
expansion. He dwelt upon the
desperation of having no
place to hide in case of trouble
with the authorities. A
multiple system of such
worlds was agonizing to
imagine.
Somehow,
the oddity of
talking to a tree wore off.
Kolin heard opinions spouting
out which he had prudently
kept bottled up for
years.
The more he talked and
stormed and complained, the
more relaxed he felt.
"If there was ever a fellow
ready for this planet," decided
the tree named Ashlew,
"you're it, Sonny! Hang on
there while I signal the Life
by root!"
Kolin sensed a lack of direct
attention. The rustle
about him was natural, caused
by an ordinary breeze. He
noticed his hands shaking.
"Don't know what got into
me, talking that way to a
tree," he muttered. "If Yrtok
snapped out of it and heard,
I'm as good as re-personalized
right now."
As he brooded upon the
sorry choice of arousing a
search by hiding where he
was or going back to bluff
things out, the tree spoke.
"Maybe you're all set, Sonny.
The Life has been thinkin'
of learning about other
worlds. If you can think of a
safe form to jet off in, you
might make yourself a deal.
How'd you like to stay here?"
"I don't know," said Kolin.
"The penalty for desertion—"
"Whoosh! Who'd find you?
You could be a bird, a tree,
even a cloud."
Silenced but doubting, Kolin
permitted himself to try
the dream on for size.
He considered what form
might most easily escape the
notice of search parties and
still be tough enough to live
a long time without renewal.
Another factor slipped into
his musings: mere hope of escape
was unsatisfying after
the outburst that had defined
his fuming hatred for Haurtoz.
I'd better watch myself!
he
thought.
Don't drop diamonds
to grab at stars!
"What I wish I could do is
not just get away but get even
for the way they make us
live … the whole damn set-up.
They could just as easy make
peace with the Earth colonies.
You know why they
don't?"
"Why?" wheezed Ashlew.
"They're scared that without
talk of war, and scouting
for Earth fleets that never
come, people would have time
to think about the way they
have to live and who's running
things in the Planetary
State. Then the gravy train
would get blown up—and I
mean blown up!"
The tree was silent for a
moment. Kolin felt the
branches stir meditatively.
Then Ashlew offered a suggestion.
"I could tell the Life your
side of it," he hissed. "Once
in with us, you can always
make thinking connections,
no matter how far away.
Maybe you could make a deal
to kill two birds with one
stone, as they used to say on
Earth…."
Chief
Steward Slichow
paced up and down beside
the ration crate turned up to
serve him as a field desk. He
scowled in turn, impartially,
at his watch and at the weary
stewards of his headquarters
detail. The latter stumbled
about, stacking and distributing
small packets of emergency
rations.
The line of crewmen released
temporarily from repair
work was transient as to
individuals but immutable as
to length. Slichow muttered
something profane about disregard
of orders as he glared
at the rocky ridges surrounding
the landing place.
He was so intent upon planning
greetings with which to
favor the tardy scouting parties
that he failed to notice
the loose cloud drifting over
the ridge.
It was tenuous, almost a
haze. Close examination
would have revealed it to be
made up of myriads of tiny
spores. They resembled those
cast forth by one of the
bushes Kolin's party had
passed. Along the edges, the
haze faded raggedly into thin
air, but the units evidently
formed a cohesive body. They
drifted together, approaching
the men as if taking intelligent
advantage of the breeze.
One of Chief Slichow's
staggering flunkies, stealing
a few seconds of relaxation
on the pretext of dumping an
armful of light plastic packing,
wandered into the haze.
He froze.
After a few heartbeats, he
dropped the trash and stared
at ship and men as if he had
never seen either. A hail from
his master moved him.
"Coming, Chief!" he called
but, returning at a moderate
pace, he murmured, "My
name is Frazer. I'm a second
assistant steward. I'll think as
Unit One."
Throughout the cloud of
spores, the mind formerly
known as Peter Kolin congratulated
itself upon its
choice of form.
Nearer to the original
shape of the Life than Ashlew
got
, he thought.
He paused to consider the
state of the tree named Ashlew,
half immortal but rooted
to one spot, unable to float on
a breeze or through space itself
on the pressure of light.
Especially, it was unable to
insinuate any part of itself
into the control center of another
form of life, as a second
spore was taking charge of
the body of Chief Slichow at
that very instant.
There are not enough men
,
thought Kolin.
Some of me
must drift through the airlock.
In space, I can spread
through the air system to the
command group.
Repairs to the
Peace State
and the return to Haurtoz
passed like weeks to some of
the crew but like brief moments
in infinity to other
units. At last, the ship parted
the air above Headquarters
City and landed.
The unit known as Captain
Theodor Kessel hesitated before
descending the ramp. He
surveyed the field, the city
and the waiting team of inspecting
officers.
"Could hardly be better,
could it?" he chuckled to the
companion unit called Security
Officer Tarth.
"Hardly, sir. All ready for
the liberation of Haurtoz."
"Reformation of the Planetary
State," mused the captain,
smiling dreamily as he
grasped the handrail. "And
then—formation of the Planetary
Mind!"
END
Transcriber's Note:
This e-text was produced from
Worlds of If January 1962
.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
|
train | 23942 | [
"What profession do Betty and Simon share?",
"Why does Simon look for a bottle of aspirin in the beginning of the story?",
"Where was Simon before he arrived at work in the beginning of the story?",
"Why does Simon ultimately deny Mr. Oyster's request to go to Oktoberfest?",
"In telling the story about potentially traveling to Oktoberfest, what is Simon most skeptical of?",
"How has Simon manipulated Mr. Oyster?",
"Why does Simon not bring back a time traveler?"
] | [
[
"Advertisers",
"Detectives",
"Department store clerks",
"Time travelers"
],
[
"He has a migraine",
"He is concerned someone has tampered with it",
"He has a hangover",
"He keeps time traveling pills inside"
],
[
"Idlewild",
"Munich",
"Providence",
"New Orleans"
],
[
"He believes that Mr. Oyster is on a mission to destroy time travelers",
"He thinks that Mr. Oyster is attempting to alter the space-time continuum",
"He knows he will not be allowed to do something that might impact the past",
"He does not believe that Mr. Oyster is offering fair compensation"
],
[
"How the vendors are able to produce such a large amount of food and beer",
"How the brewers are able to make beer with such a high alcohol by volume percentage",
"How Arf is able to consume that much beer without getting a hangover",
"How the city can accommodate that many locals and tourists"
],
[
"He has traveled back in time thrice to attempt to bring back a time traveler",
"He has taken over $50,000 of Mr. Oyster's money based on unfulfilled investigations",
"He has discovered that Mr. Oyster is actually Arth from several decades ago",
"He has used the opportunity to travel to Oktoberfest on vacation, and never intended to grant Mr. Oyster's request"
],
[
"He knows that Arth is Mr. Oyster setting a trap to ensnare Simon, who is a time traveler himself",
"Simon is a time traveler himself, and would never reveal the secrets of his fellow time travelers",
"He became too intoxicated with Arth and sabotaged his own investigation",
"The authorities would not allow him to do anything that might significantly change the space-time continuum"
]
] | [
2,
3,
2,
3,
4,
1,
4
] | [
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | UNBORN
TOMORROW
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Unfortunately
, there was only
one thing he could bring back
from the wonderful future ...
and though he didn't want to
... nevertheless he did....
Illustrated by Freas
Betty
looked up from
her magazine. She said
mildly, "You're late."
"Don't yell at me, I
feel awful," Simon told
her. He sat down at his desk, passed
his tongue over his teeth in distaste,
groaned, fumbled in a drawer for the
aspirin bottle.
He looked over at Betty and said,
almost as though reciting, "What I
need is a vacation."
"What," Betty said, "are you going
to use for money?"
"Providence," Simon told her
whilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,
"will provide."
"Hm-m-m. But before providing
vacations it'd be nice if Providence
turned up a missing jewel deal, say.
Something where you could deduce
that actually the ruby ring had gone
down the drain and was caught in the
elbow. Something that would net
about fifty dollars."
Simon said, mournful of tone,
"Fifty dollars? Why not make it five
hundred?"
"I'm not selfish," Betty said. "All
I want is enough to pay me this
week's salary."
"Money," Simon said. "When you
took this job you said it was the romance
that appealed to you."
"Hm-m-m. I didn't know most
sleuthing amounted to snooping
around department stores to check on
the clerks knocking down."
Simon said, enigmatically, "Now
it comes."
There was a knock.
Betty bounced up with Olympic
agility and had the door swinging
wide before the knocking was quite
completed.
He was old, little and had bug
eyes behind pince-nez glasses. His
suit was cut in the style of yesteryear
but when a suit costs two or
three hundred dollars you still retain
caste whatever the styling.
Simon said unenthusiastically,
"Good morning, Mr. Oyster." He indicated
the client's chair. "Sit down,
sir."
The client fussed himself with
Betty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyed
Simon, said finally, "You know
my name, that's pretty good. Never
saw you before in my life. Stop fussing
with me, young lady. Your ad
in the phone book says you'll investigate
anything."
"Anything," Simon said. "Only
one exception."
"Excellent. Do you believe in time
travel?"
Simon said nothing. Across the
room, where she had resumed her
seat, Betty cleared her throat. When
Simon continued to say nothing she
ventured, "Time travel is impossible."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why?"
Betty looked to her boss for assistance.
None was forthcoming. There
ought to be some very quick, positive,
definite answer. She said, "Well,
for one thing, paradox. Suppose you
had a time machine and traveled back
a hundred years or so and killed your
own great-grandfather. Then how
could you ever be born?"
"Confound it if I know," the little
fellow growled. "How?"
Simon said, "Let's get to the point,
what you wanted to see me about."
"I want to hire you to hunt me up
some time travelers," the old boy
said.
Betty was too far in now to maintain
her proper role of silent secretary.
"Time travelers," she said, not
very intelligently.
The potential client sat more erect,
obviously with intent to hold the
floor for a time. He removed the
pince-nez glasses and pointed them
at Betty. He said, "Have you read
much science fiction, Miss?"
"Some," Betty admitted.
"Then you'll realize that there are
a dozen explanations of the paradoxes
of time travel. Every writer in
the field worth his salt has explained
them away. But to get on. It's my
contention that within a century or
so man will have solved the problems
of immortality and eternal youth, and
it's also my suspicion that he will
eventually be able to travel in time.
So convinced am I of these possibilities
that I am willing to gamble a
portion of my fortune to investigate
the presence in our era of such time
travelers."
Simon seemed incapable of carrying
the ball this morning, so Betty
said, "But ... Mr. Oyster, if the
future has developed time travel why
don't we ever meet such travelers?"
Simon put in a word. "The usual
explanation, Betty, is that they can't
afford to allow the space-time continuum
track to be altered. If, say, a
time traveler returned to a period of
twenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,
then all subsequent history would be
changed. In that case, the time traveler
himself might never be born. They
have to tread mighty carefully."
Mr. Oyster was pleased. "I didn't
expect you to be so well informed
on the subject, young man."
Simon shrugged and fumbled
again with the aspirin bottle.
Mr. Oyster went on. "I've been
considering the matter for some time
and—"
Simon held up a hand. "There's
no use prolonging this. As I understand
it, you're an elderly gentleman
with a considerable fortune and you
realize that thus far nobody has succeeded
in taking it with him."
Mr. Oyster returned his glasses to
their perch, bug-eyed Simon, but then
nodded.
Simon said, "You want to hire me
to find a time traveler and in some
manner or other—any manner will
do—exhort from him the secret of
eternal life and youth, which you figure
the future will have discovered.
You're willing to pony up a part of
this fortune of yours, if I can deliver
a bona fide time traveler."
"Right!"
Betty had been looking from one
to the other. Now she said, plaintively,
"But where are you going to find
one of these characters—especially if
they're interested in keeping hid?"
The old boy was the center again.
"I told you I'd been considering it
for some time. The
Oktoberfest
,
that's where they'd be!" He seemed
elated.
Betty and Simon waited.
"The
Oktoberfest
," he repeated.
"The greatest festival the world has
ever seen, the carnival,
feria
,
fiesta
to beat them all. Every year it's held
in Munich. Makes the New Orleans
Mardi gras look like a quilting
party." He began to swing into the
spirit of his description. "It originally
started in celebration of the wedding
of some local prince a century
and a half ago and the Bavarians had
such a bang-up time they've been
holding it every year since. The
Munich breweries do up a special
beer,
Marzenbräu
they call it, and
each brewery opens a tremendous tent
on the fair grounds which will hold
five thousand customers apiece. Millions
of liters of beer are put away,
hundreds of thousands of barbecued
chickens, a small herd of oxen are
roasted whole over spits, millions of
pair of
weisswurst
, a very special
sausage, millions upon millions of
pretzels—"
"All right," Simon said. "We'll accept
it. The
Oktoberfest
is one whale
of a wingding."
"Well," the old boy pursued, into
his subject now, "that's where they'd
be, places like the
Oktoberfest
. For
one thing, a time traveler wouldn't
be conspicuous. At a festival like this
somebody with a strange accent, or
who didn't know exactly how to wear
his clothes correctly, or was off the
ordinary in any of a dozen other
ways, wouldn't be noticed. You could
be a four-armed space traveler from
Mars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuous
at the
Oktoberfest
. People
would figure they had D.T.'s."
"But why would a time traveler
want to go to a—" Betty began.
"Why not! What better opportunity
to study a people than when they
are in their cups? If
you
could go
back a few thousand years, the things
you would wish to see would be a
Roman Triumph, perhaps the Rites
of Dionysus, or one of Alexander's
orgies. You wouldn't want to wander
up and down the streets of, say,
Athens while nothing was going on,
particularly when you might be revealed
as a suspicious character not
being able to speak the language, not
knowing how to wear the clothes and
not familiar with the city's layout."
He took a deep breath. "No ma'am,
you'd have to stick to some great
event, both for the sake of actual
interest and for protection against being
unmasked."
The old boy wound it up. "Well,
that's the story. What are your rates?
The
Oktoberfest
starts on Friday and
continues for sixteen days. You can
take the plane to Munich, spend a
week there and—"
Simon was shaking his head. "Not
interested."
As soon as Betty had got her jaw
back into place, she glared unbelievingly
at him.
Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.
"See here, young man, I realize
this isn't an ordinary assignment,
however, as I said, I am willing to
risk a considerable portion of my
fortune—"
"Sorry," Simon said. "Can't be
done."
"A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,"
Mr. Oyster said quietly. "I
like the fact that you already seem
to have some interest and knowledge
of the matter. I liked the way you
knew my name when I walked in the
door; my picture doesn't appear often
in the papers."
"No go," Simon said, a sad quality
in his voice.
"A fifty thousand dollar bonus if
you bring me a time traveler."
"Out of the question," Simon
said.
"But
why
?" Betty wailed.
"Just for laughs," Simon told the
two of them sourly, "suppose I tell
you a funny story. It goes like
this:"
I got a thousand dollars from Mr.
Oyster (Simon began) in the way
of an advance, and leaving him with
Betty who was making out a receipt,
I hustled back to the apartment and
packed a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacation
anyway, this was a natural. On
the way to Idlewild I stopped off at
the Germany Information Offices for
some tourist literature.
It takes roughly three and a half
hours to get to Gander from Idlewild.
I spent the time planning the
fun I was going to have.
It takes roughly seven and a half
hours from Gander to Shannon and
I spent that time dreaming up material
I could put into my reports to
Mr. Oyster. I was going to have to
give him some kind of report for his
money. Time travel yet! What a
laugh!
Between Shannon and Munich a
faint suspicion began to simmer in
my mind. These statistics I read on
the
Oktoberfest
in the Munich tourist
pamphlets. Five million people
attended annually.
Where did five million people
come from to attend an overgrown
festival in comparatively remote
Southern Germany? The tourist season
is over before September 21st,
first day of the gigantic beer bust.
Nor could the Germans account for
any such number. Munich itself has
a population of less than a million,
counting children.
And those millions of gallons of
beer, the hundreds of thousands of
chickens, the herds of oxen. Who
ponied up all the money for such expenditures?
How could the average
German, with his twenty-five dollars
a week salary?
In Munich there was no hotel
space available. I went to the Bahnhof
where they have a hotel service
and applied. They put my name
down, pocketed the husky bribe,
showed me where I could check my
bag, told me they'd do what they
could, and to report back in a few
hours.
I had another suspicious twinge.
If five million people attended this
beer bout, how were they accommodated?
The
Theresienwiese
, the fair
ground, was only a few blocks
away. I was stiff from the plane ride
so I walked.
There are seven major brewers in
the Munich area, each of them represented
by one of the circuslike tents
that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent
contained benches and tables for
about five thousand persons and from
six to ten thousands pack themselves
in, competing for room. In the center
is a tremendous bandstand, the
musicians all
lederhosen
clad, the
music as Bavarian as any to be found
in a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds of
peasant garbed
fräuleins
darted about
the tables with quart sized earthenware
mugs, platters of chicken, sausage,
kraut and pretzels.
I found a place finally at a table
which had space for twenty-odd beer
bibbers. Odd is right. As weird an
assortment of Germans and foreign
tourists as could have been dreamed
up, ranging from a seventy- or
eighty-year-old couple in Bavarian
costume, to the bald-headed drunk
across the table from me.
A desperate waitress bearing six
mugs of beer in each hand scurried
past. They call them
masses
, by the
way, not mugs. The bald-headed
character and I both held up a finger
and she slid two of the
masses
over
to us and then hustled on.
"Down the hatch," the other said,
holding up his
mass
in toast.
"To the ladies," I told him. Before
sipping, I said, "You know, the
tourist pamphlets say this stuff is
eighteen per cent. That's nonsense.
No beer is that strong." I took a long
pull.
He looked at me, waiting.
I came up. "Mistaken," I admitted.
A
mass
or two apiece later he looked
carefully at the name engraved on
his earthenware mug. "Löwenbräu,"
he said. He took a small notebook
from his pocket and a pencil, noted
down the word and returned the
things.
"That's a queer looking pencil you
have there," I told him. "German?"
"Venusian," he said. "Oops, sorry.
Shouldn't have said that."
I had never heard of the brand so
I skipped it.
"Next is the Hofbräu," he said.
"Next what?" Baldy's conversation
didn't seem to hang together very
well.
"My pilgrimage," he told me. "All
my life I've been wanting to go back
to an
Oktoberfest
and sample every
one of the seven brands of the best
beer the world has ever known. I'm
only as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraid
I'll never make it."
I finished my
mass
. "I'll help
you," I told him. "Very noble endeavor.
Name is Simon."
"Arth," he said. "How could you
help?"
"I'm still fresh—comparatively.
I'll navigate you around. There are
seven beer tents. How many have you
got through, so far?"
"Two, counting this one," Arth
said.
I looked at him. "It's going to be
a chore," I said. "You've already got
a nice edge on."
Outside, as we made our way to
the next tent, the fair looked like
every big State-Fair ever seen, except
it was bigger. Games, souvenir
stands, sausage stands, rides, side
shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing
as the last but we managed to
find two seats.
The band was blaring, and five
thousand half-swacked voices were
roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!
At the
G'sufa
everybody upped
with the mugs and drank each other's
health.
"This is what I call a real beer
bust," I said approvingly.
Arth was waving to a waitress. As
in the Löwenbräu tent, a full quart
was the smallest amount obtainable.
A beer later I said, "I don't know
if you'll make it or not, Arth."
"Make what?"
"All seven tents."
"Oh."
A waitress was on her way by,
mugs foaming over their rims. I gestured
to her for refills.
"Where are you from, Arth?" I
asked him, in the way of making
conversation.
"2183."
"2183 where?"
He looked at me, closing one eye
to focus better. "Oh," he said. "Well,
2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque."
"New Albuquerque? Where's
that?"
Arth thought about it. Took another
long pull at the beer. "Right
across the way from old Albuquerque,"
he said finally. "Maybe we
ought to be getting on to the
Pschorrbräu tent."
"Maybe we ought to eat something
first," I said. "I'm beginning to feel
this. We could get some of that barbecued
ox."
Arth closed his eyes in pain.
"Vegetarian," he said. "Couldn't possibly
eat meat. Barbarous. Ugh."
"Well, we need some nourishment,"
I said.
"There's supposed to be considerable
nourishment in beer."
That made sense. I yelled, "
Fräulein!
Zwei neu bier!
"
Somewhere along in here the fog
rolled in. When it rolled out again,
I found myself closing one eye the
better to read the lettering on my
earthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.
Somehow we'd evidently
navigated from one tent to another.
Arth was saying, "Where's your
hotel?"
That seemed like a good question.
I thought about it for a while. Finally
I said, "Haven't got one. Town's
jam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.
I don't think we'll ever make
it, Arth. How many we got to
go?"
"Lost track," Arth said. "You can
come home with me."
We drank to that and the fog rolled
in again.
When the fog rolled out, it was
daylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.
I was sprawled, complete with
clothes, on one of twin beds. On the
other bed, also completely clothed,
was Arth.
That sun was too much. I stumbled
up from the bed, staggered to
the window and fumbled around for
a blind or curtain. There was none.
Behind me a voice said in horror,
"Who ... how ... oh,
Wodo
,
where'd you come from?"
I got a quick impression, looking
out the window, that the Germans
were certainly the most modern, futuristic
people in the world. But I
couldn't stand the light. "Where's
the shade," I moaned.
Arth did something and the window
went opaque.
"That's quite a gadget," I groaned.
"If I didn't feel so lousy, I'd
appreciate it."
Arth was sitting on the edge of
the bed holding his bald head in his
hands. "I remember now," he sorrowed.
"You didn't have a hotel.
What a stupidity. I'll be phased.
Phased all the way down."
"You haven't got a handful of
aspirin, have you?" I asked him.
"Just a minute," Arth said, staggering
erect and heading for what
undoubtedly was a bathroom. "Stay
where you are. Don't move. Don't
touch anything."
"All right," I told him plaintively.
"I'm clean. I won't mess up the
place. All I've got is a hangover, not
lice."
Arth was gone. He came back in
two or three minutes, box of pills in
hand. "Here, take one of these."
I took the pill, followed it with a
glass of water.
And went out like a light.
Arth was shaking my arm. "Want
another
mass
?"
The band was blaring, and five
thousand half-swacked voices were
roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!
At the
G'sufa
everybody upped
with their king-size mugs and drank
each other's health.
My head was killing me. "This is
where I came in, or something," I
groaned.
Arth said, "That was last night."
He looked at me over the rim of his
beer mug.
Something, somewhere, was
wrong. But I didn't care. I finished
my
mass
and then remembered. "I've
got to get my bag. Oh, my head.
Where did we spend last night?"
Arth said, and his voice sounded
cautious, "At my hotel, don't you remember?"
"Not very well," I admitted. "I
feel lousy. I must have dimmed out.
I've got to go to the Bahnhof and
get my luggage."
Arth didn't put up an argument
on that. We said good-by and I could
feel him watching after me as I pushed
through the tables on the way
out.
At the Bahnhof they could do me
no good. There were no hotel rooms
available in Munich. The head was
getting worse by the minute. The
fact that they'd somehow managed
to lose my bag didn't help. I worked
on that project for at least a couple
of hours. Not only wasn't the bag
at the luggage checking station, but
the attendant there evidently couldn't
make heads nor tails of the check
receipt. He didn't speak English and
my high school German was inadequate,
especially accompanied by a
blockbusting hangover.
I didn't get anywhere tearing my
hair and complaining from one end
of the Bahnhof to the other. I drew
a blank on the bag.
And the head was getting worse
by the minute. I was bleeding to
death through the eyes and instead
of butterflies I had bats in my stomach.
Believe me,
nobody
should drink
a gallon or more of Marzenbräu.
I decided the hell with it. I took
a cab to the airport, presented my return
ticket, told them I wanted to
leave on the first obtainable plane to
New York. I'd spent two days at the
Oktoberfest
, and I'd had it.
I got more guff there. Something
was wrong with the ticket, wrong
date or some such. But they fixed
that up. I never was clear on what
was fouled up, some clerk's error,
evidently.
The trip back was as uninteresting
as the one over. As the hangover began
to wear off—a little—I was almost
sorry I hadn't been able to stay.
If I'd only been able to get a room I
would
have stayed, I told myself.
From Idlewild, I came directly to
the office rather than going to my
apartment. I figured I might as well
check in with Betty.
I opened the door and there I
found Mr. Oyster sitting in the chair
he had been occupying four—or was
it five—days before when I'd left.
I'd lost track of the time.
I said to him, "Glad you're here,
sir. I can report. Ah, what was it
you came for? Impatient to hear if
I'd had any results?" My mind was
spinning like a whirling dervish in
a revolving door. I'd spent a wad of
his money and had nothing I could
think of to show for it; nothing but
the last stages of a grand-daddy
hangover.
"Came for?" Mr. Oyster snorted.
"I'm merely waiting for your girl to
make out my receipt. I thought you
had already left."
"You'll miss your plane," Betty
said.
There was suddenly a double dip
of ice cream in my stomach. I walked
over to my desk and looked down at
the calendar.
Mr. Oyster was saying something
to the effect that if I didn't leave today,
it would have to be tomorrow,
that he hadn't ponied up that thousand
dollars advance for anything
less than immediate service. Stuffing
his receipt in his wallet, he fussed
his way out the door.
I said to Betty hopefully, "I suppose
you haven't changed this calendar
since I left."
Betty said, "What's the matter
with you? You look funny. How did
your clothes get so mussed? You tore
the top sheet off that calendar yourself,
not half an hour ago, just before
this marble-missing client came
in." She added, irrelevantly, "Time
travelers yet."
I tried just once more. "Uh, when
did you first see this Mr. Oyster?"
"Never saw him before in my
life," she said. "Not until he came
in this morning."
"This morning," I said weakly.
While Betty stared at me as though
it was
me
that needed candling by a
head shrinker preparatory to being
sent off to a pressure cooker, I fished
in my pocket for my wallet, counted
the contents and winced at the
pathetic remains of the thousand.
I said pleadingly, "Betty, listen,
how long ago did I go out that door—on
the way to the airport?"
"You've been acting sick all morning.
You went out that door about
ten minutes ago, were gone about
three minutes, and then came back."
"See here," Mr. Oyster said (interrupting
Simon's story), "did you
say this was supposed to be amusing,
young man? I don't find it so. In
fact, I believe I am being ridiculed."
Simon shrugged, put one hand to
his forehead and said, "That's only
the first chapter. There are two
more."
"I'm not interested in more," Mr.
Oyster said. "I suppose your point
was to show me how ridiculous the
whole idea actually is. Very well,
you've done it. Confound it. However,
I suppose your time, even when
spent in this manner, has some value.
Here is fifty dollars. And good day,
sir!"
He slammed the door after him
as he left.
Simon winced at the noise, took
the aspirin bottle from its drawer,
took two, washed them down with
water from the desk carafe.
Betty looked at him admiringly.
Came to her feet, crossed over and
took up the fifty dollars. "Week's
wages," she said. "I suppose that's
one way of taking care of a crackpot.
But I'm surprised you didn't
take his money and enjoy that vacation
you've been yearning about."
"I did," Simon groaned. "Three
times."
Betty stared at him. "You mean—"
Simon nodded, miserably.
She said, "But
Simon
. Fifty thousand
dollars bonus. If that story was
true, you should have gone back
again to Munich. If there was one
time traveler, there might have
been—"
"I keep telling you," Simon said
bitterly, "I went back there three
times. There were hundreds of them.
Probably thousands." He took a deep
breath. "Listen, we're just going to
have to forget about it. They're not
going to stand for the space-time
continuum track being altered. If
something comes up that looks like
it might result in the track being
changed, they set you right back at
the beginning and let things start—for
you—all over again. They just
can't allow anything to come back
from the future and change the
past."
"You mean," Betty was suddenly
furious at him, "you've given up!
Why this is the biggest thing— Why
the fifty thousand dollars is nothing.
The future! Just think!"
Simon said wearily, "There's just
one thing you can bring back with
you from the future, a hangover compounded
of a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.
What's more you can pile
one on top of the other, and another
on top of that!"
He shuddered. "If you think I'm
going to take another crack at this
merry-go-round and pile a fourth
hangover on the three I'm already
nursing, all at once, you can think
again."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
June
1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 23960 | [
"What is the purpose of the battle scene from the story?",
"What is motivating the King's army to fight against the Turks? (territorial conquest, religious, gold/money, personal glory)",
"We can assume that King Richard's army represents which group?",
"How are the Gascons different from the rest of King Richard's cohort?",
"Why is King Richard angry at the King of France? (abandoning the battlefield and his men)",
"We can assume that Saladin's army represents which group?",
"The main source of tension in the story is between:",
"What is the main risk of Sir Robert's command to charge into Saladin's frontline?",
"What is anachronistic within the battle between King Richard and Saladin?"
] | [
[
"To accurately depict a significant battle from the Crusades",
"To associate tobacco products with masculinity, brotherhood, and pride",
"To illustrate the powerful bonds of allegiance among soldiers on the battlefield",
"To reveal how the King Phillip's cowardice initiated the downfall of one of the world's greatest armies"
],
[
"National pride",
"Religious faith",
"Personal glory",
"Territorial conquest"
],
[
"Muslims",
"Christians",
"Normans",
"Anglo-Saxons"
],
[
"They are better trained",
"They are treasonous",
"They are mercenaries",
"They are not as well trained"
],
[
"He has yet to declare his allegiance to King Richard or Saladin",
"He is aiding Saladin's men by providing them with equipment",
"He abandoned the battlefield and left his soldiers to fight his battle",
"He is refusing to send additional French soldiers to the battlefield"
],
[
"Mercenaries",
"Muslims",
"Africans",
"Christians"
],
[
"The English army and the French mercenaries",
"The religious factions from Christianity and Islam",
"Allegiance to authority and breaking from authority",
"An outward demeanor of strength and interior reality of fear and doubt"
],
[
"The Hospitallers might not have enough time to recover",
"He is disobeying King Richard's orders",
"King Richard will be left unprotected",
"Sir Robert will likely perish in the fray"
],
[
"The pack of Old Kings",
"The horse saddle",
"The broadsword",
"The coronet"
]
] | [
2,
2,
2,
3,
3,
2,
3,
2,
1
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | ... After a Few Words ...
by Seaton McKettrig
Illustrated by Summer
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog October 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.]
This is a science-fiction story. History is a science; the other
part is, as all Americans know, the most fictional field we have
today.
He settled himself comfortably in his seat, and carefully put the helmet
on, pulling it down firmly until it was properly seated. For a moment,
he could see nothing.
Then his hand moved up and, with a flick of the wrist, lifted the visor.
Ahead of him, in serried array, with lances erect and pennons flying,
was the forward part of the column. Far ahead, he knew, were the Knights
Templars, who had taken the advance. Behind the Templars rode the mailed
knights of Brittany and Anjou. These were followed by King Guy of
Jerusalem and the host of Poitou.
He himself, Sir Robert de Bouain, was riding with the Norman and English
troops, just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his
saddle. To his right, he could see the brilliant red-and-gold banner of
the lion-hearted Richard of England—
gules, in pale three lions passant
guardant or
. Behind the standard-bearer, his great war horse moving
with a steady, measured pace, his coronet of gold on his steel helm
gleaming in the glaring desert sun, the lions of England on his
firm-held shield, was the King himself.
Further behind, the Knights Hospitallers protected the rear, guarding
the column of the hosts of Christendom from harassment by the Bedouins.
"By our Lady!" came a voice from his left. "Three days out from Acre,
and the accursed Saracens still elude us."
Sir Robert de Bouain twisted again in his saddle to look at the knight
riding alongside him. Sir Gaeton de l'Arc-Tombé sat tall and straight in
his saddle, his visor up, his blue eyes narrowed against the glare of
the sun.
Sir Robert's lips formed a smile. "They are not far off, Sir Gaeton.
They have been following us. As we march parallel to the seacoast, so
they have been marching with us in those hills to the east."
"Like the jackals they are," said Sir Gaeton. "They assail us from the
rear, and they set up traps in our path ahead. Our spies tell us that
the Turks lie ahead of us in countless numbers. And yet, they fear to
face us in open battle."
"Is it fear, or are they merely gathering their forces?"
"Both," said Sir Gaeton flatly. "They fear us, else they would not dally
to amass so fearsome a force. If, as our informers tell us, there are
uncounted Turks to the fore, and if, as we are aware, our rear is being
dogged by the Bedouin and the black horsemen of Egypt, it would seem
that Saladin has at hand more than enough to overcome us, were they all
truly Christian knights."
"Give them time. We must wait for their attack, sir knight. It were
foolhardy to attempt to seek them in their own hills, and yet they must
stop us. They will attack before we reach Jerusalem, fear not."
"We of Gascony fear no heathen Musselman," Sir Gaeton growled. "It's
this Hellish heat that is driving me mad." He pointed toward the eastern
hills. "The sun is yet low, and already the heat is unbearable."
Sir Robert heard his own laugh echo hollowly within his helmet. "Perhaps
'twere better to be mad when the assault comes. Madmen fight better than
men of cooler blood." He knew that the others were baking inside their
heavy armor, although he himself was not too uncomfortable.
Sir Gaeton looked at him with a smile that held both irony and respect.
"In truth, sir knight, it is apparent that you fear neither men nor
heat. Nor is your own blood too cool. True, I ride with your Normans and
your English and your King Richard of the Lion's Heart, but I am a
Gascon, and have sworn no fealty to him. But to side with the Duke of
Burgundy against King Richard—" He gave a short, barking laugh. "I
fear no man," he went on, "but if I had to fear one, it would be Richard
of England."
Sir Robert's voice came like a sword: steely, flat, cold, and sharp. "My
lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip
of France, as do we all. Philip has deserted the field. He has returned
to France in haste, leaving the rest of us to fight the Saracen for the
Holy Land leaving only the contingent of his vassal the Duke of Burgundy
to remain with us."
"Richard of England has never been on the best of terms with Philip
Augustus," said Sir Gaeton.
"No, and with good cause. But he allowed his anger against Philip to
color his judgment when he spoke harshly against the Duke of Burgundy.
The Duke is no coward, and Richard Plantagenet well knows it. As I said,
he spoke in haste."
"And you intervened," said Sir Gaeton.
"It was my duty." Sir Robert's voice was stubborn. "Could we have
permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and
warleaders in Christendom at this crucial point? The desertion of Philip
of France has cost us dearly. Could we permit the desertion of Burgundy,
too?"
"You did what must be done in honor," the Gascon conceded, "but you have
not gained the love of Richard by doing so."
Sir Robert felt his jaw set firmly. "My king knows I am loyal."
Sir Gaeton said nothing more, but there was a look in his eyes that
showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty
of Sir Robert de Bouain.
Sir Robert rode on in silence, feeling the movement of the horse beneath
him.
There was a sudden sound to the rear. Like a wash of the tide from the
sea came the sound of Saracen war cries and the clash of steel on steel
mingled with the sounds of horses in agony and anger.
Sir Robert turned his horse to look.
The Negro troops of Saladin's Egyptian contingent were thundering down
upon the rear! They clashed with the Hospitallers, slamming in like a
rain of heavy stones, too close in for the use of bows. There was only
the sword against armor, like the sound of a thousand hammers against a
thousand anvils.
"Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off!" It was the voice of King
Richard, sounding like a clarion over the din of battle.
Sir Robert felt his horse move, as though it were urging him on toward
the battle, but his hand held to the reins, keeping the great charger in
check. The King had said "Stand fast!" and this was no time to disobey
the orders of Richard.
The Saracen troops were coming in from the rear, and the Hospitallers
were taking the brunt of the charge. They fought like madmen, but they
were slowly being forced back.
The Master of the Hospitallers rode to the rear, to the King's standard,
which hardly moved in the still desert air, now that the column had
stopped moving.
The voice of the Duke of Burgundy came to Sir Robert's ears.
"Stand fast. The King bids you all to stand fast," said the duke, his
voice fading as he rode on up the column toward the knights of Poitou
and the Knights Templars.
The Master of the Hospitallers was speaking in a low, urgent voice to
the King: "My lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of
eternal infamy. We are losing our horses, one after the other!"
"Good Master," said Richard, "it is you who must sustain their attack.
No one can be everywhere at once."
The Master of the Hospitallers nodded curtly and charged back into the
fray.
The King turned to Sir Baldwin de Carreo, who sat ahorse nearby, and
pointed toward the eastern hills. "They will come from there, hitting us
in the flank; we cannot afford to amass a rearward charge. To do so
would be to fall directly into the hands of the Saracen."
A voice very close to Sir Robert said: "Richard is right. If we go to
the aid of the Hospitallers, we will expose the column to a flank
attack." It was Sir Gaeton.
"My lord the King," Sir Robert heard his voice say, "is right in all but
one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there
will be no need for Saladin and his Turks to come down on our flank. And
the Hospitallers cannot hold for long at this rate. A charge at full
gallop would break the Egyptian line and give the Hospitallers breathing
time. Are you with me?"
"Against the orders of the King?"
"The King cannot see everything! There are times when a man must use his
own judgment! You said you were afraid of no man. Are you with me?"
After a moment's hesitation, Sir Gaeton couched his lance. "I'm with
you, sir knight! Live or die, I follow! Strike and strike hard!"
"Forward then!" Sir Robert heard himself shouting. "Forward for St.
George and for England!"
"St. George and England!" the Gascon echoed.
Two great war horses began to move ponderously forward toward the battle
lines, gaining momentum as they went. Moving in unison, the two knights,
their horses now at a fast trot, lowered their lances, picking their
Saracen targets with care. Larger and larger loomed the Egyptian
cavalrymen as the horses changed pace to a thundering gallop.
The Egyptians tried to dodge, as they saw, too late, the approach of the
Christian knights.
Sir Robert felt the shock against himself and his horse as the steel tip
of the long ash lance struck the Saracen horseman in the chest. Out of
the corner of his eye, he saw that Sir Gaeton, too, had scored.
The Saracen, impaled on Sir Robert's lance, shot from the saddle as he
died. His lighter armor had hardly impeded the incoming spear-point, and
now his body dragged it down as he dropped toward the desert sand.
Another Moslem cavalryman was charging in now, swinging his curved
saber, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance.
There was nothing else to do but drop the lance and draw his heavy
broadsword. His hand grasped it, and it came singing from its scabbard.
The Egyptian's curved sword clanged against Sir Robert's helm, setting
his head ringing. In return, the knight's broadsword came about in a
sweeping arc, and the Egyptian's horse rode on with the rider's headless
body.
Behind him, Sir Robert heard further cries of "St. George and England!"
The Hospitallers, taking heart at the charge, were going in! Behind them
came the Count of Champagne, the Earl of Leister, and the Bishop of
Beauvais, who carried a great warhammer in order that he might not break
Church Law by shedding blood.
Sir Robert's own sword rose and fell, cutting and hacking at the enemy.
He himself felt a dreamlike detachment, as though he were watching the
battle rather than participating in it.
But he could see that the Moslems were falling back before the Christian
onslaught.
And then, quite suddenly, there seemed to be no foeman to swing at.
Breathing heavily, Sir Robert sheathed his broadsword.
Beside him, Sir Gaeton did the same, saying: "It will be a few minutes
before they can regroup, sir knight. We may have routed them
completely."
"Aye. But King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and
disobeying orders. I may win the battle and lose my head in the end."
"This is no time to worry about the future," said the Gascon. "Rest for
a moment and relax, that you may be the stronger later. Here—have an
Old Kings
."
He had a pack of cigarettes in his gauntleted hand, which he profferred
to Sir Robert. There were three cigarettes protruding from it, one
slightly farther than the others. Sir Robert's hand reached out and took
that one.
"Thanks. When the going gets rough, I really enjoy an
Old Kings
."
He put one end of the cigarette in his mouth and lit the other from the
lighter in Sir Gaeton's hand.
"Yes, sir," said Sir Gaeton, after lighting his own cigarette, "
Old
Kings
are the greatest. They give a man real, deep-down smoking
pleasure."
"There's no doubt about it,
Old Kings
are a
man's
cigarette." Sir
Robert could feel the soothing smoke in his lungs as he inhaled deeply.
"That's great. When I want a cigarette, I don't want just
any
cigarette."
"Nor I," agreed the Gascon. "
Old Kings
is the only real cigarette when
you're doing a real
man's
work."
"That's for sure." Sir Robert watched a smoke ring expand in the air.
There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped
his cigarette to the ground. "The trouble is that doing a real he-man's
work doesn't always allow you to enjoy the fine, rich tobaccos of
Old
Kings
right down to the very end."
"No, but you can always light another later," said the Gascon knight.
King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed
rear, had realized the danger and had charged through the Hospitallers
to get into the thick of the fray. Now the Turks were charging down from
the hills, hitting—not the flank as he had expected, but the rear!
Saladin had expected him to hold fast!
Sir Robert and Sir Gaeton spurred their chargers toward the flapping
banner of England.
The fierce warrior-king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was
cutting down Turks as though they were grain-stalks, but still the
Saracen horde pressed on. More and more of the terrible Turks came
boiling down out of the hills, their glittering scimitars swinging.
Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his
own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he
hacked down the Moslem foes.
And then, suddenly, he found himself surrounded by the Saracens! He was
isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces! He
glanced quickly around as he slashed another Saracen from pate to
breastbone. Where was Sir Gaeton? Where were the others? Where was the
red-and-gold banner of Richard?
He caught a glimpse of the fluttering banner far to the rear and started
to fall back.
And then he saw another knight nearby, a huge man who swung his
sparkling blade with power and force. On his steel helm gleamed a golden
coronet! Richard!
And the great king, in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily and
would, within seconds, be cut down by the Saracen horde!
Without hesitation, Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded
monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him.
He saw Richard go down, falling from the saddle of his charger, but by
that time his own sword was cutting into the screaming Saracens and
they had no time to attempt any further mischief to the King. They had
their hands full with Sir Robert de Bouain.
He did not know how long he fought there, holding his charger motionless
over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy,
but presently he heard the familiar cry of "For St. George and for
England" behind him. The Norman and English troops were charging in,
bringing with them the banner of England!
And then Richard was on his feet, cleaving the air about him with his
own broadsword. Its bright edge, besmeared with Saracen blood, was
biting viciously into the foe.
The Turks began to fall back. Within seconds, the Christian knights were
boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat. And
for the second time, Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight.
And then a voice was saying: "You have done well this day, sir knight.
Richard Plantagenet will not forget."
Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king.
"My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my
sovereign and liege lord. My sword and my life are yours whenever you
call."
King Richard's gauntleted hand grasped his own. "If it please God, I
shall never ask your life. An earldom awaits you when we return to
England, sir knight."
And then the king mounted his horse and was running full gallop after
the retreating Saracens.
Robert took off his helmet.
He blinked for a second to adjust his eyes to the relative dimness of
the studio. After the brightness of the desert that the televicarion
helmet had projected into his eyes, the studio seemed strangely
cavelike.
"How'd you like it, Bob?" asked one of the two producers of the show.
Robert Bowen nodded briskly and patted the televike helmet. "It was
O.K.," he said. "Good show. A little talky at the beginning, and it
needs a better fade-out, but the action scenes were fine. The sponsor
ought to like it—for a while, at least."
"What do you mean, 'for a while'?"
Robert Bowen sighed. "If this thing goes on the air the way it is, he'll
lose sales."
"Why? Commercial not good enough?"
"
Too
good! Man, I've smoked
Old Kings
, and, believe me, the real
thing never tasted as good as that cigarette did in the commercial!"
|
train | 24150 | [
"What does Niemand intend to communicate through referencing the line from Julius Caesar?",
"Which statement most accurately represents Niemand's beliefs toward humans and free will?",
"Which term best describes Latham's tone in the interview?",
"What is Niemand's tone toward the 'stress-and-strain of modern life' theory?",
"In observing the sunspot-related disturbances, what pattern did Niemand notice? What pattern did Niemand notice of the disturbances? (daytime, strangers)",
"Which decision was pivotal in moving the inquiry past the initial plateau?",
"Based on Latham's interview with Niemand, what might a listener be able to predict?"
] | [
[
"Sunspot-related disturbances have been negatively impacting humans prior to the Roman empire",
"We are more in control of our behavior than we think",
"Sunspot-related disturbances have been negatively impacting humans prior to the Middle Ages",
"We are not as in control of our behavior as we would like to think"
],
[
"Some humans have more control over the impact of sunspot disturbances on their mental health than others",
"All human desires are influenced, in some way, by the frequency and intensity of sunspots in any given time",
"Humans have the free will to pursue their desires, which are in part influenced by external influences",
"Humans have natural desires and the free will to pursue them"
],
[
"Neutral",
"Skeptical",
"Pressing",
"Perplexed"
],
[
"Inconsistent",
"Ambiguous",
"Dismissive",
"Vehement"
],
[
"They occurred during the daytime and among complete strangers",
"They occurred during the daytime and among peers or those with mutual contacts",
"They occurred during the nighttime and among complete strangers",
"They occurred during the nighttime and among peers or those with mutual contacts"
],
[
"Rethinking Shakespeare's quote from Julius Caesar",
"Collaborating with Middletown",
"Noticing the specific time frames of the attacks",
"Reaching out to Hillyard"
],
[
"In the future, there will be an increase in the frequency and intensity of brutal disturbances on Earth",
"There is not much time left before humans will destroy the planet as a result of their infighting",
"In the future, the frequency and intensity of brutal disturbances on Earth will plateau",
"In the future, there will be a decrease in the frequency and intensity of brutal disturbances on Earth"
]
] | [
4,
3,
3,
3,
1,
2,
1
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | DISTURBING SUN
By PHILIP LATHAM
Illustrated by Freas
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction May 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This, be it understood, is fiction—nothing but fiction—and not,
under any circumstances, to be considered as having any truth
whatever to it. It's obviously utterly impossible ... isn't it?
An interview with Dr. I. M. Niemand, Director of the Psychophysical
Institute of Solar and Terrestrial Relations, Camarillo, California.
In the closing days of December, 1957, at the meeting of the American
Association for the Advancement of Science in New York, Dr. Niemand
delivered a paper entitled simply, "On the Nature of the Solar
S-Regions." Owing to its unassuming title the startling implications
contained in the paper were completely overlooked by the press. These
implications are discussed here in an exclusive interview with Dr.
Niemand by Philip Latham.
LATHAM. Dr. Niemand, what would you say is your main job?
NIEMAND. I suppose you might say my main job today is to find out all I
can between activity on the Sun and various forms of activity on the
Earth.
LATHAM. What do you mean by activity on the Sun?
NIEMAND. Well, a sunspot is a form of solar activity.
LATHAM. Just what is a sunspot?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid I can't say just what a sunspot is. I can only
describe it. A sunspot is a region on the Sun that is cooler than its
surroundings. That's why it looks dark. It isn't so hot. Therefore not
so bright.
LATHAM. Isn't it true that the number of spots on the Sun rises and
falls in a cycle of eleven years?
NIEMAND. The number of spots on the Sun rises and falls in a cycle of
about
eleven years. That word
about
makes quite a difference.
LATHAM. In what way?
NIEMAND. It means you can only approximately predict the future course
of sunspot activity. Sunspots are mighty treacherous things.
LATHAM. Haven't there been a great many correlations announced between
sunspots and various effects on the Earth?
NIEMAND. Scores of them.
LATHAM. What is your opinion of these correlations?
NIEMAND. Pure bosh in most cases.
LATHAM. But some are valid?
NIEMAND. A few. There is unquestionably a correlation between
sunspots and disturbances of the Earth's magnetic field ... radio
fade-outs ... auroras ... things like that.
LATHAM. Now, Dr. Niemand, I understand that you have been investigating
solar and terrestrial relationships along rather unorthodox lines.
NIEMAND. Yes, I suppose some people would say so.
LATHAM. You have broken new ground?
NIEMAND. That's true.
LATHAM. In what way have your investigations differed from those of
others?
NIEMAND. I think our biggest advance was the discovery that sunspots
themselves are not the direct cause of the disturbances we have been
studying on the Earth. It's something like the eruptions in rubeola.
Attention is concentrated on the bright red papules because they're such
a conspicuous symptom of the disease. Whereas the real cause is an
invisible filterable virus. In the solar case it turned out to be these
S-Regions.
LATHAM. Why S-Regions?
NIEMAND. We had to call them something. Named after the Sun, I suppose.
LATHAM. You say an S-Region is invisible?
NIEMAND. It is quite invisible to the eye but readily detected by
suitable instrumental methods. It is extremely doubtful, however, if the
radiation we detect is the actual cause of the disturbing effects
observed.
LATHAM. Just what are these effects?
NIEMAND. Well, they're common enough, goodness knows. As old as the
world, in fact. Yet strangely enough it's hard to describe them in exact
terms.
LATHAM. Can you give us a general idea?
NIEMAND. I'll try. Let's see ... remember that speech from "Julius
Caesar" where Cassius is bewailing the evil times that beset ancient
Rome? I believe it went like this: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in
our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings."
LATHAM. I'm afraid I don't see—
NIEMAND. Well, Shakespeare would have been nearer the truth if he had
put it the other way around. "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in
ourselves but in our stars" or better "in the Sun."
LATHAM. In the Sun?
NIEMAND. That's right, in the Sun. I suppose the oldest problem in the
world is the origin of human evil. Philosophers have wrestled with it
ever since the days of Job. And like Job they have usually given up in
despair, convinced that the origin of evil is too deep for the human
mind to solve. Generally they have concluded that man is inherently
wicked and sinful and that is the end of it. Now for the first time
science has thrown new light on this subject.
LATHAM. How is that?
NIEMAND. Consider the record of history. There are occasional periods
when conditions are fairly calm and peaceful. Art and industry
flourished. Man at last seemed to be making progress toward some higher
goal. Then suddenly—
for no detectable reason
—conditions are
reversed. Wars rage. People go mad. The world is plunged into an orgy of
bloodshed and misery.
LATHAM. But weren't there reasons?
NIEMAND. What reasons?
LATHAM. Well, disputes over boundaries ... economic rivalry ... border
incidents....
NIEMAND. Nonsense. Men always make some flimsy excuse for going to war.
The truth of the matter is that men go to war because they want to go
to war. They can't help themselves. They are impelled by forces over
which they have no control. By forces outside of themselves.
LATHAM. Those are broad, sweeping statements. Can't you be more
specific?
NIEMAND. Perhaps I'd better go back to the beginning. Let me see.... It
all started back in March, 1955, when I started getting patients
suffering from a complex of symptoms, such as profound mental
depression, anxiety, insomnia, alternating with fits of violent rage and
resentment against life and the world in general. These people were
deeply disturbed. No doubt about that. Yet they were not psychotic and
hardly more than mildly neurotic. Now every doctor gets a good many
patients of this type. Such a syndrome is characteristic of menopausal
women and some men during the climacteric, but these people failed to
fit into this picture. They were married and single persons of both
sexes and of all ages. They came from all walks of life. The onset of
their attack was invariably sudden and with scarcely any warning. They
would be going about their work feeling perfectly all right. Then in a
minute the whole world was like some scene from a nightmare. A week or
ten days later the attack would cease as mysteriously as it had come and
they would be their old self again.
LATHAM. Aren't such attacks characteristic of the stress and strain of
modern life?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid that old stress-and-strain theory has been badly
overworked. Been hearing about it ever since I was a pre-med student at
ucla
. Even as a boy I can remember my grandfather deploring the stress
and strain of modern life when he was a country doctor practicing in
Indiana. In my opinion one of the most valuable contributions
anthropologists have made in recent years is the discovery that
primitive man is afflicted with essentially the same neurotic conditions
as those of us who live a so-called civilized life. They have found
savages displaying every symptom of a nervous breakdown among the
mountain tribes of the Elgonyi and the Aruntas of Australia. No, Mr.
Latham, it's time the stress-and-strain theory was relegated to the junk
pile along with demoniac possession and blood letting.
LATHAM. You must have done something for your patients—
NIEMAND. A doctor must always do something for the patients who come to
his office seeking help. First I gave them a thorough physical
examination. I turned up some minor ailments—a slight heart murmur or a
trace of albumin in the urine—but nothing of any significance. On the
whole they were a remarkably healthy bunch of individuals, much more so
than an average sample of the population. Then I made a searching
inquiry into their personal life. Here again I drew a blank. They had no
particular financial worries. Their sex life was generally satisfactory.
There was no history of mental illness in the family. In fact, the only
thing that seemed to be the matter with them was that there were times
when they felt like hell.
LATHAM. I suppose you tried tranquilizers?
NIEMAND. Oh, yes. In a few cases in which I tried tranquilizing pills of
the meprobamate type there was some slight improvement. I want to
emphasize, however, that I do not believe in prescribing shotgun
remedies for a patient. To my way of thinking it is a lazy slipshod way
of carrying on the practice of medicine. The only thing for which I do
give myself credit was that I asked my patients to keep a detailed
record of their symptoms taking special care to note the time of
exacerbation—increase in the severity of the symptoms—as accurately as
possible.
LATHAM. And this gave you a clue?
NIEMAND. It was the beginning. In most instances patients reported the
attack struck with almost the impact of a physical blow. The prodromal
symptoms were usually slight ... a sudden feeling of uneasiness and
guilt ... hot and cold flashes ... dizziness ... double vision. Then
this ghastly sense of depression coupled with a blind insensate rage at
life. One man said he felt as if the world were closing in on him.
Another that he felt the people around him were plotting his
destruction. One housewife made her husband lock her in her room for
fear she would injure the children. I pored over these case histories
for a long time getting absolutely nowhere. Then finally a pattern began
to emerge.
LATHAM. What sort of pattern?
NIEMAND. The first thing that struck me was that the attacks all
occurred during the daytime, between the hours of about seven in the
morning and five in the evening. Then there were these coincidences—
LATHAM. Coincidences?
NIEMAND. Total strangers miles apart were stricken at almost the same
moment. At first I thought nothing of it but as my records accumulated I
became convinced it could not be attributed to chance. A mathematical
analysis showed the number of coincidences followed a Poisson
distribution very closely. I couldn't possibly see what daylight had to
do with it. There is some evidence that mental patients are most
disturbed around the time of full moon, but a search of medical
literature failed to reveal any connection with the Sun.
LATHAM. What did you do?
NIEMAND. Naturally I said nothing of this to my patients. I did,
however, take pains to impress upon them the necessity of keeping an
exact record of the onset of an attack. The better records they kept the
more conclusive was the evidence. Men and women were experiencing nearly
simultaneous attacks of rage and depression all over southern
California, which was as far as my practice extended. One day it
occurred to me: if people a few miles apart could be stricken
simultaneously, why not people hundreds or thousands of miles apart? It
was this idea that prompted me to get in touch with an old colleague of
mine I had known at UC medical school, Dr. Max Hillyard, who was in
practice in Utica, New York.
LATHAM. With what result?
NIEMAND. I was afraid the result would be that my old roommate would
think I had gone completely crazy. Imagine my surprise and gratification
on receiving an answer by return mail to the effect that he also had
been getting an increasing number of patients suffering with the same
identical symptoms as my own. Furthermore, upon exchanging records we
did
find that in many cases patients three thousand miles apart had
been stricken simultaneously—
LATHAM. Just a minute. I would like to know how you define
"simultaneous."
NIEMAND. We say an attack is simultaneous when one occurred on the east
coast, for example, not earlier or later than five minutes of an attack
on the west coast. That is about as close as you can hope to time a
subjective effect of this nature. And now another fact emerged which
gave us another clue.
LATHAM. Which was?
NIEMAND. In every case of a simultaneous attack the Sun was shining at
both New York and California.
LATHAM. You mean if it was cloudy—
NIEMAND. No, no. The weather had nothing to do with it. I mean the Sun
had to be above the horizon at both places. A person might undergo an
attack soon after sunrise in New York but there would be no
corresponding record of an attack in California where it was still dark.
Conversely, a person might be stricken late in the afternoon in
California without a corresponding attack in New York where the Sun had
set. Dr. Hillyard and I had been searching desperately for a clue. We
had both noticed that the attacks occurred only during the daylight
hours but this had not seemed especially significant. Here we had
evidence pointing directly to the source of trouble. It must have some
connection with the Sun.
LATHAM. That must have had you badly puzzled at first.
NIEMAND. It certainly did. It looked as if we were headed back to the
Middle Ages when astrology and medicine went hand in hand. But since it
was our only lead we had no other choice but to follow it regardless of
the consequences. Here luck played somewhat of a part, for Hillyard
happened to have a contact that proved invaluable to us. Several years
before Hillyard had gotten to know a young astrophysicist, Henry
Middletown, who had come to him suffering from a severe case of myositis
in the arms and shoulders. Hillyard had been able to effect a complete
cure for which the boy was very grateful, and they had kept up a
desultory correspondence. Middletown was now specializing in radio
astronomy at the government's new solar observatory on Turtle Back
Mountain in Arizona. If it had not been for Middletown's help I'm afraid
our investigation would never have gotten past the clinical stage.
LATHAM. In what way was Middletown of assistance?
NIEMAND. It was the old case of workers in one field of science being
completely ignorant of what was going on in another field. Someday we
will have to establish a clearing house in science instead of keeping it
in tight little compartments as we do at present. Well, Hillyard and I
packed up for Arizona with considerable misgivings. We were afraid
Middletown wouldn't take our findings seriously but somewhat to our
surprise he heard our story with the closest attention. I guess
astronomers have gotten so used to hearing from flying saucer
enthusiasts and science-fiction addicts that nothing surprises them any
more. When we had finished he asked to see our records. Hillyard had
them all set down for easy numerical tabulation. Middletown went to work
with scarcely a word. Within an hour he had produced a chart that was
simply astounding.
LATHAM. Can you describe this chart for us?
NIEMAND. It was really quite simple. But if it had not been for
Middletown's experience in charting other solar phenomena it would never
have occurred to us to do it. First, he laid out a series of about
thirty squares horizontally across a sheet of graph paper. He dated
these beginning March 1, 1955, when our records began. In each square he
put a number from 1 to 10 that was a rough index of the number and
intensity of the attacks reported on that day. Then he laid out another
horizontal row below the first one dated twenty-seven days later. That
is, the square under March 1st in the top row was dated March 28th in
the row below it. He filled in the chart until he had an array of dozens
of rows that included all our data down to May, 1958.
When Middletown had finished it was easy to see that the squares of
highest index number did not fall at random on the chart. Instead they
fell in slightly slanting parallel series so that you could draw
straight lines down through them. The connection with the Sun was
obvious.
LATHAM. In what way?
NIEMAND. Why, because twenty-seven days is about the synodic period of
solar rotation. That is, if you see a large spot at the center of the
Sun's disk today, there is a good chance if it survives that you will
see it at the same place twenty-seven days later. But that night
Middletown produced another chart that showed the connection with the
Sun in a way that was even more convincing.
LATHAM. How was that?
NIEMAND. I said that the lines drawn down through the days of greatest
mental disturbance slanted slightly. On this second chart the squares
were dated under one another not at intervals of twenty-seven days, but
at intervals of twenty-seven point three days.
LATHAM. Why is that so important?
NIEMAND. Because the average period of solar rotation in the sunspot
zone is not twenty-seven days but twenty-seven point three days. And on
this chart the lines did not slant but went vertically downward. The
correlation with the synodic rotation of the Sun was practically
perfect.
LATHAM. But how did you get onto the S-Regions?
NIEMAND. Middletown was immediately struck by the resemblance between
the chart of mental disturbance and one he had been plotting over the
years from his radio observations. Now when he compared the two charts
the resemblance between the two was unmistakable. The pattern shown by
the chart of mental disturbance corresponded in a striking way with the
solar chart but with this difference. The disturbances on the Earth
started two days later on the average than the disturbances due to the
S-Regions on the Sun. In other words, there was a lag of about
forty-eight hours between the two. But otherwise they were almost
identical.
LATHAM. But if these S-Regions of Middletown's are invisible how could
he detect them?
NIEMAND. The S-Regions are invisible to the eye through an
optical
telescope, but are detected with ease by a
radio
telescope. Middletown
had discovered them when he was a graduate student working on radio
astronomy in Australia, and he had followed up his researches with the
more powerful equipment at Turtle Back Mountain. The formation of an
S-Region is heralded by a long series of bursts of a few seconds
duration, when the radiation may increase up to several thousand times
that of the background intensity. These noise storms have been recorded
simultaneously on wavelengths of from one to fifteen meters, which so
far is the upper limit of the observations. In a few instances, however,
intense bursts have also been detected down to fifty cm.
LATHAM. I believe you said the periods of mental disturbance last for
about ten or twelve days. How does that tie-in with the S-Regions?
NIEMAND. Very closely. You see it takes about twelve days for an
S-Region to pass across the face of the Sun, since the synodic rotation
is twenty-seven point three days.
LATHAM. I should think it would be nearer thirteen or fourteen days.
NIEMAND. Apparently an S-Region is not particularly effective when it is
just coming on or just going off the disk of the Sun.
LATHAM. Are the S-Regions associated with sunspots?
NIEMAND. They are connected in this way: that sunspot activity and
S-Region activity certainly go together. The more sunspots the more
violent and intense is the S-Region activity. But there is not a
one-to-one correspondence between sunspots and S-Regions. That is, you
cannot connect a particular sunspot group with a particular S-Region.
The same thing is true of sunspots and magnetic storms.
LATHAM. How do you account for this?
NIEMAND. We don't account for it.
LATHAM. What other properties of the S-Regions have you discovered?
NIEMAND. Middletown says that the radio waves emanating from them are
strongly circularly polarized. Moreover, the sense of rotation remains
constant while one is passing across the Sun. If the magnetic field
associated with an S-Region extends into the high solar corona through
which the rays pass, then the sense of rotation corresponds to the
ordinary ray of the magneto-ionic theory.
LATHAM. Does this mean that the mental disturbances arise from some form
of electromagnetic radiation?
NIEMAND. We doubt it. As I said before, the charts show a lag of about
forty-eight hours between the development of an S-Region and the onset
of mental disturbance. This indicates that the malignant energy
emanating from an S-Region consists of some highly penetrating form of
corpuscular radiation, as yet unidentified.
[A]
LATHAM. A question that puzzles me is why some people are affected by
the S-Regions while others are not.
NIEMAND. Our latest results indicate that probably
no one
is
completely immune. All are affected in
some
degree. Just why some
should be affected so much more than others is still a matter of
speculation.
LATHAM. How long does an S-Region last?
NIEMAND. An S-Region may have a lifetime of from three to perhaps a
dozen solar rotations. Then it dies out and for a time we are free from
this malignant radiation. Then a new region develops in perhaps an
entirely different region of the Sun. Sometimes there may be several
different S-Regions all going at once.
LATHAM. Why were not the S-Regions discovered long ago?
NIEMAND. Because the radio exploration of the Sun only began since the
end of World War II.
LATHAM. How does it happen that you only got patients suffering from
S-radiation since about 1955?
NIEMAND. I think we did get such patients previously but not in large
enough numbers to attract attention. Also the present sunspot cycle
started its rise to maximum about 1954.
LATHAM. Is there no way of escaping the S-radiation?
NIEMAND. I'm afraid the only sure way is to keep on the unilluminated
side of the Earth which is rather difficult to do. Apparently the
corpuscular beam from an S-Region is several degrees wide and not very
sharply defined, since its effects are felt simultaneously over the
entire continent. Hillyard and Middletown are working on some form of
shielding device but so far without success.
LATHAM. What is the present state of S-Region activity?
NIEMAND. At the present moment there happens to be no S-Region activity
on the Sun. But a new one may develop at any time. Also, the outlook for
a decrease in activity is not very favorable. Sunspot activity continues
at a high level and is steadily mounting in violence. The last sunspot
cycle had the highest maximum of any since 1780, but the present cycle
bids fair to set an all time record.
LATHAM. And so you believe that the S-Regions are the cause of most of
the present trouble in the world. That it is not ourselves but something
outside ourselves—
NIEMAND. That is the logical outcome of our investigation. We are
controlled and swayed by forces which in many cases we are powerless to
resist.
LATHAM. Could we not be warned of the presence of an S-Region?
NIEMAND. The trouble is they seem to develop at random on the Sun. I'm
afraid any warning system would be worse than useless. We would be
crying WOLF! all the time.
LATHAM. How may a person who is not particularly susceptible to this
malignant radiation know that one of these regions is active?
NIEMAND. If you have a feeling of restlessness and anxiety, if you are
unable to concentrate, if you feel suddenly depressed and discouraged
about yourself, or are filled with resentment toward the world, then you
may be pretty sure that an S-Region is passing across the face of the
Sun. Keep a tight rein on yourself. For it seems that evil will always
be with us ... as long as the Sun shall continue to shine upon this
little world.
THE END
[A]
Middletown believes that the Intense radiation recently
discovered from information derived from Explorer I and III has no
connection with the corpuscular S-radiation.
|
train | 24161 | [
"How do moon inhabitants tell the time of day?",
"Of the options presented, which represents McIlroy's greatest flaw as a leader?",
"What clue proves the natural existence of water on the moon?",
"Moon inhabitants must make all of the following considerations regarding their equipment EXCEPT:",
"What is a significant irony in the successful colonization of the moon?",
"What is Evans' primary dilemma?",
"What is the worst consequence of the Geiger being off scale?"
] | [
[
"Identifying the shadow line as it relates to Earth's continents",
"Identifying the shadow line as it relates to the moon's time zones",
"Identifying the shadow line as it relates to the moon's continents",
"Identifying the shadow line as it relates to the Earth's time zones"
],
[
"He is too lenient",
"He is hypocritical",
"He is too strict",
"He is untrustworthy"
],
[
"The ability to distill alcohol ",
"Increase of meteor activity",
"Humans are able to survive for long periods of time",
"The presence of specific minerals"
],
[
"Protection from meteor showers and volcanic eruptions",
"The cost of rare materials imported from Earth",
"Protection from extreme temperatures",
"The ability to function with minimal water use"
],
[
"Earth needs materials from the moon to survive, while the moon needs materials from the Earth",
"The government is just as ineffective on the moon as it is on Earth",
"Moon inhabitants are less free on the moon than they used to be on Earth",
"The greed of humankind is destroying the newly colonized moon just as it is destroying Earth"
],
[
"He has a limited amount of time until the next meteor shower hits and permanently destroys his equipment",
"In submitting a claim to the lava mine, he will attract violence from those desperate for water",
"By entering into an unknown cave, he is possibly exposing himself to lava, which has the capacity to melt his space suit",
"If he is to discover a new water source, he must utilize his low, existing source to find it"
],
[
"The moon and Earth will enter a war fought over natural elements",
"Evans will die before he is discovered by a rescue team",
"Authorities will be forced to make more strict limitations when it comes to water",
"The entire Survey will be fired and forced to compete over prospecting jobs"
]
] | [
1,
1,
4,
3,
1,
4,
3
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | ALL DAY SEPTEMBER
By ROGER KUYKENDALL
Illustrated by van Dongen
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction June 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Some men just haven't got good sense. They just can't seem to
learn the most fundamental things. Like when there's no use
trying—when it's time to give up because it's hopeless....
The meteor, a pebble, a little larger than a match head, traveled
through space and time since it came into being. The light from the star
that died when the meteor was created fell on Earth before the first
lungfish ventured from the sea.
In its last instant, the meteor fell on the Moon. It was impeded by
Evans' tractor.
It drilled a small, neat hole through the casing of the steam turbine,
and volitized upon striking the blades. Portions of the turbine also
volitized; idling at eight thousand RPM, it became unstable. The shaft
tried to tie itself into a knot, and the blades, damaged and undamaged
were spit through the casing. The turbine again reached a stable state,
that is, stopped. Permanently stopped.
It was two days to sunrise, where Evans stood.
It was just before sunset on a spring evening in September in Sydney.
The shadow line between day and night could be seen from the Moon to be
drifting across Australia.
Evans, who had no watch, thought of the time as a quarter after
Australia.
Evans was a prospector, and like all prospectors, a sort of jackknife
geologist, selenologist, rather. His tractor and equipment cost two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand was paid for. The
rest was promissory notes and grubstake shares. When he was broke, which
was usually, he used his tractor to haul uranium ore and metallic sodium
from the mines at Potter's dike to Williamson Town, where the rockets
landed.
When he was flush, he would prospect for a couple of weeks. Once he
followed a stampede to Yellow Crater, where he thought for a while that
he had a fortune in chromium. The chromite petered out in a month and a
half, and he was lucky to break even.
Evans was about three hundred miles east of Williamson Town, the site of
the first landing on the Moon.
Evans was due back at Williamson Town at about sunset, that is, in about
sixteen days. When he saw the wrecked turbine, he knew that he wouldn't
make it. By careful rationing, he could probably stretch his food out to
more than a month. His drinking water—kept separate from the water in
the reactor—might conceivably last just as long. But his oxygen was too
carefully measured; there was a four-day reserve. By diligent
conservation, he might make it last an extra day. Four days
reserve—plus one is five—plus sixteen days normal supply equals
twenty-one days to live.
In seventeen days he might be missed, but in seventeen days it would be
dark again, and the search for him, if it ever began, could not begin
for thirteen more days. At the earliest it would be eight days too late.
"Well, man, 'tis a fine spot you're in now," he told himself.
"Let's find out how bad it is indeed," he answered. He reached for the
light switch and tried to turn it on. The switch was already in the "on"
position.
"Batteries must be dead," he told himself.
"What batteries?" he asked. "There're no batteries in here, the power
comes from the generator."
"Why isn't the generator working, man?" he asked.
He thought this one out carefully. The generator was not turned by the
main turbine, but by a small reciprocating engine. The steam, however,
came from the same boiler. And the boiler, of course, had emptied itself
through the hole in the turbine. And the condenser, of course—
"The condenser!" he shouted.
He fumbled for a while, until he found a small flashlight. By the light
of this, he reinspected the steam system, and found about three gallons
of water frozen in the condenser. The condenser, like all condensers,
was a device to convert steam into water, so that it could be reused in
the boiler. This one had a tank and coils of tubing in the center of a
curved reflector that was positioned to radiate the heat of the steam
into the cold darkness of space. When the meteor pierced the turbine,
the water in the condenser began to boil. This boiling lowered the
temperature, and the condenser demonstrated its efficiency by quickly
freezing the water in the tank.
Evans sealed the turbine from the rest of the steam system by closing
the shut-off valves. If there was any water in the boiler, it would
operate the engine that drove the generator. The water would condense in
the condenser, and with a little luck, melt the ice in there. Then, if
the pump wasn't blocked by ice, it would return the water to the boiler.
But there was no water in the boiler. Carefully he poured a cup of his
drinking water into a pipe that led to the boiler, and resealed the
pipe. He pulled on a knob marked "Nuclear Start/Safety Bypass." The
water that he had poured into the boiler quickly turned into steam, and
the steam turned the generator briefly.
Evans watched the lights flicker and go out, and he guessed what the
trouble was.
"The water, man," he said, "there is not enough to melt the ice in the
condenser."
He opened the pipe again and poured nearly a half-gallon of water into
the boiler. It was three days' supply of water, if it had been carefully
used. It was one day's supply if used wastefully. It was ostentatious
luxury for a man with a month's supply of water and twenty-one days to
live.
The generator started again, and the lights came on. They flickered as
the boiler pressure began to fail, but the steam had melted some of the
ice in the condenser, and the water pump began to function.
"Well, man," he breathed, "there's a light to die by."
The sun rose on Williamson Town at about the same time it rose on Evans.
It was an incredibly brilliant disk in a black sky. The stars next to
the sun shone as brightly as though there were no sun. They might have
appeared to waver slightly, if they were behind outflung corona flares.
If they did, no one noticed. No one looked toward the sun without dark
filters.
When Director McIlroy came into his office, he found it lighted by the
rising sun. The light was a hot, brilliant white that seemed to pierce
the darkest shadows of the room. He moved to the round window, screening
his eyes from the light, and adjusted the polaroid shade to maximum
density. The sun became an angry red brown, and the room was dark again.
McIlroy decreased the density again until the room was comfortably
lighted. The room felt stuffy, so he decided to leave the door to the
inner office open.
He felt a little guilty about this, because he had ordered that all
doors in the survey building should remain closed except when someone
was passing through them. This was to allow the air-conditioning system
to function properly, and to prevent air loss in case of the highly
improbable meteor damage. McIlroy thought that on the whole, he was
disobeying his own orders no more flagrantly than anyone else in the
survey.
McIlroy had no illusions about his ability to lead men. Or rather, he
did have one illusion; he thought that he was completely unfit as a
leader. It was true that his strictest orders were disobeyed with
cheerful contempt, but it was also true his mildest requests were
complied with eagerly and smoothly.
Everyone in the survey except McIlroy realized this, and even he
accepted this without thinking about it. He had fallen into the habit of
suggesting mildly anything that he wanted done, and writing orders he
didn't particularly care to have obeyed.
For example, because of an order of his stating that there would be no
alcoholic beverages within the survey building, the entire survey was
assured of a constant supply of home-made, but passably good liquor.
Even McIlroy enjoyed the surreptitious drinking.
"Good morning, Mr. McIlroy," said Mrs. Garth, his secretary. Morning to
Mrs. Garth was simply the first four hours after waking.
"Good morning indeed," answered McIlroy. Morning to him had no meaning
at all, but he thought in the strictest sense that it would be morning
on the Moon for another week.
"Has the power crew set up the solar furnace?" he asked. The solar
furnace was a rough parabola of mirrors used to focus the sun's heat on
anything that it was desirable to heat. It was used mostly, from sun-up
to sun-down, to supplement the nuclear power plant.
"They went out about an hour ago," she answered, "I suppose that's what
they were going to do."
"Very good, what's first on the schedule?"
"A Mr. Phelps to see you," she said.
"How do you do, Mr. Phelps," McIlroy greeted him.
"Good afternoon," Mr. Phelps replied. "I'm here representing the
Merchants' Bank Association."
"Fine," McIlroy said, "I suppose you're here to set up a bank."
"That's right, I just got in from Muroc last night, and I've been going
over the assets of the Survey Credit Association all morning."
"I'll certainly be glad to get them off my hands," McIlroy said. "I hope
they're in good order."
"There doesn't seem to be any profit," Mr. Phelps said.
"That's par for a nonprofit organization," said McIlroy. "But we're
amateurs, and we're turning this operation over to professionals. I'm
sure it will be to everyone's satisfaction."
"I know this seems like a silly question. What day is this?"
"Well," said McIlroy, "that's not so silly. I don't know either."
"Mrs. Garth," he called, "what day is this?"
"Why, September, I think," she answered.
"I mean what
day
."
"I don't know, I'll call the observatory."
There was a pause.
"They say what day where?" she asked.
"Greenwich, I guess, our official time is supposed to be Greenwich Mean
Time."
There was another pause.
"They say it's September fourth, one thirty
a.m.
"
"Well, there you are," laughed McIlroy, "it isn't that time doesn't mean
anything here, it just doesn't mean the same thing."
Mr. Phelps joined the laughter. "Bankers' hours don't mean much, at any
rate," he said.
The power crew was having trouble with the solar furnace. Three of the
nine banks of mirrors would not respond to the electric controls, and
one bank moved so jerkily that it could not be focused, and it
threatened to tear several of the mirrors loose.
"What happened here?" Spotty Cade, one of the electrical technicians
asked his foreman, Cowalczk, over the intercommunications radio. "I've
got about a hundred pinholes in the cables out here. It's no wonder they
don't work."
"Meteor shower," Cowalczk answered, "and that's not half of it. Walker
says he's got a half dozen mirrors cracked or pitted, and Hoffman on
bank three wants you to replace a servo motor. He says the bearing was
hit."
"When did it happen?" Cade wanted to know.
"Must have been last night, at least two or three days ago. All of 'em
too small for Radar to pick up, and not enough for Seismo to get a
rumble."
"Sounds pretty bad."
"Could have been worse," said Cowalczk.
"How's that?"
"Wasn't anybody out in it."
"Hey, Chuck," another technician, Lehman, broke in, "you could maybe get
hurt that way."
"I doubt it," Cowalczk answered, "most of these were pinhead size, and
they wouldn't go through a suit."
"It would take a pretty big one to damage a servo bearing," Cade
commented.
"That could hurt," Cowalczk admitted, "but there was only one of them."
"You mean only one hit our gear," Lehman said. "How many missed?"
Nobody answered. They could all see the Moon under their feet. Small
craters overlapped and touched each other. There was—except in the
places that men had obscured them with footprints—not a square foot
that didn't contain a crater at least ten inches across, there was not a
square inch without its half-inch crater. Nearly all of these had been
made millions of years ago, but here and there, the rim of a crater
covered part of a footprint, clear evidence that it was a recent one.
After the sun rose, Evans returned to the lava cave that he had been
exploring when the meteor hit. Inside, he lifted his filter visor, and
found that the light reflected from the small ray that peered into the
cave door lighted the cave adequately. He tapped loose some white
crystals on the cave wall with his geologist's hammer, and put them into
a collector's bag.
"A few mineral specimens would give us something to think about, man.
These crystals," he said, "look a little like zeolites, but that can't
be, zeolites need water to form, and there's no water on the Moon."
He chipped a number of other crystals loose and put them in bags. One of
them he found in a dark crevice had a hexagonal shape that puzzled him.
One at a time, back in the tractor, he took the crystals out of the bags
and analyzed them as well as he could without using a flame which would
waste oxygen. The ones that looked like zeolites were zeolites, all
right, or something very much like it. One of the crystals that he
thought was quartz turned out to be calcite, and one of the ones that he
was sure could be nothing but calcite was actually potassium nitrate.
"Well, now," he said, "it's probably the largest natural crystal of
potassium nitrate that anyone has ever seen. Man, it's a full inch
across."
All of these needed water to form, and their existence on the Moon
puzzled him for a while. Then he opened the bag that had contained the
unusual hexagonal crystals, and the puzzle resolved itself. There was
nothing in the bag but a few drops of water. What he had taken to be a
type of rock was ice, frozen in a niche that had never been warmed by
the sun.
The sun rose to the meridian slowly. It was a week after sunrise. The
stars shone coldly, and wheeled in their slow course with the sun. Only
Earth remained in the same spot in the black sky. The shadow line crept
around until Earth was nearly dark, and then the rim of light appeared
on the opposite side. For a while Earth was a dark disk in a thin halo,
and then the light came to be a crescent, and the line of dawn began to
move around Earth. The continents drifted across the dark disk and into
the crescent. The people on Earth saw the full moon set about the same
time that the sun rose.
Nickel Jones was the captain of a supply rocket. He made trips from and
to the Moon about once a month, carrying supplies in and metal and ores
out. At this time he was visiting with his old friend McIlroy.
"I swear, Mac," said Jones, "another season like this, and I'm going
back to mining."
"I thought you were doing pretty well," said McIlroy, as he poured two
drinks from a bottle of Scotch that Jones had brought him.
"Oh, the money I like, but I will say that I'd have more if I didn't
have to fight the union and the Lunar Trade Commission."
McIlroy had heard all of this before. "How's that?" he asked politely.
"You may think it's myself running the ship," Jones started on his
tirade, "but it's not. The union it is that says who I can hire. The
union it is that says how much I must pay, and how large a crew I need.
And then the Commission ..." The word seemed to give Jones an unpleasant
taste in his mouth, which he hurriedly rinsed with a sip of Scotch.
"The Commission," he continued, making the word sound like an obscenity,
"it is that tells me how much I can charge for freight."
McIlroy noticed that his friend's glass was empty, and he quietly filled
it again.
"And then," continued Jones, "if I buy a cargo up here, the Commission
it is that says what I'll sell it for. If I had my way, I'd charge only
fifty cents a pound for freight instead of the dollar forty that the
Commission insists on. That's from here to Earth, of course. There's no
profit I could make by cutting rates the other way."
"Why not?" asked McIlroy. He knew the answer, but he liked to listen to
the slightly Welsh voice of Jones.
"Near cost it is now at a dollar forty. But what sense is there in
charging the same rate to go either way when it takes about a seventh of
the fuel to get from here to Earth as it does to get from there to
here?"
"What good would it do to charge fifty cents a pound?" asked McIlroy.
"The nickel, man, the tons of nickel worth a dollar and a half on Earth,
and not worth mining here; the low-grade ores of uranium and vanadium,
they need these things on Earth, but they can't get them as long as it
isn't worth the carrying of them. And then, of course, there's the water
we haven't got. We could afford to bring more water for more people, and
set up more distilling plants if we had the money from the nickel.
"Even though I say it who shouldn't, two-eighty a quart is too much to
pay for water."
Both men fell silent for a while. Then Jones spoke again:
"Have you seen our friend Evans lately? The price of chromium has gone
up, and I think he could ship some of his ore from Yellow Crater at a
profit."
"He's out prospecting again. I don't expect to see him until sun-down."
"I'll likely see him then. I won't be loaded for another week and a
half. Can't you get in touch with him by radio?"
"He isn't carrying one. Most of the prospectors don't. They claim that a
radio that won't carry beyond the horizon isn't any good, and one that
will bounce messages from Earth takes up too much room."
"Well, if I don't see him, you let him know about the chromium."
"Anything to help another Welshman, is that the idea?"
"Well, protection it is that a poor Welshman needs from all the English
and Scots. Speaking of which—"
"Oh, of course," McIlroy grinned as he refilled the glasses.
"
Slainte, McIlroy, bach.
" [Health, McIlroy, man.]
"
Slainte mhor, bach.
" [Great Health, man.]
The sun was halfway to the horizon, and Earth was a crescent in the sky
when Evans had quarried all the ice that was available in the cave. The
thought grew on him as he worked that this couldn't be the only such
cave in the area. There must be several more bubbles in the lava flow.
Part of his reasoning proved correct. That is, he found that by
chipping, he could locate small bubbles up to an inch in diameter, each
one with its droplet of water. The average was about one per cent of the
volume of each bubble filled with ice.
A quarter of a mile from the tractor, Evans found a promising looking
mound of lava. It was rounded on top, and it could easily be the dome of
a bubble. Suddenly, Evans noticed that the gauge on the oxygen tank of
his suit was reading dangerously near empty. He turned back to his
tractor, moving as slowly as he felt safe in doing. Running would use up
oxygen too fast. He was halfway there when the pressure warning light
went on, and the signal sounded inside his helmet. He turned on his
ten-minute reserve supply, and made it to the tractor with about five
minutes left. The air purifying apparatus in the suit was not as
efficient as the one in the tractor; it wasted oxygen. By using the suit
so much, Evans had already shortened his life by several days. He
resolved not to leave the tractor again, and reluctantly abandoned his
plan to search for a large bubble.
The sun stood at half its diameter above the horizon. The shadows of the
mountains stretched out to touch the shadows of the other mountains. The
dawning line of light covered half of Earth, and Earth turned beneath
it.
Cowalczk itched under his suit, and the sweat on his face prickled
maddeningly because he couldn't reach it through his helmet. He pushed
his forehead against the faceplate of his helmet and rubbed off some of
the sweat. It didn't help much, and it left a blurred spot in his
vision. That annoyed him.
"Is everyone clear of the outlet?" he asked.
"All clear," he heard Cade report through the intercom.
"How come we have to blow the boilers now?" asked Lehman.
"Because I say so," Cowalczk shouted, surprised at his outburst and
ashamed of it. "Boiler scale," he continued, much calmer. "We've got to
clean out the boilers once a year to make sure the tubes in the reactor
don't clog up." He squinted through his dark visor at the reactor
building, a gray concrete structure a quarter of a mile distant. "It
would be pretty bad if they clogged up some night."
"Pressure's ten and a half pounds," said Cade.
"Right, let her go," said Cowalczk.
Cade threw a switch. In the reactor building, a relay closed. A motor
started turning, and the worm gear on the motor opened a valve on the
boiler. A stream of muddy water gushed into a closed vat. When the vat
was about half full, the water began to run nearly clear. An electric
eye noted that fact and a light in front of Cade turned on. Cade threw
the switch back the other way, and the relay in the reactor building
opened. The motor turned and the gears started to close the valve. But a
fragment of boiler scale held the valve open.
"Valve's stuck," said Cade.
"Open it and close it again," said Cowalczk. The sweat on his forehead
started to run into his eyes. He banged his hand on his faceplate in an
unconscious attempt to wipe it off. He cursed silently, and wiped it off
on the inside of his helmet again. This time, two drops ran down the
inside of his faceplate.
"Still don't work," said Cade.
"Keep trying," Cowalczk ordered. "Lehman, get a Geiger counter and come
with me, we've got to fix this thing."
Lehman and Cowalczk, who were already suited up started across to the
reactor building. Cade, who was in the pressurized control room without
a suit on, kept working the switch back and forth. There was light that
indicated when the valve was open. It was on, and it stayed on, no
matter what Cade did.
"The vat pressure's too high," Cade said.
"Let me know when it reaches six pounds," Cowalczk requested. "Because
it'll probably blow at seven."
The vat was a light plastic container used only to decant sludge out of
the water. It neither needed nor had much strength.
"Six now," said Cade.
Cowalczk and Lehman stopped halfway to the reactor. The vat bulged and
ruptured. A stream of mud gushed out and boiled dry on the face of the
Moon. Cowalczk and Lehman rushed forward again.
They could see the trickle of water from the discharge pipe. The motor
turned the valve back and forth in response to Cade's signals.
"What's going on out there?" demanded McIlroy on the intercom.
"Scale stuck in the valve," Cowalczk answered.
"Are the reactors off?"
"Yes. Vat blew. Shut up! Let me work, Mac!"
"Sorry," McIlroy said, realizing that this was no time for officials.
"Let me know when it's fixed."
"Geiger's off scale," Lehman said.
"We're probably O.K. in these suits for an hour," Cowalczk answered. "Is
there a manual shut-off?"
"Not that I know of," Lehman answered. "What about it, Cade?"
"I don't think so," Cade said. "I'll get on the blower and rouse out an
engineer."
"O.K., but keep working that switch."
"I checked the line as far as it's safe," said Lehman. "No valve."
"O.K.," Cowalczk said. "Listen, Cade, are the injectors still on?"
"Yeah. There's still enough heat in these reactors to do some damage.
I'll cut 'em in about fifteen minutes."
"I've found the trouble," Lehman said. "The worm gear's loose on its
shaft. It's slipping every time the valve closes. There's not enough
power in it to crush the scale."
"Right," Cowalczk said. "Cade, open the valve wide. Lehman, hand me that
pipe wrench!"
Cowalczk hit the shaft with the back of the pipe wrench, and it broke at
the motor bearing.
Cowalczk and Lehman fitted the pipe wrench to the gear on the valve, and
turned it.
"Is the light off?" Cowalczk asked.
"No," Cade answered.
"Water's stopped. Give us some pressure, we'll see if it holds."
"Twenty pounds," Cade answered after a couple of minutes.
"Take her up to ... no, wait, it's still leaking," Cowalczk said. "Hold
it there, we'll open the valve again."
"O.K.," said Cade. "An engineer here says there's no manual cutoff."
"Like Hell," said Lehman.
Cowalczk and Lehman opened the valve again. Water spurted out, and
dwindled as they closed the valve.
"What did you do?" asked Cade. "The light went out and came on again."
"Check that circuit and see if it works," Cowalczk instructed.
There was a pause.
"It's O.K.," Cade said.
Cowalczk and Lehman opened and closed the valve again.
"Light is off now," Cade said.
"Good," said Cowalczk, "take the pressure up all the way, and we'll see
what happens."
"Eight hundred pounds," Cade said, after a short wait.
"Good enough," Cowalczk said. "Tell that engineer to hold up a while, he
can fix this thing as soon as he gets parts. Come on, Lehman, let's get
out of here."
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said Cade. "You guys had me worried for a
while."
"Think we weren't worried?" Lehman asked. "And it's not over."
"What?" Cade asked. "Oh, you mean the valve servo you two bashed up?"
"No," said Lehman, "I mean the two thousand gallons of water that we
lost."
"Two thousand?" Cade asked. "We only had seven hundred gallons reserve.
How come we can operate now?"
"We picked up twelve hundred from the town sewage plant. What with using
the solar furnace as a radiator, we can make do."
"Oh, God, I suppose this means water rationing again."
"You're probably right, at least until the next rocket lands in a couple
of weeks."
PROSPECTOR FEARED LOST ON MOON
IPP Williamson Town, Moon, Sept. 21st. Scientific survey director
McIlroy released a statement today that Howard Evans, a prospector
is missing and presumed lost. Evans, who was apparently exploring
the Moon in search of minerals was due two days ago, but it was
presumed that he was merely temporarily delayed.
Evans began his exploration on August 25th, and was known to be
carrying several days reserve of oxygen and supplies. Director
McIlroy has expressed a hope that Evans will be found before his
oxygen runs out.
Search parties have started from Williamson Town, but telescopic
search from Palomar and the new satellite observatory are hindered
by the fact that Evans is lost on the part of the Moon which is now
dark. Little hope is held for radio contact with the missing man as
it is believed he was carrying only short-range,
intercommunications equipment. Nevertheless, receivers are ...
Captain Nickel Jones was also expressing a hope: "Anyway, Mac," he was
saying to McIlroy, "a Welshman knows when his luck's run out. And never
a word did he say."
"Like as not, you're right," McIlroy replied, "but if I know Evans, he'd
never say a word about any forebodings."
"Well, happen I might have a bit of Welsh second sight about me, and it
tells me that Evans will be found."
McIlroy chuckled for the first time in several days. "So that's the
reason you didn't take off when you were scheduled," he said.
"Well, yes," Jones answered. "I thought that it might happen that a
rocket would be needed in the search."
The light from Earth lighted the Moon as the Moon had never lighted
Earth. The great blue globe of Earth, the only thing larger than the
stars, wheeled silently in the sky. As it turned, the shadow of sunset
crept across the face that could be seen from the Moon. From full Earth,
as you might say, it moved toward last quarter.
The rising sun shone into Director McIlroy's office. The hot light
formed a circle on the wall opposite the window, and the light became
more intense as the sun slowly pulled over the horizon. Mrs. Garth
walked into the director's office, and saw the director sleeping with
his head cradled in his arms on the desk. She walked softly to the
window and adjusted the shade to darken the office. She stood looking at
McIlroy for a moment, and when he moved slightly in his sleep, she
walked softly out of the office.
A few minutes later she was back with a cup of coffee. She placed it in
front of the director, and shook his shoulder gently.
"Wake up, Mr. McIlroy," she said, "you told me to wake you at sunrise,
and there it is, and here's Mr. Phelps."
McIlroy woke up slowly. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. His
neck was stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position.
"'Morning, Mr. Phelps," he said.
"Good morning," Phelps answered, dropping tiredly into a chair.
"Have some coffee, Mr. Phelps," said Mrs. Garth, handing him a cup.
"Any news?" asked McIlroy.
"About Evans?" Phelps shook his head slowly. "Palomar called in a few
minutes back. Nothing to report and the sun was rising there. Australia
will be in position pretty soon. Several observatories there. Then
Capetown. There are lots of observatories in Europe, but most of them
are clouded over. Anyway the satellite observatory will be in position
by the time Europe is."
McIlroy was fully awake. He glanced at Phelps and wondered how long it
had been since he had slept last. More than that, McIlroy wondered why
this banker, who had never met Evans, was losing so much sleep about
finding him. It began to dawn on McIlroy that nearly the whole
population of Williamson Town was involved, one way or another, in the
search.
The director turned to ask Phelps about this fact, but the banker was
slumped in his chair, fast asleep with his coffee untouched.
It was three hours later that McIlroy woke Phelps.
"They've found the tractor," McIlroy said.
"Good," Phelps mumbled, and then as comprehension came; "That's fine!
That's just line! Is Evans—?"
"Can't tell yet. They spotted the tractor from the satellite
observatory. Captain Jones took off a few minutes ago, and he'll report
back as soon as he lands. Hadn't you better get some sleep?"
Evans was carrying a block of ice into the tractor when he saw the
rocket coming in for a landing. He dropped the block and stood waiting.
When the dust settled from around the tail of the rocket, he started to
run forward. The air lock opened, and Evans recognized the vacuum suited
figure of Nickel Jones.
"Evans, man!" said Jones' voice in the intercom. "Alive you are!"
"A Welshman takes a lot of killing," Evans answered.
Later, in Evans' tractor, he was telling his story:
"... And I don't know how long I sat there after I found the water." He
looked at the Goldburgian device he had made out of wire and tubing.
"Finally I built this thing. These caves were made of lava. They must
have been formed by steam some time, because there's a floor of ice in
all of 'em.
"The idea didn't come all at once, it took a long time for me to
remember that water is made out of oxygen and hydrogen. When I
remembered that, of course, I remembered that it can be separated with
electricity. So I built this thing.
"It runs an electric current through water, lets the oxygen loose in the
room, and pipes the hydrogen outside. It doesn't work automatically, of
course, so I run it about an hour a day. My oxygen level gauge shows how
long."
"You're a genius, man!" Jones exclaimed.
"No," Evans answered, "a Welshman, nothing more."
"Well, then," said Jones, "are you ready to start back?"
"Back?"
"Well, it was to rescue you that I came."
"I don't need rescuing, man," Evans said.
Jones stared at him blankly.
"You might let me have some food," Evans continued. "I'm getting short
of that. And you might have someone send out a mechanic with parts to
fix my tractor. Then maybe you'll let me use your radio to file my
claim."
"Claim?"
"Sure, man, I've thousands of tons of water here. It's the richest mine
on the Moon!"
THE END
|
train | 25086 | [
"Which two terms best describe Jerry's tone toward Greta?",
"For what reason is Greta most angry at Jerry?\n",
"What is the most surprising detail about the Venusian delegate?",
"The Venusian delegate's message to humans on Earth is best characterized as a:",
"What ultimately revealed the true identity of the Venusian delegate to Jerry?",
"What is the central irony of the Venusian delegate's message?",
"Which emotion does the Venusian delegate intentionally tap into in order to more effectively achieve its mission?",
"If the following event had not occurred, the Venusian delegate's identify would likely not have been discovered:",
"What does Jerry promise to Professor Coltz without saying explicitly?",
"How does Jerry change from the beginning of the story to the end?"
] | [
[
"misogynistic and dismissive",
"lustful and manipulative",
"rueful and vexed",
"condescending and harsh"
],
[
"He stole her source and took credit for her 'scoop'",
"He feigned attraction to get valuable information",
"He talked negatively about her to her colleagues",
"He convinced her to get too intoxicated"
],
[
"She is very tall for a female",
"It must be assembled according to instructions",
"He was once an inhabitant of Earth",
"It self-destructs after a certain time period has passed"
],
[
"ultimatum",
"attack",
"task",
"enigma"
],
[
"It's opening monologue",
"The origin of its materials",
"Notes that Greta stole from a source",
"Its style of self-destruction"
],
[
"It self destructs in the same way that it promises to devastate Earth's population, if Earth does not fulfill its terms",
"It glorifies war and violence despite the fact that Venus is the goddess of love",
"It's artificial intelligence is undecipherable by the most intelligent scientists from each major country on Earth",
"It uses threatening means in order to achieve a peaceful desired outcome"
],
[
"greed",
"shame",
"fear",
"doubt"
],
[
"If Jerry had not kept his old notes from college physics",
"If the UN had not called a plenary session",
"If Greta had gotten fired for leaking her source",
"If the authorities had destroyed the delegate after its opening message"
],
[
"He plans to reveal the true creators of the Venusian delegate",
"He plans not to share his physics notes with the media",
"He plans not to reveal the true creators of the Venusian delegate",
"He plans to share his physics notes with the media"
],
[
"He is consumed by the difficulty of keeping the secret of the Venusian delegate's origin",
"He comes to value the Venusian delegate's outcome over the recognition of breaking unprecedented news",
"He becomes less caught up in the fast-paced world of media and more interested in settling down as a family man",
"He stops living his life according to what the media values and decides to leave Earth forever"
]
] | [
2,
2,
2,
1,
1,
4,
3,
1,
3,
2
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0
] | The saucer was interesting, but where was the delegate?
The
DELEGATE
FROM
VENUS
By HENRY SLESAR
ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK
Everybody was waiting to see
what the delegate from Venus
looked like. And all they got
for their patience was the
biggest surprise since David
clobbered Goliath.
"
Let
me put it this way,"
Conners said paternally.
"We expect a certain amount of
decorum from our Washington
news correspondents, and that's
all I'm asking for."
Jerry Bridges, sitting in the
chair opposite his employer's
desk, chewed on his knuckles
and said nothing. One part of
his mind wanted him to play it
cagey, to behave the way the
newspaper wanted him to behave,
to protect the cozy Washington
assignment he had waited
four years to get. But another
part of him, a rebel part,
wanted him to stay on the trail
of the story he felt sure was
about to break.
"I didn't mean to make trouble,
Mr. Conners," he said casually.
"It just seemed strange, all
these exchanges of couriers in
the past two days. I couldn't
help thinking something was
up."
"Even if that's true, we'll
hear about it through the usual
channels," Conners frowned.
"But getting a senator's secretary
drunk to obtain information—well,
that's not only indiscreet,
Bridges. It's downright
dirty."
Jerry grinned. "I didn't take
that
kind of advantage, Mr.
Conners. Not that she wasn't a
toothsome little dish ..."
"Just thank your lucky stars
that it didn't go any further.
And from now on—" He waggled
a finger at him. "Watch
your step."
Jerry got up and ambled to the
door. But he turned before leaving
and said:
"By the way. What do
you
think is going on?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Don't kid me, Mr. Conners.
Think it's war?"
"That'll be all, Bridges."
The reporter closed the door
behind him, and then strolled
out of the building into the sunlight.
He met Ruskin, the fat little
AP correspondent, in front of
the Pan-American Building on
Constitution Avenue. Ruskin
was holding the newspaper that
contained the gossip-column
item which had started the
whole affair, and he seemed
more interested in the romantic
rather than political implications.
As he walked beside him,
he said:
"So what really happened,
pal? That Greta babe really let
down her hair?"
"Where's your decorum?"
Jerry growled.
Ruskin giggled. "Boy, she's
quite a dame, all right. I think
they ought to get the Secret
Service to guard her. She really
fills out a size 10, don't she?"
"Ruskin," Jerry said, "you
have a low mind. For a week,
this town has been acting like
the
39 Steps
, and all you can
think about is dames. What's
the matter with you? Where
will you be when the big mushroom
cloud comes?"
"With Greta, I hope," Ruskin
sighed. "What a way to get
radioactive."
They split off a few blocks
later, and Jerry walked until he
came to the Red Tape Bar &
Grill, a favorite hangout of the
local journalists. There were
three other newsmen at the bar,
and they gave him snickering
greetings. He took a small table
in the rear and ate his meal in
sullen silence.
It wasn't the newsmen's jibes
that bothered him; it was the
certainty that something of
major importance was happening
in the capitol. There had
been hourly conferences at the
White House, flying visits by
State Department officials, mysterious
conferences involving
members of the Science Commission.
So far, the byword
had been secrecy. They knew
that Senator Spocker, chairman
of the Congressional Science
Committee, had been involved
in every meeting, but Senator
Spocker was unavailable. His
secretary, however, was a little
more obliging ...
Jerry looked up from his
coffee and blinked when he saw
who was coming through the
door of the Bar & Grill. So did
every other patron, but for different
reasons. Greta Johnson
had that effect upon men. Even
the confining effect of a mannishly-tailored
suit didn't hide
her outrageously feminine qualities.
She walked straight to his
table, and he stood up.
"They told me you might be
here," she said, breathing hard.
"I just wanted to thank you for
last night."
"Look, Greta—"
Wham!
Her hand, small and
delicate, felt like a slab of lead
when it slammed into his cheek.
She left a bruise five fingers
wide, and then turned and stalked
out.
He ran after her, the restaurant
proprietor shouting about
the unpaid bill. It took a rapid
dog-trot to reach her side.
"Greta, listen!" he panted.
"You don't understand about
last night. It wasn't the way
that lousy columnist said—"
She stopped in her tracks.
"I wouldn't have minded so
much if you'd gotten me drunk.
But to
use
me, just to get a
story—"
"But I'm a
reporter
, damn it.
It's my job. I'd do it again if
I thought you knew anything."
She was pouting now. "Well,
how do you suppose I feel,
knowing you're only interested
in me because of the Senator?
Anyway, I'll probably lose my
job, and then you won't have
any
use for me."
"Good-bye, Greta," Jerry said
sadly.
"What?"
"Good-bye. I suppose you
won't want to see me any more."
"Did I say that?"
"It just won't be any use.
We'll always have this thing between
us."
She looked at him for a moment,
and then touched his
bruised cheek with a tender,
motherly gesture.
"Your poor face," she murmured,
and then sighed. "Oh,
well. I guess there's no use
fighting it. Maybe if I
did
tell
you what I know, we could act
human
again."
"Greta!"
"But if you print one
word
of it, Jerry Bridges, I'll never
speak to you again!"
"Honey," Jerry said, taking
her arm, "you can trust me like
a brother."
"That's
not
the idea," Greta
said stiffly.
In a secluded booth at the rear
of a restaurant unfrequented by
newsmen, Greta leaned forward
and said:
"At first, they thought it was
another sputnik."
"
Who
did?"
"The State Department, silly.
They got reports from the observatories
about another sputnik
being launched by the Russians.
Only the Russians denied
it. Then there were joint meetings,
and nobody could figure
out
what
the damn thing was."
"Wait a minute," Jerry said
dizzily. "You mean to tell me
there's another of those metal
moons up there?"
"But it's not a moon. That's
the big point. It's a spaceship."
"A
what
?"
"A spaceship," Greta said
coolly, sipping lemonade. "They
have been in contact with it now
for about three days, and they're
thinking of calling a plenary
session of the UN just to figure
out what to do about it. The
only hitch is, Russia doesn't
want to wait that long, and is
asking for a hurry-up summit
meeting to make a decision."
"A decision about what?"
"About the Venusians, of
course."
"Greta," Jerry said mildly, "I
think you're still a little woozy
from last night."
"Don't be silly. The spaceship's
from Venus; they've already
established that. And the
people on it—I
guess
they're
people—want to know if they
can land their delegate."
"Their what?"
"Their delegate. They came
here for some kind of conference,
I guess. They know about
the UN and everything, and
they want to take part. They
say that with all the satellites
being launched, that our affairs
are
their
affairs, too. It's kind
of confusing, but that's what
they say."
"You mean these Venusians
speak English?"
"And Russian. And French.
And German. And everything I
guess. They've been having
radio talks with practically
every country for the past three
days. Like I say, they want to
establish diplomatic relations
or something. The Senator
thinks that if we don't agree,
they might do something drastic,
like blow us all up. It's kind
of scary." She shivered delicately.
"You're taking it mighty
calm," he said ironically.
"Well, how else can I take it?
I'm not even supposed to
know
about it, except that the Senator
is so careless about—" She
put her fingers to her lips. "Oh,
dear, now you'll really think I'm
terrible."
"Terrible? I think you're
wonderful!"
"And you promise not to print
it?"
"Didn't I say I wouldn't?"
"Y-e-s. But you know, you're
a liar sometimes, Jerry. I've noticed
that about you."
The press secretary's secretary,
a massive woman with
gray hair and impervious to
charm, guarded the portals of
his office with all the indomitable
will of the U. S. Marines.
But Jerry Bridges tried.
"You don't understand, Lana,"
he said. "I don't want to
see
Mr.
Howells. I just want you to
give
him something."
"My name's not Lana, and I
can't
deliver any messages."
"But this is something he
wants
to see." He handed her
an envelope, stamped URGENT.
"Do it for me, Hedy. And I'll
buy you the flashiest pair of
diamond earrings in Washington."
"Well," the woman said,
thawing slightly. "I
could
deliver
it with his next batch of mail."
"When will that be?"
"In an hour. He's in a terribly
important meeting right
now."
"You've got some mail right
there. Earrings and a bracelet
to match."
She looked at him with exasperation,
and then gathered up
a stack of memorandums and
letters, his own envelope atop
it. She came out of the press
secretary's office two minutes
later with Howells himself, and
Howells said: "You there,
Bridges. Come in here."
"Yes,
sir
!" Jerry said, breezing
by the waiting reporters
with a grin of triumph.
There were six men in the
room, three in military uniform.
Howells poked the envelope towards
Jerry, and snapped:
"This note of yours. Just what
do you think it means?"
"You know better than I do,
Mr. Howells. I'm just doing my
job; I think the public has a
right to know about this spaceship
that's flying around—"
His words brought an exclamation
from the others. Howells
sighed, and said:
"Mr. Bridges, you don't make
it easy for us. It's our opinion
that secrecy is essential, that
leakage of the story might cause
panic. Since you're the only unauthorized
person who knows of
it, we have two choices. One of
them is to lock you up."
Jerry swallowed hard.
"The other is perhaps more
practical," Howells said. "You'll
be taken into our confidence, and
allowed to accompany those officials
who will be admitted to the
landing site. But you will
not
be
allowed to relay the story to the
press until such a time as
all
correspondents are informed.
That won't give you a 'scoop' if
that's what you call it, but you'll
be an eyewitness. That should
be worth something."
"It's worth a lot," Jerry said
eagerly. "Thanks, Mr. Howells."
"Don't thank me, I'm not doing
you any
personal
favor. Now
about the landing tonight—"
"You mean the spaceship's
coming down?"
"Yes. A special foreign ministers
conference was held this
morning, and a decision was
reached to accept the delegate.
Landing instructions are being
given at Los Alamos, and the
ship will presumably land
around midnight tonight. There
will be a jet leaving Washington
Airport at nine, and you'll be
on it. Meanwhile, consider yourself
in custody."
The USAF jet transport
wasn't the only secrecy-shrouded
aircraft that took off that evening
from Washington Airport.
But Jerry Bridges, sitting in
the rear seat flanked by two
Sphinx-like Secret Service men,
knew that he was the only passenger
with non-official status
aboard.
It was only a few minutes
past ten when they arrived at
the air base at Los Alamos. The
desert sky was cloudy and starless,
and powerful searchlights
probed the thick cumulus. There
were sleek, purring black autos
waiting to rush the air passengers
to some unnamed destination.
They drove for twenty
minutes across a flat ribbon of
desert road, until Jerry sighted
what appeared to be a circle of
newly-erected lights in the middle
of nowhere. On the perimeter,
official vehicles were parked
in orderly rows, and four USAF
trailer trucks were in evidence,
their radarscopes turning slowly.
There was activity everywhere,
but it was well-ordered
and unhurried. They had done a
good job of keeping the excitement
contained.
He was allowed to leave the
car and stroll unescorted. He
tried to talk to some of the
scurrying officials, but to no
avail. Finally, he contented
himself by sitting on the sand,
his back against the grill of a
staff car, smoking one cigarette
after another.
As the minutes ticked off, the
activity became more frenetic
around him. Then the pace slowed,
and he knew the appointed
moment was approaching. Stillness
returned to the desert, and
tension was a tangible substance
in the night air.
The radarscopes spun slowly.
The searchlights converged
in an intricate pattern.
Then the clouds seemed to
part!
"Here she comes!" a voice
shouted. And in a moment, the
calm was shattered. At first, he
saw nothing. A faint roar was
started in the heavens, and it
became a growl that increased
in volume until even the shouting
voices could no longer be
heard. Then the crisscrossing
lights struck metal, glancing off
the gleaming body of a descending
object. Larger and larger
the object grew, until it assumed
the definable shape of a squat
silver funnel, falling in a perfect
straight line towards the center
of the light-ringed area. When it
hit, a dust cloud obscured it from
sight.
A loudspeaker blared out an
unintelligible order, but its message
was clear. No one moved
from their position.
Finally, a three-man team,
asbestos-clad, lead-shielded, stepped
out from the ring of spectators.
They carried geiger counters
on long poles before them.
Jerry held his breath as they
approached the object; only
when they were yards away did
he appreciate its size. It wasn't
large; not more than fifteen feet
in total circumference.
One of the three men waved
a gloved hand.
"It's okay," a voice breathed
behind him. "No radiation ..."
Slowly, the ring of spectators
closed tighter. They were twenty
yards from the ship when the
voice spoke to them.
"Greetings from Venus," it
said, and then repeated the
phrase in six languages. "The
ship you see is a Venusian Class
7 interplanetary rocket, built
for one-passenger. It is clear of
all radiation, and is perfectly
safe to approach. There is a
hatch which may be opened by
an automatic lever in the side.
Please open this hatch and remove
the passenger."
An Air Force General whom
Jerry couldn't identify stepped
forward. He circled the ship
warily, and then said something
to the others. They came closer,
and he touched a small lever on
the silvery surface of the funnel.
A door slid open.
"It's a box!" someone said.
"A crate—"
"Colligan! Moore! Schaffer!
Lend a hand here—"
A trio came forward and
hoisted the crate out of the ship.
Then the voice spoke again;
Jerry deduced that it must have
been activated by the decreased
load of the ship.
"Please open the crate. You
will find our delegate within.
We trust you will treat him
with the courtesy of an official
emissary."
They set to work on the crate,
its gray plastic material giving
in readily to the application of
their tools. But when it was
opened, they stood aside in
amazement and consternation.
There were a variety of metal
pieces packed within, protected
by a filmy packing material.
"Wait a minute," the general
said. "Here's a book—"
He picked up a gray-bound
volume, and opened its cover.
"'Instructions for assembling
Delegate,'" he read aloud.
"'First, remove all parts and
arrange them in the following
order. A-1, central nervous system
housing. A-2 ...'" He looked
up. "It's an instruction book,"
he whispered. "We're supposed
to
build
the damn thing."
The Delegate, a handsomely
constructed robot almost eight
feet tall, was pieced together
some three hours later, by a
team of scientists and engineers
who seemed to find the Venusian
instructions as elementary as a
blueprint in an Erector set. But
simple as the job was, they were
obviously impressed by the
mechanism they had assembled.
It stood impassive until they
obeyed the final instruction.
"Press Button K ..."
They found button K, and
pressed it.
The robot bowed.
"Thank you, gentlemen," it
said, in sweet, unmetallic accents.
"Now if you will please
escort me to the meeting
place ..."
It wasn't until three days
after the landing that Jerry
Bridges saw the Delegate again.
Along with a dozen assorted
government officials, Army officers,
and scientists, he was
quartered in a quonset hut in
Fort Dix, New Jersey. Then,
after seventy-two frustrating
hours, he was escorted by Marine
guard into New York City.
No one told him his destination,
and it wasn't until he saw the
bright strips of light across the
face of the United Nations
building that he knew where the
meeting was to be held.
But his greatest surprise was
yet to come. The vast auditorium
which housed the general
assembly was filled to its capacity,
but there were new faces
behind the plaques which designated
the member nations.
He couldn't believe his eyes at
first, but as the meeting got
under way, he knew that it was
true. The highest echelons of the
world's governments were represented,
even—Jerry gulped
at the realization—Nikita Khrushchev
himself. It was a summit
meeting such as he had never
dreamed possible, a summit
meeting without benefit of long
foreign minister's debate. And
the cause of it all, a placid,
highly-polished metal robot, was
seated blithely at a desk which
bore the designation:
VENUS.
The robot delegate stood up.
"Gentlemen," it said into the
microphone, and the great men
at the council tables strained to
hear the translator's version
through their headphones, "Gentlemen,
I thank you for your
prompt attention. I come as a
Delegate from a great neighbor
planet, in the interests of peace
and progress for all the solar
system. I come in the belief that
peace is the responsibility of individuals,
of nations, and now
of worlds, and that each is dependent
upon the other. I speak
to you now through the electronic
instrumentation which
has been created for me, and I
come to offer your planet not
merely a threat, a promise, or
an easy solution—but a challenge."
The council room stirred.
"Your earth satellites have
been viewed with interest by the
astronomers of our world, and
we foresee the day when contact
between our planets will be commonplace.
As for ourselves, we
have hitherto had little desire
to explore beyond our realm,
being far too occupied with internal
matters. But our isolation
cannot last in the face of
your progress, so we believe that
we must take part in your
affairs.
"Here, then, is our challenge.
Continue your struggle of ideas,
compete with each other for the
minds of men, fight your bloodless
battles, if you know no
other means to attain progress.
But do all this
without
unleashing
the terrible forces of power
now at your command. Once
unleashed, these forces may or
may not destroy all that you
have gained. But we, the scientists
of Venus, promise you this—that
on the very day your conflict
deteriorates into heedless
violence, we will not stand by
and let the ugly contagion
spread. On that day, we of
Venus will act swiftly, mercilessly,
and relentlessly—to destroy
your world completely."
Again, the meeting room exploded
in a babble of languages.
"The vessel which brought me
here came as a messenger of
peace. But envision it, men of
Earth, as a messenger of war.
Unstoppable, inexorable, it may
return, bearing a different Delegate
from Venus—a Delegate of
Death, who speaks not in words,
but in the explosion of atoms.
Think of thousands of such Delegates,
fired from a vantage
point far beyond the reach of
your retaliation. This is the
promise and the challenge that
will hang in your night sky from
this moment forward. Look at
the planet Venus, men of Earth,
and see a Goddess of Vengeance,
poised to wreak its wrath upon
those who betray the peace."
The Delegate sat down.
Four days later, a mysterious
explosion rocked the quiet sands
of Los Alamos, and the Venus
spacecraft was no more. Two
hours after that, the robot delegate,
its message delivered, its
mission fulfilled, requested to be
locked inside a bombproof
chamber. When the door was
opened, the Delegate was an exploded
ruin.
The news flashed with lightning
speed over the world, and
Jerry Bridges' eyewitness accounts
of the incredible event
was syndicated throughout the
nation. But his sudden celebrity
left him vaguely unsatisfied.
He tried to explain his feeling
to Greta on his first night back
in Washington. They were in his
apartment, and it was the first
time Greta had consented to pay
him the visit.
"Well, what's
bothering
you?"
Greta pouted. "You've had the
biggest story of the year under
your byline. I should think you'd
be tickled pink."
"It's not that," Jerry said
moodily. "But ever since I heard
the Delegate speak, something's
been nagging me."
"But don't you think he's done
good? Don't you think they'll be
impressed by what he said?"
"I'm not worried about that.
I think that damn robot did
more for peace than anything
that's ever come along in this
cockeyed world. But still ..."
Greta snuggled up to him on
the sofa. "You worry too much.
Don't you ever think of anything
else? You should learn to
relax. It can be fun."
She started to prove it to him,
and Jerry responded the way a
normal, healthy male usually
does. But in the middle of an
embrace, he cried out:
"Wait a minute!"
"What's the matter?"
"I just thought of something!
Now where the hell did I put
my old notebooks?"
He got up from the sofa and
went scurrying to a closet. From
a debris of cardboard boxes, he
found a worn old leather brief
case, and cackled with delight
when he found the yellowed
notebooks inside.
"What
are
they?" Greta said.
"My old school notebooks.
Greta, you'll have to excuse me.
But there's something I've got
to do, right away!"
"That's all right with me,"
Greta said haughtily. "I know
when I'm not wanted."
She took her hat and coat from
the hall closet, gave him one
last chance to change his mind,
and then left.
Five minutes later, Jerry
Bridges was calling the airlines.
It had been eleven years since
Jerry had walked across the
campus of Clifton University,
heading for the ivy-choked
main building. It was remarkable
how little had changed, but
the students seemed incredibly
young. He was winded by the
time he asked the pretty girl at
the desk where Professor Martin
Coltz could be located.
"Professor Coltz?" She stuck
a pencil to her mouth. "Well, I
guess he'd be in the Holland
Laboratory about now."
"Holland Laboratory? What's
that?"
"Oh, I guess that was after
your time, wasn't it?"
Jerry felt decrepit, but managed
to say: "It must be something
new since I was here.
Where is this place?"
He followed her directions,
and located a fresh-painted
building three hundred yards
from the men's dorm. He met a
student at the door, who told
him that Professor Coltz would
be found in the physics department.
The room was empty when
Jerry entered, except for the
single stooped figure vigorously
erasing a blackboard. He turned
when the door opened. If the
students looked younger, Professor
Coltz was far older than
Jerry remembered. He was a
tall man, with an unruly confusion
of straight gray hair. He
blinked when Jerry said:
"Hello, Professor. Do you remember
me? Jerry Bridges?"
"Of course! I thought of you
only yesterday, when I saw your
name in the papers—"
They sat at facing student
desks, and chatted about old
times. But Jerry was impatient
to get to the point of his visit,
and he blurted out:
"Professor Coltz, something's
been bothering me. It bothered
me from the moment I heard
the Delegate speak. I didn't
know what it was until last
night, when I dug out my old
college notebooks. Thank God
I kept them."
Coltz's eyes were suddenly
hooded.
"What do you mean, Jerry?"
"There was something about
the Robot's speech that sounded
familiar—I could have sworn
I'd heard some of the words
before. I couldn't prove anything
until I checked my old
notes, and here's what I found."
He dug into his coat pocket
and produced a sheet of paper.
He unfolded it and read aloud.
"'It's my belief that peace is
the responsibility of individuals,
of nations, and someday, even of
worlds ...' Sound familiar, Professor?"
Coltz shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't recall every silly thing
I said, Jerry."
"But it's an interesting coincidence,
isn't it, Professor?
These very words were spoken
by the Delegate from Venus."
"A coincidence—"
"Is it? But I also remember
your interest in robotics. I'll
never forget that mechanical
homing pigeon you constructed.
And you've probably learned
much more these past eleven
years."
"What are you driving at,
Jerry?"
"Just this, Professor. I had a
little daydream, recently, and I
want you to hear it. I dreamed
about a group of teachers, scientists,
and engineers, a group
who were suddenly struck by
an exciting, incredible idea. A
group that worked in the quiet
and secrecy of a University on a
fantastic scheme to force the
idea of peace into the minds of
the world's big shots. Does my
dream interest you, Professor?"
"Go on."
"Well, I dreamt that this
group would secretly launch an
earth satellite of their own, and
arrange for the nose cone to
come down safely at a certain
time and place. They would install
a marvelous electronic robot
within the cone, ready to be
assembled. They would beam a
radio message to earth from the
cone, seemingly as if it originated
from their 'spaceship.'
Then, when the Robot was assembled,
they would speak
through it to demand peace for
all mankind ..."
"Jerry, if you do this—"
"You don't have to say it,
Professor, I know what you're
thinking. I'm a reporter, and my
business is to tell the world
everything I know. But if I
did it, there might not be a
world for me to write about,
would there? No, thanks, Professor.
As far as I'm concerned,
what I told you was nothing
more than a daydream."
Jerry braked the convertible
to a halt, and put his arm
around Greta's shoulder. She
looked up at the star-filled night,
and sighed romantically.
Jerry pointed. "That one."
Greta shivered closer to him.
"And to think what that terrible
planet can do to us!"
"Oh, I dunno. Venus is also
the Goddess of Love."
He swung his other arm
around her, and Venus winked
approvingly.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
October 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26066 | [
"The plot of Eric's newest book most likely reflects:",
"Which statement best describes Williamson's writing style?",
"What event or experience had the strongest impact on Williamson's literary style?",
"What is ironic about Eric's contempt for the glass edifice over New York City?",
"Where does Eric view himself and others in relation to the modern world?",
"How does Eric compare to the protagonists of his novels?",
"What attitude does Eric display towards modern technological appliances?",
"What is ironic about Eric and Nada's desire to return to nature?",
"All of the following factors reveal that the Cosmic Express is in the initial stages of development EXCEPT for",
"What prevents Williamson's writing style from venturing into the absurd?"
] | [
[
"How Eric wishes he could have provided for Nada on their visit to Venus",
"How Nada resents Eric for not providing for her on their visit to Venus",
"How Eric has contorted his experience on Venus to seem more like his protagonist",
"How Nada would have envisioned her and Eric's visit to Venus"
],
[
"It reflects his disdain for humankind's obsession with technological advancement",
"More authors have parlayed his method and style than any other science fiction author",
"It evolved to be flexible despite how it initially imitated the style of a singular author",
"It contains myriad farcical and parodic literary elements, which was uncommon during his time"
],
[
"Reading books by some of the most illustrious science fiction authors as a child and adolescent",
"Watching his father make sacrifices to provide for him, his mother, and younger siblings",
"Growing up with little protection from exposure to the suffering from the elements",
"Not having the same access to innovative, life-saving technology in his formative years"
],
[
"If the glass was penetrated, he and Nada and all of New York would immediately perish",
"Its invention was inspired by the author of one of Eric's favorite science fiction novels",
"Something similar might have protected him and Nada from the harsh Venusian elements",
"Similar inventions are main features in his science fiction novels"
],
[
"He believes that humans rely too much on modern technological advancements and are devolving as a result",
"He believes that scientists and inventors are responsible for the downfall of society",
"He believes that humans will never be content until they are able to perform any task without leaving the confines of their homes",
"He believes that technological advancement has swindled humans of their natural gifts and activities"
],
[
"He shares neither a passion nor aptitude for survival",
"He shares an aptitude for survival, but not a passion",
"He shares a passion and aptitude for survival",
"He shares a passion for survival, but not an aptitude"
],
[
"Bewilderment",
"Repugnance",
"Veneration",
"Forbearance"
],
[
"They can only do so using the most advanced modern technology",
"Once they experience the return to nature, they don't know how to survive",
"Their current residence is similar to what it would be like on Venus",
"Their vision of nature is unrealistic and based solely on images from fictional novels"
],
[
"the qualifications of the operating staff",
"the limited number of receiving stations",
"the disappearance of Violet",
"the lack of micrometer readings"
],
[
"His characters -- though eclectic and sometimes bizarre -- share authentic feelings, thoughts, and experiences with human readers",
"His writing style does not contain unpredictable juxtapositions and irrational humor",
"It is socially accepted that broadcast information will soon explode as a major field of discovery and innovation",
"While his characters typically endure suffering, they adopt a comedic -- rather than tragic -- outlook toward their predicaments"
]
] | [
1,
3,
1,
3,
4,
4,
2,
1,
4,
3
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
December 1961 and
was first published in
Amazing Stories
November 1930. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
A Classic Reprint from AMAZING STORIES, November, 1930
Copyright 1931, by Experimenter Publications Inc.
The Cosmic Express
By JACK WILLIAMSON
Introduction by Sam Moskowitz
The
year 1928 was a great
year of discovery for
AMAZING
STORIES
.
They were uncovering
new talent at such a great rate,
(Harl Vincent, David H. Keller,
E. E. Smith, Philip Francis Nowlan,
Fletcher Pratt and Miles J.
Breuer), that Jack Williamson
barely managed to become one of
a distinguished group of discoveries
by stealing the cover of the
December issue for his first story
The Metal Man.
A disciple of A. Merritt, he attempted
to imitate in style, mood
and subject the magic of that
late lamented master of fantasy.
The imitation found great favor
from the readership and almost
instantly Jack Williamson became
an important name on the
contents page of
AMAZING STORIES
.
He followed his initial success
with two short novels
, The
Green Girl
in
AMAZING STORIES
and
The Alien Intelligence
in
SCIENCE WONDER STORIES
,
another
Gernsback publication. Both of
these stories were close copies of
A. Merritt, whose style and method
Jack Williamson parlayed into
popularity for eight years.
Yet the strange thing about it
was that Jack Williamson was
one of the most versatile science
fiction authors ever to sit down
at the typewriter. When the
vogue for science-fantasy altered
to super science, he created the
memorable super lock-picker
Giles Habilula as the major attraction
in a rousing trio of space
operas
, The Legion of Space, The
Cometeers
and
One Against the
Legion.
When grim realism was
the order of the day, he produced
Crucible of Power
and when they
wanted extrapolated theory in
present tense, he assumed the
disguise of Will Stewart and
popularized the concept of contra
terrene matter in science fiction
with
Seetee Ship
and
Seetee
Shock.
Finally, when only psychological
studies of the future
would do, he produced
"With
Folded Hands ..." "... And
Searching Mind."
The Cosmic Express
is of special
interest because it was written
during Williamson's A. Merritt
"kick," when he was writing
little else but, and it gave the
earliest indication of a more general
capability. The lightness of
the handling is especially modern,
barely avoiding the farcical
by the validity of the notion that
wireless transmission of matter
is the next big transportation
frontier to be conquered. It is
especially important because it
stylistically forecast a later trend
to accept the background for
granted, regardless of the quantity
of wonders, and proceed with
the story. With only a few thousand
scanning-disk television sets
in existence at the time of the
writing, the surmise that this
media would be a natural for
westerns was particularly astute.
Jack Williamson was born in
1908 in the Arizona territory
when covered wagons were the
primary form of transportation
and apaches still raided the settlers.
His father was a cattle
man, but for young Jack, the
ranch was anything but glamorous.
"My days were filled," he remembers,
"with monotonous
rounds of what seemed an endless,
heart-breaking war with
drought and frost and dust-storms,
poison-weeds and hail,
for the sake of survival on the
Llano Estacado."
The discovery
of
AMAZING STORIES
was the escape
he sought and his goal was
to be a science fiction writer. He
labored to this end and the first
he knew that a story of his had
been accepted was when he
bought the December, 1929 issue
of
AMAZING STORIES
.
Since then,
he has written millions of words
of science fiction and has gone on
record as follows: "I feel that
science-fiction is the folklore of
the new world of science, and
the expression of man's reaction
to a technological environment.
By which I mean that it is the
most interesting and stimulating
form of literature today."
Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
tumbled out of the
rumpled bed-clothing, a striking
slender figure in purple-striped
pajamas. He smiled fondly across
to the other of the twin beds,
where Nada, his pretty bride,
lay quiet beneath light silk covers.
With a groan, he stood up
and began a series of fantastic
bending exercises. But after a
few half-hearted movements, he
gave it up, and walked through
an open door into a small bright
room, its walls covered with bookcases
and also with scientific appliances
that would have been
strange to the man of four or
five centuries before, when the
Age of Aviation was beginning.
Suddenly there was a sharp tingling
sensation where they touched
the polished surface.
Yawning, Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
stood before the great
open window, staring out. Below
him was a wide, park-like space,
green with emerald lawns, and
bright with flowering plants.
Two hundred yards across it rose
an immense pyramidal building—an
artistic structure, gleaming
with white marble and bright
metal, striped with the verdure
of terraced roof-gardens,
its slender peak rising to
help support the gray, steel-ribbed
glass roof above. Beyond,
the park stretched away in
illimitable vistas, broken with
the graceful columned buildings
that held up the great glass roof.
Above the glass, over this New
York of 2432 A. D., a freezing
blizzard was sweeping. But small
concern was that to the lightly
clad man at the window, who was
inhaling deeply the fragrant air
from the plants below—air kept,
winter and summer, exactly at
20° C.
With another yawn, Mr. Eric
Stokes-Harding turned back to
the room, which was bright with
the rich golden light that poured
in from the suspended globes of
the cold ato-light that illuminated
the snow-covered city.
With a distasteful grimace, he
seated himself before a broad,
paper-littered desk, sat a few
minutes leaning back, with his
hands clasped behind his head.
At last he straightened reluctantly,
slid a small typewriter
out of its drawer, and began
pecking at it impatiently.
For Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding
was an author. There was a whole
shelf of his books on the wall, in
bright jackets, red and blue and
green, that brought a thrill of
pleasure to the young novelist's
heart when he looked up from his
clattering machine.
He wrote "thrilling action romances,"
as his enthusiastic publishers
and television directors
said, "of ages past, when men
were men. Red-blooded heroes responding
vigorously to the stirring
passions of primordial life!"
He
was impartial as to the
source of his thrills—provided
they were distant enough
from modern civilization. His
hero was likely to be an ape-man
roaring through the jungle, with
a bloody rock in one hand and
a beautiful girl in the other.
Or a cowboy, "hard-riding, hard-shooting,"
the vanishing hero of
the ancient ranches. Or a man
marooned with a lovely woman
on a desert South Sea island.
His heroes were invariably
strong, fearless, resourceful fellows,
who could handle a club on
equal terms with a cave-man, or
call science to aid them in defending
a beautiful mate from
the terrors of a desolate wilderness.
And a hundred million read
Eric's novels, and watched the
dramatization of them on the
television screens. They thrilled
at the simple, romantic lives his
heroes led, paid him handsome
royalties, and subconsciously
shared his opinion that civilization
had taken all the best from
the life of man.
Eric had settled down to the
artistic satisfaction of describing
the sensuous delight of his
hero in the roasted marrow-bones
of a dead mammoth, when
the pretty woman in the other
room stirred, and presently came
tripping into the study, gay and
vivacious, and—as her husband
of a few months most justly
thought—altogether beautiful in
a bright silk dressing gown.
Recklessly, he slammed the
machine back into its place, and
resolved to forget that his next
"red-blooded action thriller" was
due in the publisher's office at the
end of the month. He sprang up
to kiss his wife, held her embraced
for a long happy moment.
And then they went hand in
hand, to the side of the room and
punched a series of buttons on a
panel—a simple way of ordering
breakfast sent up the automatic
shaft from the kitchens below.
Nada Stokes-Harding was also
an author. She wrote poems—"back
to nature stuff"—simple
lyrics of the sea, of sunsets, of
bird songs, of bright flowers and
warm winds, of thrilling communion
with Nature, and growing
things. Men read her poems
and called her a genius. Even
though the whole world had
grown up into a city, the birds
were extinct, there were no wild
flowers, and no one had time to
bother about sunsets.
"Eric, darling," she said, "isn't
it terrible to be cooped up here
in this little flat, away from the
things we both love?"
"Yes, dear. Civilization has
ruined the world. If we could only
have lived a thousand years ago,
when life was simple and natural,
when men hunted and killed their
meat, instead of drinking synthetic
stuff, when men still had
the joys of conflict, instead of
living under glass, like hot-house
flowers."
"If we could only go somewhere—"
"There isn't anywhere to go. I
write about the West, Africa,
South Sea Islands. But they
were all filled up two hundred
years ago. Pleasure resorts, sanatoriums,
cities, factories."
"If only we lived on Venus!
I was listening to a lecture on
the television, last night. The
speaker said that the Planet
Venus is younger than the Earth,
that it has not cooled so much. It
has a thick, cloudy atmosphere,
and low, rainy forests. There's
simple, elemental life there—like
Earth had before civilization
ruined it."
"Yes, Kinsley, with his new infra-red
ray telescope, that penetrates
the cloud layers of the
planet, proved that Venus rotates
in about the same period as
Earth; and it must be much like
Earth was a million years ago."
"Eric, I wonder if we could go
there! It would be so thrilling to
begin life like the characters in
your stories, to get away from
this hateful civilization, and live
natural lives. Maybe a rocket—"
The
young author's eyes were
glowing. He skipped across the
floor, seized Nada, kissed her
ecstatically. "Splendid! Think of
hunting in the virgin forest, and
bringing the game home to you!
But I'm afraid there is no way.—Wait!
The Cosmic Express."
"The Cosmic Express?"
"A new invention. Just perfected
a few weeks ago, I understand.
By Ludwig Von der Valls,
the German physicist."
"I've quit bothering about science.
It has ruined nature, filled
the world with silly, artificial
people, doing silly, artificial
things."
"But this is quite remarkable,
dear. A new way to travel—by
ether!"
"By ether!"
"Yes. You know of course that
energy and matter are interchangeable
terms; both are simply
etheric vibration, of different
sorts."
"Of course. That's elementary."
She smiled proudly. "I can
give you examples, even of the
change. The disintegration of the
radium atom, making helium
and lead and
energy
. And Millikan's
old proof that his Cosmic
Ray is generated when particles
of electricity are united to form
an atom."
"Fine! I thought you said you
weren't a scientist." He glowed
with pride. "But the method, in
the new Cosmic Express, is simply
to convert the matter to be
carried into power, send it out
as a radiant beam and focus the
beam to convert it back into
atoms at the destination."
"But the amount of energy
must be terrific—"
"It is. You know short waves
carry more energy than long
ones. The Express Ray is an
electromagnetic vibration of frequency
far higher than that of
even the Cosmic Ray, and correspondingly
more powerful and
more penetrating."
The girl frowned, running slim
fingers through golden-brown
hair. "But I don't see how they
get any recognizable object, not
even how they get the radiation
turned back into matter."
"The beam is focused, just like
the light that passes through a
camera lens. The photographic
lens, using light rays, picks up a
picture and reproduces it again
on the plate—just the same as
the Express Ray picks up an
object and sets it down on the
other side of the world.
"An analogy from television
might help. You know that by
means of the scanning disc, the
picture is transformed into mere
rapid fluctuations in the brightness
of a beam of light. In a
parallel manner, the focal plane
of the Express Ray moves slowly
through the object, progressively,
dissolving layers of the
thickness of a single atom, which
are accurately reproduced at the
other focus of the instrument—which
might be in Venus!
"But the analogy of the lens
is the better of the two. For no
receiving instrument is required,
as in television. The object is
built up of an infinite series of
plane layers, at the focus of the
ray, no matter where that may
be. Such a thing would be impossible
with radio apparatus
because even with the best beam
transmission, all but a tiny fraction
of the power is lost, and
power is required to rebuild the
atoms. Do you understand,
dear?"
"Not altogether. But I should
worry! Here comes breakfast.
Let me butter your toast."
A bell had rung at the shaft.
She ran to it, and returned with
a great silver tray, laden with
dainty dishes, which she set on a
little side table. They sat down
opposite each other, and ate, getting
as much satisfaction from
contemplation of each other's
faces as from the excellent food.
When they had finished, she carried
the tray to the shaft, slid
it in a slot, and touched a button—thus
disposing of the culinary
cares of the morning.
She ran back to Eric, who was
once more staring distastefully
at his typewriter.
"Oh, darling! I'm thrilled to
death about the Cosmic Express!
If we could go to Venus, to a new
life on a new world, and get
away from all this hateful conventional
society—"
"We can go to their office—it's
only five minutes. The chap
that operates the machine for
the company is a pal of mine.
He's not supposed to take passengers
except between the offices
they have scattered about the
world. But I know his weak
point—"
Eric laughed, fumbled with a
hidden spring under his desk. A
small polished object, gleaming
silvery, slid down into his hand.
"Old friendship,
plus
this,
would make him—like spinach."
Five
minutes later Mr. Eric
Stokes-Harding and his pretty
wife were in street clothes,
light silk tunics of loose, flowing
lines—little clothing being required
in the artificially warmed
city. They entered an elevator
and dropped thirty stories to the
ground floor of the great building.
There they entered a cylindrical
car, with rows of seats down
the sides. Not greatly different
from an ancient subway car, except
that it was air-tight, and
was hurled by magnetic attraction
and repulsion through a
tube exhausted of air, at a speed
that would have made an old
subway rider gasp with amazement.
In five more minutes their car
had whipped up to the base of
another building, in the business
section, where there was no room
for parks between the mighty
structures that held the unbroken
glass roofs two hundred stories
above the concrete pavement.
An elevator brought them up a
hundred and fifty stories. Eric
led Nada down a long, carpeted
corridor to a wide glass door,
which bore the words:
COSMIC EXPRESS
stenciled in gold capitals across
it.
As they approached, a lean
man, carrying a black bag, darted
out of an elevator shaft opposite
the door, ran across the corridor,
and entered. They pushed in after
him.
They were in a little room,
cut in two by a high brass grill.
In front of it was a long bench
against the wall, that reminded
one of the waiting room in an old
railroad depot. In the grill was a
little window, with a lazy, brown-eyed
youth leaning on the shelf
behind it. Beyond him was a
great, glittering piece of mechanism,
half hidden by the brass.
A little door gave access to the
machine from the space before
the grill.
The thin man in black, whom
Eric now recognized as a prominent
French heart-specialist, was
dancing before the window, waving
his bag frantically, raving at
the sleepy boy.
"Queek! I have tell you zee
truth! I have zee most urgent
necessity to go queekly. A patient
I have in Paree, zat ees in
zee most creetical condition!"
"Hold your horses just a minute,
Mister. We got a client in
the machine now. Russian diplomat
from Moscow to Rio de
Janeiro.... Two hundred seventy
dollars and eighty cents,
please.... Your turn next. Remember
this is just an experimental
service. Regular installations
all over the world in a year....
Ready now. Come on in."
The youth took the money,
pressed a button. The door
sprang open in the grill, and the
frantic physician leaped through
it.
"Lie down on the crystal, face
up," the young man ordered.
"Hands at your sides, don't
breathe. Ready!"
He manipulated his dials and
switches, and pressed another
button.
"Why, hello, Eric, old man!"
he cried. "That's the lady you
were telling me about? Congratulations!"
A bell jangled before
him on the panel. "Just a minute.
I've got a call."
He punched the board again.
Little bulbs lit and glowed for a
second. The youth turned toward
the half-hidden machine, spoke
courteously.
"All right, madam. Walk out.
Hope you found the transit pleasant."
"But my Violet! My precious
Violet!" a shrill female voice
came from the machine. "Sir,
what have you done with my
darling Violet?"
"I'm sure I don't know, madam.
You lost it off your hat?"
"None of your impertinence,
sir! I want my dog."
"Ah, a dog. Must have jumped
off the crystal. You can have
him sent on for three hundred
and—"
"Young man, if any harm
comes to my Violet—I'll—I'll—I'll
appeal to the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!"
"Very good, madam. We appreciate
your patronage."
The
door flew open again.
A very fat woman, puffing
angrily, face highly colored,
clothing shimmering with artificial
gems, waddled pompously
out of the door through which
the frantic French doctor had
so recently vanished. She rolled
heavily across the room, and out
into the corridor. Shrill words
floated back:
"I'm going to see my lawyer!
My precious Violet—"
The sallow youth winked.
"And now what can I do for you,
Eric?"
"We want to go to Venus, if
that ray of yours can put us
there."
"To Venus? Impossible. My
orders are to use the Express
merely between the sixteen designated
stations, at New York,
San Francisco, Tokyo, London,
Paris—"
"See here, Charley," with a
cautious glance toward the door,
Eric held up the silver flask.
"For old time's sake, and for
this—"
The boy seemed dazed at sight
of the bright flask. Then, with a
single swift motion, he snatched
it out of Eric's hand, and bent
to conceal it below his instrument
panel.
"Sure, old boy. I'd send you to
heaven for that, if you'd give me
the micrometer readings to set
the ray with. But I tell you, this
is dangerous. I've got a sort of
television attachment, for focusing
the ray. I can turn that on
Venus—I've been amusing myself,
watching the life there, already.
Terrible place. Savage. I
can pick a place on high land to
set you down. But I can't be responsible
for what happens afterward."
"Simple, primitive life is what
we're looking for. And now what
do I owe you—"
"Oh, that's all right. Between
friends. Provided that stuff's
genuine! Walk in and lie down on
the crystal block. Hands at your
sides. Don't move."
The little door had swung
open again, and Eric led Nada
through. They stepped into a little
cell, completely surrounded
with mirrors and vast prisms
and lenses and electron tubes. In
the center was a slab of transparent
crystal, eight feet square
and two inches thick, with an
intricate mass of machinery below
it.
Eric helped Nada to a place
on the crystal, lay down at her
side.
"I think the Express Ray is
focused just at the surface of the
crystal, from below," he said. "It
dissolves our substance, to be
transmitted by the beam. It
would look as if we were melting
into the crystal."
"Ready," called the youth.
"Think I've got it for you. Sort
of a high island in the jungle.
Nothing bad in sight now. But,
I say—how're you coming back?
I haven't got time to watch you."
"Go ahead. We aren't coming
back."
"Gee! What is it? Elopement?
I thought you were married already.
Or is it business difficulties?
The Bears did make an awful
raid last night. But you better
let me set you down in Hong
Kong."
A bell jangled. "So long," the
youth called.
Nada and Eric felt themselves
enveloped in fire. Sheets of white
flame seemed to lap up about
them from the crystal block. Suddenly
there was a sharp tingling
sensation where they touched
the polished surface. Then blackness,
blankness.
The
next thing they knew, the
fires were gone from about
them. They were lying in something
extremely soft and fluid;
and warm rain was beating in
their faces. Eric sat up, found
himself in a mud-puddle. Beside
him was Nada, opening her eyes
and struggling up, her bright
garments stained with black
mud.
All about rose a thick jungle,
dark and gloomy—and very wet.
Palm-like, the gigantic trees
were, or fern-like, flinging clouds
of feathery green foliage high
against a somber sky of unbroken
gloom.
They stood up, triumphant.
"At last!" Nada cried. "We're
free! Free of that hateful old
civilization! We're back to Nature!"
"Yes, we're on our feet now,
not parasites on the machines."
"It's wonderful to have a fine,
strong man like you to trust in,
Eric. You're just like one of the
heroes in your books!"
"You're the perfect companion,
Nada.... But now we
must be practical. We must
build a fire, find weapons, set up
a shelter of some kind. I guess it
will be night, pretty soon. And
Charley said something about
savage animals he had seen in
the television.
"We'll find a nice dry cave,
and have a fire in front of the
door. And skins of animals to
sleep on. And pottery vessels to
cook in. And you will find seeds
and grown grain."
"But first we must find a flint-bed.
We need flint for tools, and
to strike sparks to make a fire
with. We will probably come
across a chunk of virgin copper,
too—it's found native."
Presently they set off through
the jungle. The mud seemed to
be very abundant, and of a most
sticky consistence. They sank
into it ankle deep at every step,
and vast masses of it clung to
their feet. A mile they struggled
on, without finding where a provident
nature had left them even
a single fragment of quartz, to
say nothing of a mass of pure
copper.
"A darned shame," Eric grumbled,
"to come forty million
miles, and meet such a reception
as this!"
Nada stopped. "Eric," she
said, "I'm tired. And I don't believe
there's any rock here, anyway.
You'll have to use wooden
tools, sharpened in the fire."
"Probably you're right. This
soil seemed to be of alluvial origin.
Shouldn't be surprised if
the native rock is some hundreds
of feet underground. Your
idea is better."
"You can make a fire by rubbing
sticks together, can't you?"
"It can be done, I'm sure. I've
never tried it, myself. We need
some dry sticks, first."
They resumed the weary
march, with a good fraction of
the new planet adhering to their
feet. Rain was still falling from
the dark heavens in a steady,
warm downpour. Dry wood
seemed scarce as the proverbial
hen's teeth.
"You didn't bring any matches,
dear?"
"Matches! Of course not!
We're going back to Nature."
"I hope we get a fire pretty
soon."
"If dry wood were gold dust,
we couldn't buy a hot dog."
"Eric, that reminds me that
I'm hungry."
He confessed to a few pangs of
his own. They turned their attention
to looking for banana
trees, and coconut palms, but
they did not seem to abound in
the Venerian jungle. Even small
animals that might have been
slain with a broken branch had
contrary ideas about the matter.
At last, from sheer weariness,
they stopped, and gathered
branches to make a sloping shelter
by a vast fallen tree-trunk.
"This will keep out the rain—maybe—"
Eric said hopefully.
"And tomorrow, when it has quit
raining—I'm sure we'll do better."
They crept in, as gloomy night
fell without. They lay in each
other's arms, the body warmth
oddly comforting. Nada cried a
little.
"Buck up," Eric advised her.
"We're back to nature—where
we've always wanted to be."
With
the darkness, the temperature
fell somewhat, and
a high wind rose, whipping cold
rain into the little shelter, and
threatening to demolish it.
Swarms of mosquito-like insects,
seemingly not inconvenienced in
the least by the inclement elements,
swarmed about them in
clouds.
Then came a sound from the
dismal stormy night, a hoarse,
bellowing roar, raucous, terrifying.
Nada clung against Eric.
"What is it, dear?" she chattered.
"Must be a reptile. Dinosaur,
or something of the sort. This
world seems to be in about the
same state as the Earth when
they flourished there.... But
maybe it won't find us."
The roar was repeated, nearer.
The earth trembled beneath a
mighty tread.
"Eric," a thin voice trembled.
"Don't you think—it might have
been better— You know the old
life was not so bad, after all."
"I was just thinking of our
rooms, nice and warm and
bright, with hot foods coming up
the shaft whenever we pushed
the button, and the gay crowds
in the park, and my old typewriter."
"Eric?" she called softly.
"Yes, dear."
"Don't you wish—we had
known better?"
"I do." If he winced at the
"we" the girl did not notice.
The roaring outside was closer.
And suddenly it was answered
by another raucous bellow, at
considerable distance, that echoed
strangely through the forest.
The fearful sounds were repeated,
alternately. And always
the more distant seemed nearer,
until the two sounds were together.
And then an infernal din
broke out in the darkness. Bellows.
Screams. Deafening
shrieks. Mighty splashes, as if
struggling Titans had upset
oceans. Thunderous crashes, as
if they were demolishing forests.
Eric and Nada clung to each
other, in doubt whether to stay
or to fly through the storm.
Gradually the sound of the conflict
came nearer, until the earth
shook beneath them, and they
were afraid to move.
Suddenly the great fallen tree
against which they had erected
the flimsy shelter was rolled
back, evidently by a chance blow
from the invisible monsters. The
pitiful roof collapsed on the bedraggled
humans. Nada burst
into tears.
"Oh, if only—if only—"
Suddenly
flame lapped up
about them, the same white
fire they had seen as they lay on
the crystal block. Dizziness, insensibility
overcame them. A few
moments later, they were lying
on the transparent table in the
Cosmic Express office, with all
those great mirrors and prisms
and lenses about them.
A bustling, red-faced official
appeared through the door in the
grill, fairly bubbling apologies.
"So sorry—an accident—inconceivable.
I can't see how he
got it! We got you back as soon
as we could find a focus. I sincerely
hope you haven't been injured."
"Why—what—what—"
"Why I happened in, found
our operator drunk. I've no idea
where he got the stuff. He muttered
something about Venus. I
consulted the auto-register, and
found two more passengers registered
here than had been recorded
at our other stations. I
looked up the duplicate beam coordinates,
and found that it had
been set on Venus. I got men on
the television at once, and we
happened to find you.
"I can't imagine how it happened.
I've had the fellow locked
up, and the 'dry-laws' are on the
job. I hope you won't hold us for
excessive damages."
"No, I ask nothing except that
you don't press charges against
the boy. I don't want him to suffer
for it in any way. My wife and
I will be perfectly satisfied to get
back to our apartment."
"I don't wonder. You look like
you've been through—I don't
know what. But I'll have you
there in five minutes. My private car—"
Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding, noted
author of primitive life and love,
ate a hearty meal with his pretty
spouse, after they had washed
off the grime of another planet.
He spent the next twelve hours
in bed.
At the end of the month he
delivered his promised story to
his publishers, a thrilling tale of
a man marooned on Venus, with
a beautiful girl. The hero made
stone tools, erected a dwelling
for himself and his mate, hunted
food for her, defended her from
the mammoth saurian monsters
of the Venerian jungles.
The book was a huge success.
THE END
|
train | 26741 | [
"The story takes place in _______.",
"The Tangier law enforcement's response to the influx of new populations can best be described as ________.",
"It is challenging to get to know someone intimately in a place like Tangier because people are generally ________.",
"What do Paul and Rupert have in common with their conception of alien life forms?",
"How does Rupert accidentally reveal his identity to Paul?",
"What, according to Rupert, would be the best place for an alien visitor to observe and learn about humans?",
"What do Paul and Rupert share in common?"
] | [
[
"Iraq",
"The United States",
"Morocco",
"France"
],
[
"Laissez-faire",
"Perfunctory",
"Authoritarian",
"Capricious"
],
[
"Prejudiced",
"Monolingual",
"Transient",
"Inscrutable"
],
[
"The belief that Earth should be more receptive to foreign life forms",
"They make the effort to socialize and attend large gatherings but are actually introverted",
"They believe in a hierarchy of human life and that those at the lower end were better off not around",
"Their tendency to observe humans without interacting with them"
],
[
"He attempts to examine Paul's mind to determine if he is an alien",
"He reveals information that only Scotland Yard would know",
"He mentions technology that is only present in Paul's place of origin",
"He lingers for too long at an attractive female walking by"
],
[
"Harun al-Rashid",
"The Cafe de Paris",
"A New York City library",
"The FBI headquarters"
],
[
"They are both aliens",
"They are both lonely",
"They are both have disdain for Tangier",
"They are both espionage agents"
]
] | [
3,
1,
4,
4,
1,
2,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | One can't be too cautious about the
people one meets in Tangier. They're all
weirdies of one kind or another.
Me? Oh,
I'm A Stranger
Here Myself
By MACK REYNOLDS
The
Place de France is the
town's hub. It marks the end
of Boulevard Pasteur, the main
drag of the westernized part of
the city, and the beginning of
Rue de la Liberté, which leads
down to the Grand Socco and
the medina. In a three-minute
walk from the Place de France
you can go from an ultra-modern,
California-like resort to the
Baghdad of Harun al-Rashid.
It's quite a town, Tangier.
King-size sidewalk cafes occupy
three of the strategic
corners on the Place de France.
The Cafe de Paris serves the
best draft beer in town, gets all
the better custom, and has three
shoeshine boys attached to the
establishment. You can sit of a
sunny morning and read the
Paris edition of the New York
Herald Tribune
while getting
your shoes done up like mirrors
for thirty Moroccan francs
which comes to about five cents
at current exchange.
You can sit there, after the
paper's read, sip your expresso
and watch the people go by.
Tangier is possibly the most
cosmopolitan city in the world.
In native costume you'll see
Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue
Man, and occasionally a Senegalese
from further south. In
European dress you'll see Japs
and Chinese, Hindus and Turks,
Levantines and Filipinos, North
Americans and South Americans,
and, of course, even Europeans—from
both sides of the
Curtain.
In Tangier you'll find some of
the world's poorest and some of
the richest. The poorest will try
to sell you anything from a
shoeshine to their not very lily-white
bodies, and the richest will
avoid your eyes, afraid
you
might try to sell them something.
In spite of recent changes, the
town still has its unique qualities.
As a result of them the permanent
population includes
smugglers and black-marketeers,
fugitives from justice and international
con men, espionage
and counter-espionage agents,
homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,
drug addicts, displaced
persons, ex-royalty, and subversives
of every flavor. Local law
limits the activities of few of
these.
Like I said, it's quite a town.
I looked up from my
Herald
Tribune
and said, "Hello, Paul.
Anything new cooking?"
He sank into the chair opposite
me and looked around for
the waiter. The tables were all
crowded and since mine was a
face he recognized, he assumed
he was welcome to intrude. It was
more or less standard procedure
at the Cafe de Paris. It wasn't
a place to go if you wanted to
be alone.
Paul said, "How are you,
Rupert? Haven't seen you for
donkey's years."
The waiter came along and
Paul ordered a glass of beer.
Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced
little man. I vaguely remembered
somebody saying he
was from Liverpool and in
exports.
"What's in the newspaper?"
he said, disinterestedly.
"Pogo and Albert are going
to fight a duel," I told him, "and
Lil Abner is becoming a rock'n'roll
singer."
He grunted.
"Oh," I said, "the intellectual
type." I scanned the front page.
"The Russkies have put up
another manned satellite."
"They have, eh? How big?"
"Several times bigger than
anything we Americans have."
The beer came and looked
good, so I ordered a glass too.
Paul said, "What ever happened
to those poxy flying
saucers?"
"What flying saucers?"
A French girl went by with a
poodle so finely clipped as to look
as though it'd been shaven. The
girl was in the latest from
Paris. Every pore in place. We
both looked after her.
"You know, what everybody
was seeing a few years ago. It's
too bad one of these bloody manned
satellites wasn't up then.
Maybe they would've seen one."
"That's an idea," I said.
We didn't say anything else for
a while and I began to wonder
if I could go back to my paper
without rubbing him the wrong
way. I didn't know Paul very
well, but, for that matter, it's
comparatively seldom you ever
get to know anybody very well
in Tangier. Largely, cards are
played close to the chest.
My beer came and a plate of
tapas for us both. Tapas at the
Cafe de Paris are apt to be
potato salad, a few anchovies,
olives, and possibly some cheese.
Free lunch, they used to call it
in the States.
Just to say something, I said,
"Where do you think they came
from?" And when he looked
blank, I added, "The Flying
Saucers."
He grinned. "From Mars or
Venus, or someplace."
"Ummmm," I said. "Too bad
none of them ever crashed, or
landed on the Yale football field
and said
Take me to your cheerleader
,
or something."
Paul yawned and said, "That
was always the trouble with those
crackpot blokes' explanations of
them. If they were aliens from
space, then why not show themselves?"
I ate one of the potato chips.
It'd been cooked in rancid olive
oil.
I said, "Oh, there are various
answers to that one. We could
probably sit around here and
think of two or three that made
sense."
Paul was mildly interested.
"Like what?"
"Well, hell, suppose for instance
there's this big Galactic League
of civilized planets. But it's restricted,
see. You're not eligible
for membership until you, well,
say until you've developed space
flight. Then you're invited into
the club. Meanwhile, they send
secret missions down from time
to time to keep an eye on your
progress."
Paul grinned at me. "I see you
read the same poxy stuff I do."
A Moorish girl went by dressed
in a neatly tailored gray
jellaba, European style high-heeled
shoes, and a pinkish silk
veil so transparent that you
could see she wore lipstick. Very
provocative, dark eyes can be
over a veil. We both looked
after her.
I said, "Or, here's another
one. Suppose you have a very
advanced civilization on, say,
Mars."
"Not Mars. No air, and too
bloody dry to support life."
"Don't interrupt, please," I
said with mock severity. "This
is a very old civilization and as
the planet began to lose its
water and air, it withdrew underground.
Uses hydroponics and
so forth, husbands its water and
air. Isn't that what we'd do, in
a few million years, if Earth lost
its water and air?"
"I suppose so," he said. "Anyway,
what about them?"
"Well, they observe how man
is going through a scientific
boom, an industrial boom, a
population boom. A boom, period.
Any day now he's going to have
practical space ships. Meanwhile,
he's also got the H-Bomb and
the way he beats the drums on
both sides of the Curtain, he's
not against using it, if he could
get away with it."
Paul said, "I got it. So they're
scared and are keeping an eye on
us. That's an old one. I've read
that a dozen times, dished up
different."
I shifted my shoulders. "Well,
it's one possibility."
"I got a better one. How's
this. There's this alien life form
that's way ahead of us. Their
civilization is so old that they
don't have any records of when
it began and how it was in the
early days. They've gone beyond
things like wars and depressions
and revolutions, and greed for
power or any of these things
giving us a bad time here on
Earth. They're all like scholars,
get it? And some of them are
pretty jolly well taken by Earth,
especially the way we are right
now, with all the problems, get
it? Things developing so fast we
don't know where we're going
or how we're going to get there."
I finished my beer and clapped
my hands for Mouley. "How do
you mean,
where we're going
?"
"Well, take half the countries
in the world today. They're trying
to industrialize, modernize,
catch up with the advanced countries.
Look at Egypt, and Israel,
and India and China, and Yugoslavia
and Brazil, and all the
rest. Trying to drag themselves
up to the level of the advanced
countries, and all using different
methods of doing it. But look
at the so-called advanced countries.
Up to their bottoms in
problems. Juvenile delinquents,
climbing crime and suicide rates,
the loony-bins full of the balmy,
unemployed, threat of war,
spending all their money on armaments
instead of things like
schools. All the bloody mess of
it. Why, a man from Mars would
be fascinated, like."
Mouley came shuffling up in
his babouche slippers and we
both ordered another schooner
of beer.
Paul said seriously, "You
know, there's only one big snag
in this sort of talk. I've sorted
the whole thing out before, and
you always come up against this
brick wall. Where are they, these
observers, or scholars, or spies
or whatever they are? Sooner
or later we'd nab one of them.
You know, Scotland Yard, or
the F.B.I., or Russia's secret
police, or the French Sûreté, or
Interpol. This world is so deep
in police, counter-espionage outfits
and security agents that an
alien would slip up in time, no
matter how much he'd been
trained. Sooner or later, he'd slip
up, and they'd nab him."
I shook my head. "Not necessarily.
The first time I ever considered
this possibility, it seemed
to me that such an alien would
base himself in London or New
York. Somewhere where he could
use the libraries for research,
get the daily newspapers and
the magazines. Be right in the
center of things. But now I don't
think so. I think he'd be right
here in Tangier."
"Why Tangier?"
"It's the one town in the world
where anything goes. Nobody
gives a damn about you or your
affairs. For instance, I've known
you a year or more now, and I
haven't the slightest idea of how
you make your living."
"That's right," Paul admitted.
"In this town you seldom even
ask a man where's he's from. He
can be British, a White Russian,
a Basque or a Sikh and nobody
could care less. Where are
you
from, Rupert?"
"California," I told him.
"No, you're not," he grinned.
I was taken aback. "What do
you mean?"
"I felt your mind probe back
a few minutes ago when I was
talking about Scotland Yard or
the F.B.I. possibly flushing an
alien. Telepathy is a sense not
trained by the humanoids. If
they had it, your job—and mine—would
be considerably more
difficult. Let's face it, in spite of
these human bodies we're disguised
in, neither of us is
humanoid. Where are you really
from, Rupert?"
"Aldebaran," I said. "How
about you?"
"Deneb," he told me, shaking.
We had a laugh and ordered
another beer.
"What're you doing here on
Earth?" I asked him.
"Researching for one of our
meat trusts. We're protein
eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered
quite a delicacy. How
about you?"
"Scouting the place for thrill
tourists. My job is to go around
to these backward cultures and
help stir up inter-tribal, or international,
conflicts—all according
to how advanced they
are. Then our tourists come in—well
shielded, of course—and get
their kicks watching it."
Paul frowned. "That sort of
practice could spoil an awful
lot of good meat."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
December 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26957 | [
"What is the star mother's attitude toward space exploration? (leave it alone) she misses her son",
"What is Terry's mother's attitude toward the suave reporters?",
"Why is Terry's mother able to learn so much about his progress in space?",
"How does Terry's mother's attitude toward celestial matters change as she grows older?",
"In what what does Terry unknowingly foreshadow his own death?",
"Why does Terry's mom not want them to bring back his remains?",
"Why does the general support Terry's mother's decision not to bring her son's remains back to Earth?",
"What is Terry's mother's core tension of being a star mother?",
"Terry's mother uses the following metaphors to describe the sky except for ______.",
"How does Terry's mother's description of her son not match the reporter's preconceived image?"
] | [
[
"She feels ambivalent and thinks the government's money is better spent elsewhere",
"She wishes that humans and governments would abandon their space-related pursuits",
"She obsesses over learning all she can about new stars and planets",
"She displays strong curiosity about how discoveries could benefit life on Earth"
],
[
"She is frustrated with their tendency to fit her interview responses to a narrative",
"She is angry that they are trespassing on her property ",
"She is grateful for their interest in her son's exploration",
"She is hopeful that they will accurately represent her experience as a star mother"
],
[
"A new law allows women like Terry to receive regular updates on their children's journeys in space",
"Star mothers have access to their sons' digital journal entries while they are orbiting in space",
"Terry stipulated that his mother be informed of his progress if he agreed to volunteer for the space mission",
"The general is Terry's father, Bill, and he breaks the law in informing Terry's mother of Terry's progress"
],
[
"She becomes infuriated at her younger self for engaging in such trivial behaviors as wishing upon a star",
"She feels more of a personal connection to the stars",
"She believes more in the 'magic' of wishing upon a star",
"She longs to venture up into space in order to understand her own son's affinity for it"
],
[
"By joking about the odds of his spacecraft being hit by an object",
"By playing roughly with toy cars in the street as a child",
"By granting his mother permission to share exciting details of his progress to reporters",
"By promising to update his mother as often as possible on his progress"
],
[
"She knows that her son would not find it practical to return to Earth",
"She knows that it will not be physically possible for them to return him to Earth",
"She cannot bear to see the tainted carcass of her beloved son",
"She wishes to continue the ritual of greeting him every night when she looks to the sky"
],
[
"It would be too expensive to initiate a recovery mission that might be unsuccessful",
"The new law grants star mothers priority over what happens to a deceased son, and he must obey her wishes",
"He realizes that by keeping Terry in orbit, his mother will be able to maintain a special connection with her son",
"He must swiftly move his attention to the next explorer and, therefore, space mother"
],
[
"People see her star mother status as an opportunity, while she wishes someone else could have it",
"People are generally critical of the star mother law, but she is grateful for it",
"People want to know more about Terry's journey, and she has no way of accurately representing it",
"People are skeptical of the exploration, while she is a firm supporter"
],
[
"An ocean",
"A chariot pathway",
"A graveyard",
"A garden"
],
[
"He is reserved and has difficulty making friends",
"He is an average American boy",
"He did not perform well in school",
"He preferred athletics over academics"
]
] | [
2,
1,
1,
2,
1,
4,
3,
1,
1,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | STAR MOTHER
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
A touching story of the most
enduring love in all eternity.
That
night her son was the
first star.
She stood motionless in the
garden, one hand pressed against
her heart, watching him rise
above the fields where he had
played as a boy, where he had
worked as a young man; and she
wondered whether he was thinking
of those fields now, whether
he was thinking of her standing
alone in the April night with her
memories; whether he was
thinking of the verandahed
house behind her, with its empty
rooms and silent halls, that once
upon a time had been his birthplace.
Higher still and higher he
rose in the southern sky, and
then, when he had reached his
zenith, he dropped swiftly down
past the dark edge of the Earth
and disappeared from sight. A
boy grown up too soon, riding
round and round the world on
a celestial carousel, encased in
an airtight metal capsule in an
airtight metal chariot ...
Why don't they leave the stars
alone?
she thought.
Why don't
they leave the stars to God?
The general's second telegram
came early the next morning:
Explorer XII
doing splendidly.
Expect to bring your son down
sometime tomorrow
.
She went about her work as
usual, collecting the eggs and
allocating them in their cardboard
boxes, then setting off in
the station wagon on her Tuesday
morning run. She had expected
a deluge of questions
from her customers. She was not
disappointed. "Is Terry really
way up there all alone, Martha?"
"Aren't you
scared
, Martha?" "I
do hope they can get him back
down all right, Martha." She
supposed it must have given
them quite a turn to have their
egg woman change into a star
mother overnight.
She hadn't expected the TV interview,
though, and she would
have avoided it if it had been
politely possible. But what could
she do when the line of cars and
trucks pulled into the drive and
the technicians got out and started
setting up their equipment in
the backyard? What could she
say when the suave young man
came up to her and said, "We
want you to know that we're all
very proud of your boy up there,
ma'am, and we hope you'll do us
the honor of answering a few
questions."
Most of the questions concerned
Terry, as was fitting.
From the way the suave young
man asked them, though, she got
the impression that he was trying
to prove that her son was
just like any other average
American boy, and such just
didn't happen to be the case. But
whenever she opened her mouth
to mention, say, how he used to
study till all hours of the night,
or how difficult it had been for
him to make friends because of
his shyness, or the fact that he
had never gone out for football—whenever
she started to mention
any of these things, the
suave young man was in great
haste to interrupt her and to
twist her words, by requestioning,
into a different meaning
altogether, till Terry's behavior
pattern seemed to coincide with
the behavior pattern which the
suave young man apparently considered
the norm, but which, if
followed, Martha was sure,
would produce not young men
bent on exploring space but
young men bent on exploring
trivia.
A few of the questions concerned
herself: Was Terry her
only child? ("Yes.") What had
happened to her husband? ("He
was killed in the Korean War.")
What did she think of the new
law granting star mothers top
priority on any and all information
relating to their sons? ("I
think it's a fine law ... It's too
bad they couldn't have shown
similar humanity toward the
war mothers of World War II.")
It was late in the afternoon
by the time the TV crew got
everything repacked into their
cars and trucks and made their
departure. Martha fixed herself
a light supper, then donned an
old suede jacket of Terry's and
went out into the garden to wait
for the sun to go down. According
to the time table the general
had outlined in his first telegram,
Terry's first Tuesday
night passage wasn't due to occur
till 9:05. But it seemed only
right that she should be outside
when the stars started to come
out. Presently they did, and she
watched them wink on, one by
one, in the deepening darkness
of the sky. She'd never been
much of a one for the stars;
most of her life she'd been much
too busy on Earth to bother with
things celestial. She could remember,
when she was much
younger and Bill was courting
her, looking up at the moon
sometimes; and once in a while,
when a star fell, making a wish.
But this was different. It was
different because now she had
a personal interest in the sky, a
new affinity with its myriad inhabitants.
And how bright they became
when you kept looking at them!
They seemed to come alive, almost,
pulsing brilliantly down
out of the blackness of the night ...
And they were different colors,
too, she noticed with a start.
Some of them were blue and
some were red, others were yellow
... green ... orange ...
It grew cold in the April garden
and she could see her breath.
There was a strange crispness,
a strange clarity about the
night, that she had never known
before ... She glanced at her
watch, was astonished to see that
the hands indicated two minutes
after nine. Where had the time
gone? Tremulously she faced the
southern horizon ... and saw
her Terry appear in his shining
chariot, riding up the star-pebbled
path of his orbit, a star in
his own right, dropping swiftly
now, down, down, and out of
sight beyond the dark wheeling
mass of the Earth ... She took
a deep, proud breath, realized
that she was wildly waving her
hand and let it fall slowly to her
side. Make a wish! she thought,
like a little girl, and she wished
him pleasant dreams and a safe
return and wrapped the wish in
all her love and cast it starward.
Sometime tomorrow, the general's
telegram had said—
That meant sometime today!
She rose with the sun and fed
the chickens, fixed and ate her
breakfast, collected the eggs and
put them in their cardboard
boxes, then started out on her
Wednesday morning run. "My
land, Martha, I don't see how
you stand it with him way up
there! Doesn't it get on your
nerves
?" ("Yes ... Yes, it
does.") "Martha, when are they
bringing him back down?"
("Today ...
Today
!") "It must
be wonderful being a star mother,
Martha." ("Yes, it is—in a
way.")
Wonderful ... and terrible.
If only he can last it out for
a few more hours, she thought.
If only they can bring him down
safe and sound. Then the vigil
will be over, and some other
mother can take over the awesome
responsibility of having a
son become a star—
If only ...
The general's third telegram
arrived that afternoon:
Regret
to inform you that meteorite impact
on satellite hull severely
damaged capsule-detachment
mechanism, making ejection impossible.
Will make every effort
to find another means of accomplishing
your son's return.
Terry!—
See the little boy playing beneath
the maple tree, moving his
tiny cars up and down the tiny
streets of his make-believe village;
the little boy, his fuzz of
hair gold in the sunlight, his
cherub-cheeks pink in the summer
wind—
Terry!—
Up the lane the blue-denimed
young man walks, swinging his
thin tanned arms, his long legs
making near-grownup strides
over the sun-seared grass; the
sky blue and bright behind him,
the song of cicada rising and
falling in the hazy September
air—
Terry ...
—probably won't get a chance
to write you again before take-off,
but don't worry, Ma. The
Explorer XII
is the greatest bird
they ever built. Nothing short of
a direct meteorite hit can hurt
it, and the odds are a million to
one ...
Why don't they leave the stars
alone? Why don't they leave the
stars to God?
The afternoon shadows lengthened
on the lawn and the sun
grew red and swollen over the
western hills. Martha fixed supper,
tried to eat, and couldn't.
After a while, when the light
began to fade, she slipped into
Terry's jacket and went outside.
Slowly the sky darkened and
the stars began to appear. At
length
her
star appeared, but its
swift passage blurred before her
eyes. Tires crunched on the
gravel then, and headlights
washed the darkness from the
drive. A car door slammed.
Martha did not move.
Please
God
, she thought,
let it be Terry
,
even though she knew that it
couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps
sounded behind her, paused.
Someone coughed softly. She
turned then—
"Good evening, ma'am."
She saw the circlet of stars
on the gray epaulet; she saw the
stern handsome face; she saw
the dark tired eyes. And she
knew. Even before he spoke
again, she knew—
"The same meteorite that
damaged the ejection mechanism,
ma'am. It penetrated the
capsule, too. We didn't find out
till just a while ago—but there
was nothing we could have done
anyway ... Are you all right,
ma'am?"
"Yes. I'm all right."
"I wanted to express my regrets
personally. I know how you
must feel."
"It's all right."
"We will, of course, make
every effort to bring back his ... remains ... so
that he can
have a fitting burial on Earth."
"No," she said.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"
She raised her eyes to the
patch of sky where her son had
passed in his shining metal sarcophagus.
Sirius blossomed
there, blue-white and beautiful.
She raised her eyes still higher—and
beheld the vast parterre
of Orion with its central motif
of vivid forget-me-nots, its far-flung
blooms of Betelguese and
Rigel, of Bellatrix and Saiph ...
And higher yet—and there
flamed the exquisite flower beds
of Taurus and Gemini, there
burgeoned the riotous wreath of
the Crab; there lay the pulsing
petals of the Pleiades ... And
down the ecliptic garden path,
wafted by a stellar breeze, drifted
the ocher rose of Mars ...
"No," she said again.
The general had raised his
eyes, too; now, slowly, he lowered
them. "I think I understand,
ma'am. And I'm glad
that's the way you want it ...
The stars
are
beautiful tonight,
aren't they."
"More beautiful than they've
ever been," she said.
After the general had gone,
she looked up once more at the
vast and variegated garden of
the sky where her son lay buried,
then she turned and walked
slowly back to the memoried
house.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
January 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 27110 | [
"Upon waking up after one million years, Ned feels all of the following emotions at an extreme level, EXCEPT for ______.",
"Why does the author focus on the water returning to smoothness after Ned's wreck?",
"What is Ned Vince's ultimate fate?",
"How has planetary leadership evolved since the 20th century?",
"What do the Kar-Rah have in common with 20th century humans?",
"How have scientists' positionality toward their research subjects changed since the 20th century?",
"What enabled Ned to survive one million years after his car accident?",
"Why are the Kar-Rah shouting \"Kaalleee tik tik tik!\"? ",
"From the 20th century to the age of the Kar-Rah, the planet's landscape as changed in all of the following ways EXCEPT:",
"What is the purpose of the metal fabric helmets? probing the brain which has also recorded his language and speak for Loy read thoughts"
] | [
[
"Confusion",
"Homesickness",
"Fear",
"Regret"
],
[
"To demonstrate how time and progress move forward, without taking pause for the loss of a single or entire society",
"To depict the difference between a 20th century moment and the future, when water has vanished from the continent",
"To illustrate the biological effects of alkali on the composition of the human body",
"To personify the all-consuming effects of nostalgia and fear in the last moments of a human's brief life"
],
[
"He is tranquilized and moved to a simulation of his previous life, where the Kar-Rah can continue to study him",
"He dies in a fatal car crash by drowning at the bottom of a deep pit of water",
"His body is put on display in a museum managed by the Kar-Rah ",
"He wakes up to discover that the car wreck and experience with Loy Chuk was all a dream"
],
[
"Authority is more vested in the knowledge and expertise of technologists and researchers",
"The entire planet has adopted democracy as a means for ensuring liberty to all species",
"The Kar-Rah have combined the most humane principles from authoritarian regimes and constitutional democracies",
"Earth has eliminated all government in the name of autonomy and free will"
],
[
"An erect posture",
"General height",
"Language",
"Large crania"
],
[
"They are more prejudiced and scrutinizing toward them",
"They are more neutral and ambivalent toward them",
"They are more inclusive and considerate toward them",
"They are more empathetic and compassionate toward them"
],
[
"The alkaline water in the pit",
"The arid desert climate",
"The black box technology",
"The Kar-Rah simulation technology"
],
[
"They are warning each other of a potential predator",
"They are praising Loy Chuk for his accomplishment",
"They are attempting to reconvene after being separated",
"They are exuberating in their discovery of a human"
],
[
"Vegetation can only be harvested inside glass domes",
"North America is an expansive desert continent",
"Cities are gone and species have moved underground",
"The Atlantic Ocean has disappeared"
],
[
"Brain transplantation",
"Brain examination",
"Brain manipulation",
"Brain protection"
]
] | [
4,
1,
1,
1,
4,
4,
1,
4,
1,
2
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0
] | THE
ETERNAL
WALL
By RAYMOND Z. GALLUN
A scream of brakes, the splash
into icy waters, a long descent
into alkaline depths ... it was
death. But Ned Vince lived
again—a million years later!
"See
you in half an hour,
Betty," said Ned Vince
over the party telephone. "We'll
be out at the Silver Basket before
ten-thirty...."
Ned Vince was eager for the
company of the girl he loved.
That was why he was in a hurry
to get to the neighboring town
of Hurley, where she lived. His
old car rattled and roared as he
swung it recklessly around Pit
Bend.
There was where Death tapped
him on the shoulder. Another car
leaped suddenly into view, its
lights glaring blindingly past a
high, up-jutting mass of Jurassic
rock at the turn of the road.
Dazzled, and befuddled by his
own rash speed, Ned Vince had
only swift young reflexes to rely
on to avoid a fearful, telescoping
collision. He flicked his wheel
smoothly to the right; but the
County Highway Commission
hadn't yet tarred the traffic-loosened
gravel at the Bend.
An incredible science, millions of years old, lay in the minds of these creatures.
Ned could scarcely have chosen
a worse place to start sliding and
spinning. His car hit the white-painted
wooden rail sideways,
crashed through, tumbled down
a steep slope, struck a huge boulder,
bounced up a little, and
arced outward, falling as gracefully
as a swan-diver toward the
inky waters of the Pit, fifty feet
beneath....
Ned Vince was still dimly conscious
when that black, quiet
pool geysered around him in a
mighty splash. He had only a
dazing welt on his forehead, and
a gag of terror in his throat.
Movement was slower now, as
he began to sink, trapped inside
his wrecked car. Nothing that he
could imagine could mean doom
more certainly than this. The Pit
was a tremendously deep pocket
in the ground, spring-fed. The
edges of that almost bottomless
pool were caked with a rim of
white—for the water, on which
dead birds so often floated, was
surcharged with alkali. As that
heavy, natronous liquid rushed
up through the openings and
cracks beneath his feet, Ned
Vince knew that his friends and
his family would never see his
body again, lost beyond recovery
in this abyss.
The car was deeply submerged.
The light had blinked out on the
dash-panel, leaving Ned in absolute
darkness. A flood rushed
in at the shattered window. He
clawed at the door, trying to
open it, but it was jammed in
the crash-bent frame, and he
couldn't fight against the force
of that incoming water. The
welt, left by the blow he had received
on his forehead, put a
thickening mist over his brain,
so that he could not think clearly.
Presently, when he could no
longer hold his breath, bitter
liquid was sucked into his lungs.
His last thoughts were those
of a drowning man. The machine-shop
he and his dad had
had in Harwich. Betty Moore,
with the smiling Irish eyes—like
in the song. Betty and he
had planned to go to the State
University this Fall. They'd
planned to be married sometime....
Goodbye, Betty ...
The ripples that had ruffled
the surface waters in the Pit,
quieted again to glassy smoothness.
The eternal stars shone
calmly. The geologic Dakota
hills, which might have seen the
dinosaurs, still bulked along the
highway. Time, the Brother of
Death, and the Father of
Change, seemed to wait....
"Kaalleee! Tik!... Tik, tik,
tik!... Kaalleee!..."
The excited cry, which no human
throat could quite have duplicated
accurately, arose thinly
from the depths of a powder-dry
gulch, water-scarred from an inconceivable
antiquity. The noon-day
Sun was red and huge. The
air was tenuous, dehydrated,
chill.
"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik,
tik!..."
At first there was only one
voice uttering those weird, triumphant
sounds. Then other
vocal organs took up that trilling
wail, and those short, sharp
chuckles of eagerness. Other
questioning, wondering notes
mixed with the cadence. Lacking
qualities identifiable as human,
the disturbance was still like the
babble of a group of workmen
who have discovered something
remarkable.
The desolate expanse around
the gulch, was all but without
motion. The icy breeze tore tiny
puffs of dust from grotesque,
angling drifts of soil, nearly
waterless for eons. Patches of
drab lichen grew here and there
on the up-jutting rocks, but in
the desert itself, no other life
was visible. Even the hills had
sagged away, flattened by incalculable
ages of erosion.
At a mile distance, a crumbling
heap of rubble arose. Once
it had been a building. A gigantic,
jagged mass of detritus
slanted upward from its crest—red
debris that had once been
steel. A launching catapult for
the last space ships built by the
gods in exodus, perhaps it was—half
a million years ago. Man
was gone from the Earth. Glacial
ages, war, decadence, disease,
and a final scattering of those
ultimate superhumans to newer
worlds in other solar systems,
had done that.
"Kaalleee!... Tik, tik, tik!..."
The sounds were not human.
They were more like the chatter
and wail of small desert animals.
But there was a seeming paradox
here in the depths of that
gulch, too. The glint of metal,
sharp and burnished. The flat,
streamlined bulk of a flying machine,
shiny and new. The bell-like
muzzle of a strange excavator-apparatus,
which seemed to
depend on a blast of atoms to
clear away rock and soil. Thus
the gulch had been cleared of the
accumulated rubbish of antiquity.
Man, it seemed, had a successor,
as ruler of the Earth.
Loy Chuk had flown his geological
expedition out from the
far lowlands to the east, out
from the city of Kar-Rah. And
he was very happy now—flushed
with a vast and unlooked-for
success.
He crouched there on his
haunches, at the dry bottom of
the Pit. The breeze rumpled his
long, brown fur. He wasn't very
different in appearance from his
ancestors. A foot tall, perhaps,
as he squatted there in that antique
stance of his kind. His tail
was short and furred, his undersides
creamy. White whiskers
spread around his inquisitive,
pink-tipped snout.
But his cranium bulged up and
forward between shrewd, beady
eyes, betraying the slow heritage
of time, of survival of the fittest,
of evolution. He could think and
dream and invent, and the civilization
of his kind was already
far beyond that of the ancient
Twentieth Century.
Loy Chuk and his fellow workers
were gathered, tense and
gleeful, around the things their
digging had exposed to the daylight.
There was a gob of junk—scarcely
more than an irregular
formation of flaky rust. But imbedded
in it was a huddled form,
brown and hard as old wood. The
dry mud that had encased it
like an airtight coffin, had by
now been chipped away by the
tiny investigators; but soiled
clothing still clung to it, after
perhaps a million years. Metal
had gone into decay—yes. But
not this body. The answer to this
was simple—alkali. A mineral
saturation that had held time
and change in stasis. A perfect
preservative for organic tissue,
aided probably during most of
those passing eras by desert dryness.
The Dakotas had turned
arid very swiftly. This body was
not a mere fossil. It was a
mummy.
"Kaalleee!" Man, that meant.
Not the star-conquering demi-gods,
but the ancestral stock
that had built the first
machines on Earth, and in the
early Twenty-first Century, the
first interplanetary rockets. No
wonder Loy Chuk and his co-workers
were happy in their
paleontological enthusiasm! A
strange accident, happening in a
legendary antiquity, had aided
them in their quest for knowledge.
At last Loy Chuk gave a soft,
chirping signal. The chant of
triumph ended, while instruments
flicked in his tiny hands.
The final instrument he used to
test the mummy, looked like a
miniature stereoscope, with complicated
details. He held it over
his eyes. On the tiny screen
within, through the agency of
focused X-rays, he saw magnified
images of the internal organs
of this ancient human
corpse.
What his probing gaze revealed
to him, made his pleasure
even greater than before. In
twittering, chattering sounds, he
communicated his further knowledge
to his henchmen. Though
devoid of moisture, the mummy
was perfectly preserved, even to
its brain cells! Medical and biological
sciences were far advanced
among Loy Chuk's kind.
Perhaps, by the application of
principles long known to them,
this long-dead body could be
made to live again! It might
move, speak, remember its past!
What a marvelous subject for
study it would make, back there
in the museums of Kar-Rah!
"Tik, tik, tik!..."
But Loy silenced this fresh,
eager chattering with a command.
Work was always more
substantial than cheering.
With infinite care—small,
sharp hand-tools were used, now—the
mummy of Ned Vince was
disengaged from the worthless
rust of his primitive automobile.
With infinite care it was crated
in a metal case, and hauled into
the flying machine.
Flashing flame, the latter
arose, bearing the entire hundred
members of the expedition.
The craft shot eastward at bullet-like
speed. The spreading
continental plateau of North
America seemed to crawl backward,
beneath. A tremendous
sand desert, marked with low,
washed-down mountains, and the
vague, angular, geometric
mounds of human cities that
were gone forever.
Beyond the eastern rim of the
continent, the plain dipped downward
steeply. The white of dried
salt was on the hills, but there
was a little green growth here,
too. The dead sea-bottom of the
vanished Atlantic was not as
dead as the highlands.
Far out in a deep valley, Kar-Rah,
the city of the rodents,
came into view—a crystalline
maze of low, bubble-like structures,
glinting in the red sunshine.
But this was only its surface
aspect. Loy Chuk's people
had built their homes mostly underground,
since the beginning
of their foggy evolution. Besides,
in this latter day, the
nights were very cold, the shelter
of subterranean passages and
rooms was welcome.
The mummy was taken to Loy
Chuk's laboratory, a short distance
below the surface. Here at
once, the scientist began his
work. The body of the ancient
man was put in a large vat.
Fluids submerged it, slowly
soaking from that hardened flesh
the alkali that had preserved it
for so long. The fluid was
changed often, until woody muscles
and other tissues became
pliable once more.
Then the more delicate processes
began. Still submerged in
liquid, the corpse was submitted
to a flow of restorative energy,
passing between complicated
electrodes. The cells of antique
flesh and brain gradually took on
a chemical composition nearer to
that of the life that they had
once known.
At last the final liquid was
drained away, and the mummy
lay there, a mummy no more, but
a pale, silent figure in its tatters
of clothing. Loy Chuk put an odd,
metal-fabric helmet on its head,
and a second, much smaller helmet
on his own. Connected with
this arrangement, was a black
box of many uses. For hours he
worked with his apparatus,
studying, and guiding the recording
instruments. The time
passed swiftly.
At last, eager and ready for
whatever might happen now,
Loy Chuk pushed another switch.
With a cold, rosy flare, energy
blazed around that moveless
form.
For Ned Vince, timeless eternity
ended like a gradual fading
mist. When he could see clearly
again, he experienced that inevitable
shock of vast change
around him. Though it had been
dehydrated, his brain had been
kept perfectly intact through the
ages, and now it was restored.
So his memories were as vivid as
yesterday.
Yet, through that crystalline
vat in which he lay, he could see
a broad, low room, in which he
could barely have stood erect. He
saw instruments and equipment
whose weird shapes suggested
alienness, and knowledge beyond
the era he had known! The walls
were lavender and phosphorescent.
Fossil bone-fragments were
mounted in shallow cases. Dinosaur
bones, some of them
seemed, from their size. But
there was a complete skeleton of
a dog, too, and the skeleton of a
man, and a second man-skeleton
that was not quite human. Its
neck-vertebrae were very thick
and solid, its shoulders were
wide, and its skull was gigantic.
All this weirdness had a violent
effect on Ned Vince—a sudden,
nostalgic panic. Something
was fearfully wrong!
The nervous terror of the unknown
was on him. Feeble and
dizzy after his weird resurrection,
which he could not understand,
remembering as he did
that moment of sinking to certain
death in the pool at Pit
Bend, he caught the edge of the
transparent vat, and pulled himself
to a sitting posture. There
was a muffled murmur around
him, as of some vast, un-Earthly
metropolis.
"Take it easy, Ned Vince...."
The words themselves, and the
way they were assembled, were
old, familiar friends. But the
tone was wrong. It was high,
shrill, parrot-like, and mechanical.
Ned's gaze searched for the
source of the voice—located the
black box just outside of his
crystal vat. From that box the
voice seemed to have originated.
Before it crouched a small,
brownish animal with a bulging
head. The animal's tiny-fingered
paws—hands they were, really—were
touching rows of keys.
To Ned Vince, it was all utterly
insane and incomprehensible.
A rodent, looking like a prairie dog,
a little; but plainly possessing
a high order of intelligence.
And a voice whose soothingly
familiar words were more repugnant
somehow, simply because
they could never belong in a
place as eerie as this.
Ned Vince did not know how
Loy Chuk had probed his brain,
with the aid of a pair of helmets,
and the black box apparatus. He
did not know that in the latter,
his language, taken from his
own revitalized mind, was recorded,
and that Loy Chuk had
only to press certain buttons to
make the instrument express his
thoughts in common, long-dead
English. Loy, whose vocal organs
were not human, would have had
great difficulty speaking English
words, anyway.
Ned's dark hair was wildly
awry. His gaunt, young face
held befuddled terror. He gasped
in the thin atmosphere. "I've
gone nuts," he pronounced with
a curious calm. "Stark—starin'—nuts...."
Loy's box, with its recorded
English words and its sonic detectors,
could translate for its
master, too. As the man spoke,
Loy read the illuminated symbols
in his own language, flashed
on a frosted crystal plate before
him. Thus he knew what Ned
Vince was saying.
Loy Chuk pressed more keys,
and the box reproduced his answer:
"No, Ned, not nuts. Not a
bit of it! There are just a lot of
things that you've got to get
used to, that's all. You drowned
about a million years ago. I discovered
your body. I brought you
back to life. We have science
that can do that. I'm Loy
Chuk...."
It took only a moment for the
box to tell the full story in clear,
bold, friendly terms. Thus Loy
sought, with calm, human logic,
to make his charge feel at home.
Probably, though, he was a fool,
to suppose that he could succeed,
thus.
Vince started to mutter,
struggling desperately to reason
it out. "A prairie dog," he said.
"Speaking to me. One million
years. Evolution. The scientists
say that people grew up from
fishes in the sea. Prairie dogs
are smart. So maybe super-prairie-dogs
could come from
them. A lot easier than men
from fish...."
It was all sound logic. Even
Ned Vince knew that. Still, his
mind, tuned to ordinary, simple
things, couldn't quite realize all
the vast things that had happened
to himself, and to the
world. The scope of it all was too
staggeringly big. One million
years. God!...
Ned Vince made a last effort
to control himself. His knuckles
tightened on the edge of the vat.
"I don't know what you've been
talking about," he grated wildly.
"But I want to get out of here!
I want to go back where I came
from! Do you understand—whoever,
or whatever you are?"
Loy Chuk pressed more keys.
"But you can't go back to the
Twentieth Century," said the
box. "Nor is there any better
place for you to be now, than
Kar-Rah. You are the only man
left on Earth. Those men that
exist in other star systems are
not really your kind anymore,
though their forefathers originated
on this planet. They have
gone far beyond you in evolution.
To them you would be only a
senseless curiosity. You are
much better off with my people—our
minds are much more like
yours. We will take care of you,
and make you comfortable...."
But Ned Vince wasn't listening,
now. "You are the only
man left on Earth." That had
been enough for him to hear. He
didn't more than half believe it.
His mind was too confused for
conviction about anything. Everything
he saw and felt and
heard might be some kind of
nightmare. But then it might all
be real instead, and that was
abysmal horror. Ned was no
coward—death and danger of
any ordinary Earthly kind, he
could have faced bravely. But the
loneliness here, and the utter
strangeness, were hideous like
being stranded alone on another
world!
His heart was pounding heavily,
and his eyes were wide. He
looked across this eerie room.
There was a ramp there at the
other side, leading upward instead
of a stairway. Fierce impulse
to escape this nameless
lair, to try to learn the facts for
himself, possessed him. He
bounded out of the vat, and
with head down, dashed for the
ramp.
He had to go most of the way
on his hands and knees, for the
up-slanting passage was low. Excited
animal chucklings around
him, and the occasional touch of
a furry body, hurried his feverish
scrambling. But he emerged
at last at the surface.
He stood there panting in that
frigid, rarefied air. It was night.
The Moon was a gigantic, pock-marked
bulk. The constellations
were unrecognizable. The rodent
city was a glowing expanse of
shallow, crystalline domes, set
among odd, scrub trees and
bushes. The crags loomed on all
sides, all their jaggedness lost
after a million years of erosion
under an ocean that was gone.
In that ghastly moonlight, the
ground glistened with dry salt.
"Well, I guess it's all true,
huh?" Ned Vince muttered in a
flat tone.
Behind him he heard an excited,
squeaky chattering. Rodents
in pursuit. Looking back,
he saw the pinpoint gleams of
countless little eyes. Yes, he
might as well be an exile on another
planet—so changed had the
Earth become.
A wave of intolerable homesickness
came over him as he
sensed the distances of time that
had passed—those inconceivable
eons, separating himself from
his friends, from Betty, from almost
everything that was familiar.
He started to run, away
from those glittering rodent
eyes. He sensed death in that
cold sea-bottom, but what of it?
What reason did he have left to
live? He'd be only a museum
piece here, a thing to be caged
and studied....
Prison or a madhouse would
be far better. He tried to get
hold of his courage. But what
was there to inspire it? Nothing!
He laughed harshly as he
ran, welcoming that bitter, killing
cold. Nostalgia had him in
its clutch, and there was no answer
in his hell-world, lost beyond
the barrier of the years....
Loy Chuk and his followers
presently came upon Ned Vince's
unconscious form, a mile from
the city of Kar-Rah. In a flying
machine they took him back, and
applied stimulants. He came to,
in the same laboratory room as
before. But he was firmly
strapped to a low platform this
time, so that he could not escape
again. There he lay, helpless,
until presently an idea occurred
to him. It gave him a few crumbs
of hope.
"Hey, somebody!" he called.
"You'd better get some rest,
Ned Vince," came the answer
from the black box. It was Loy
Chuk speaking again.
"But listen!" Ned protested.
"You know a lot more than we
did in the Twentieth Century.
And—well—there's that thing
called time-travel, that I used to
read about. Maybe you know how
to make it work! Maybe you
could send me back to my own
time after all!"
Little Loy Chuk was in a
black, discouraged mood, himself.
He could understand the
utter, sick dejection of this
giant from the past, lost from
his own kind. Probably insanity
looming. In far less extreme circumstances
than this, death from
homesickness had come.
Loy Chuk was a scientist. In
common with all real scientists,
regardless of the species from
which they spring, he loved the
subjects of his researches. He
wanted this ancient man to live
and to be happy. Or this creature
would be of scant value for
study.
So Loy considered carefully
what Ned Vince had suggested.
Time-travel. Almost a legend. An
assault upon an intangible wall
that had baffled far keener wits
than Loy's. But he was bent,
now, on the well-being of this
anachronism he had so miraculously
resurrected—this human,
this Kaalleee....
Loy jabbed buttons on the
black box. "Yes, Ned Vince,"
said the sonic apparatus. "Time-travel.
Perhaps that is the only
thing to do—to send you back
to your own period of history.
For I see that you will never be
yourself, here. It will be hard to
accomplish, but we'll try. Now
I shall put you under an anesthetic...."
Ned felt better immediately,
for there was real hope now,
where there had been none before.
Maybe he'd be back in his
home-town of Harwich again.
Maybe he'd see the old machine-shop,
there. And the trees greening
out in Spring. Maybe he'd
be seeing Betty Moore in Hurley,
soon.... Ned relaxed, as a tiny
hypo-needle bit into his arm....
As soon as Ned Vince passed
into unconsciousness, Loy Chuk
went to work once more, using
that pair of brain-helmets again,
exploring carefully the man's
mind. After hours of research,
he proceeded to prepare his
plans. The government of Kar-Rah
was a scientific oligarchy,
of which Loy was a prime member.
It would be easy to get the
help he needed.
A horde of small, grey-furred
beings and their machines, toiled
for many days.
Ned Vince's mind swam
gradually out of the blur that
had enveloped it. He was wandering
aimlessly about in a familiar
room. The girders of the
roof above were of red-painted
steel. His tool-benches were
there, greasy and littered with
metal filings, just as they had
always been. He had a tractor to
repair, and a seed-drill. Outside
of the machine-shop, the old,
familiar yellow sun was shining.
Across the street was the small
brown house, where he lived.
With a sudden startlement, he
saw Betty Moore in the doorway.
She wore a blue dress, and a mischievous
smile curved her lips.
As though she had succeeded in
creeping up on him, for a surprise.
"Why, Ned," she chuckled.
"You look as though you've been
dreaming, and just woke up!"
He grimaced ruefully as she
approached. With a kind of fierce
gratitude, he took her in his
arms. Yes, she was just like
always.
"I guess I
was
dreaming,
Betty," he whispered, feeling
that mighty sense of relief. "I
must have fallen asleep at the
bench, here, and had a nightmare.
I thought I had an accident
at Pit Bend—and that a
lot of worse things happened....
But it wasn't true ..."
Ned Vince's mind, over which
there was still an elusive fog that
he did not try to shake off, accepted
apparent facts simply.
He did not know anything
about the invisible radiations
beating down upon him, soothing
and dimming his brain, so that
it would never question or doubt,
or observe too closely the incongruous
circumstances that must
often appear. The lack of traffic
in the street without, for instance—and
the lack of people
besides himself and Betty.
He didn't know that this machine-shop
was built from his
own memories of the original.
He didn't know that this Betty
was of the same origin—a miraculous
fabrication of metal
and energy-units and soft plastic.
The trees outside were only
lantern-slide illusions.
It was all built inside a great,
opaque dome. But there were
hidden television systems, too.
Thus Loy Chuk's kind could
study this ancient man—this
Kaalleee. Thus, their motives
were mostly selfish.
Loy, though, was not observing,
now. He had wandered far
out into cold, sad sea-bottom, to
ponder. He squeaked and chatted
to himself, contemplating the
magnificent, inexorable march of
the ages. He remembered the ancient
ruins, left by the final supermen.
"The Kaalleee believes himself
home," Loy was thinking. "He
will survive and be happy. But
there was no other way. Time is
an Eternal Wall. Our archeological
researches among the cities
of the supermen show the truth.
Even they, who once ruled Earth,
never escaped from the present
by so much as an instant...."
THE END
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
April 1956 and
was first published in
Amazing Stories
November 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 27588 | [
"Why is Trella being attacked?",
"Why can't the square-built man defend Trella against the men attacking her?",
"Where does the beginning of the story take place? ",
"How was Quest able to survive and grow up on Jupiter?",
"How was Dr. Mansard's radio and ship drive destroyed?",
"What is so significant about the surgiscope?",
"What incorrect assumption does Trella make about Blessing? ",
"What is Blessing's fear regarding Dr. Mansard?",
"What is the central irony of Quest's last words in the story?"
] | [
[
"The author does not give a clear reason for the attackers' motivations",
"The attackers wish to steal Trella's documents",
"The attackers wish to violate Trella",
"The attackers are sent from Dr. Blessing to test Trella's loyalty"
],
[
"His programming does not allow it",
"He is a strict pacifist",
"He is full of cowardice",
"He is secretly collaborating with Trella's attackers"
],
[
"Saturn",
"Jupiter",
"One of Jupiter's moons",
"One of Saturn's moons"
],
[
"Quest's DNA is mutated",
"Quest is an android",
"Quest's father programmed his DNA for survival",
"Quest did not actually grow up on Jupiter"
],
[
"Dr. Mansard destroyed it himself to eliminate any record of his survival",
"It was never destroyed ",
"Blessing intentionally ruined it in the hopes that Mansard would die",
"It could not withstand the harsh elements of Jupiter's atmosphere"
],
[
"It can allow a surgeon to permanently alter a person's DNA",
"It can perform fine operations at a microscopic level",
"It can be used to turn a human into an android",
"It can probe the brain of any creature, dead or alive"
],
[
"He would be thrilled to hear that Quest is alive and well",
"He murdered Dr. Mansard and got away with it",
"He turned Mansard's son into an android",
"He has no prior knowledge of the contents of Mansard's documents"
],
[
"Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard is not actually deceased and currently plotting against him",
"Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard will inform Quest that he is actually an android",
"Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard has set two assassins to come after him and the documentation he stole",
"Blessing is afraid that Dr. Mansard left out programming that would prevent Quest from hurting living creatures"
],
[
"He claims that \"androids are made\" to justify his human status, disregarding the impact of his father's programming efforts",
"He declares that \"androids don't grow up,\" when in reality, his father programmed him to appear to (physically) age",
"He states that he \"remembers his boyhood on Jupiter,\" when in reality, he is still a boy",
"He says he \"remembers his boyhood on Jupiter,\" when in reality, his memories were programmed into his brain"
]
] | [
1,
1,
3,
3,
3,
2,
1,
4,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to
the original text are marked
like this
.
The original text appears when hovering the cursor over the marked text.
This e-text was produced from
Amazing Science Fiction Stories
March 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. copyright on this
publication was renewed.
50
THE
JUPITER
WEAPON
By CHARLES L. FONTENAY
He was a living weapon of
destruction—
immeasurably
powerful, utterly invulnerable.
There was only one
question: Was he human?
Trella
feared she was in
for trouble even before Motwick's
head dropped forward on
his arms in a drunken stupor.
The two evil-looking men at the
table nearby had been watching
her surreptitiously, and now
they shifted restlessly in their
chairs.
Trella had not wanted to come
to the Golden Satellite. It was a
squalid saloon in the rougher
section of Jupiter's View, the
terrestrial dome-colony on Ganymede.
Motwick,
already
drunk,
had insisted.
A woman could not possibly
make her way through these
streets alone to the better section
of town, especially one clad
in a silvery evening dress. Her
only hope was that this place
had a telephone. Perhaps she
could call one of Motwick's
friends; she had no one on Ganymede
she could call a real friend
herself.
Tentatively, she pushed her
chair back from the table and
arose. She had to brush close by
the other table to get to the bar.
As she did, the dark, slick-haired
man reached out and grabbed
her around the waist with a
steely arm.
Trella swung with her whole
body, and slapped him so hard
he nearly fell from his chair. As
she walked swiftly toward the
bar, he leaped up to follow her.
There were only two other
people in the Golden Satellite:
the fat, mustached bartender
and a short, square-built man at
the bar. The latter swung
around at the pistol-like report
of her slap, and she saw that,
though no more than four and a
half feet tall, he was as heavily
muscled as a lion.
51
His face was clean and open,
with close-cropped blond hair
and honest blue eyes. She ran to
him.
“Help me!” she cried. “Please
help me!”
He began to back away from
her.
“I can't,” he muttered in a
deep voice. “I can't help you. I
can't do anything.”
The dark man was at her
heels. In desperation, she dodged
around the short man and took
refuge behind him. Her protector
was obviously unwilling, but
the dark man, faced with his
massiveness, took no chances.
He stopped and shouted:
“Kregg!”
The other man at the table
arose, ponderously, and lumbered
toward them. He was immense,
at least six and a half
feet tall, with a brutal, vacant
face.
Evading her attempts to stay
behind him, the squat man began
to move down the bar away
from the approaching Kregg.
The dark man moved in on
Trella again as Kregg overtook
his quarry and swung a huge
fist like a sledgehammer.
Exactly what happened, Trella
wasn't sure. She had the impression
that Kregg's fist connected
squarely with the short man's
chin
before
he dodged to one
side in a movement so fast it
was a blur. But that couldn't
have been, because the short
man wasn't moved by that blow
that would have felled a steer,
and Kregg roared in pain, grabbing
his injured fist.
“The bar!” yelled Kregg. “I
hit the damn bar!”
At this juncture, the bartender
took a hand. Leaning far
over the bar, he swung a full
bottle in a complete arc. It
smashed on Kregg's head,
splashing the floor with liquor,
and Kregg sank stunned to his
knees. The dark man, who had
grabbed Trella's arm, released
her and ran for the door.
Moving agilely around the end
of the bar, the bartender stood
over Kregg, holding the jagged-edged
bottleneck in his hand
menacingly.
“Get out!” rumbled the bartender.
“I'll have no coppers
raiding my place for the likes of
you!”
Kregg stumbled to his feet
and staggered out. Trella ran to
the unconscious Motwick's side.
“That means you, too, lady,”
said the bartender beside her.
“You and your boy friend get
out of here. You oughtn't to
have come here in the first
place.”
“May I help you, Miss?” asked
a deep, resonant voice behind
her.
She straightened from her
anxious examination of Motwick.
The squat man was standing
there, an apologetic look on
his face.
She looked contemptuously at
the massive muscles whose help
had been denied her. Her arm
ached where the dark man had
grasped it. The broad face before
52
her was not unhandsome,
and the blue eyes were disconcertingly
direct, but she despised
him for a coward.
“I'm sorry I couldn't fight
those men for you, Miss, but I
just couldn't,” he said miserably,
as though reading her thoughts.
“But no one will bother you on
the street if I'm with you.”
“A lot of protection you'd be
if they did!” she snapped. “But
I'm desperate. You can carry
him to the Stellar Hotel for me.”
The gravity of Ganymede was
hardly more than that of Earth's
moon, but the way the man
picked up the limp Motwick with
one hand and tossed him over a
shoulder was startling: as
though he lifted a feather pillow.
He followed Trella out the door
of the Golden Satellite and fell
in step beside her. Immediately
she was grateful for his presence.
The dimly lighted street
was not crowded, but she didn't
like the looks of the men she
saw.
The transparent dome of Jupiter's
View was faintly visible
in the reflected night lights of
the colonial city, but the lights
were overwhelmed by the giant,
vari-colored disc of Jupiter itself,
riding high in the sky.
“I'm Quest Mansard, Miss,”
said her companion. “I'm just in
from Jupiter.”
“I'm Trella Nuspar,” she said,
favoring him with a green-eyed
glance. “You mean Io, don't you—or
Moon Five?”
“No,” he said, grinning at
her. He had an engaging grin,
with even white teeth. “I meant
Jupiter.”
“You're lying,” she said flatly.
“No one has ever landed on
Jupiter. It would be impossible
to blast off again.”
“My parents landed on Jupiter,
and I blasted off from it,”
he said soberly. “I was born
there. Have you ever heard of
Dr. Eriklund Mansard?”
“I certainly have,” she said,
her interest taking a sudden
upward turn. “He developed the
surgiscope, didn't he? But his
ship was drawn into Jupiter and
lost.”
“It was drawn into Jupiter,
but he landed it successfully,”
said Quest. “He and my mother
lived on Jupiter until the oxygen
equipment wore out at last. I
was born and brought up there,
and I was finally able to build
a small rocket with a powerful
enough drive to clear the
planet.”
She looked at him. He was
short, half a head shorter than
she, but broad and powerful as
a man might be who had grown
up in heavy gravity. He trod the
street with a light, controlled
step, seeming to deliberately
hold himself down.
“If Dr. Mansard succeeded in
landing on Jupiter, why didn't
anyone ever hear from him
again?” she demanded.
“Because,” said Quest, “his
radio was sabotaged, just as his
ship's drive was.”
“Jupiter strength,” she murmured,
looking him over coolly.
53
“You wear Motwick on your
shoulder like a scarf. But you
couldn't bring yourself to help
a woman against two thugs.”
He flushed.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “That's
something I couldn't help.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. It's not that
I'm afraid, but there's something
in me that makes me back
away from the prospect of fighting
anyone.”
Trella sighed. Cowardice was
a state of mind. It was peculiarly
inappropriate, but not unbelievable,
that the strongest and
most agile man on Ganymede
should be a coward. Well, she
thought with a rush of sympathy,
he couldn't help being
what he was.
They had reached the more
brightly lighted section of the
city now. Trella could get a cab
from here, but the Stellar Hotel
wasn't far. They walked on.
Trella had the desk clerk call
a cab to deliver the unconscious
Motwick to his home. She and
Quest had a late sandwich in the
coffee shop.
“I landed here only a week
ago,” he told her, his eyes frankly
admiring her honey-colored
hair and comely face. “I'm heading
for Earth on the next spaceship.”
“We'll be traveling companions,
then,” she said. “I'm going
back on that ship, too.”
For some reason she decided
against telling him that the
assignment on which she had
come to the Jupiter system was
to gather his own father's notebooks
and take them back to
Earth.
Motwick was an irresponsible
playboy whom Trella had known
briefly on Earth, and Trella was
glad to dispense with his company
for the remaining three
weeks before the spaceship
blasted off. She found herself
enjoying the steadier companionship
of Quest.
As a matter of fact, she found
herself enjoying his companionship
more than she intended to.
She found herself falling in love
with him.
Now this did not suit her at
all. Trella had always liked her
men tall and dark. She had determined
that when she married
it would be to a curly-haired six-footer.
She was not at all happy about
being so strongly attracted to a
man several inches shorter than
she. She was particularly unhappy
about feeling drawn to a
man who was a coward.
The ship that they boarded on
Moon Nine was one of the newer
ships that could attain a hundred-mile-per-second
velocity
and take a hyperbolic path to
Earth, but it would still require
fifty-four days to make the trip.
So Trella was delighted to find
that the ship was the
Cometfire
and its skipper was her old
friend, dark-eyed, curly-haired
Jakdane Gille.
“Jakdane,” she said, flirting
with him with her eyes as in
54
days gone by, “I need a chaperon
this trip, and you're ideal for
the job.”
“I never thought of myself in
quite that light, but maybe
I'm getting old,” he answered,
laughing. “What's your trouble,
Trella?”
“I'm in love with that huge
chunk of man who came aboard
with me, and I'm not sure I
ought to be,” she confessed. “I
may need protection against myself
till we get to Earth.”
“If it's to keep you out of another
fellow's clutches, I'm your
man,” agreed Jakdane heartily.
“I always had a mind to save
you for myself. I'll guarantee
you won't have a moment alone
with him the whole trip.”
“You don't have to be that
thorough about it,” she protested
hastily. “I want to get a little
enjoyment out of being in love.
But if I feel myself weakening
too much, I'll holler for help.”
The
Cometfire
swung around
great Jupiter in an opening arc
and plummeted ever more swiftly
toward the tight circles of the
inner planets. There were four
crew members and three passengers
aboard the ship's tiny personnel
sphere, and Trella was
thrown with Quest almost constantly.
She enjoyed every minute
of it.
She told him only that she
was a messenger, sent out to
Ganymede to pick up some important
papers and take them
back to Earth. She was tempted
to tell him what the papers were.
Her employer had impressed upon
her that her mission was confidential,
but surely Dom
Blessing
could not object to Dr.
Mansard's son knowing about it.
All these things had happened
before she was born, and she
did not know what Dom Blessing's
relation to Dr. Mansard
had been, but it must have been
very close. She knew that Dr.
Mansard had invented the surgiscope.
This was an instrument with
a three-dimensional screen as its
heart. The screen was a cubical
frame in which an apparently
solid image was built up of an
object under an electron microscope.
The actual cutting instrument
of the surgiscope was an ion
stream. By operating a tool in
the three-dimensional screen,
corresponding movements were
made by the ion stream on the
object under the microscope.
The
principle
was the same as
that used in operation of remote
control “hands” in atomic laboratories
to handle hot material,
and with the surgiscope very
delicate operations could be performed
at the cellular level.
Dr. Mansard and his wife had
disappeared into the turbulent
atmosphere of Jupiter just after
his invention of the surgiscope,
and it had been developed by
Dom Blessing. Its success had
built Spaceway Instruments, Incorporated,
which Blessing headed.
Through all these years since
Dr. Mansard's disappearance,
55
Blessing had been searching the
Jovian moons for a second, hidden
laboratory of Dr. Mansard.
When it was found at last, he
sent Trella, his most trusted
secretary, to Ganymede to bring
back to him the notebooks found
there.
Blessing would, of course, be
happy to learn that a son of Dr.
Mansard lived, and would see
that he received his rightful
share of the inheritance. Because
of this, Trella was tempted
to tell Quest the good news
herself; but she decided against
it. It was Blessing's privilege to
do this his own way, and he
might not appreciate her meddling.
At midtrip, Trella made a rueful
confession to Jakdane.
“It seems I was taking unnecessary
precautions when I asked
you to be a chaperon,” she said.
“I kept waiting for Quest to do
something, and when he didn't
I told him I loved him.”
“What did he say?”
“It's very peculiar,” she said
unhappily. “He said he
can't
love me. He said he wants to
love me and he feels that he
should, but there's something in
him that refuses to permit it.”
She expected Jakdane to salve
her wounded feelings with a
sympathetic pleasantry, but he
did not. Instead, he just looked
at her very thoughtfully and
said no more about the matter.
He explained his attitude
after Asrange ran amuck.
Asrange was the third passenger.
He was a lean, saturnine
individual who said little and
kept to himself as much as possible.
He was distantly polite in
his relations with both crew and
other passengers, and never
showed the slightest spark of
emotion … until the day Quest
squirted coffee on him.
It was one of those accidents
that can occur easily in space.
The passengers and the two
crewmen on that particular waking
shift (including Jakdane)
were eating lunch on the center-deck.
Quest picked up his bulb
of coffee, but inadvertently
pressed it before he got it to his
lips. The coffee squirted all over
the front of Asrange's clean
white tunic.
“I'm sorry!” exclaimed Quest
in distress.
The man's eyes went wide and
he snarled. So quickly it seemed
impossible, he had unbuckled
himself from his seat and hurled
himself backward from the table
with an incoherent cry. He
seized the first object his hand
touched—it happened to be a
heavy wooden cane leaning
against Jakdane's bunk—propelled
himself like a projectile at
Quest.
Quest rose from the table in
a sudden uncoiling of movement.
He did not unbuckle his safety
belt—he rose and it snapped like
a string.
For a moment Trella thought
he was going to meet Asrange's
assault. But he fled in a long
leap toward the companionway
leading to the astrogation deck
56
above. Landing feet-first in the
middle of the table and rebounding,
Asrange pursued with the
stick upraised.
In his haste, Quest missed the
companionway in his leap and
was cornered against one of the
bunks. Asrange descended on
him like an avenging angel and,
holding onto the bunk with one
hand, rained savage blows on his
head and shoulders with the
heavy stick.
Quest made no effort to retaliate.
He cowered under the attack,
holding his hands in front
of him as if to ward it off. In a
moment, Jakdane and the other
crewman had reached Asrange
and pulled him off.
When they had Asrange in
irons, Jakdane turned to Quest,
who was now sitting unhappily
at the table.
“Take it easy,” he advised.
“I'll wake the psychosurgeon
and have him look you over. Just
stay there.”
Quest shook his head.
“Don't bother him,” he said.
“It's nothing but a few bruises.”
“Bruises? Man, that club
could have broken your skull!
Or a couple of ribs, at the very
least.”
“I'm all right,” insisted
Quest; and when the skeptical
Jakdane insisted on examining
him carefully, he had to admit
it. There was hardly a mark on
him from the blows.
“If it didn't hurt you any
more than that, why didn't you
take that stick away from him?”
demanded Jakdane. “You could
have, easily.”
“I couldn't,” said Quest miserably,
and turned his face
away.
Later, alone with Trella on
the control deck, Jakdane gave
her some sober advice.
“If you think you're in love
with Quest, forget it,” he said.
“Why? Because he's a coward?
I know that ought to make
me despise him, but it doesn't
any more.”
“Not because he's a coward.
Because he's an android!”
“What? Jakdane, you can't be
serious!”
“I am. I say he's an android,
an artificial imitation of a man.
It all figures.
“Look, Trella, he said he was
born on Jupiter. A human could
stand the gravity of Jupiter, inside
a dome or a ship, but what
human could stand the rocket acceleration
necessary to break
free of Jupiter? Here's a man
strong enough to break a spaceship
safety belt just by getting
up out of his chair against it,
tough enough to take a beating
with a heavy stick without being
injured. How can you believe
he's really human?”
Trella remembered the thug
Kregg striking Quest in the face
and then crying that he had injured
his hand on the bar.
“But he said Dr. Mansard was
his father,” protested Trella.
“Robots and androids frequently
look on their makers as
their parents,” said Jakdane.
“Quest may not even know he's
57
artificial. Do you know how
Mansard died?”
“The oxygen equipment failed,
Quest said.”
“Yes. Do you know when?”
“No. Quest never did tell me,
that I remember.”
“He told me: a year before
Quest made his rocket flight to
Ganymede! If the oxygen equipment
failed, how do you think
Quest
lived in the poisonous atmosphere
of Jupiter, if he's human?”
Trella was silent.
“For the protection of humans,
there are two psychological
traits built into every robot
and android,” said Jakdane
gently. “The first is that they
can never, under any circumstances,
attack a human being,
even in self defense. The second
is that, while they may understand
sexual desire objectively,
they can never experience it
themselves.
“Those characteristics fit your
man Quest to a T, Trella. There
is no other explanation for him:
he must be an android.”
Trella did not want to believe
Jakdane was right, but his reasoning
was unassailable. Looking
upon Quest as an android,
many things were explained: his
great strength, his short, broad
build, his immunity to injury,
his refusal to defend himself
against a human, his inability to
return Trella's love for him.
It was not inconceivable that
she should have unknowingly
fallen in love with an android.
Humans could love androids,
with real affection, even knowing
that they were artificial.
There were instances of android
nursemaids who were virtually
members of the families owning
them.
She was glad now that she
had not told Quest of her mission
to Ganymede. He thought
he was Dr. Mansard's son, but
an android had no legal right of
inheritance from his owner. She
would leave it to Dom Blessing
to decide what to do about Quest.
Thus she did not, as she had
intended originally, speak to
Quest about seeing him again
after she had completed her assignment.
Even if Jakdane was
wrong and Quest was human—as
now seemed unlikely—Quest
had told her he could not love
her. Her best course was to try
to forget him.
Nor did Quest try to arrange
with her for a later meeting.
“It has been pleasant knowing
you, Trella,” he said when they
left the G-boat at White Sands.
A faraway look came into his
blue eyes, and he added: “I'm
sorry things couldn't have been
different, somehow.”
“Let's don't be sorry for what
we can't help,” she said gently,
taking his hand in farewell.
Trella took a fast plane from
White Sands, and twenty-four
hours later walked up the front
steps of the familiar brownstone
house on the outskirts of Washington.
Dom Blessing himself met her
at the door, a stooped, graying
58
man who peered at her over his
spectacles.
“You have the papers, eh?”
he said, spying the brief case.
“Good, good. Come in and we'll
see what we have, eh?”
She accompanied him through
the bare, windowless anteroom
which had always seemed to her
such a strange feature of this
luxurious house, and they entered
the big living room. They sat
before a fire in the old-fashioned
fireplace and Blessing opened the
brief case with trembling hands.
“There are things here,” he
said, his eyes sparkling as he
glanced through the notebooks.
“Yes, there are things here. We
shall make something of these,
Miss Trella, eh?”
“I'm glad they're something
you can use, Mr. Blessing,” she
said. “There's something else I
found on my trip, that I think
I should tell you about.”
She told him about Quest.
“He thinks he's the son of Dr.
Mansard,” she finished, “but apparently
he is, without knowing
it, an android Dr. Mansard built
on Jupiter.”
“He came back to Earth with
you, eh?” asked Blessing intently.
“Yes. I'm afraid it's your decision
whether to let him go on
living as a man or to tell him
he's an android and claim ownership
as Dr. Mansard's heir.”
Trella planned to spend a few
days resting in her employer's
spacious home, and then to take
a short vacation before resuming
her duties as his confidential
secretary. The next morning
when she came down from her
room, a change had been made.
Two armed men were with
Dom Blessing at breakfast and
accompanied him wherever he
went. She discovered that two
more men with guns were stationed
in the bare anteroom and
a guard was stationed at every
entrance to the house.
“Why all the protection?” she
asked Blessing.
“A wealthy man must be careful,”
said Blessing cheerfully.
“When we don't understand all
the implications of new circumstances,
we must be prepared for
anything, eh?”
There was only one new circumstance
Trella could think
of. Without actually intending
to, she exclaimed:
“You aren't afraid of Quest?
Why, an android can't hurt a
human!”
Blessing peered at her over his
spectacles.
“And what if he isn't an android,
eh? And if he is—what if
old Mansard didn't build in the
prohibition against harming humans
that's required by law?
What about that, eh?”
Trella was silent, shocked.
There was something here she
hadn't known about, hadn't even
suspected. For some reason, Dom
Blessing feared Dr. Eriklund
Mansard … or his heir … or
his mechanical servant.
She was sure that Blessing
was wrong, that Quest, whether
man or android, intended no
59
harm to him. Surely, Quest
would have said something of
such bitterness during their long
time together on Ganymede and
aspace, since he did not know of
Trella's connection with Blessing.
But, since this was to be
the atmosphere of Blessing's
house, she was glad that he decided
to assign her to take the
Mansard papers to the New
York laboratory.
Quest came the day before she
was scheduled to leave.
Trella was in the living room
with Blessing, discussing the instructions
she was to give to the
laboratory officials in New York.
The two bodyguards were with
them. The other guards were at
their posts.
Trella heard the doorbell ring.
The heavy oaken front door was
kept locked now, and the guards
in the anteroom examined callers
through a tiny window.
Suddenly alarm bells rang all
over the house. There was a terrific
crash outside the room as
the front door splintered. There
were shouts and the sound of a
shot.
“The steel doors!” cried Blessing,
turning white. “Let's get
out of here.”
He and his bodyguards ran
through the back of the house
out of the garage.
Blessing, ahead of the rest,
leaped into one of the cars and
started the engine.
The door from the house shattered
and Quest burst through.
The two guards turned and fired
together.
He could be hurt by bullets.
He was staggered momentarily.
Then, in a blur of motion, he
sprang forward and swept the
guards aside with one hand with
such force that they skidded
across the floor and lay in an
unconscious heap against the
rear of the garage. Trella had
opened the door of the car, but
it was wrenched from her hand
as Blessing stepped on the accelerator
and it leaped into the
driveway with spinning wheels.
Quest was after it, like a
chunky deer, running faster
than Trella had ever seen a man
run before.
Blessing slowed for the turn
at the end of the driveway and
glanced back over his shoulder.
Seeing Quest almost upon him,
he slammed down the accelerator
and twisted the wheel hard.
The car whipped into the
street, careened, and rolled over
and over, bringing up against a
tree on the other side in a twisted
tangle of wreckage.
With a horrified gasp, Trella
ran down the driveway toward
the smoking heap of metal.
Quest was already beside it,
probing it. As she reached his
side, he lifted the torn body of
Dom Blessing. Blessing was
dead.
“I'm lucky,” said Quest soberly.
“I would have murdered
him.”
“But why, Quest? I knew he
was afraid of you, but he didn't
tell me why.”
“It was conditioned into me,”
answered Quest “I didn't know
60
it until just now, when it ended,
but my father conditioned me
psychologically from my birth
to the task of hunting down
Dom Blessing and killing him. It
was an unconscious drive in me
that wouldn't release me until
the task was finished.
“You see, Blessing was my father's
assistant on Ganymede.
Right after my father completed
development of the surgiscope,
he and my mother blasted off for
Io. Blessing wanted the valuable
rights to the surgiscope, and he
sabotaged the ship's drive so it
would fall into Jupiter.
“But my father was able to
control it in the heavy atmosphere
of Jupiter, and landed it
successfully. I was born there,
and he conditioned me to come
to Earth and track down Blessing.
I know now that it was
part of the conditioning that I
was unable to fight any other
man until my task was finished:
it might have gotten me in trouble
and diverted me from that
purpose.”
More gently than Trella would
have believed possible for his
Jupiter-strong muscles, Quest
took her in his arms.
“Now I can say I love you,”
he said. “That was part of the
conditioning too: I couldn't love
any woman until my job was
done.”
Trella disengaged herself.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Don't
you know this, too, now: that
you're not a man, but an android?”
He looked at her in astonishment,
stunned by her words.
“What in space makes you
think that?” he demanded.
“Why, Quest, it's obvious,”
she cried, tears in her eyes.
“Everything about you … your
build, suited for Jupiter's gravity …
your strength … the
fact that you were able to live
in Jupiter's atmosphere after
the oxygen equipment failed.
I know you think Dr. Mansard
was your father, but androids
often believe that.”
He grinned at her.
“I'm no android,” he said confidently.
“Do you forget my father
was inventor of the surgiscope?
He knew I'd have to grow
up on Jupiter, and he operated
on the genes before I was born.
He altered my inherited characteristics
to adapt me to the climate
of Jupiter … even to
being able to breathe a chlorine
atmosphere as well as an oxygen
atmosphere.”
Trella looked at him. He was
not badly hurt, any more than
an elephant would have been,
but his tunic was stained with
red blood where the bullets had
struck him. Normal android
blood was green.
“How can you be sure?” she
asked doubtfully.
“Androids are made,” he answered
with a laugh. “They
don't grow up. And I remember
my boyhood on Jupiter very
well.”
He took her in his arms again,
and this time she did not resist.
His lips were very human.
THE END
|
train | 27665 | [
"Why does Donald's wife think it is funny that Donald might lead the junior achievement group?",
"What is the most likely cause of the accident that displaced Marjorie and Donald from their home?",
"Doris, Peter, and Hilary have all of the following characteristics in common EXCEPT for their:",
"What is the most likely reason why Peter, Doris, and Hilary were interested in joining the junior achievement group?",
"What is Hilary's tone described as \"dark\" when he remarks that there will be people interested in using his before-shave lotion?",
"Central theme of the story? Unrestrained allows for greater success and creativity and progress?",
"What is the central irony at the end of the story? He ends up becoming an employee of children",
"What is the most likely reason for the junior achievement group's shared characteristics?"
] | [
[
"Donald is prone to get carried away with 'side projects,' which his wife finds amusing",
"Donald's students know more than he does about science and industry",
"Donald has no desire or innate talent to participate in sales- or marketing-related schemes",
"Donald comes home each day and complains about his students, yet he is volunteering to spend more time with them"
],
[
"Food supply depletion",
"Radioactive toxicity",
"Viral contamination",
"Climate devastation"
],
[
"Controlled movements",
"Skin complexions",
"Regulated voices",
"Intelligence quotients"
],
[
"Desire to test their creative ideas in a less restricted environment",
"Desire to recruit Donald to work for the Commission of Ridgeville",
"Desire to challenge authority and wreak havoc on the town of Ridgeville",
"Desire to acquire a large amount of funds in order to eliminate the need to go to college"
],
[
"He senses that Donald is going to dismiss the idea because it is too costly",
"He senses that Donald is scheming to patent the idea for his own profiteering",
"He senses that Donald is beginning to understand his malicious intent for the before-shave lotion",
"He senses that Donald is underestimating the potential of his good idea"
],
[
"When children are allowed to challenge authority, the possibilities for havoc aren't as extreme as adults assume they will be",
"When children are allowed to control a group, the possibilities for destruction are higher than in a controlled, rulebound environment",
"When children are allowed to follow their dreams, the possibilities for failure are more amplified than in a practical, realistic environment",
"When children are allowed to embrace creativity, the possibilities for innovation are higher than in a rigid, standardized environment"
],
[
"While Donald feels insecure regarding his science background, he becomes more confident due to his experience innovating with the children ",
"While Donald initially expresses concern about selling items door-to-door, all the customers end up coming to him and the group members",
"While Donald is excited about the opportunity to impart his knowledge, he becomes the employee of students who have more qualifications than he does",
"While Donald despises teaching, he ends up committing to more teaching-related responsibilities over the course of a school year"
],
[
"They have experienced expected and unanticipated consequences of nuclear fallout",
"Their parents are all members of the Ridgeville Commission",
"They are all actually androids that have been programmed by scientists of the Ridgeville Commission",
"They have been meeting secretly for years before they came together under the guise of the junior achievement group"
]
] | [
3,
2,
4,
1,
4,
4,
3,
2
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | Fallout is, of course, always disastrous—
one way or another
JUNIOR ACHIEVEMENT
BY WILLIAM LEE
ILLUSTRATED BY SCHOENHERR
"What would you think," I asked
Marjorie over supper, "if I should undertake
to lead a junior achievement
group this summer?"
She pondered it while she went to
the kitchen to bring in the dessert.
It was dried apricot pie, and very
tasty, I might add.
"Why, Donald," she said, "it could
be quite interesting, if I understand
what a junior achievement group is.
What gave you the idea?"
"It wasn't my idea, really," I admitted.
"Mr. McCormack called me
to the office today, and told me that
some of the children in the lower
grades wanted to start one. They
need adult guidance of course, and
one of the group suggested my name."
I should explain, perhaps, that I
teach a course in general science in
our Ridgeville Junior High School,
and another in general physics in the
Senior High School. It's a privilege
which I'm sure many educators must
envy, teaching in Ridgeville, for our
new school is a fine one, and our
academic standards are high. On the
other hand, the fathers of most of
my students work for the Commission
and a constant awareness of the Commission
and its work pervades the
town. It is an uneasy privilege then,
at least sometimes, to teach my old-fashioned
brand of science to these
children of a new age.
"That's very nice," said Marjorie.
"What does a junior achievement
group do?"
"It has the purpose," I told her,
"of teaching the members something
about commerce and industry. They
manufacture simple compositions
like polishing waxes and sell them
from door-to-door. Some groups have
built up tidy little bank accounts
which are available for later educational
expenses."
"Gracious, you wouldn't have to
sell from door-to-door, would you?"
"Of course not. I'd just tell the
kids how to do it."
Marjorie put back her head and
laughed, and I was forced to join her,
for we both recognize that my understanding
and "feel" for commercial
matters—if I may use that expression—is
almost nonexistent.
"Oh, all right," I said, "laugh at
my commercial aspirations. But don't
worry about it, really. Mr. McCormack
said we could get Mr. Wells from
Commercial Department to help out
if he was needed. There is one problem,
though. Mr. McCormack is going
to put up fifty dollars to buy any
raw materials wanted and he rather
suggested that I might advance another
fifty. The question is, could we
do it?"
Marjorie did mental arithmetic.
"Yes," she said, "yes, if it's something
you'd like to do."
We've had to watch such things
rather closely for the last ten—no,
eleven years. Back in the old Ridgeville,
fifty-odd miles to the south, we
had our home almost paid for, when
the accident occurred. It was in the
path of the heaviest fallout, and we
couldn't have kept on living there
even if the town had stayed. When
Ridgeville moved to its present site,
so, of course, did we, which meant
starting mortgage payments all over
again.
Thus it was that on a Wednesday
morning about three weeks later, I
was sitting at one end of a plank picnic
table with five boys and girls
lined up along the sides. This was to
be our headquarters and factory for
the summer—a roomy unused barn
belonging to the parents of one of
the group members, Tommy Miller.
"O.K.," I said, "let's relax. You
don't need to treat me as a teacher,
you know. I stopped being a school
teacher when the final grades went in
last Friday. I'm on vacation now. My
job here is only to advise, and I'm
going to do that as little as possible.
You're going to decide what to do,
and if it's safe and legal and possible
to do with the starting capital we
have, I'll go along with it and help
in any way I can. This is your meeting."
Mr. McCormack had told me, and
in some detail, about the youngsters
I'd be dealing with. The three who
were sitting to my left were the ones
who had proposed the group in the
first place.
Doris Enright was a grave young
lady of ten years, who might, I
thought, be quite a beauty in a few
more years, but was at the moment
rather angular—all shoulders and elbows.
Peter Cope, Jr. and Hilary Matlack
were skinny kids, too. The three
were of an age and were all tall for
ten-year-olds.
I had the impression during that
first meeting that they looked rather
alike, but this wasn't so. Their features
were quite different. Perhaps
from association, for they were close
friends, they had just come to have
a certain similarity of restrained gesture
and of modulated voice. And
they were all tanned by sun and wind
to a degree that made their eyes seem
light and their teeth startlingly white.
The two on my right were cast in
a different mold. Mary McCready
was a big husky redhead of twelve,
with a face full of freckles and an
infectious laugh, and Tommy Miller,
a few months younger, was just an
average, extroverted, well adjusted
youngster, noisy and restless, tee-shirted
and butch-barbered.
The group exchanged looks to see
who would lead off, and Peter Cope
seemed to be elected.
"Well, Mr. Henderson, a junior
achievement group is a bunch of kids
who get together to manufacture and
sell things, and maybe make some
money."
"Is that what you want to do," I
asked, "make money?"
"Why not?" Tommy asked.
"There's something wrong with making
money?"
"Well, sure, I suppose we want to,"
said Hilary. "We'll need some money
to do the things we want to do later."
"And what sort of things would
you like to make and sell?" I asked.
The usual products, of course, with
these junior achievement efforts, are
chemical specialties that can be made
safely and that people will buy and
use without misgivings—solvent to
free up rusty bolts, cleaner to remove
road tar, mechanic's hand soap—that
sort of thing. Mr. McCormack had
told me, though, that I might find
these youngsters a bit more ambitious.
"The Miller boy and Mary McCready,"
he had said, "have exceptionally
high IQ's—around one forty
or one fifty. The other three are hard
to classify. They have some of the
attributes of exceptional pupils, but
much of the time they seem to have
little interest in their studies. The
junior achievement idea has sparked
their imaginations. Maybe it'll be just
what they need."
Mary said, "Why don't we make a
freckle remover? I'd be our first customer."
"The thing to do," Tommy offered,
"is to figure out what people in
Ridgeville want to buy, then sell it
to them."
"I'd like to make something by
powder metallurgy techniques," said
Pete. He fixed me with a challenging
eye. "You should be able to make
ball bearings by molding, then densify
them by electroplating."
"And all we'd need is a hydraulic
press," I told him, "which, on a guess,
might cost ten thousand dollars. Let's
think of something easier."
Pete mulled it over and nodded
reluctantly. "Then maybe something
in the electronics field. A hi-fi sub-assembly
of some kind."
"How about a new detergent?" Hilary
put in.
"Like the liquid dishwashing detergents?"
I asked.
He was scornful. "No, they're formulations—you
know, mixtures.
That's cookbook chemistry. I mean a
brand new synthetic detergent. I've
got an idea for one that ought to be
good even in the hard water we've
got around here."
"Well, now," I said, "organic synthesis
sounds like another operation
calling for capital investment. If we
should keep the achievement group
going for several summers, it might
be possible later on to carry out a
safe synthesis of some sort. You're
Dr. Matlack's son, aren't you? Been
dipping into your father's library?"
"Some," said Hilary, "and I've got
a home laboratory."
"How about you, Doris?" I prompted.
"Do you have a special field of interest?"
"No." She shook her head in mock
despondency. "I'm not very technical.
Just sort of miscellaneous. But if the
group wanted to raise some mice, I'd
be willing to turn over a project I've
had going at home."
"You could sell mice?" Tommy demanded
incredulously.
"Mice," I echoed, then sat back and
thought about it. "Are they a pure
strain? One of the recognized laboratory
strains? Healthy mice of the
right strain," I explained to Tommy,
"might be sold to laboratories. I have
an idea the Commission buys a supply
every month."
"No," said Doris, "these aren't laboratory
mice. They're fancy ones. I
got the first four pairs from a pet
shop in Denver, but they're red—sort
of chipmunk color, you know. I've
carried them through seventeen generations
of careful selection."
"Well, now," I admitted, "the market
for red mice might be rather limited.
Why don't you consider making
an after-shave lotion? Denatured alcohol,
glycerine, water, a little color
and perfume. You could buy some
bottles and have some labels printed.
You'd be in business before you
knew it."
There was a pause, then Tommy
inquired, "How do you sell it?"
"Door-to-door."
He made a face. "Never build up
any volume. Unless it did something
extra. You say we'd put color in it.
How about enough color to leave
your face looking tanned. Men won't
use cosmetics and junk, but if they
didn't have to admit it, they might
like the shave lotion."
Hilary had been deep in thought.
He said suddenly, "Gosh, I think I
know how to make a—what do you
want to call it—a before-shave lotion."
"What would that be?" I asked.
"You'd use it before you shaved."
"I suppose there might be people
who'd prefer to use it beforehand,"
I conceded.
"There will be people," he said
darkly, and subsided.
Mrs. Miller came out to the barn
after a while, bringing a bucket of
soft drinks and ice, a couple of loaves
of bread and ingredients for a variety
of sandwiches. The parents had
agreed to underwrite lunches at the
barn and Betty Miller philosophically
assumed the role of commissary
officer. She paused only to say hello
and to ask how we were progressing
with our organization meeting.
I'd forgotten all about organization,
and that, according to all the
articles I had perused, is most important
to such groups. It's standard practice
for every member of the group
to be a company officer. Of course a
young boy who doesn't know any better,
may wind up a sales manager.
Over the sandwiches, then, I suggested
nominating company officers,
but they seemed not to be interested.
Peter Cope waved it off by remarking
that they'd each do what came
naturally. On the other hand, they
pondered at some length about a
name for the organization, without
reaching any conclusions, so we returned
to the problem of what to
make.
It was Mary, finally, who advanced
the thought of kites. At first there
was little enthusiasm, then Peter said,
"You know, we could work up something
new. Has anybody ever seen a
kite made like a wind sock?"
Nobody had. Pete drew figures in
the air with his hands. "How about
the hole at the small end?"
"I'll make one tonight," said Doris,
"and think about the small end.
It'll work out all right."
I wished that the youngsters weren't
starting out by inventing a new
article to manufacture, and risking an
almost certain disappointment, but to
hold my guidance to the minimum, I
said nothing, knowing that later I
could help them redesign it along
standard lines.
At supper I reviewed the day's
happenings with Marjorie and tried
to recall all of the ideas which had
been propounded. Most of them were
impractical, of course, for a group of
children to attempt, but several of
them appeared quite attractive.
Tommy, for example, wanted to
put tooth powder into tablets that
one would chew before brushing the
teeth. He thought there should be
two colors in the same bottle—orange
for morning and blue for night,
the blue ones designed to leave the
mouth alkaline at bed time.
Pete wanted to make a combination
nail and wood screw. You'd
drive it in with a hammer up to the
threaded part, then send it home with
a few turns of a screwdriver.
Hilary, reluctantly forsaking his
ideas on detergents, suggested we
make black plastic discs, like poker
chips but thinner and as cheap as
possible, to scatter on a snowy sidewalk
where they would pick up extra
heat from the sun and melt the
snow more rapidly. Afterward one
would sweep up and collect the discs.
Doris added to this that if you
could make the discs light enough to
float, they might be colored white
and spread on the surface of a reservoir
to reduce evaporation.
These latter ideas had made unknowing
use of some basic physics,
and I'm afraid I relapsed for a few
minutes into the role of teacher and
told them a little bit about the laws
of radiation and absorption of heat.
"My," said Marjorie, "they're really
smart boys and girls. Tommy Miller
does sound like a born salesman.
Somehow I don't think you're going
to have to call in Mr. Wells."
I do feel just a little embarrassed
about the kite, even now. The fact
that it flew surprised me. That it flew
so confoundedly well was humiliating.
Four of them were at the barn
when I arrived next morning; or
rather on the rise of ground just beyond
it, and the kite hung motionless
and almost out of sight in the pale
sky. I stood and watched for a moment,
then they saw me.
"Hello, Mr. Henderson," Mary said,
and proffered the cord which was
wound on a fishing reel. I played the
kite up and down for a few minutes,
then reeled it in. It was, almost exactly,
a wind sock, but the hole at the
small end was shaped—by wire—into
the general form of a kidney bean.
It was beautifully made, and had a
sort of professional look about it.
"It flies too well," Mary told Doris.
"A kite ought to get caught in a tree
sometimes."
"You're right," Doris agreed. "Let's
see it." She gave the wire at the small
end the slightest of twists. "There, it
ought to swoop."
Sure enough, in the moderate
breeze of that morning, the kite
swooped and yawed to Mary's entire
satisfaction. As we trailed back to the
barn I asked Doris, "How did you
know that flattening the lower edge
of the hole would create instability?"
She looked doubtful.
"Why it would have to, wouldn't
it? It changed the pattern of air pressures."
She glanced at me quickly.
"Of course, I tried a lot of different
shapes while I was making it."
"Naturally," I said, and let it go at
that. "Where's Tommy?"
"He stopped off at the bank," Pete
Cope told me, "to borrow some money.
We'll want to buy materials to
make some of these kites."
"But I said yesterday that Mr. McCormack
and I were going to advance
some cash to get started."
"Oh, sure, but don't you think it
would be better to borrow from a
bank? More businesslike?"
"Doubtless," I said, "but banks generally
want some security." I would
have gone on and explained matters
further, except that Tommy walked
in and handed me a pocket check
book.
"I got two hundred and fifty," he
volunteered—not without a hint of
complacency in his voice. "It didn't
take long, but they sure made it out
a big deal. Half the guys in the bank
had to be called in to listen to the
proposition. The account's in your
name, Mr. Henderson, and you'll have
to make out the checks. And they
want you to stop in at the bank and
give them a specimen signature. Oh,
yes, and cosign the note."
My heart sank. I'd never had any
dealings with banks except in the
matter of mortgages, and bank people
make me most uneasy. To say
nothing of finding myself responsible
for a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar
note—over two weeks salary. I made
a mental vow to sign very few checks.
"So then I stopped by at Apex
Stationers," Tommy went on, "and ordered
some paper and envelopes. We
hadn't picked a name yesterday, but I
figured what's to lose, and picked one.
Ridge Industries, how's that?" Everybody
nodded.
"Just three lines on the letterhead,"
he explained. "Ridge Industries—Ridgeville—Montana."
I got my voice back and said, "Engraved,
I trust."
"Well, sure," he replied. "You can't
afford to look chintzy."
My appetite was not at its best
that evening, and Marjorie recognized
that something was concerning
me, but she asked no questions, and
I only told her about the success of
the kite, and the youngsters embarking
on a shopping trip for paper, glue
and wood splints. There was no use
in both of us worrying.
On Friday we all got down to work,
and presently had a regular production
line under way; stapling the
wood splints, then wetting them with
a resin solution and shaping them
over a mandrel to stiffen, cutting the
plastic film around a pattern, assembling
and hanging the finished kites
from an overhead beam until the cement
had set. Pete Cope had located
a big roll of red plastic film from
somewhere, and it made a wonderful-looking
kite. Happily, I didn't know
what the film cost until the first kites
were sold.
By Wednesday of the following
week we had almost three hundred
kites finished and packed into flat
cardboard boxes, and frankly I didn't
care if I never saw another. Tommy,
who by mutual consent, was our
authority on sales, didn't want to sell
any until we had, as he put it, enough
to meet the demand, but this quantity
seemed to satisfy him. He said he
would sell them the next week and
Mary McCready, with a fine burst of
confidence, asked him in all seriousness
to be sure to hold out a dozen.
Three other things occurred that
day, two of which I knew about immediately.
Mary brought a portable
typewriter from home and spent part
of the afternoon banging away at
what seemed to me, since I use two
fingers only, a very creditable speed.
And Hilary brought in a bottle of
his new detergent. It was a syrupy
yellow liquid with a nice collar of
suds. He'd been busy in his home
laboratory after all, it seemed.
"What is it?" I asked. "You never
told us."
Hilary grinned. "Lauryl benzyl
phosphonic acid, dipotassium salt, in
20% solution."
"Goodness." I protested, "it's been
twenty-five years since my last course
in chemistry. Perhaps if I saw the
formula—."
He gave me a singularly adult
smile and jotted down a scrawl of
symbols and lines. It meant little to
me.
"Is it good?"
For answer he seized the ice bucket,
now empty of its soda bottles,
trickled in a few drops from the bottle
and swished the contents. Foam
mounted to the rim and spilled over.
"And that's our best grade of Ridgeville
water," he pointed out. "Hardest
in the country."
The third event of Wednesday
came to my ears on Thursday morning.
I was a little late arriving at the
barn, and was taken a bit aback to
find the roadway leading to it rather
full of parked automobiles, and the
barn itself rather full of people, including
two policemen. Our Ridgeville
police are quite young men, but
in uniform they still look ominous
and I was relieved to see that they
were laughing and evidently enjoying
themselves.
"Well, now," I demanded, in my
best classroom voice. "What is all
this?"
"Are you Henderson?" the larger
policeman asked.
"I am indeed," I said, and a flash
bulb went off. A young lady grasped
my arm.
"Oh, please, Mr. Henderson, come
outside where it's quieter and tell me
all about it."
"Perhaps," I countered, "somebody
should tell me."
"You mean you don't know, honestly?
Oh, it's fabulous. Best story I've
had for ages. It'll make the city papers."
She led me around the corner
of the barn to a spot of comparative
quiet.
"You didn't know that one of your
junior whatsisnames poured detergent
in the Memorial Fountain basin
last night?"
I shook my head numbly.
"It was priceless. Just before rush
hour. Suds built up in the basin and
overflowed, and down the library
steps and covered the whole street.
And the funniest part was they kept
right on coming. You couldn't imagine
so much suds coming from that
little pool of water. There was a
three-block traffic jam and Harry got
us some marvelous pictures—men
rolling up their trousers to wade
across the street. And this morning,"
she chortled, "somebody phoned in
an anonymous tip to the police—of
course it was the same boy that did
it—Tommy—Miller?—and so here
we are. And we just saw a demonstration
of that fabulous kite and saw
all those simply captivating mice."
"Mice?"
"Yes, of course. Who would ever
have thought you could breed mice
with those cute furry tails?"
Well, after a while things quieted
down. They had to. The police left
after sobering up long enough to
give me a serious warning against
letting such a thing happen again.
Mr. Miller, who had come home to
see what all the excitement was, went
back to work and Mrs. Miller went
back to the house and the reporter
and photographer drifted off to file
their story, or whatever it is they do.
Tommy was jubilant.
"Did you hear what she said? It'll
make the city papers. I wish we had
a thousand kites. Ten thousand. Oh
boy, selling is fun. Hilary, when can
you make some more of that stuff?
And Doris, how many mice do you
have?"
Those mice! I have always kept
my enthusiasm for rodents within
bounds, but I must admit they were
charming little beasts, with tails as
bushy as miniature squirrels.
"How many generations?" I asked
Doris.
"Seventeen. No, eighteen, now.
Want to see the genetic charts?"
I won't try to explain it as she did
to me, but it was quite evident that
the new mice were breeding true.
Presently we asked Betty Miller to
come back down to the barn for a
conference. She listened and asked
questions. At last she said, "Well, all
right, if you promise me they can't
get out of their cages. But heaven
knows what you'll do when fall
comes. They won't live in an unheated
barn and you can't bring them
into the house."
"We'll be out of the mouse business
by then," Doris predicted. "Every pet
shop in the country will have
them and they'll be down to nothing
apiece."
Doris was right, of course, in spite
of our efforts to protect the market.
Anyhow that ushered in our cage
building phase, and for the next
week—with a few interruptions—we
built cages, hundreds of them, a good
many for breeding, but mostly for
shipping.
It was rather regrettable that, after
the
Courier
gave us most of the third
page, including photographs, we rarely
had a day without a few visitors.
Many of them wanted to buy mice or
kites, but Tommy refused to sell any
mice at retail and we soon had to disappoint
those who wanted kites. The
Supermarket took all we had—except
a dozen—and at a dollar fifty
each. Tommy's ideas of pricing rather
frightened me, but he set the value
of the mice at ten dollars a pair
and got it without any arguments.
Our beautiful stationery arrived,
and we had some invoice forms printed
up in a hurry—not engraved, for
a wonder.
It was on Tuesday—following the
Thursday—that a lanky young man
disentangled himself from his car
and strolled into the barn. I looked
up from the floor where I was tacking
squares of screening onto wooden
frames.
"Hi," he said. "You're Donald
Henderson, right? My name is McCord—Jeff
McCord—and I work in
the Patent Section at the Commission's
downtown office. My boss sent
me over here, but if he hadn't, I
think I'd have come anyway. What
are you doing to get patent protection
on Ridge Industries' new developments?"
I got my back unkinked and dusted
off my knees. "Well, now," I said,
"I've been wondering whether something
shouldn't be done, but I know
very little about such matters—."
"Exactly," he broke in, "we guessed
that might be the case, and there are
three patent men in our office who'd
like to chip in and contribute some
time. Partly for the kicks and partly
because we think you may have some
things worth protecting. How about
it? You worry about the filing and
final fees. That's sixty bucks per
brainstorm. We'll worry about everything
else."
"What's to lose," Tommy interjected.
And so we acquired a patent attorney,
several of them, in fact.
The day that our application on
the kite design went to Washington,
Mary wrote a dozen toy manufacturers
scattered from New York to Los
Angeles, sent a kite to each one and
offered to license the design. Result,
one licensee with a thousand dollar
advance against next season's royalties.
It was a rainy morning about three
weeks later that I arrived at the barn.
Jeff McCord was there, and the whole
team except Tommy. Jeff lowered his
feet from the picnic table and said,
"Hi."
"Hi yourself," I told him. "You
look pleased."
"I am," he replied, "in a cautious
legal sense, of course. Hilary and I
were just going over the situation on
his phosphonate detergent. I've spent
the last three nights studying the patent
literature and a few standard
texts touching on phosphonates.
There are a zillion patents on synthetic
detergents and a good round
fifty on phosphonates, but it looks"—he
held up a long admonitory hand—"it
just looks as though we had a clear
spot. If we do get protection, you've
got a real salable property."
"That's fine, Mr. McCord," Hilary
said, "but it's not very important."
"No?" Jeff tilted an inquiring eyebrow
at me, and I handed him a small
bottle. He opened and sniffed at it
gingerly. "What gives?"
"Before-shave lotion," Hilary told
him. "You've shaved this morning,
but try some anyway."
Jeff looked momentarily dubious,
then puddled some in his palm and
moistened his jaw line. "Smells
good," he noted, "and feels nice and
cool. Now what?"
"Wipe your face." Jeff located a
handkerchief and wiped, looked at
the cloth, wiped again, and stared.
"What is it?"
"A whisker stiffener. It makes each
hair brittle enough to break off right
at the surface of your skin."
"So I perceive. What is it?"
"Oh, just a mixture of stuff. Cookbook
chemistry. Cysteine thiolactone
and a fat-soluble magnesium compound."
"I see. Just a mixture of stuff. And
do your whiskers grow back the next
day?"
"Right on schedule," I said.
McCord unfolded his length and
stood staring out into the rain. Presently
he said, "Henderson, Hilary
and I are heading for my office. We
can work there better than here, and
if we're going to break the hearts of
the razor industry, there's no better
time to start than now."
When they had driven off I turned
and said, "Let's talk a while. We can
always clean mouse cages later.
Where's Tommy?"
"Oh, he stopped at the bank to get
a loan."
"What on earth for? We have over
six thousand in the account."
"Well," Peter said, looking a little
embarrassed, "we were planning to
buy a hydraulic press. You see, Doris
put some embroidery on that scheme
of mine for making ball bearings."
He grabbed a sheet of paper. "Look,
we make a roller bearing, this shape
only it's a permanent magnet. Then
you see—." And he was off.
"What did they do today, dear?"
Marge asked as she refilled my coffee
cup.
"Thanks," I said. "Let's see, it was
a big day. We picked out a hydraulic
press, Doris read us the first chapter
of the book she's starting, and we
found a place over a garage on
Fourth Street that we can rent for
winter quarters. Oh, yes, and Jeff is
starting action to get the company
incorporated."
"Winter quarters," Marge repeated.
"You mean you're going to try to
keep the group going after school
starts?"
"Why not? The kids can sail
through their courses without thinking
about them, and actually they
won't put in more than a few hours
a week during the school year."
"Even so, it's child labor, isn't it?"
"Child labor nothing. They're the
employers. Jeff McCord and I will
be the only employees—just at first,
anyway."
Marge choked on something. "Did
you say you'd be an employee?"
"Sure," I told her. "They've offered
me a small share of the company,
and I'd be crazy to turn it down. After
all, what's to lose?"
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Analog Science Fact & Fiction
July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 51597 | [
"Which of these is the best description of the narrator? ",
"Which of these is true about the importance of alge to the Martians?",
"What is not true about the surgeon's job?",
"What does the narrator seem to think makes a good cook on a spacer?",
"Which is the best description of the relationship between the Doc and the captain?",
"Which is the best description of the relationship between the Doc and Bailey?",
"Which is the best description of the impact of ketchup being a personal effect?",
"Which of these best describes the captain?",
"What likely happens after the story is over?",
"Which of these best describes Bailey's personality?"
] | [
[
"A doctor who is also a food critic",
"An angsty crew member who is always present in the mess hall",
"A mutinous doctor who wants to run the ship himself",
"A surgeon who happens to know some things about the history of food"
],
[
"It is the only thing they can eat",
"All of the spaceships are named after different species of alge",
"Most of the economy is geared around growing and collecting alge",
"The nickname for their species is inspired by the reliance on alge"
],
[
"He takes care of the mental health and morale of the crew ",
"He has to know when to offer alcohol as the appropriate remedy for a situation",
"He is a sounding-board for those who need to complain",
"He's the person to file grievances with when there are interpersonal issues"
],
[
"Someone who can get food out as fast and as consistently as possible",
"They can bring people together in conversations about food",
"They are willing to be creative in addition to an attention to detail",
"They are able to make meals to help the crewmates lose weight"
],
[
"They are old friends and the Doc is happy to let poor behavior slide",
"The Doc respects the captain's position but say something if he thinks he goes too far",
"The Doc never puts up with the captain, which makes their relationship very tense",
"The Doc is the official mediator between the captian and the rest of the crew"
],
[
"They are friendly but butt heads a little bit with respect to others on the ship",
"The Doc expects to be waited on by Bailey",
"They don't interact at all, it's a very superficial relationship",
"They are old friends and like to go for a drink together"
],
[
"It showed how dedicated the captain was to his ploy to get the cook to be more creative",
"It made the rest of the crew angry that they did not have condiments of their own",
"It took away from the weight allowances of the rest of the crew, showing how selfish the captain is",
"It showed how little the captain thought of the cook's abilities, if he expected to use all of the ketchup he brought"
],
[
"He is a tempermental man who wants everyone to stay out of his way",
"He has good intentions but always has a bad effect on those around him",
"He is a sly but fair man who pushes his crew to do their best",
"He is a pushy person who gets on people's bad sides but thinks he has good intentions"
],
[
"The Doc has to treat the crew for food poisoning because they are not used to real meat",
"Bailey is renowned for his culinary breakthrough, and his future restaurant is a success",
"The crew goes down in history, but not for the culinary feat",
"Bailey decides not to open a restaurant so he can continue cooking on ships "
],
[
"He is timid and unable to stand up for himself with the captain",
"He is a reasonable person with a lot of skill who does not appreciate being pushed",
"He is determined and dedicated, wanting to show the captain what he can do",
"He appreciates the external motivation from the crew to always improve his cooking"
]
] | [
4,
4,
4,
3,
2,
1,
1,
4,
3,
2
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0
] | GOURMET
By ALLEN KIM LANG
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This was the endless problem of all
spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men
tomorrow on what they had eaten today!
Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,
men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It's
true that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussion
can never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is a
challenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughts
that a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.
In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearing
seals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,
celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. The
Limey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed into
his diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated age
only as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmen
are called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the
Chlorella
and
Scenedesmus
algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open the
road to the larger Space without.
Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture in
history—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilis
to the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral with
cross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to the
hundred-and-first chapter of
Moby Dick
, a book spooled in the
amusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, that
no Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment more
than a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads of
Leyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for a
man condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.
The
Pequod's
crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men won
their war on canned pork and beans. The
Triton
made her underwater
periplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza and
concentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for the
skies, a decline set in.
The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decent
food. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezings
from aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to the
groundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.
Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black sky
through a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgusting
exordium of
Isaiah
36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast today
what was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.
The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turning
offal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard a
spacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.
Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.
Ajax
fiasco, for example, in which a
galleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship's
shielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued from
the
Ajax
in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We think
of the
Benjo Maru
incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowed
his algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing
Saccharomycodes
yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad at
Piano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got into
the stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequent
bite he ate to a superior grade of
sake
. And for a third footnote to
the ancient observation, "God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,"
Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the
Charles Partlow
Sale
.
The
Sale
blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, due
in at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were taking
the low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as the
human period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen fir
seedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be planted
in the
maria
to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We had
aboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship's
Surgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,
the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook was
Robert Bailey.
Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustrating
tensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,
dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility to
see that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds of
water, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.
This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's a
statement of the least fuel a man can run on.
Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargo
compartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the
C. P. Sale
no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae to
work over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tons
of metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano West
and back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,
protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And the
algae fed us.
All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubble
from our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en route
and back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich in
essential amino acids.
The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill the
smell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in a
hundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quite
wore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule of
oxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by the
end of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with the
glomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundling
politicians are right enough when they say that we spacers are a
breed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury of
squeamishness.
Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knife
in space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncher
extraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,
guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.
Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victim
is the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.
If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic duties
of his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmann
was the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best do
so alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would have
done splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heart
was a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planet
Earth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying as
Willy Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of a
Pullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major social
hemorrhoid.
The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.
It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, "Bailey,
Robert," on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunate
shipmate "Belly-Robber." It was Winkelmann who discussed
haut
cuisine
and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched our
algaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it was
Captain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by any
other name than The Kitchen Cabinet.
Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste
of synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized by
Chlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oregano
and thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,
textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted the
slabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.
For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste of
the carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.
"Belly-Robber," he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,
"you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a pun
in my home country:
Mensch ist was er isst.
It means, you are what
you eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this
Schweinerei
you are feeding me." Captain Winkelmann blotted his chin
with his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up the
ladder from the dining-cubby.
"Doc, do you like Winkelmann?" the Cook asked me.
"Not much," I said. "I suspect that the finest gift our Captain can
give his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've got
to live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship."
"I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook," Bailey said. "The fat swine!"
"His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey," I
said. "He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers in
my time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none."
Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. It
was green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. "This
is what I have to work with," he said. He tossed the stuff back into
its bin. "In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,
we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings."
"You'll never make Winkelmann happy," I said. "Even the simultaneous
death of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep up
the good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat."
Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of rye
from Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cook
waved my gift aside. "Not now, Doc," he said. "I'm thinking about
tomorrow's menu."
The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon the
next day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressed
with something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves of
burnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can only
guess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling and
drying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nine
heads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The
pièce de
résistance
was again a "hamburger steak;" but this time the algaeal
mass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was only
faintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets had
been sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. "It's
so tender," the radioman joked, "that I can hardly believe it's really
steak."
Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silently
imploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The big
man's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.
"Belly-Robber," Winkelmann said, "I had almost rather you served me
this pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions and
cycler-salt."
"You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain," I said. I
gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.
"Yes, I eat it," the Captain said, taking and talking through another
bite. "But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms and
grasshoppers, to stay alive."
"Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me?" Bailey pleaded.
"Only good food," Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguised
algae. He tapped his head with a finger. "This—the brain that guides
the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,
Belly-Robber?"
Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. "Yes, sir. But I really
don't know what I can do to please you."
"You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban
Hausfrau
with the
vapors," Winkelmann said. "I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrums
or weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that will
keep my belly content and my brain alive."
"Yes, sir," Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the British
term Dumb Insolence.
Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. I
followed him. "Captain," I said, "you're driving Bailey too hard.
You're asking him to make bricks without straw."
Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. "You think, Doctor,
that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-aged
man?"
"Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all," I said.
"You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,"
Winkelmann said. "Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if the
Pharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children of
Israel would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is the
mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him
uncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,
to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learn
somehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks."
"You're driving him too hard, Sir," I said. "He'll crack."
"Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when we
ground at Brady Station," Captain Winkelmann said. "So much money buys
many discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova."
"Crew morale on the ship...." I began.
"That will be all, Doctor Vilanova," Captain Winkelmann repeated.
Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical
path to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiate
the appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemned
by that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain at
mealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. "Convey my
compliments to the Chef, please," the Captain would instruct one of
the crew, "and ask him to step down here a moment." And the Cook would
cheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary genius
acidly called in question again.
I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to go
into Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark in
brilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an
ersatz
hot
turkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorella
turkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacy
a grainy and delicious "cornbread," and had extracted from his algae
a lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot "bread" with a
genuinely dairy smell. "Splendid, Bailey," I said.
"We are not amused," said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a second
helping of the pseudo-turkey. "You are improving, Belly-Robber, but
only arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to require
a geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mere
edibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you will
have learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economics
student. That will be all, Bailey."
The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding of
Bailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between their
Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark
on an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their last
few days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and many
memories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men had
lost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,
seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,
and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to our
Captain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advice
that would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, when
Winkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.
Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effects
besides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. As
his rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double this
ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of
books, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to help
him while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for a
fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of
spices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,
and a dozen others.
Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cards
interested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability alien
to his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'd
exercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowance
to the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.
To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to come
aboard their ship mother-naked.
But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effects
baggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noon
mess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feet
on the mysterious box as he sat to eat.
"What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,
Belly-Robber?" he asked the Cook.
Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd
had much practice. "I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,"
he said. "I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get the
texture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?"
"I understand," Winkelmann growled. "You intend that your latest mess
should feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?"
"Yes, Sir," Bailey said. "Well, I squeezed the
steak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of special
seasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaeal
oil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.
Voila!
I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuine
meat."
"Remarkable, Bailey," I said.
"It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about with
our food," the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression of
distaste. "It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but I
never cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoils
the meal."
Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center of
the table and tenderly lifted a small "steak" onto each of our plates.
"Try it," he urged the Captain.
Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. The
color was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smell
of fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. "Not
too bad, Belly-Robber," he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbed
his head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. A
kind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of a
more reasonable man. "But it still needs something ... something,"
Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.
"Aha! I have it!"
"Yes, Sir?" Bailey asked.
"This, Belly-Robber!" Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table and
ripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewed
the cap. "Ketchup," he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey's
masterpiece. "The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks."
Lifting a hunk of the "steak," streaming ketchup, to his mouth,
Winkelmann chewed. "Just the thing," he smiled.
"Damn you!" Bailey shouted.
Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.
"... Sir," Bailey added.
"That's better," Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He said
meditatively, "Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I have
sufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep a
bottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber."
"But, Sir...." Bailey began.
"You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threat
to the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealistic
slops for another hundred days, without the small consolation of
this sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be in
no condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do you
understand, Belly-Robber?" he demanded.
"I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,
slave-driving...."
"Watch your noun," Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. "Your adjectives are
insubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous."
"Captain, you've gone too far," I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, was
scarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.
"Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's
Surgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain," Winkelmann said.
"Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you," I said. "The other officers
and the men have been more than satisfied with his work."
"That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds," Winkelmann said.
"Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber," he added.
Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him
to my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on my
bunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metal
bulkhead. "You'll have that drink now," I said.
"No, dammit!" he shouted.
"Orders," I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. "This is
therapy, Bailey," I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throat
like water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.
After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. "Sorry, Doc," he said.
"You've taken more pressure than most men would," I said. "Nothing to
be ashamed of."
"He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzel
and sauerkraut and
Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art
out of an algae
tank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-out
molecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. And
he expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquet
of the Friends of Escoffier!"
"Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey," I said. "You've worked your
fingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're not
appreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A year
from now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start that
restaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman."
"I hate him," Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. He
reached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can be
an apt confederate of
vis medicatrix naturae
, the healing power of
nature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep it
off. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.
For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable in
horribleness, a pottage or boiled
Chlorella vulgaris
that looked
and tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,
red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann as
though daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of the
disgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, "Belly-Robber, you're
improving a little at last."
Bailey nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Sir," he said.
I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were
now strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults of
irony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that was
a price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmann
theory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captain
had pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, I
thought.
Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tasted
of salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment were
vehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, for
the decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He served
the algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galley
oblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.
There being only three seats in the
Sale's
mess compartment, we ate
our meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder to
supper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smell
to make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,
of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hiss
of canned beer being church-keyed. "He's done it, Doc!" one of the
first-shift diners said. "It actually tastes of food!"
"Then he's beat the Captain at his game," I said.
"The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks," the crewman
said.
I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electric
warming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three of
us with the small "steaks." Each contained about a pound of dried
Chlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenched
in a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black iron
skillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cut
a bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there are
limits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in the
galley door. I gestured for him to join me. "You've done it, Bailey,"
I said. "Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This is
actually
good
."
"Thanks, Doc," Bailey said.
I smiled and took another bite. "You may not realize it, Bailey; but
this is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;
you couldn't have done it without him."
"You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?"
Bailey asked.
"He was driving you to do the impossible," I said; "and you did it. Our
Captain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximum
performance out of his Ship's Cook."
Bailey stood up. "Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor?" he asked.
I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.
He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the good
of the ship and his crew. "Do I like Captain Winkelmann?" I asked,
spearing another piece of my artificial steak. "Bailey, I'm afraid I'll
have to admit that I do."
Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto my
plate. "Then have another piece," he said.
|
train | 60995 | [
"What is the significance of the story's title?",
"Which is the best description of the relationship between Linton and Howell?",
"What is the significance of Rogers Snead?",
"What likely happens to Linton at the end of the story?",
"Which is the best description of Linton?",
"Which of these best describes the doctor that Linton meets at the end?",
"Which best describes the role of the Mafia in this story?",
"How does this society view resurrection?",
"Which of these is not a likely consequence of the end of the story?"
] | [
[
"It hints at the extra costs for less natural things",
"It marks the setting for the story",
"It hints at Linton's constant desire for sweet things",
"It shows Linton's goal for the story"
],
[
"They are business partners trying to find a way to bring back someone they knew",
"Howell is trying to be supportive but is exhausted by Linton's insistence",
"They are new friends figuring out their rapport, so Howell wants to help however he can",
"Howell is only meeting with Linton out of a feeling of obligation and doesn't care for him much"
],
[
"His sighting gives LInton an idea of how to see his wife",
"He serves as proof that Linton is seeing things, and needs professional help",
"Snead is a reminder of a previous stage of Linton's life",
"Linton knows that Snead could take him where he needs to go"
],
[
"He and his wife live happily, both as cybernetic creatures",
"He repeats a cycle of having his money taken from him from doctors",
"He goes to rehab and then moves on with his life",
"He will never leave the asylym because he needs too much help"
],
[
"He is a heartbroken man wanting to find new goals for his life",
"He is trying to recover from his past in the Mafia and wants to find legal ways to accomplish his goals",
"He is a gullible person determined to follow his instinct",
"He is a risk-taker who prefers to experience the more illegal things society has to offer"
],
[
"Generous in that he is willing to help Linton with this problem that involves illegal work on his part",
"Greedy in that he manipulates vulnerable people to take money from them",
"Love-stricken, wanting to help people in similar situations",
"Cunning in his cutting-edge technology he is developing"
],
[
"Their involvement shows public perception on the procedure that Linton pays for",
"They are the ones responsible for the technology that Linton pays for",
"They were Linton's previous employers and the source of the money he uses to pay for the operation",
"They show how violence-stricken the society is"
],
[
"There are many people who pretend to do it but nobody who does",
"There is a big push to make it legal",
"It is looked down upon so nobody does it",
"It only happens for those with questionable morals and a lot of money"
],
[
"Howell will be hesitant to help Linton again",
"The doctor continues taking advantage of people",
"Linton goes through treatment, eventually repeating the same events",
"Greta finds her own way to establish herself and find the money she wants"
]
] | [
1,
2,
1,
2,
3,
2,
1,
4,
4
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | FEBRUARY STRAWBERRIES
By JIM HARMON
How much is the impossible worth?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Linton lay down his steel fork beside the massively solid transparency
of the restaurant water glass.
"Isn't that Rogers Snead at that table?" he heard himself say stupidly.
Howell, the man across the table from him, looked embarrassed without
looking. "Not at all. Somebody who looks like him. Twin brother. You
know how it is. Snead's dead, don't you remember?"
Linton remembered. Howell had to know that he would remember. What
were they trying to pull on him? "The man who isn't Snead is leaving,"
Linton said, describing the scene over Howell's shoulder. "If that's
Snead's brother, I might catch him to pay my respects."
"No," Howell said, "I wouldn't do that."
"Snead came to Greta's funeral. It's the least I could do."
"I wouldn't. Probably no relation to Snead at all. Somebody who looks
like him."
"He's practically running," Linton said. "He almost ran out of the
restaurant."
"Who? Oh, the man who looked like Snead, you mean."
"Yes," Linton said.
A thick-bodied man at the next table leaned his groaning chair back
intimately against Linton's own chair.
"That fellow who just left looked like a friend of yours, huh?" the
thick man said.
"Couldn't have been him, though," Linton answered automatically. "My
friend's dead."
The thick man rocked forward and came down on all six feet. He threw
paper money on the table as if he were disgusted with it. He plodded
out of the place quickly.
Howell breathed in deeply and sucked back Linton's attention. "Now
you've probably got old Snead into trouble."
"Snead's dead," Linton said.
"Oh, well, 'dead,'" Howell replied.
"What do you say it like that for?" Linton demanded angrily. "The
man's dead. Plain dead. He's not Sherlock Holmes or the Frankenstein
Monster—there's no doubt or semantic leeway to the thing."
"You know how it is," Howell said.
Linton had thought he had known how death was. He had buried his wife,
or rather he had watched the two workmen scoop and shove dirt in on
the sawdust-fresh pine box that held the coffin. He had known what he
sincerely felt to be a genuine affection for Greta. Even after they had
let him out of the asylum as cured, he still secretly believed he had
known a genuine affection for her. But it didn't seem he knew about
death at all.
Linton felt that his silence was asking Howell by this time.
"I don't know, mind you," Howell said, puffing out tobacco smoke, "but
I suppose he might have been resurrected."
"Who by?" Linton asked, thinking:
God?
"The Mafia, I guess. Who knows who runs it?"
"You mean, somebody has invented a way to bring dead people back to
life?" Linton said.
He knew, of course, that Howell did not mean that. Howell meant that
some people had a system of making it appear that a person had died
in order to gain some illegal advantage. But by saying something so
patently ridiculous, Linton hoped to bring the contradicting truth to
the surface immediately.
"An invention? I guess that's how it is," Howell agreed. "I don't know
much about people like that. I'm an honest businessman."
"But it's wonderful," Linton said, thinking his immediate thoughts.
"Wonderful! Why should a thing like that be illegal? Why don't I know
about it?"
"Sh-h," Howell said uneasily. "This is a public place."
"I don't understand," Linton said helplessly.
"Look, Frank, you can't legalize a thing like resurrection," Howell
said with feigned patience. "There are strong religious convictions to
consider. The undertakers have a lobby. I've heard they got spies right
in the White House, ready to assassinate if they have to. Death is
their whole life. You got to realize that."
"That's not enough. Not nearly enough."
"Think of all the problems it would cause. Insurance, for one thing.
Overpopulation. Birth control is a touchy subject. They'd have to take
it up if everybody got resurrected when they died, wouldn't they?"
"But what do they do about it? Against it?"
"There are a lot of fakes and quacks in the resurrection business. When
the cops find out about a place, they break in, smash all the equipment
and arrest everybody in sight. That's about all they can do. The
charges, if any, come under general vice classification."
"I don't understand," Linton complained. "Why haven't I heard about it?"
"They didn't talk much about white slavery in Victorian England. I read
an article in
Time
the other day that said 'death' was our dirty
word, not sex. You want to shock somebody, you tell him, 'You're going
to be dead someday,' not anything sexual. You know how it is. The
opposite of 'live' these days is 'video-taped.'"
"I see," Linton said.
He tried to assimilate it. Of course he had, he reminded himself, been
out of touch for some time. It might be true. Then again, they might be
trying to trick him. They used to do that to see if he was really well.
But the temptation was too strong.
"Tell me, Howell, where could I find a resurrectionist?"
Howell looked away. "Frank, I don't have anything to do with that kind
of people and if you're smart, you'll not either."
Linton's fingers imprinted the linen. "Damn you, Howell, you tell me!"
Howell climbed to his feet hurriedly. "I take you out to dinner to
console you over the loss of your wife a half a year ago, and to make
you feel welcome back to the society of your fellows after being in the
hospital for a nervous breakdown. I do all that, and for thanks, you
yell at me and curse me. You kooks are all alike!"
Howell threw money on the table with the same kind of disinterest as
the thick-set man and stalked out.
I've got to hurry too, Linton thought. It's Resurrection Day!
The doctor fluttered his hands and chirped about the office. "Well,
well, Mr. Linton, we understand you've been causing disturbances."
"Not really," Linton said modestly.
"Come, come," the doctor chided. "You started riots in two places,
attempted to bribe an officer. That's disturbing, Mr. Linton, very
disturbing."
"I was only trying to find out something," Linton maintained. "They
could have told me. Everybody seems to know but me."
The doctor clucked his tongue. "Let's not think any such thing. People
don't know more than you do."
Linton rubbed his shoulder. "That cop knew more about Judo holds than I
did."
"A few specific people know a few specific things you don't. But let me
ask you, Mr. Linton, could Einstein bake a pie?"
"I don't know. Who the hell ever wasted Einstein's time asking him a
thing like that?"
"People who want to know the answers to questions have to ask them. You
can find out anything by asking the right questions of the right person
at the right time."
Linton stared suspiciously. "Do you know where I can find a
resurrectionist?"
"I am a resurrectionist."
"But the policeman brought me to you!"
"Well, that's what you paid him to do, wasn't it? Did you think a
policeman would just steal your money? Cynics—all you young people are
cynics."
Linton scooted forward on the insultingly cold metal chair and really
looked at the doctor for the first time.
"Doctor, can you
really
resurrect the dead?"
"Will you stop being cynical? Of course I can!"
"Doctor, I'm beginning to believe in you," Linton said, "but tell me,
can you resurrect the
long
dead?"
"Size has nothing to do with it."
"No, my wife has been dead a long time. Months."
"Months?" The doctor snapped those weeks away with his fingers. "It
could be years. Centuries. It's all mathematics, my boy. I need only
one fragment of the body and my computers can compute what the rest
of it was like and recreate it. It's infallible. Naturally there is a
degree of risk involved."
"Infallible risk, yes," Linton murmured. "Could you go to work right
away?"
"First, I must follow an ancient medical practice. I must bleed you."
Linton grasped the situation immediately. "You mean you want money. You
realize I've just got out of an institution...."
"I've often been in institutions myself, for alcoholism, narcotics
addiction and more."
"What a wonderful professional career," Linton said, when he couldn't
care less.
"Oh, yes—yes, indeed. But I didn't come out broke."
"Neither did I," Linton said hastily. "I invested in shifty stocks,
faltering bonds, and while I was away they sank to rock bottom."
"Then—"
"When they hit rock bottom, they bounced up. If I hadn't found you, I
would have been secure for the rest of my lonely, miserable life."
"All that's ended now," the doctor assured him. "Now we must go dig up
the corpse. The female corpse, eh?"
Resurrection Day!
"Doctor," Linton whispered, "my mind is singing with battalions of
choirs. I hope that doesn't sound irreverent to you."
The doctor stroked his oily palms together. "Oh, but it does.
Beautifully."
The certificate to allow reburial in Virginia hadn't been impossible
to obtain. The doctor had taken the body and Linton's fortune and fed
them both into the maw of his calculators, and by means of the secret,
smuggled formulae, Greta would be cybernetically reborn.
Linton shook his head. It seemed impossible. But Greta opened the
olive-drab slab of metal of the door to the doctor's inner-inner
sanctum and walked out into the medicinal cold fluorescent lighting.
It wasn't fair at all, Linton thought. He should have had some time to
prepare himself.
Greta lifted her arms, stretching the white smock over the lines of her
body. "Darling!" she said.
"Greta!" he said, feeling a slight revulsion but repressing it. No
doubt he would be able to adjust to her once having been dead the same
way he had learned to accept the, to him, distasteful duty of kissing
her ears the way she enjoyed.
Greta swirled across the room and folded her arms across his shoulders.
She kissed his cheek. "It's so wonderful to be back. This calls for a
celebration. We must see Nancy, Oscar, Johnny, all our old friends."
"Yes," he said, his heart lurching for her sad ignorance. "But tell
me—how was it being
away
?"
The curves and angles of her flesh changed their positions against his
Ivy dacron. Her attitude altered.
"I can't remember," she said. "I can't really remember anything. Not
really. My memories are ghosts...."
"Now, now," Linton said, "we mustn't get excited. You've been through a
trial."
She accepted the verdict. She pulled away and touched at her hair. It
was the same hair, black as evil, contrasting with her inner purity. Of
course it would be; it hadn't changed even in the grave. He remembered
the snaky tendrils of it growing out of the water-logged casket.
"I must see all our old friends," Greta persisted. "Helen and
Johnny...."
"My darling," he said gently, "about Johnny—"
Her fine black brows made Gothic arches. "Yes? What about Johnny?"
"It was a terrible accident right after—that is, about five months
ago. He was killed."
"Killed?" Greta repeated blankly. "Johnny Gorman was killed?"
"Traffic accident. Killed instantly."
"But Johnny was your friend, your best friend. Why didn't you have him
resurrected the same way you did me?"
"Darling, resurrection is a risky business and an expensive one. You
have to pay premium prices for strawberries in February. I no longer
have the money to pay for a resurrection of Johnny."
Greta turned her back to him. "It's just as well. You shouldn't bring
back Johnny to this dream of life, give him a ghost of mind and the
photograph of a soul. It's monstrous. No one should do that. No one.
But you're
sure
you haven't the money to do it?"
"No," Linton said. "I'm sold out. I've borrowed on my insurance to the
hilt. It won't pay any more until I'm buried, and then, of course, you
can resurrect me."
"Of course," Greta said. She sighed. "Poor Johnny. He was such a good
friend of yours. You must miss him. I'm so sorry for you."
"I have you," he said with great simplicity.
"Frank," she said, "you should see that place in there. There are
foaming acid baths, great whale-toothed disposals, barrels of chemicals
to quench death and smother decay. It's
perfect
."
"It sounds carnal," he said uneasily.
"No, dear, it's perfect for some things that have to be done."
Her eyes flashed around the doctor's office and settled somewhere, on
something.
Linton followed the direction of Greta's gaze and found only an ashtray
stand, looking vaguely like a fanatic's idol to a heathen religion on a
pedestal.
Greta pounced on the stand, hefted it at the base and ran toward him
with it over her head.
Linton leaped aside and Greta hit the edge of the desk instead of him.
Brain damage, he concluded nervously. Cell deterioration.
Greta raised it again and he caught her wrists high over her head. She
writhed against him provocatively. "Frank, I'm sorry, dear, but I have
to have that insurance money. It's hell!"
Linton understood immediately. He felt foolish, humiliated. All that
money! He had resurrected a gold ring that had turned his knuckles
green. No one must ever know.
Linton twisted the stand away from his wife and watched her face
in some appalled form of satisfaction as it registered horror and
acceptance of the crumpled metal disk falling toward it.
He split her head open and watched her float to the floor.
Linton was surprised at the fine wire mesh just below the skin and
those shiny little tabs that looked like pictures of transistors in
institutional advertising.
He knelt beside the body and poked into the bleeding, smoldering
wreckage.
Yes, it seemed they had to automate and modify the bodies somewhat
in resurrection. They couldn't chemically revive the old corpse like
pouring water on a wilted geranium.
Or—
Did they use the old bodies at all? What were all those acid baths for
if the bodies were used? Didn't the resurrectionists just destroy the
old corpses and make androids, synthetic creatures, to take their place?
But it didn't matter. Not a bit.
She had thought she was his wife, sharing her viewpoint down to the
finest detail, and he had thought she was his wife.
It was what you thought was real that made it so, not the other way
around.
"I've killed my wife!" Linton called, rising from his knees, stretching
his hands out to something.
The pain stung him to sleep—a pain in his neck like a needle that left
a hole big enough for a camel to pass through and big enough for him to
follow the camel in his turn.
He opened his eyes to the doctor's spotless, well-ordered office. The
doctor looked down at him consolingly. "You'll have to go back, Mr.
Linton. But they'll cure you. You'll be cured of ever thinking your
wife was brought back to life and that you killed her all over again."
"Do you
really
think so, Doctor?" Linton asked hopefully.
|
train | 25627 | [
"Why did Val and Ron really decide to go to Mars?",
"How did Ledman get to Mars?",
"Which of these do Ron and Ledman have in common?",
"What would have happened if Ledman had stayed on Earth?",
"What likely happens to Ledman after the story ends?",
"What likely happens to Val and Ron after the story ends? ",
"Which of these was not a consequence of the Great Atomic Wars?",
"Why is the Geig Corps important?",
"What kind of person is Ron?",
"What kind of person is Ledman?"
] | [
[
"They were curious and wanted to help their planet",
"They did not want to spend anymore time on earth",
"They wanted a more creative way to make money",
"Out of obligation to find a job to sustain themselves"
],
[
"He saved his money to send himself",
"He joined the Corps just as Val and Ron did",
"He was part of a uranium company who funded his trip",
"He posed as a tourist and stayed behind on a vacation"
],
[
"They have both been wrong by the companies that they worked for",
"They both want to find an alternative to uranium",
"There were both injured in the same accident",
"They are both obsessed with finding uranium"
],
[
"He would've managed to maintain leadership of his company",
"He might not have needed a wheelchair long-term",
"He would have joined the Project Sea-Dredge mission",
"He would've become more depressed and never found revenge"
],
[
"He is given new legs and can start a new life",
"He will rejoin the search for uranium",
"Even with his wheelchair he must receive mental health treatment",
"He will undergo physical and mental health care before starting over"
],
[
"They stay on Mars for their contract and then move on to a different project",
"They go back to earth to make sure Ledman gets the care he needs",
"They decide to stay on Mars forever",
"They stay on Mars for a few more weeks before heading back to Earth"
],
[
"Limited resources ran out over time",
"Multiple planets were settled by various countries in a display of power",
"All major types of power sources changed",
"Earth decided to run supply missions to Mars"
],
[
"Val and Ron worked for them before signing up with UranCo",
"It is UranCo's method of acquiring manpower for the resource search",
"It is how Ledman got involved in the uranium project in the first place",
"They funded the dome that Ledman lives in"
],
[
"A curious and determined man who does his best",
"An impulsive man who does not pay attention to others' needs",
"A doting husband who follows his wife to Mars",
"An adventuresome soul but still a timid one"
],
[
"He is upset and lashing out because he feels betrayed",
"He has violent tendancies and hates his old company",
"He has always been a nutcase",
"He has been untrustworthy his whole life"
]
] | [
1,
1,
3,
2,
4,
1,
2,
2,
1,
1
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | THE
HUNTED
HEROES
By ROBERT SILVERBERG
The planet itself was tough enough—barren, desolate,
forbidding; enough to stop the most adventurous and
dedicated. But they had to run head-on against a mad
genius who had a motto:
Death to all Terrans!
"Let's
keep moving," I told
Val. "The surest way to
die out here on Mars is to
give up." I reached over and
turned up the pressure on her
oxymask to make things a
little easier for her. Through
the glassite of the mask, I
could see her face contorted
in an agony of fatigue.
And she probably thought
the failure of the sandcat was
all my fault, too. Val's usually
about the best wife a guy
could ask for, but when she
wants to be she can be a real
flying bother.
It was beyond her to see
that some grease monkey back
at the Dome was at fault—whoever
it was who had failed
to fasten down the engine
hood. Nothing but what had
stopped us
could
stop a sandcat:
sand in the delicate
mechanism of the atomic engine.
But no; she blamed it all on
me somehow: So we were out
walking on the spongy sand
of the Martian desert. We'd
been walking a good eight
hours.
"Can't we turn back now,
Ron?" Val pleaded. "Maybe
there isn't any uranium in
this sector at all. I think
we're crazy to keep on searching
out here!"
I started to tell her that the
UranCo chief had assured me
we'd hit something out this
way, but changed my mind.
When Val's tired and overwrought
there's no sense in
arguing with her.
I stared ahead at the bleak,
desolate wastes of the Martian
landscape. Behind us
somewhere was the comfort
of the Dome, ahead nothing
but the mazes and gullies of
this dead world.
He was a cripple in a wheelchair—helpless as a rattlesnake.
"Try to keep going, Val."
My gloved hand reached out
and clumsily enfolded hers.
"Come on, kid. Remember—we're
doing this for Earth.
We're heroes."
She glared at me. "Heroes,
hell!" she muttered. "That's
the way it looked back home,
but, out there it doesn't seem
so glorious. And UranCo's
pay is stinking."
"We didn't come out here
for the pay, Val."
"I know, I know, but just
the same—"
It must have been hell for
her. We had wandered fruitlessly
over the red sands all
day, both of us listening for
the clicks of the counter. And
the geigers had been obstinately
hushed all day, except
for their constant undercurrent
of meaningless noises.
Even though the Martian
gravity was only a fraction of
Earth's, I was starting to
tire, and I knew it must have
been really rough on Val with
her lovely but unrugged legs.
"Heroes," she said bitterly.
"We're not heroes—we're
suckers! Why did I ever let
you volunteer for the Geig
Corps and drag me along?"
Which wasn't anywhere
close to the truth. Now I
knew she was at the breaking
point, because Val didn't lie
unless she was so exhausted
she didn't know what she was
doing. She had been just as
much inflamed by the idea of
coming to Mars to help in the
search for uranium as I was.
We knew the pay was poor,
but we had felt it a sort of
obligation, something we
could do as individuals to
keep the industries of radioactives-starved
Earth going.
And we'd always had a roving
foot, both of us.
No, we had decided together
to come to Mars—the
way we decided together on
everything. Now she was
turning against me.
I tried to jolly her. "Buck
up, kid," I said. I didn't dare
turn up her oxy pressure any
higher, but it was obvious she
couldn't keep going. She was
almost sleep-walking now.
We pressed on over the
barren terrain. The geiger
kept up a fairly steady click-pattern,
but never broke into
that sudden explosive tumult
that meant we had found pay-dirt.
I started to feel tired
myself, terribly tired. I longed
to lie down on the soft,
spongy Martian sand and
bury myself.
I looked at Val. She was
dragging along with her eyes
half-shut. I felt almost guilty
for having dragged her out to
Mars, until I recalled that I
hadn't. In fact, she had come
up with the idea before I did.
I wished there was some way
of turning the weary, bedraggled
girl at my side back into
the Val who had so enthusiastically
suggested we join
the Geigs.
Twelve steps later, I decided
this was about as far as
we could go.
I stopped, slipped out of
the geiger harness, and lowered
myself ponderously to
the ground. "What'samatter,
Ron?" Val asked sleepily.
"Something wrong?"
"No, baby," I said, putting
out a hand and taking hers.
"I think we ought to rest a
little before we go any further.
It's been a long, hard
day."
It didn't take much to persuade
her. She slid down beside
me, curled up, and in a
moment she was fast asleep,
sprawled out on the sands.
Poor kid
, I thought. Maybe
we shouldn't have come to
Mars after all. But, I reminded
myself,
someone
had to do
the job.
A second thought appeared,
but I squelched it:
Why the hell me?
I looked down at Valerie's
sleeping form, and thought of
our warm, comfortable little
home on Earth. It wasn't
much, but people in love don't
need very fancy surroundings.
I watched her, sleeping
peacefully, a wayward lock of
her soft blonde hair trailing
down over one eyebrow, and
it seemed hard to believe that
we'd exchanged Earth and all
it held for us for the raw, untamed
struggle that was Mars.
But I knew I'd do it again, if
I had the chance. It's because
we wanted to keep what we
had. Heroes? Hell, no. We
just liked our comforts, and
wanted to keep them. Which
took a little work.
Time to get moving.
But
then Val stirred and rolled
over in her sleep, and I didn't
have the heart to wake her. I
sat there, holding her, staring
out over the desert, watching
the wind whip the sand up
into weird shapes.
The Geig Corps preferred
married couples, working in
teams. That's what had finally
decided it for us—we were a
good team. We had no ties on
Earth that couldn't be broken
without much difficulty. So
we volunteered.
And here we are.
Heroes.
The wind blasted a mass of
sand into my face, and I felt
it tinkle against the oxymask.
I glanced at the suit-chronometer.
Getting late. I decided
once again to wake Val.
But she was tired. And I was
tired too, tired from our
wearying journey across the
empty desert.
I started to shake Val. But
I never finished. It would be
so
nice just to lean back and
nuzzle up to her, down in the
sand. So nice. I yawned, and
stretched back.
I awoke with a sudden startled
shiver, and realized angrily
I had let myself doze off.
"Come on, Val," I said savagely,
and started to rise to
my feet.
I couldn't.
I looked down. I was neatly
bound in thin, tough, plastic
tangle-cord, swathed from
chin to boot-bottoms, my
arms imprisoned, my feet
caught. And tangle-cord is
about as easy to get out of as
a spider's web is for a trapped
fly.
It wasn't Martians that
had done it. There weren't
any Martians, hadn't been for
a million years. It was some
Earthman who had bound us.
I rolled my eyes toward
Val, and saw that she was
similarly trussed in the sticky
stuff. The tangle-cord was still
fresh, giving off a faint, repugnant
odor like that of drying
fish. It had been spun on
us only a short time ago, I
realized.
"Ron—"
"Don't try to move, baby.
This stuff can break your
neck if you twist it wrong."
She continued for a moment
to struggle futilely, and I had
to snap, "Lie still, Val!"
"A very wise statement,"
said a brittle, harsh voice
from above me. I looked up
and saw a helmeted figure
above us. He wasn't wearing
the customary skin-tight pliable
oxysuits we had. He
wore an outmoded, bulky
spacesuit and a fishbowl helmet,
all but the face area
opaque. The oxygen cannisters
weren't attached to his
back as expected, though.
They were strapped to the
back of the wheelchair in
which he sat.
Through the fishbowl I
could see hard little eyes, a
yellowed, parchment-like face,
a grim-set jaw. I didn't recognize
him, and this struck me
odd. I thought I knew everyone
on sparsely-settled Mars.
Somehow I'd missed him.
What shocked me most was
that he had no legs. The
spacesuit ended neatly at the
thighs.
He was holding in his left
hand the tanglegun with
which he had entrapped us,
and a very efficient-looking
blaster was in his right.
"I didn't want to disturb
your sleep," he said coldly.
"So I've been waiting here
for you to wake up."
I could just see it. He might
have been sitting there for
hours, complacently waiting
to see how we'd wake up.
That was when I realized he
must be totally insane. I could
feel my stomach-muscles
tighten, my throat constrict
painfully.
Then anger ripped through
me, washing away the terror.
"What's going on?" I demanded,
staring at the half
of a man who confronted us
from the wheelchair. "Who
are you?"
"You'll find out soon
enough," he said. "Suppose
now you come with me." He
reached for the tanglegun,
flipped the little switch on its
side to MELT, and shot a
stream of watery fluid over
our legs, keeping the blaster
trained on us all the while.
Our legs were free.
"You may get up now," he
said. "Slowly, without trying
to make trouble." Val and I
helped each other to our feet
as best we could, considering
our arms were still tightly
bound against the sides of our
oxysuits.
"Walk," the stranger said,
waving the tanglegun to indicate
the direction. "I'll be
right behind you." He holstered
the tanglegun.
I glimpsed the bulk of an
outboard atomic rigging behind
him, strapped to the
back of the wheelchair. He
fingered a knob on the arm of
the chair and the two exhaust
ducts behind the wheel-housings
flamed for a moment,
and the chair began to roll.
Obediently, we started
walking. You don't argue
with a blaster, even if the
man pointing it is in a wheelchair.
"What's going on, Ron?"
Val asked in a low voice as we
walked. Behind us the wheelchair
hissed steadily.
"I don't quite know, Val.
I've never seen this guy before,
and I thought I knew
everyone at the Dome."
"Quiet up there!" our captor
called, and we stopped
talking. We trudged along together,
with him following
behind; I could hear the
crunch-crunch
of the wheelchair
as its wheels chewed
into the sand. I wondered
where we were going, and
why. I wondered why we had
ever left Earth.
The answer to that came to
me quick enough: we had to.
Earth needed radioactives,
and the only way to get them
was to get out and look. The
great atomic wars of the late
20th Century had used up
much of the supply, but the
amount used to blow up half
the great cities of the world
hardly compared with the
amount we needed to put
them back together again.
In three centuries the shattered
world had been completely
rebuilt. The wreckage
of New York and Shanghai
and London and all the other
ruined cities had been hidden
by a shining new world of
gleaming towers and flying
roadways. We had profited by
our grandparents' mistakes.
They had used their atomics
to make bombs. We used ours
for fuel.
It was an atomic world.
Everything: power drills,
printing presses, typewriters,
can openers, ocean liners,
powered by the inexhaustible
energy of the dividing atom.
But though the energy is
inexhaustible, the supply of
nuclei isn't. After three centuries
of heavy consumption,
the supply failed. The mighty
machine that was Earth's industry
had started to slow
down.
And that started the chain
of events that led Val and me
to end up as a madman's prisoners,
on Mars. With every
source of uranium mined dry
on Earth, we had tried other
possibilities. All sorts of
schemes came forth. Project
Sea-Dredge was trying to get
uranium from the oceans. In
forty or fifty years, they'd
get some results, we hoped.
But there wasn't forty or
fifty years' worth of raw stuff
to tide us over until then. In a
decade or so, our power would
be just about gone. I could
picture the sort of dog-eat-dog
world we'd revert back
to. Millions of starving, freezing
humans tooth-and-clawing
in it in the useless shell of
a great atomic civilization.
So, Mars. There's not much
uranium on Mars, and it's not
easy to find or any cinch to
mine. But what little is there,
helps. It's a stopgap effort,
just to keep things moving
until Project Sea-Dredge
starts functioning.
Enter the Geig Corps: volunteers
out on the face of
Mars, combing for its uranium
deposits.
And here we are, I thought.
After we walked on a
while, a Dome became visible
up ahead. It slid up over the
crest of a hill, set back between
two hummocks on the
desert. Just out of the way
enough to escape observation.
For a puzzled moment I
thought it was our Dome, the
settlement where all of UranCo's
Geig Corps were located,
but another look told me that
this was actually quite near
us and fairly small. A one-man
Dome, of all things!
"Welcome to my home," he
said. "The name is Gregory
Ledman." He herded us off to
one side of the airlock, uttered
a few words keyed to his
voice, and motioned us inside
when the door slid up. When
we were inside he reached up,
clumsily holding the blaster,
and unscrewed the ancient
spacesuit fishbowl.
His face was a bitter,
dried-up mask. He was a man
who hated.
The place was spartanly
furnished. No chairs, no tape-player,
no decoration of any
sort. Hard bulkhead walls,
rivet-studded, glared back
at us. He had an automatic
chef, a bed, and a writing-desk,
and no other furniture.
Suddenly he drew the tanglegun
and sprayed our legs
again. We toppled heavily to
the floor. I looked up angrily.
"I imagine you want to
know the whole story," he
said. "The others did, too."
Valerie looked at me anxiously.
Her pretty face was a
dead white behind her oxymask.
"What others?"
"I never bothered to find
out their names," Ledman
said casually. "They were
other Geigs I caught unawares,
like you, out on the
desert. That's the only sport I
have left—Geig-hunting. Look
out there."
He gestured through the
translucent skin of the Dome,
and I felt sick. There was a
little heap of bones lying
there, looking oddly bright
against the redness of the
sands. They were the dried,
parched skeletons of Earthmen.
Bits of cloth and plastic,
once oxymasks and suits, still
clung to them.
Suddenly I remembered.
There had been a pattern
there all the time. We didn't
much talk about it; we chalked
it off as occupational hazards.
There had been a pattern
of disappearances on the desert.
I could think of six, eight
names now. None of them
had been particularly close
friends. You don't get time to
make close friends out here.
But we'd vowed it wouldn't
happen to us.
It had.
"You've been hunting
Geigs?" I asked. "
Why?
What've they ever done to
you?"
He smiled, as calmly as if
I'd just praised his house-keeping.
"Because I hate
you," he said blandly. "I intend
to wipe every last one of
you out, one by one."
I stared at him. I'd never
seen a man like this before; I
thought all his kind had died
at the time of the atomic
wars.
I heard Val sob, "He's a
madman!"
"No," Ledman said evenly.
"I'm quite sane, believe me.
But I'm determined to drive
the Geigs—and UranCo—off
Mars. Eventually I'll scare
you all away."
"Just pick us off in the desert?"
"Exactly," replied Ledman.
"And I have no fears of an
armed attack. This place is
well fortified. I've devoted
years to building it. And I'm
back against those hills. They
couldn't pry me out." He let
his pale hand run up into his
gnarled hair. "I've devoted
years to this. Ever since—ever
since I landed here on
Mars."
"What are you going to do
with us?" Val finally asked,
after a long silence.
He didn't smile this time.
"Kill you," he told her. "Not
your husband. I want him as
an envoy, to go back and tell
the others to clear off." He
rocked back and forth in his
wheelchair, toying with the
gleaming, deadly blaster in
his hand.
We stared in horror. It was
a nightmare—sitting there,
placidly rocking back and
forth, a nightmare.
I found myself fervently
wishing I was back out there
on the infinitely safer desert.
"Do I shock you?" he asked.
"I shouldn't—not when
you see my motives."
"We don't see them," I
snapped.
"Well, let me show you.
You're on Mars hunting uranium,
right? To mine and
ship the radioactives back to
Earth to keep the atomic engines
going. Right?"
I nodded over at our geiger
counters.
"We volunteered to come to
Mars," Val said irrelevantly.
"Ah—two young heroes,"
Ledman said acidly. "How
sad. I could almost feel sorry
for you. Almost."
"Just what is it you're
after?" I said, stalling, stalling.
"Atomics cost me my legs,"
he said. "You remember the
Sadlerville Blast?" he asked.
"Of course." And I did, too.
I'd never forget it. No one
would. How could I forget
that great accident—killing
hundreds, injuring thousands
more, sterilizing forty miles
of Mississippi land—when
the Sadlerville pile went up?
"I was there on business at
the time," Ledman said. "I
represented Ledman Atomics.
I was there to sign a new
contract for my company.
You know who I am, now?"
I nodded.
"I was fairly well shielded
when it happened. I never got
the contract, but I got a good
dose of radiation instead. Not
enough to kill me," he said.
"Just enough to necessitate
the removal of—" he indicated
the empty space at his
thighs. "So I got off lightly."
He gestured at the wheelchair
blanket.
I still didn't understand.
"But why kill us Geigs?
We
had nothing to do with it."
"You're just in this by accident,"
he said. "You see, after
the explosion and the amputation,
my fellow-members on
the board of Ledman Atomics
decided that a semi-basket
case like myself was a poor
risk as Head of the Board,
and they took my company
away. All quite legal, I assure
you. They left me almost a
pauper!" Then he snapped
the punchline at me.
"They renamed Ledman
Atomics. Who did you say you
worked for?"
I began, "Uran—"
"Don't bother. A more inventive
title than Ledman
Atomics, but not quite as
much heart, wouldn't you
say?" He grinned. "I saved
for years; then I came to
Mars, lost myself, built this
Dome, and swore to get even.
There's not a great deal of
uranium on this planet, but
enough to keep me in a style
to which, unfortunately, I'm
no longer accustomed."
He consulted his wrist
watch. "Time for my injection."
He pulled out the tanglegun
and sprayed us again,
just to make doubly certain.
"That's another little souvenir
of Sadlerville. I'm short
on red blood corpuscles."
He rolled over to a wall
table and fumbled in a container
among a pile of hypodermics.
"There are other injections,
too. Adrenalin, insulin.
Others. The Blast turned
me into a walking pin-cushion.
But I'll pay it all
back," he said. He plunged
the needle into his arm.
My eyes widened. It was
too nightmarish to be real. I
wasn't seriously worried
about his threat to wipe out
the entire Geig Corps, since
it was unlikely that one man
in a wheelchair could pick us
all off. No, it wasn't the
threat that disturbed me, so
much as the whole concept, so
strange to me, that the human
mind could be as warped
and twisted as Ledman's.
I saw the horror on Val's
face, and I knew she felt the
same way I did.
"Do you really think you
can succeed?" I taunted him.
"Really think you can kill
every Earthman on Mars? Of
all the insane, cockeyed—"
Val's quick, worried head-shake
cut me off. But Ledman
had felt my words, all right.
"Yes! I'll get even with
every one of you for taking
away my legs! If we hadn't
meddled with the atom in the
first place, I'd be as tall and
powerful as you, today—instead
of a useless cripple in a
wheelchair."
"You're sick, Gregory Ledman,"
Val said quietly.
"You've conceived an impossible
scheme of revenge and
now you're taking it out on
innocent people who've done
nothing, nothing at all to you.
That's not sane!"
His eyes blazed. "Who are
you to talk of sanity?"
Uneasily I caught Val's
glance from a corner of my
eye. Sweat was rolling down
her smooth forehead faster
than the auto-wiper could
swab it away.
"Why don't you do something?
What are you waiting
for, Ron?"
"Easy, baby," I said. I
knew what our ace in the hole
was. But I had to get Ledman
within reach of me first.
"Enough," he said. "I'm going
to turn you loose outside,
right after—"
"
Get sick!
" I hissed to Val,
low. She began immediately
to cough violently, emitting
harsh, choking sobs. "Can't
breathe!" She began to yell,
writhing in her bonds.
That did it. Ledman hadn't
much humanity left in him,
but there was a little. He lowered
the blaster a bit and
wheeled one-hand over to see
what was wrong with Val.
She continued to retch and
moan most horribly. It almost
convinced me. I saw Val's
pale, frightened face turn to
me.
He approached and peered
down at her. He opened his
mouth to say something, and
at that moment I snapped my
leg up hard, tearing the tangle-cord
with a snicking rasp,
and kicked his wheelchair
over.
The blaster went off, burning
a hole through the Dome
roof. The automatic sealers
glued-in instantly. Ledman
went sprawling helplessly out
into the middle of the floor,
the wheelchair upended next
to him, its wheels slowly revolving
in the air. The blaster
flew from his hands at the
impact of landing and spun
out near me. In one quick motion
I rolled over and covered
it with my body.
Ledman clawed his way to
me with tremendous effort
and tried wildly to pry the
blaster out from under me,
but without success. I twisted
a bit, reached out with my
free leg, and booted him
across the floor. He fetched
up against the wall of the
Dome and lay there.
Val rolled over to me.
"Now if I could get free of
this stuff," I said, "I could get
him covered before he comes
to. But how?"
"Teamwork," Val said. She
swivelled around on the floor
until her head was near my
boot. "Push my oxymask off
with your foot, if you can."
I searched for the clamp
and tried to flip it. No luck,
with my heavy, clumsy boot.
I tried again, and this time it
snapped open. I got the tip
of my boot in and pried upward.
The oxymask came off,
slowly, scraping a jagged red
scratch up the side of Val's
neck as it came.
"There," she breathed.
"That's that."
I looked uneasily at Ledman.
He was groaning and
beginning to stir.
Val rolled on the floor and
her face lay near my right
arm. I saw what she had in
mind. She began to nibble the
vile-tasting tangle-cord, running
her teeth up and down
it until it started to give. She
continued unfailingly.
Finally one strand snapped.
Then another. At last I
had enough use of my hand
to reach out and grasp the
blaster. Then I pulled myself
across the floor to Ledman,
removed the tanglegun, and
melted the remaining tangle-cord
off.
My muscles were stiff and
bunched, and rising made me
wince. I turned and freed Val.
Then I turned and faced Ledman.
"I suppose you'll kill me
now," he said.
"No. That's the difference
between sane people and insane,"
I told him. "I'm not
going to kill you at all. I'm
going to see to it that you're
sent back to Earth."
"
No!
" he shouted. "No!
Anything but back there. I
don't want to face them again—not
after what they did to
me—"
"Not so loud," I broke in.
"They'll help you on Earth.
They'll take all the hatred and
sickness out of you, and turn
you into a useful member of
society again."
"I hate Earthmen," he spat
out. "I hate all of them."
"I know," I said sarcastically.
"You're just all full of
hate. You hated us so much
that you couldn't bear to hang
around on Earth for as much
as a year after the Sadlerville
Blast. You had to take right
off for Mars without a moment's
delay, didn't you? You
hated Earth so much you
had
to leave."
"Why are you telling all
this to me?"
"Because if you'd stayed
long enough, you'd have used
some of your pension money
to buy yourself a pair of prosthetic
legs, and then you
wouldn't need this wheelchair."
Ledman scowled, and then
his face went belligerent
again. "They told me I was
paralyzed below the waist.
That I'd never walk again,
even with prosthetic legs, because
I had no muscles to fit
them to."
"You left Earth too quickly,"
Val said.
"It was the only way," he
protested. "I had to get off—"
"She's right," I told him.
"The atom can take away, but
it can give as well. Soon after
you left they developed
atomic-powered
prosthetics—amazing
things, virtually robot
legs. All the survivors of
the Sadlerville Blast were
given the necessary replacement
limbs free of charge. All
except you. You were so sick
you had to get away from the
world you despised and come
here."
"You're lying," he said.
"It's not true!"
"Oh, but it is," Val smiled.
I saw him wilt visibly, and
for a moment I almost felt
sorry for him, a pathetic legless
figure propped up against
the wall of the Dome at
blaster-point. But then I remembered
he'd killed twelve
Geigs—or more—and would
have added Val to the number
had he had the chance.
"You're a very sick man,
Ledman," I said. "All this
time you could have been
happy, useful on Earth, instead
of being holed up here
nursing your hatred. You
might have been useful, on
Earth. But you decided to
channel everything out as revenge."
"I still don't believe it—those
legs. I might have walked
again. No—no, it's all a lie.
They told me I'd never walk,"
he said, weakly but stubbornly
still.
I could see his whole structure
of hate starting to topple,
and I decided to give it
the final push.
"Haven't you wondered
how I managed to break the
tangle-cord when I kicked you
over?"
"Yes—human legs aren't
strong enough to break tangle-cord
that way."
"Of course not," I said. I
gave Val the blaster and slipped
out of my oxysuit.
"Look," I said. I pointed to
my smooth, gleaming metal
legs. The almost soundless
purr of their motors was the
only noise in the room. "I was
in the Sadlerville Blast, too,"
I said. "But I didn't go crazy
with hate when I lost
my
legs."
Ledman was sobbing.
"Okay, Ledman," I said.
Val got him into his suit, and
brought him the fishbowl helmet.
"Get your helmet on and
let's go. Between the psychs
and the prosthetics men,
you'll be a new man inside of
a year."
"But I'm a murderer!"
"That's right. And you'll be
sentenced to psych adjustment.
When they're finished,
Gregory Ledman the killer
will be as dead as if they'd
electrocuted you, but there'll
be a new—and sane—Gregory
Ledman." I turned to Val.
"Got the geigers, honey?"
For the first time since
Ledman had caught us, I remembered
how tired Val had
been out on the desert. I realized
now that I had been driving
her mercilessly—me, with
my chromium legs and atomic-powered
muscles. No wonder
she was ready to fold!
And I'd been too dense to see
how unfair I had been.
She lifted the geiger harnesses,
and I put Ledman
back in his wheelchair.
Val slipped her oxymask
back on and fastened it shut.
"Let's get back to the Dome
in a hurry," I said. "We'll
turn Ledman over to the authorities.
Then we can catch
the next ship for Earth."
"Go back?
Go back?
If you
think I'm backing down now
and quitting you can find
yourself another wife! After
we dump this guy I'm sacking
in for twenty hours, and then
we're going back out there to
finish that search-pattern.
Earth needs uranium, honey,
and I know you'd never be
happy quitting in the middle
like that." She smiled. "I
can't wait to get out there
and start listening for those
tell-tale clicks."
I gave a joyful whoop and
swung her around. When I
put her down, she squeezed
my hand, hard.
"Let's get moving, fellow
hero," she said.
I pressed the stud for the
airlock, smiling.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
September 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 60283 | [
"How is the book \"Living a Normal Sex Life\" seen by these people?",
"What does this society think about breasts?",
"Which is the best representation of Melia and Xeon's relationship?",
"Which is least likely contributing to Xeon's request to move to the fields before the Oracle of Delni? ",
"Which is the most accurate description of why Xeon is in trouble?",
"Which was probably the biggest motivator for Melia to volunteer?",
"Which is most true about how the volunteers are seen by the rest of their society?",
"Why are Melia and Xeon considered noble by the end of the story?"
] | [
[
"It is frightening in an exciting way, for the people to learn something new",
"They respect its truths but are nervous about its implications",
"It is an important historical text appreciated from a research perspective",
"It is a rare artefact of a less-understood time"
],
[
"They are appreciated from an aesthetic standpoint but not a sexual one",
"They are considered to be milk-producing devices but nothing else",
"They are seen as vistigial structures",
"They are well-regarded because they are so rare"
],
[
"They are close friends and will always be that and not much else",
"They are siblings, which is not odd for this society",
"They are close but have to hide their romantic relationship from the rest of society",
"They are dear to one another in an evolving way"
],
[
"The urge to make the event less of a spectacle",
"The general desire to maintain some control in the situation",
"The general level of comfort of lying on marble",
"The pressure from Sias to keep the situation private"
],
[
"He was not supposed to pursue a relationship with a woman",
"He was not supposed to point out any flaws in the current government structure",
"He publicly declared untrue things to be true",
"The suggestions he made were against the societal ideals"
],
[
"The chance to be closer with Xeon",
"The chance to fulfill societal expectations",
"The chance to help her friend Xeon discover something new",
"The chance to help her friend escape an unfortunate situation"
],
[
"They are appreciated for their level of discretion",
"They are respected for their dedication to each other above anything else",
"They are considered brave for undertaking such a disapproved task",
"They are disgraced for their choice to participate in such vile acts"
],
[
"Because they discovered the truth about reproduction and brought it to the society",
"Because they did not tell others in the society what happened in detail, protecting them from the truth",
"Because they were willing to continue learning about this ill-understood act",
"Because they want to increase the efforts towards learning more about these historical acts"
]
] | [
2,
3,
4,
4,
4,
4,
3,
3
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1
] | The Birds and the Bees
BY DAVE E. FISHER
Which goes to prove that, in some
instances, being heroic is easy!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I was wandering among the tall grass of the slopes, listening to the
soft whistling of the wind; allowing the grass to caress my toga and
thighs. It was a day soft and clear; a day accepted by the young,
cherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the
magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of
course, believe in the gods per se; still there is a grandeur in the
very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder
to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion.
Cling to the gods of old, who drew man upward from wherever he began.
In whose names Man killed and plundered, while struggling up. In whose
names Man finally left this earth, to seek his cousins among the stars.
But of course there were no cousins. There was nothing. And Man
returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content
to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the
ancient evils, wars, emergencies.
"Sias! Sias—" And they were upon me.
That is, Xeon was upon me. But I knew that where Xeon is, Melia must
soon appear. And indeed it was but a moment before Melia slipped
through the high grass to stand at his side. Their youthful voices were
babbling in excitement.
Melia was a She, with the swelling breasts that were, so tradition
states, quite prevalent among members of the race long ago, and are
seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of
many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not
been for the friendship of Xeon.
"Sias," they were saying, "the Maternite's gone."
I stared in amazement.
"Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been—"
"Oh my gods!" Xeon shouted. "I tell you it's gone! Will you—"
Melia interrupted him quietly. "Xeon, will you lose all respect for
the Elder?" Then turned to me, and said calmly, "The watcher at the
Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the
warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated
in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone."
"All of it?" I asked.
"There is nothing left," Melia insisted. "Can more be made? And if not,
what will happen with no more children?"
"That is for the priests to say, not I," I replied. In moments of
emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I
have never before been in a real emergency.
A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs
nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I
often wonder why—but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city.
They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young
men do.
As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and
consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware
that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an
emergency. For a machine had failed!
Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They
were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them
to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far
as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been
negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity.
Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who
knows the mysterious workings of the machines?
I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting
for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the
steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accompanied me past
the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated
themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table.
Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel
impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers
and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to
sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the
pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard.
He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually
smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached
the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had
assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave
had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for
those left were the most earnest and intelligent.
"I would not bore you," he said, "with details of which only the gods
are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is
an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus
assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be
born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact
number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods
claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial."
A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered
around the Hall.
"But now," he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with
even a stutter here and there, "an unprecedented situation has arisen.
Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has
actually failed."
Cries of "Treason" sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for
the priest had I not been able to insure order.
"That is not the worst," he cried, as if in defiance. "All the Prelife
has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there
will be no more children!"
At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times
that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy
years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and
began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years
roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked,
"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the
machines may produce more children for us?
"As I have said," he replied, "give the machines but a bit of Prelife
and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are
helpless."
Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the
Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to
think.
Rocsates leaned forward and asked, "Must there not—must there not have
been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it;
and yet it came from somewhere."
"Riddles are not called for," I answered severely.
"Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge?" he asked, in that
irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. "Must there not, long ago,
have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not
even now—should we discover it—be available to us? I am reminded of
the story of the animals of old—"
"I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates," I was forced to interrupt.
"I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to
do—" The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I
hastened to explain the legend of the animals. "It is said that many
thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the
earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said
they had four legs or more, and no arms, were covered with hair, and
although not mute, they could not speak."
Rocsates' voice made itself heard. "It is true. Such creatures did
indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films."
"If it be so," I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, "and I would
not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of
men—if it were so, then, what of it?"
"May it not be," Rocsates put in, "that these animals had no machines
to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines
to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then
we would yet have these animals among us."
"And how, then, did these animals reproduce?" I asked.
"How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that
says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite
Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced
from within their own bodies?"
At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and
I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon
and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most
attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of "Heresy" and "Treason",
went on:
"I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient
records, in the hope of finding some such knowledge that would prove or
disprove my words."
"You wish to search the films—" I began.
"Not the films, Sias, but the books."
Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient,
and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb; lest,
being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost.
Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race.
And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse—
"Sias," he went on, "if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it
not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the
only place where it may be found?"
Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows
the answer beforehand. And so I acquiesced, and agreed, and granted
permission. And with much misgiving and foreboding of evil, the
Conclave adjourned.
Several weeks elapsed before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet.
I called the meeting at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon
when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak.
"Some of those among you are She's," he began. "And you know you are
different from the rest of us. To the advantage, your skin is fairer
and your features more often handsomer than ours. To the disadvantage,
your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you
may say, why should this not be so? There is, indeed, no reason why we
should all be identical. Perforce you have the advantage, perforce we
do. Yet there is one other distinction.
"Some among you She's have the swelling of the breasts. And does there
exist no reason for this? Was there not, perhaps in ancient times, a
cause for this? Do you not wonder, She's, whence you come and for what
reason?"
"Rocsates," I interrupted. "All this is fascinating, of course. But if
you could be quick—"
"Of course," he replied. "In the course of my reading I have read
many books, and while they are all vague on the subject, this I have
discovered:
"That there was indeed a time before the machines, in fact the books
were created in that time, for not one of them mentions the machines.
Then reproduction was carried on by individuals, without help of the
then nonexistent machines. The She's are not wanderers from another
land, but they have lived with us for all time; they are not another
race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of reproduction is
somehow intimately related to the physical distinctions of the She's!"
These last sentences were shouted to be heard above the roar of the
crowd. Yet when Rocsates stopped, so also did the noise, so shocked and
amazed at his words were they. And I confess, myself also.
"In fact," Rocsates added, sitting down, "this process of reproduction
seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of
over-population."
Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his
neighbor, and for some time I could not restore order. I realized that
something had to be done to save Rocsates before the outrage of the
assembled overwhelmed him.
"It seems," I shouted, "that there is a flaw in your logic." For if
such there was, I was hopeful of dismissing the entire affair with
no harm done. "For if people reproduced too often, why then this
reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do; otherwise they
would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do,
where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?"
Rocsates seemed perplexed by this problem, whereupon Xeon, who together
with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, "Perhaps
the process of reproduction was of
such
a pleasure that the Conclave
ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the machines were necessary!"
At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond
power to restrain them from placing Xeon under arrest. Privately,
however, I had to admit that his supposition was a possibility, and
thus I authorized Rocsates to continue his search.
Now indeed I was sorely worried concerning Xeon, for he must languish
in the dungeon until the Conclave is satisfied to release him, and this
they cannot do until they meet again.
I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave,
whereupon I might argue for the lad. When I heard that Rocsates again
desired audience, I immediately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave
to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well.
The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when
Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder
a thin, rectangular object, but that is not what impressed me. His
appearance—he looked as if he had not slept of late, nor eaten either.
His eyes were sunken, and his features had doubled in age. He was bent
and tired. But it was his eyes. There was a horror in them.
I was shocked, and could not help staring at him. And then the
formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was
on his feet and I gave way.
"I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction," he began. "After
many searchings, I came upon this—" and he held forth the object he
had carried in. "It is a book. It is entitled, 'Living a Normal Sex
Life.' It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet." He
dropped the book on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
There was something in the man's behavior that commanded everyone's
attention. He went on, speaking low. "The word 'Sex' is not defined,
but it seems to mean...." His words trailed off. He was obviously
unsure of how to continue. "I had better start at the beginning, I
suppose," he said. "You see, once upon a time there were birds and
bees...."
When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words,
with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of
'Heresy'. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea.
It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear
to move. I cleared my throat.
"Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With
no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved
into nothingness?"
"I do not think so," Rocsates replied after a while. "What to us is
an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the
breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in
some, at least, of the She's."
We sat shaking our heads, bowed under terrible reality.
"Then we must experiment," I said. "But whom could we ask to submit to
such horror?"
"I have already taken the liberty of asking for volunteers," Rocsates
replied. "The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the
breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from
dungeon. Are there any objections?"
There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would
undergo such an ordeal for the City?
"And who will be the partner?" I asked.
"In all honor, could Xeon allow Melia to surpass him in courage? It
shall be he," Rocsates said. And with his word the two entered the Hall
and stood, noble and naked.
Rocsates gestured to the table, and Melia started to climb upon it,
but Xeon stepped forward.
"My lords," he said, "would not better results be obtained were we to
conduct the experiment in the fields before the Oracle of Delni, that
the gods may help us?"
His glance reached into my soul, and I was proud of Xeon. A true
friend, he thought even now of the comfort of Melia. The marble table
was indeed hard, and from Rocsates' description it seemed that Melia's
position would be as uncomfortable as it would be undignified. The soft
fields might be some slight help.
I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields.
It was nearly dark when we walked home, Rocsates and I, arm in arm. It
had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries—
We tarried before my home, leaned on the stone, stared at the first
stars.
"They seemed finally to accomplish all the book described," I muttered.
"They may indeed have succeeded," Rocsates replied. "There is mentioned
a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately."
"It doesn't matter," I said disconsolately. "Who could ask them to go
through such an ordeal again?"
And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing before me.
Melia cast her eyes down, and would not raise them. Xeon held his arm
about her shoulders, as if to protect her, but I know not from whom.
"Sias," he said. Then stopped, embarrassed.
I waited, and Rocsates was silent, and he continued.
"Sias, we come to tell.... We will...." He raised his eyes to mine and
said manfully, "We shall try again."
I am afraid that tears came to my eyes. Such sacrifice—
"We beg one favor," Xeon went on. "We are agreed that—Well, we should
like to be left alone, in private, to try."
"Of course," I replied. Anything they might want they could have. My
relief and gratitude must have showed, for Xeon took a deep breath and
spoke again.
"We do not deserve praise, Sias," he said. "The truth is, we ... we
sort of enjoy it."
I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars.
My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our
race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.
|
train | 32836 | [
"Which best describes the relationship between Neena and Var?",
"Who is the Watcher?",
"How does the Watcher feel about Neena and Var's arrival?",
"Why does Groz not want to go into the mountain? ",
"What does Var think of The Watcher? ",
"Which of these is not a lasting effect of the Ryzgas?",
"Why does the story take place somewhere cold?",
"How does The Watcher communicate with others?",
"What is the significance of the title of the story?",
"What is special about light in this story?"
] | [
[
"They are marrying out of familial responsibility more than love but are still happy to be together",
"They have roughly equal footing in their dedication to one another",
"Neena gets to make all of the decision in return for going with Var to stay with his people",
"Var has convinced Neena to go with him after he won her in battle"
],
[
"Someone who has been granted the honor of watching over the mountain region",
"A man who was exiled from society because of violent tendencies",
"An old man who has retracted from society",
"An alien in charge of protecting the planet"
],
[
"He is thankful to have company to pass his wisdom to",
"He is a little disappointed to not have time to himself",
"He is suspicious of any people who would enter where he lives",
"He is thankful to have any interaction with other humans"
],
[
"He does not want to get separated from his team",
"He is scared of the wildlife that might try to attack",
"He is nervous about the technology left behind",
"He knows it will be hard to see the people he is chasing"
],
[
"He respects him even though he is surprising",
"He will trust him in any decision even if he does not like him personally",
"He thinks all of his ideas are ridiculous",
"He thinks his reputation is overblown but he thinks he is nice"
],
[
"Climate change on the planet",
"An increase in technological advancements",
"Use of limited resources",
"General fear between groups of people"
],
[
"The history of the area is such that warmth and resources have been taken from the land",
"A volcano has blocked light from the region making everything cold",
"The mountains are the only place Var and Neena can hide",
"It isn't actually cold, because of the lava"
],
[
"Mostly through transference of heat and light",
"A mix of many methods of communication",
"Primarily with his mind",
"By talking as the rest of the people do"
],
[
"It references the old technology that is disturbed",
"It is an image of the chase that Var and Neena are running from",
"It hints to the great power of the Watcher",
"It points to Var and Neena disrupting an area that is usually quiet"
],
[
"It is traded like a commodity",
"It is the only way the adventurers nowhere to go",
"It can be manipulated by the people",
"It is liquid-like in its composition"
]
] | [
2,
1,
1,
3,
1,
2,
1,
3,
1,
3
] | [
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | WHEN THE MOUNTAIN SHOOK
By Robert Abernathy
Illustrated by Kelly Freas
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dark was the Ryzga mountain and forbidding; steep were its
cliffs and sheer its crevasses. But its outward perils could not compare
with the Ryzgas themselves, who slept within, ready to wake and
conquer....
At sunset they were in sight of the Ryzga mountain. Strangely it towered
among the cliffs and snow-slopes of the surrounding ranges: an immense
and repellently geometric cone, black, its sides blood-tinted by the
dying sun.
Neena shivered, even though the surrounding cold could not reach her.
The ice-wind blew from the glacier, but Var's love was round her as a
warming cloak, a cloak that glowed softly golden in the deepening
twilight, even as her love was about him.
Var said, "The Watcher's cave should be three miles beyond this pass."
He stood rigid, trying to catch an echo of the Watcher's thoughts, but
there was nothing. Perhaps the old man was resting. From the other
direction, the long way that they two had come, it was not difficult to
sense the thought of Groz. That thought was powerful, and heavy with
vengeance.
"Hurry," said Neena. "They're closer than they were an hour ago."
She was beautiful and defiant, facing the red sunset and the black
mountain. Var sensed her fear, and the love that had conquered it. He
felt a wave of tenderness and bitterness. For him she had come to this.
For the flame that had sprung between them at the Truce of New Grass,
she had challenged the feud of their peoples and had left her home, to
follow him. Now, if her father and his kinsmen overtook them, it would
be death for Var, and for Neena living shame. Which of the two was worse
was no longer a simple problem to Var, who had grown much older in the
last days.
"Wait," he commanded. While she waited he spun a dream, attaching it to
the crags that loomed over the pass, and to the frozen ground underfoot.
It was black night, as it would really be when Groz and his henchmen
reached this place; lurid fire spewed from the Ryzga mountain, and
strange lights dipped above it; and for good measure there was an
avalanche in the dream, and hideous beasts rushed snapping and ravening
from the crevices of the rock.
"Oh!" cried Neena in involuntary alarm.
Var sighed, shaking his head. "It won't hold them for long, but it's the
best I can do now. Come on."
There was no path. Now they were descending the steeper face of the
sierra, and the way led over bottomless crevasses, sheer drops and sheer
ascents, sheets of traitorous glare ice. Place after place had to be
crossed on the air, and both grew weary with the effort such crossings
cost. They hoarded their strength, helping one another; one alone might
never have won through.
It was starry night already when they saw the light from the Watcher's
cave. The light shone watery and dim from beneath the hoary back of the
glacier, and as they came nearer they saw why: the cave entrance was
sealed by a sheet of ice, a frozen waterfall that fell motionless from
the rocks above. They heard no sound.
The two young people stared for a long minute, intrigued and fearful.
Both had heard of this place, and the ancient who lived there to keep
watch on the Ryzga mountain, as a part of the oldest legends of their
childhood; but neither had been here before.
But this was no time for shyness. Var eyed the ice-curtain closely to
make sure that it was real, not dream-stuff; then he struck it boldly
with his fist. It shattered and fell in a rain of splinters, sparkling
in the light that poured from within.
They felt the Watcher rouse, heard his footsteps, and finally saw him—a
shrunken old man, white-haired, with a lined beardless face. The sight
of him, more marred by age than anyone they had ever seen before, was
disappointing. They had expected something more—an ancient giant, a
tower of wisdom and strength. The Watcher was four hundred years old;
beside him even Groz, who had always seemed so ancient, was like a boy.
The Watcher peered at them in turn. "Welcome," he said in a cracked
voice. He did not speak again; the rest of his conversation was in
thought only. "Welcome indeed. I am too much alone here."
"You were asleep!" said Var. Shock made his thought accusing, though he
had not meant to be.
The old man grinned toothlessly. "Never fear. Asleep or awake, I watch.
Come in! You're letting in the wind."
Inside the cave it was warm as summer. Var saw with some surprise that
all the walls were sheathed in ice—warm to the touch, bound fast
against melting by the Watcher's will. Light blazed in reflections from
the ice walls, till there was no shadow in the place. Behind them began
a tinkling of falling water, thawed from the glacial ridges above to
descend sheet-wise over the cave mouth, freezing as it fell into
lengthening icicles. The old man gazed at his work for a moment, then
turned questioningly to the young pair.
"We need a little rest out of the cold," said Var. "And food, if you can
spare it. We're pursued."
"Yes, yes. You shall have what I can give you. Make yourselves
comfortable, and in one minute.... Pursued, eh? A pity. I see the world
is as bad as it was when I was last in it."
Hot food and drink were before them almost at once. The Watcher regarded
them with compassion as their eyes brightened and some of the shadow of
weariness lifted from them. "You have stolen your enemy's daughter, no
doubt, young man? Such things happened when I was young."
Warming to the old man now, Var sketched his and Neena's history
briefly. "We should have been safe among my people by now. And before
very long, I'm sure, I would have performed some deed which Groz would
recognize as a worthy exploit, and would thus have healed the feud
between our families. But our flight was found out too soon. They cut us
off and forced us into the mountains, and now they are only a few hours
behind us."
"A pity, indeed. I would like to help you—but, you understand, I am the
Mountain Watcher. I must be above feuds and families."
Var nodded somberly, thinking that an old recluse would in any case be
able to do little for them against Groz and his violent kinsfolk.
"And what will you do now?"
Var grinned mirthlessly. "We haven't much choice, since they're
overtaking us. I have only one idea left: we can go where Groz may fear
to follow us."
"To the mountain, you mean."
"And into it, if need be."
The Watcher was broodingly silent; his eyes shifted to Neena, where she
nestled by Var's side. He asked, "And you—are you willing to follow
your lover in this?"
Neena returned his gaze without flinching; then she looked sidelong at
Var, and her lips curled with a proud and tender mockery. "Follow? Why,
I will lead, if his courage should fail him."
The old man said, "It is no part of my duty to dissuade you from this
thing. You are free persons. But I must be sure that you know what you
are doing. That is the second part of the law the First Watcher made: to
guard lest the unwary and the ignorant should bring harm on themselves
and on all men."
"We know the stories," Var said brusquely. "In the hollow heart of their
mountain the Ryzgas sleep, as they chose to do when their world
crumbled. But if they are wakened, the mountain will tremble, and the
Ryzgas will come forth."
"Do you believe that?"
"As one believes stories."
"It is true," said the Watcher heavily. "In my youth I penetrated
farther into the mountain than anyone before, farther even than did the
First Watcher. I did not see the sleepers, nor will any man until they
come again, but I met their sentries, the sentinel machines that guard
them now as they have for two thousand years. When I had gone that far,
the mountain began to shake, the force that is in the Earth rumbled
below, and I returned in time." Now for the first time Var sensed the
power in the old man's look, the power of four hundred years' wisdom.
Var stared down at his hands.
"The Ryzgas also were men," said the Watcher. "But they were such a race
as the world has not seen before or since. There were tyrannies before
the Ryzgas, there was lust for power, and atrocious cruelty; but such
tyranny, power, and cruelty as theirs, had never been known. They ruled
the Earth for four generations, and the Earth was too little for them.
They laid the world waste, stripped it of metals and fuels and bored to
its heart for energy, poisoned its seas and its air with the fume of
their works, wrung its peoples dry for their labor ... and in each of
those four generations they launched a ship of space. They were great
and evil as no other people has been, because they wanted the stars.
"Because of them we must build with dreams instead of iron, and our only
fire is that of the Sun, and even now, two thousand years later, the
Earth is still slowly recovering from the pangs and poison of that age.
If you turn up the sod in the plain where the wild herds graze, you will
find numberless fragments of rusted or corroded metal, bits of glass and
strange plastic substances, debris of artifacts still showing the marks
of their shaping—the scattered wreckage of the things they made. And
we—we too are a remnant, the descendants of the few out of all humanity
that survived when the Ryzgas' world went down in flame and thunder.
"In the last generation of their power the Ryzgas knew by their science
that the race of man would endure them no longer. They made ready their
weapons, they mined the cities and the factories for destruction, making
sure that their works and their knowledge would perish with them.
Meanwhile they redoubled the yoke and the punishments, hastening the
completion of the last of the starships.
"From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the
memories of dead men that still echo in the air, I have gathered a
picture of that world's end. I will show it to you...."
Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old
man wove a dream around them, and the bright ice-cave faded from their
vision, and they saw—
Black starless night, a sky of rolling smoke above the greatest city
that was ever built. Only the angry light of fires relieved the city's
darkness—that, and the blue-white lightning flashes that silhouetted
the naked skeletons of buildings and were followed by thunder and a
shaking of the earth.
Along lightless streets, half choked with rubble and with the dead,
poured a mad, hating horde. The recurrent flashes lit scarred faces,
naked bodies blackened and maimed from the hell of the workshops where
the Ryzgas' might had been forged, eyes that stared white and half
sightless from the glare of the furnaces, gnarled hands that now at long
last clutched the weapons of the last rebellion—a rebellion without
hope of new life on a world gutted and smoldering from the fulfilment of
the Ryzgas' dream, without slogans other than a cry for blood.
Before them death waited around the citadel where the masters still
fought. All round, from the lowest and most poisonous levels of the
shattered city, the slaves swarmed up in their millions. And the
lightning blazed, and the city howled and screamed and burned.
Then, unbelievably, the thunder fell silent, and the silence swept
outward like a wave, from ruined street to street. The mouths that had
shouted their wrath were speechless, and the rage-blinded eyes were
lifted in sudden awe. From the center, over the citadel, an immense
white globe soared upward, rising swiftly without sound.
They had never seen its like, but they knew. It was the last starship,
and it was leaving.
It poised motionless. For an instant the burning city lay mute; then the
millions found voice. Some roared ferocious threats and curses; others
cried desolately—
wait!
Then the whole city, the dark tumuli of its buildings and its leaping
fires and tormented faces, and the black sky over it, seemed to twist
and swim, like a scene under water when a great fish sweeps past, and
the ship was gone.
The stunned paralysis fell apart in fury. Flame towered over the
citadel. The hordes ran and shrieked again toward the central inferno,
and the city burned and burned....
Var blinked dazedly in the shadowless glow of the ice-cave. His arm
tightened about Neena till she gasped. He was momentarily uncertain that
he and she were real and here, such had been the force of the dream, a
vision of such scope and reality as Var had never seen—no, lived
through—before. With deep respect now he gazed upon the bent old man
who was the Mountain Watcher.
"Some of the Ryzgas took flight to the stars, and some perished on
Earth. But there was a group of them who believed that their time to
rule would come again. These raised a black mountain from the Earth's
heart, and in hollows within it cast themselves into deathless sleep,
their deathless and lifeless sentinels round them, to wait till someone
dare arouse them, or until their chosen time—no one knows surely.
"I have told you the story you know, and have shown you a glimpse of the
old time, because I must make sure that you do not approach the mountain
in ignorance. Our world is unwise and sometimes evil, full of arrogance,
folly, and passion that are in the nature of man. Yet it is a happy
world, compared to that the Ryzgas made and will make again."
The Watcher eyed them speculatively. "Before all," he said finally,
"this is a world where you are free to risk wakening the old tyrants, if
in your own judgment your great need renders the chance worth taking."
Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes. In her
mind as it groped for his there was a confusion of horror and pity. Var
looked grimly at the Watcher, and would have spoken; but the Watcher
seemed suddenly a very long way off, and Var could no longer feel his
own limbs, his face was a numb mask. Dully he heard the old man say,
"You are tired. Best sleep until morning."
Var strove to cry out that there was no time, that Groz was near and
that sleep was for infants and the aged, but his intention sank and
drowned under wave upon wave of unconquerable languor. The bright cave
swam and dissolved; his eyelids closed.
Var woke. Daylight glimmered through the ice of the cave mouth. He had
been unconscious, helpless, for hours! At the thought of that, panic
gripped him. He had not slept since childhood, and he had forgotten how
it was.
He came to his feet in one quick movement, realizing in that action that
sleep had refreshed his mind and body—realizing also that a footstep
had wakened him. Across the cave he faced a young man who watched him
coolly with dark piercing eyes that were familiar though he did not know
the face.
Neena sat up and stifled a cry of fright. Var growled, "Who are you?
Where's the Watcher?"
The other flashed white teeth in a smile. "I'm the Watcher," he
answered. "Often I become a youth at morning, and relax into age as the
day passes. A foolish amusement, no doubt, but amusements are few here."
"You made us fall asleep. Groz will be on us—"
"Groz and his people could not detect your thoughts as you slept. They
were all night chasing elusive dreams on the high ridges, miles away."
Var passed a hand across bewildered eyes. Neena said softly, "Thank you,
Watcher."
"Don't thank me. I take no sides in your valley feuds. But now you are
rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga
mountain?"
Not looking at the Watcher, Var muttered unsteadily, "We have no
alternative."
There was a liquid tinkling as the ice-curtain collapsed; the fresh
breeze of morning swept into the cave. The youth beckoned to them, and
they followed him outside.
The glacial slope on which the cavern opened faced toward the mountain.
It rose black and forbidding in the dawn as it had by sunset. To right
and left of it, the grand cliffs, ocher and red, were lit splendidly by
the morning sun, but the mountain of the Ryzgas drank in the light and
gave nothing back.
Below their feet the slope fell away into an opaque sea of fog, filling
a mile-wide gorge. There was a sound of turbulent water, of a river
dashed from rock to rock in its struggle toward the plain, but the
curling fog hid everything.
"You have an alternative," said the Watcher crisply. The two took their
eyes from the black mountain and gazed at him in sudden hope, but his
face was unsmiling. "It is this. You, Var, can flee up the canyon to the
north, by a way I will show you, disguising your thoughts and masking
your presence as well as you are able, while the girl goes in the other
direction, southward, without seeking to conceal herself. Your pursuers
will be deceived and follow her, and by the time they catch her it will
be too late for them to overtake Var."
That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked
at one another. Then by common consent they blended their minds into
one.
They thought, in the warm intimacy of unreserved understanding: "
It
would work: I-you would make the sacrifice of shame and mockery—yet
these can be borne—that I-you might be saved from death—which is alone
irreparable.... But to become
I
and
you
again—that cannot be
borne.
"
They said in unison, "No. Not that."
The Watcher's face did not change. He said gravely, "Very well. I will
give you what knowledge I have that may help you when you enter the
Ryzga mountain."
Quickly, he impressed on them what he had learned of the structure of
the mountain and of its guardian machines. Var closed his eyes, a little
dizzied by the rapid flood of detail.
"You are ready to go," said the Watcher. He spoke aloud, and his voice
was cracked and harsh. Var opened his eyes in surprise, and saw that the
Watcher had become again the hoary ancient of last night.
Var felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion; only by its echo in Neena's
mind did he recognize it as a sense of guilt. He said stiffly, "You
don't blame us?"
"You have taken life in your own hands," rasped the Watcher. "Who does
that needs no blessing and feels no curse. Go!"
They groped through the fog above blank abysses that hid the snarling
river, crept hand in hand, sharing their strength, across unstable dream
bridges from crag to crag. Groz and his pack, in their numbers, would
cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at
last on the cindery slope of the great volcanic cone, they sensed that
the pursuit already halved their lead.
They stood high on the side of the Ryzga mountain, and gazed at the
doorway. It was an opaque yet penetrable well of darkness, opening into
the face of a lava cliff, closed only by an intangible curtain—so
little had the Ryzgas feared those who might assail them in their sleep.
Var sent his thoughts probing beyond the curtain, listened intently,
head thrown back, to their echoes that returned. The tunnel beyond
slanted steeply downward. Var's hands moved, molding a radiant globe
from the feeble sunshine that straggled through the fog-bank. With an
abrupt motion he hurled it. The sun-globe vanished, as if the darkness
had drunk it up, but though sight did not serve they both sensed that it
had passed through to light up the depths beyond. For within the
mountain something snapped suddenly alert—something alive yet not
living, seeing yet blind. They felt light-sensitive cells tingle in
response, felt electric currents sting along buried, long-idle
circuits....
The two stood shivering together.
The morning wind stirred, freshening, the fog lifted a little, and they
heard a great voice crying, "There they are!"
Var and Neena turned. Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that
they could not see, stood Groz. He shook the staff he carried. It was
too far to discern the rage that must contort his features, but the
thought he hurled at them was a soundless bellow: "Young fools! I've
caught you now!"
Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows.
Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: "Go
back! Or you'll drive us to enter the mountain!"
Groz seemed to hesitate. Then he swung his staff up like a weapon, and
for the two on the mountainside the world turned upside down, the
mountain's black shoulder hung inverted above them and the dizzy gulf of
sky was beneath. Var fought for footing with his balance gone, feeling
Neena reel against him until, summoning all his strength, he broke the
grip of the illusion and the world seemed to right itself. The mist
billowed again and Groz was out of sight, but they could hear him
exhorting his men to haste.
Neena's face was deadly pale and her lips trembled, but her urgent
whisper said, "Come on!"
Together they plunged into the curtain of darkness.
At Var's thought command Neena froze instantly. "Feel that!" he
muttered, and she, listening, sensed it too: the infinitesimal trickle
of currents behind what appeared to be a blank tunnel wall, a rising
potential that seemed to whisper
Ready ... ready....
The sun-globe floated behind them, casting light before them down the
featureless tunnel that sloped always toward the mountain's heart. Var
summoned it, and it drifted ahead, a dozen feet, a little more—
Between wall and wall a blinding spindle of flame sprang into being,
pulsed briefly with radiant energy that pained the eyes, and went out.
The immaterial globe of light danced on before them.
"Forward, before the charge builds up again!" said Var. A few feet
further on, they stumbled over a pile of charred bones. Someone else had
made it only this far. It was farther than the Watcher had gone into
these uncharted regions, and only the utmost alertness of mind and sense
had saved them from death in traps like this. But as yet the way was not
blocked....
Then they felt the mountain begin to tremble. A very faint and remote
vibration at first, then an increasingly potent shuddering of the floor
under their feet and the walls around them. Somewhere far below immense
energies were stirring for the first time in centuries. The power that
was in the Earth was rising; great wheels commenced to turn, the
mechanical servitors of the Ryzgas woke one by one and began to make
ready, while their masters yet slept, for the moment of rebirth that
might be near at hand.
From behind, up the tunnel, came a clear involuntary thought of dismay,
then a directed thought, echoing and ghostly in the confinement of the
dark burrow:
"
Stop!
—before you go too far!"
Var faced that way and thought coldly: "Only if you return and let us go
free."
In the black reaches of the shaft his will groped for and locked with
that of Groz, like the grip of two strong wrestlers. In that grip each
knew with finality that the other's stubbornness matched his own—that
neither would yield, though the mountain above them and the world
outside should crumble to ruin around them.
"Follow us, then!"
They plunged deeper into the mountain. And the shaking of the mountain
increased with every step, its vibrations became sound, and its sound
was like that of the terrible city which they had seen in the dream.
Through the slow-rolling thunder of the hidden machines seemed to echo
the death-cries of a billion slaves, the despair of all flesh and blood
before their monstrous and inhuman power.
Without warning, lights went on. Blinking in their glare, Var and Neena
saw that fifty paces before them the way opened out into a great rounded
room that was likewise ablaze with light. Cautiously they crept forward
to the threshold of that chamber at the mountain's heart.
Its roof was vaulted; its circular walls were lined with panels studded
with gleaming control buttons, levers, colored lights. As they watched
light flicked on and off in changing patterns, registering the
progressive changes in the vast complex of mechanisms for which this
must be the central control station. Behind those boards circuits opened
and closed in bewildering confusion; the two invaders felt the rapid
shifting of magnetic fields, the fury of electrons boiling in vacuum....
For long moments they forgot the pursuit, forgot everything in wonder at
this place whose remotest like they had never seen in the simplicity of
their machineless culture. In all the brilliant space there was no life.
They looked at one another, the same thought coming to both at once:
perhaps, after two thousand years, the masters were dead after all, and
only the machines remained? As if irresistibly drawn, they stepped over
the threshold.
There was a clang of metal like a signal. Halfway up the wall opposite,
above a narrow ramp that descended between the instrument panels, a
massive doorway swung wide, and in its opening a figure stood.
Var and Neena huddled frozenly, half expecting each instant to be their
last. And the Ryzga too stood motionless, looking down at them.
He was a man of middle height and stocky build, clad in a garment of
changing colors, of fabric delicate as dream-stuff. In his right hand,
with the care one uses with a weapon, he grasped a gleaming metal tube;
his other hand rested as for support against the frame of the doorway.
That, and his movements when he came slowly down the ramp toward them,
conveyed a queer suggestion of weariness or weakness, as if he were yet
not wholly roused from his two millenia of slumber. But the Ryzga's
manner and his mind radiated a consciousness of power, a pride and
assurance of self that smote them like a numbing blow.
With a new shock, Var realized that the Ryzga's thoughts were quite
open. They had a terse, disconnected quality that was strange and
unsettling, and in part they were couched in alien and unintelligible
symbols. But there was no block. Apparently the Ryzga felt no need to
close his mind in the presence of inferior creatures....
He paused with his back to the central control panel, and studied the
interlopers with the dispassionate gaze of a scientist examining a new,
but not novel, species of insect. His thoughts seemed to click, like
metal parts of a mechanism falling into places prepared for them. The
image occurred oddly to Var, to whom such a comparison would ordinarily
have been totally strange.
"Culture: late barbarism. Handwork of high quality—good. Physically
excellent stock...." There was a complicated and incomprehensible
schemata of numbers and abstract forms. "The time: two thousand
years—more progress might have been expected, if any survivors at all
initially postulated; but this will do. The pessimists were mistaken. We
can begin again." Then, startlingly super-imposed on the cool
progression of logical thought, came a wave of raw emotion, devastating
in its force. It was a lustful image of a world once more obedient,
crawling, laboring to do the Ryzgas' will—
toward the stars, the
stars!
The icy calculation resumed: "Immobilize these and the ones
indicated in the passage above. Then wake the rest...."
Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face. It was a face formed
by the custom of unquestioned command; yet it was lined by a deeply
ingrained weariness, the signs of premature age—denied, overridden by
the driving will they had sensed a moment earlier. It was a sick man's
face.
The Ryzga's final thought clicked into place:
Decision!
He turned
toward the switchboard behind him, reaching with practised certainty for
one spot upon it.
Neena screamed.
Between the Ryzga and the control panel a nightmare shape reared up
seven feet tall, flapping black amorphous limbs and flashing red eyes
and white fangs. The Ryzga recoiled, and the weapon in his hand came up.
There was an instantaneous glare like heat lightning, and the monster
crumpled in on itself, twitched briefly and vanished.
But in that moment a light of inspiration had flashed upon Var, and it
remained. As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The
Ryzga froze, teetering off balance and almost falling, as a numbing grip
closed down on all his motor nerves.
Holding that grip, Var strode across the floor and looked straight into
the Ryzga's frantic eyes. They glared back at him with such hatred and
such evil that for an instant he almost faltered. But the Ryzga's
efforts, as he strove to free himself from the neural hold, were as
misdirected and unavailing as those of a child who has not learned to
wrestle with the mind.
Var had guessed right. When Neena in her terror had flung a dream
monster into the Ryzga's way—a mere child's bogey out of a fairy
tale—the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a
real being. Var laughed aloud, and with great care, as one communicates
with an infant, he projected his thoughts into the other's mind. "There
will be no new beginning for you in
our
world, Ryzga! In two thousand
years, we've learned some new things. Now at last I understand why you
built so many machines, such complicated arrangements of matter and
energy to do simple tasks—it was because you knew no other way."
Behind the hate-filled eyes the cold brain tried to reason still.
"Barbarians...? Our party was wrong after all. After us the machine
civilization could never rise again, because it was a fire that consumed
its fuel. After us
man
could not survive on the Earth, because the
conditions that made him great were gone. The survivors must be
something else—capacities undeveloped by our science—after us the end
of man, the beginning.... But those of us who chose to die were right."
The tide of hate and sick desire rose up to drown all coherence. The
Ryzga made a savage, wholly futile effort to lift the weapon in his
paralyzed hand. Then his eyes rolled upward, and abruptly he went limp
and fell in a heap, like a mechanical doll whose motive power has
failed.
Var felt Neena beside him, and drew her close. As she sobbed her relief,
he continued to look down absently at the dead man. When at last he
raised his head, he saw that the drama's end had had a further audience.
In the outer doorway, backed by his clansmen, stood Groz, gazing first
in stupefaction at the fallen Ryzga, then with something like awe at
Var.
Var eyed him for a long moment; then he smiled, and asked, "Well, Groz?
Is our feud finished, or does your ambition for a worthy son-in-law go
beyond the conqueror of the Ryzgas?"
|
train | 31355 | [
"Which best describes the relationship between Russell and Dunbar?",
"Which isn't a reason why Russell didn't tell Johnson and Alvar directly that he thought Dunbar was crazy?",
"Which of these is the best representation of the connection between Old Dunbar and the rest of the crew?",
"Which of these is not a reason Russell killed Dunbar?",
"What most likely happened to Russell after the story ended?",
"Which of these was not an impact of Russell's decision to kill Dunbar?",
"Which effect of Russell's decision to kill Dunbar was likely most surprising to Russell?",
"What is the role of the pirate ship story that Dunbar tells?",
"Which of these is not true about Dunbar?"
] | [
[
"They have similar goals but do not necessarily work well together",
"They both have respect for each other but are sick of each other's company",
"Neither of them likes the other, in a way that hinders group dynamics",
"The appreciate each other's insight when looking for solutions but don't like to talk about personal details"
],
[
"All of their communication systems are connected",
"He had already given up on life",
"He might have been secretly curious about the stories",
"He wanted them to find out for themselves"
],
[
"He tagged along when they escaped their previous situation",
"They are all former members of the military on equal footing",
"He led the group out of their previous lives",
"He thinks he is in charge but does not call any of the shots in reality"
],
[
"The time in space was driving him nuts",
"He wanted it to be more quiet",
"He thought it would be the only way to go the right direction",
"He wanted his ration supply"
],
[
"His body would be preserved in a museum",
"He found somewhere to settle and managed to live out the rest of his life",
"He would die once he tried to land on the planet",
"He likely died floating in space"
],
[
"Russell would have to travel alone",
"He was able to pick the path to the correct sun",
"It became quieter in general",
"Arguments increased amongst the team"
],
[
"The fact that nobody agreed on which sun was the correct one",
"The decrease in chatter in the communication system",
"The way the Dunbar died without much drama",
"He sabotaged himself by ensuring his loneliness"
],
[
"It proves that he knows where he's going and he had the right choice all along",
"It is a fantastic story meant to keep the crew entertained while floating in space",
"It points to who will rescue his body when he arrives at the planet",
"It helps to clarify what is true for the reader when the aliens find his body"
],
[
"He never had a chance of making it to a safe planet",
"He was thankful to interact with whoever was around him",
"He has committed some number of crimes",
"He dreams big and always an adventure"
]
] | [
1,
4,
3,
4,
4,
2,
4,
4,
1
] | [
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
TO EACH HIS STAR
by
BRYCE WALTON
"Nothing around those other suns but ashes and dried
blood," old Dunbar told the space-wrecked, desperate men.
"Only one way to go, where we can float down through the
clouds to Paradise. That's straight ahead to the sun with
the red rim around it."
But Dunbar's eyes were old and uncertain. How could they
believe in his choice when every star in this forsaken
section of space was surrounded by a beckoning red rim?
There was just blackness, frosty glimmering terrible blackness, going
out and out forever in all directions. Russell didn't think they could
remain sane in all this blackness much longer. Bitterly he thought of
how they would die—not knowing within maybe thousands of light years
where they were, or where they were going.
After the wreck, the four of them had floated a while, floated and
drifted together, four men in bulbous pressure suits like small
individual rockets, held together by an awful pressing need for each
other and by the "gravity-rope" beam.
Dunbar, the oldest of the four, an old space-buster with a face
wrinkled like a dried prune, burned by cosmic rays and the suns of
worlds so far away they were scarcely credible, had taken command.
Suddenly, Old Dunbar had known where they were. Suddenly, Dunbar knew
where they were going.
They could talk to one another through the etheric transmitters inside
their helmets. They could live ... if this was living ... a long time,
if only a man's brain would hold up, Russell thought. The suits were
complete units. 700 pounds each, all enclosing shelters, with
atmosphere pressure, temperature control, mobility in space, and
electric power. Each suit had its own power-plant, reprocessing
continuously the precious air breathed by the occupants, putting it
back into circulation again after enriching it. Packed with food
concentrates. Each suit a rocket, each human being part of a rocket,
and the special "life-gun" that went with each suit each blast of
which sent a man a few hundred thousand miles further on toward
wherever he was going.
Four men, thought Russell, held together by an invisible string of
gravity, plunging through a lost pocket of hell's dark where there had
never been any sound or life, with old Dunbar the first in line,
taking the lead because he was older and knew where he was and where
he was going. Maybe Johnson, second in line, and Alvar who was third,
knew too, but were afraid to admit it.
But Russell knew it and he'd admitted it from the first—that old
Dunbar was as crazy as a Jovian juke-bird.
A lot of time had rushed past into darkness. Russell had no idea now
how long the four of them had been plunging toward the red-rimmed sun
that never seemed to get any nearer. When the ultra-drive had gone
crazy the four of them had blanked out and nobody could say now how
long an interim that had been. Nobody knew what happened to a man who
suffered a space-time warping like that. When they had regained
consciousness, the ship was pretty banged up, and the meteor-repeller
shields cracked. A meteor ripped the ship down the center like an old
breakfast cannister.
How long ago that had been, Russell didn't know. All Russell knew was
that they were millions of light years from any place he had ever
heard about, where the galactic space lanterns had absolutely no
recognizable pattern. But Dunbar knew. And Russell was looking at
Dunbar's suit up ahead, watching it more and more intently, thinking
about how Dunbar looked inside that suit—and hating Dunbar more and
more for claiming he knew when he didn't, for his drooling
optimism—because he was taking them on into deeper darkness and
calling their destination Paradise.
Russell wanted to laugh, but the last time he'd given way to this
impulse, the results inside his helmet had been too unpleasant to
repeat.
Sometimes Russell thought of other things besides his growing hatred
of the old man. Sometimes he thought about the ship, lost back there
in the void, and he wondered if wrecked space ships were ever found.
Compared with the universe in which one of them drifted, a wrecked
ship was a lot smaller than a grain of sand on a nice warm beach back
on Earth, or one of those specks of silver dust that floated like
strange seeds down the night winds of Venus.
And a human was smaller still, thought Russell when he was not hating
Dunbar. Out here, a human being is the smallest thing of all. He
thought then of what Dunbar would say to such a thought, how Dunbar
would laugh that high piping squawking laugh of his and say that the
human being was bigger than the Universe itself.
Dunbar had a big answer for every little thing.
When the four of them had escaped from that prison colony on a
sizzling hot asteroid rock in the Ronlwhyn system, that wasn't enough
for Dunbar. Hell no—Dunbar had to start talking about a place they
could go where they'd never be apprehended, in a system no one else
had ever heard of, where they could live like gods on a green soft
world like the Earth had been a long time back.
And Dunbar had spouted endlessly about a world of treasure they would
find, if they would just follow old Dunbar. That's what all four of
them had been trying to find all their lives in the big cold grabbag
of eternity—a rich star, a rich far fertile star where no one else
had ever been, loaded with treasure that had no name, that no one had
ever heard of before. And was, because of that, the richest treasure
of all.
We all look alike out here in these big rocket pressure suits, Russell
thought. No one for God only knew how many of millions of light years
away could see or care. Still—we might have a chance to live, even
now, Russell thought—if it weren't for old crazy Dunbar.
They might have a chance if Alvar and Johnson weren't so damn lacking
in self-confidence as to put all their trust in that crazed old
rum-dum. Russell had known now for some time that they were going in
the wrong direction. No reason for knowing. Just a hunch. And Russell
was sure his hunch was right.
Russell said. "Look—look to your left and to your right and behind
us. Four suns. You guys see those other three suns all around you,
don't you?"
"Sure," someone said.
"Well, if you'll notice," Russell said, "the one on the left also now
has a red rim around it. Can't you guys see that?"
"Yeah, I see it," Alvar said.
"So now," Johnson said, "there's two suns with red rims around them."
"We're about in the middle of those four suns aren't we, Dunbar?"
Russell said.
"That's right, boys!" yelled old Dunbar in that sickeningly optimistic
voice. Like a hysterical old woman's. "Just about in the sweet dark
old middle."
"You're still sure it's the sun up ahead ... that's the only one with
life on it, Dunbar ... the only one we can live on?" Russell asked.
"That's right! That's right," Dunbar yelled. "That's the only one—and
it's a paradise. Not just a place to live, boys—but a place you'll
have trouble believing in because it's like a dream!"
"And none of these other three suns have worlds we could live on,
Dunbar?" Russell asked. Keep the old duck talking like this and maybe
Alvar and Johnson would see that he was cracked.
"Yeah," said Alvar. "You still say that, Dunbar?"
"No life, boys, nothing," Dunbar laughed. "Nothing on these other
worlds but ashes ... just ashes and iron and dried blood, dried a
million years or more."
"When in hell were you ever here?" Johnson said. "You say you were
here before. You never said when, or why or anything!"
"It was a long time back boys. Don't remember too well, but it was
when we had an old ship called the DOG STAR that I was here. A pirate
ship and I was second in command, and we came through this sector.
That was—hell, it musta' been fifty years ago. I been too many places
nobody's ever bothered to name or chart, to remember where it is, but
I been here. I remember those four suns all spotted to form a perfect
circle from this point, with us squarely in the middle. We explored
all these suns and the worlds that go round 'em. Trust me, boys, and
we'll reach the right one. And that one's just like Paradise."
"Paradise is it," Russell whispered hoarsely.
"Paradise and there we'll be like gods, like Mercuries with wings
flying on nights of sweet song. These other suns, don't let them
bother you. They're Jezebels of stars. All painted up in the darkness
and pretty and waiting and calling and lying! They make you think of
nice green worlds all running waters and dews and forests thick as
fleas on a wet dog. But it ain't there, boys. I know this place. I
been here, long time back."
Russell said tightly. "It'll take us a long time won't it? If it's got
air we can breath, and water we can drink and shade we can rest
in—that'll be paradise enough for us. But it'll take a long time
won't it? And what if it isn't there—what if after all the time we
spend hoping and getting there—there won't be nothing but ashes and
cracked clay?"
"I know we're going right," Dunbar said cheerfully. "I can tell. Like
I said—you can tell it because of the red rim around it."
"But the sun on our left, you can see—it's got a red rim too now,"
Russell said.
"Yeah, that's right," said Alvar. "Sometimes I see a red rim around
the one we're going for, sometimes a red rim around that one on the
left. Now, sometimes I'm not sure either of them's got a red rim. You
said that one had a red rim, Dunbar, and I wanted to believe it. So
now maybe we're all seeing a red rim that was never there."
Old Dunbar laughed. The sound brought blood hotly to Russell's face.
"We're heading to the right one, boys. Don't doubt me ... I been here.
We explored all these sun systems. And I remember it all. The second
planet from that red-rimmed sun. You come down through a soft
atmosphere, floating like in a dream. You see the green lakes coming
up through the clouds and the women dancing and the music playing. I
remember seeing a ship there that brought those women there, a long
long time before ever I got there. A land like heaven and women like
angels singing and dancing and laughing with red lips and arms white
as milk, and soft silky hair floating in the winds."
Russell was very sick of the old man's voice. He was at least glad he
didn't have to look at the old man now. His bald head, his skinny
bobbing neck, his simpering watery blue eyes. But he still had to
suffer that immutable babbling, that idiotic cheerfulness ... and
knowing all the time the old man was crazy, that he was leading them
wrong.
I'd break away, go it alone to the right sun, Russell thought—but I'd
never make it alone. A little while out here alone and I'd be nuttier
than old Dunbar will ever be, even if he keeps on getting nuttier all
the time.
Somewhere, sometime then ... Russell got the idea that the only way
was to get rid of Dunbar.
You mean to tell us there are people living by that red-rimmed sun,"
Russell said.
"Lost people ... lost ... who knows how long," Dunbar said, as the
four of them hurtled along. "You never know where you'll find people
on a world somewhere nobody's ever named or knows about. Places where
a lost ship's landed and never got up again, or wrecked itself so far
off the lanes they'll never be found except by accident for millions
of years. That's what this world is, boys. Must have been a ship load
of beautiful people, maybe actresses and people like that being hauled
to some outpost to entertain. They're like angels now, living in a
land all free from care. Every place you see green forests and fields
and blue lakes, and at nights there's three moons that come around the
sky in a thousand different colors. And it never gets cold ... it's
always spring, always spring, boys, and the music plays all night,
every night of a long long year...."
Russell suddenly shouted. "Keep quiet, Dunbar. Shut up will you?"
Johnson said. "Dunbar—how long'll it take us?"
"Six months to a year, I'd say," Dunbar yelled happily. "That is—of
our hereditary time."
"What?" croaked Alvar.
Johnson didn't say anything at all.
Russell screamed at Dunbar, then quieted down. He whispered. "Six
months to a year—out here—cooped up in these damn suits. You're
crazy as hell, Dunbar. Crazy ... crazy! Nobody could stand it. We'll
all be crazier than you are—"
"We'll make it, boys. Trust ole' Dunbar. What's a year when we know
we're getting to Paradise at the end of it? What's a year out here ...
it's paradise ain't it, compared with that prison hole we were rotting
in? We can make it. We have the food concentrates, and all the rest.
All we need's the will, boys, and we got that. The whole damn Universe
isn't big enough to kill the will of a human being, boys. I been over
a whole lot of it, and I know. In the old days—"
"The hell with the old days," screamed Russell.
"Now quiet down, Russ," Dunbar said in a kind of dreadful crooning
whisper. "You calm down now. You younger fellows—you don't look at
things the way we used to. Thing is, we got to go straight. People
trapped like this liable to start meandering. Liable to start losing
the old will-power."
He chuckled.
"Yeah," said Alvar. "Someone says maybe we ought to go left, and
someone says to go right, and someone else says to go in another
direction. And then someone says maybe they'd better go back the old
way. An' pretty soon something breaks, or the food runs out, and
you're a million million miles from someplace you don't care about any
more because you're dead. All frozen up in space ... preserved like a
piece of meat in a cold storage locker. And then maybe in a million
years or so some lousy insect man from Jupiter comes along and finds
you and takes you away to a museum...."
"Shut up!" Johnson yelled.
Dunbar laughed. "Boys, boys, don't get panicky. Keep your heads. Just
stick to old Dunbar and he'll see you through. I'm always lucky. Only
one way to go ... an' that's straight ahead to the sun with the
red-rim around it ... and then we tune in the gravity repellers, and
coast down, floating and singing down through the clouds to
paradise."
After that they traveled on for what seemed months to Russell, but it
couldn't have been over a day or two of the kind of time-sense he had
inherited from Earth.
Then he saw how the other two stars also were beginning to develop red
rims. He yelled this fact out to the others. And Alvar said. "Russ's
right. That sun to the right, and the one behind us ... now they ALL
have red rims around them. Dunbar—" A pause and no awareness of
motion.
Dunbar laughed. "Sure, they all maybe have a touch of red, but it
isn't the same, boys. I can tell the difference. Trust me—"
Russell half choked on his words. "You old goat! With those old eyes
of yours, you couldn't see your way into a fire!"
"Don't get panicky now. Keep your heads. In another year, we'll be
there—"
"God, you gotta' be sure," Alvar said. "I don't mind dyin' out here.
But after a year of this, and then to get to a world that was only
ashes, and not able to go any further—"
"I always come through, boys. I'm lucky. Angel women will take us to
their houses on the edges of cool lakes, little houses that sit there
in the sun like fancy jewels. And we'll walk under colored fountains,
pretty colored fountains just splashing and splashing like pretty rain
on our hungry hides. That's worth waiting for."
Russell did it before he hardly realized he was killing the old man.
It was something he had had to do for a long time and that made it
easy. There was a flash of burning oxygen from inside the suit of
Dunbar. If he'd aimed right, Russell knew the fire-bullet should have
pierced Dunbar's back. Now the fire was gone, extinguished
automatically by units inside the suit. The suit was still inflated,
self-sealing. Nothing appeared to have changed. The four of them
hurtling on together, but inside that first suit up there on the front
of the gravity rope, Dunbar was dead.
He was dead and his mouth was shut for good.
Dunbar's last faint cry from inside his suit still rang in Russell's
ears, and he knew Alvar and Johnson had heard it too. Alvar and
Johnson both called Dunbar's name a few times. There was no answer.
"Russ—you shouldn't have done that," Johnson whispered. "You
shouldn't have done that to the old man!"
"No," Alvar said, so low he could barely be heard. "You shouldn't have
done it."
"I did it for the three of us," Russell said. "It was either him or us.
Lies ... lies that was all he had left in his crazy head. Paradise ...
don't tell me you guys don't see the red rims around all four suns, all
four suns all around us. Don't tell me you guys didn't know he was batty,
that you really believed all that stuff he was spouting all the time!"
"Maybe he was lying, maybe not," Johnson said. "Now he's dead anyway."
"Maybe he was wrong, crazy, full of lies," Alvar said. "But now he's
dead."
"How could he see any difference in those four stars?" Russell said,
louder.
"He thought he was right," Alvar said. "He wanted to take us to
paradise. He was happy, nothing could stop the old man—but he's dead
now."
He sighed.
"He was taking us wrong ... wrong!" Russell screamed. "Angels—music
all night—houses like jewels—and women like angels—"
"
Shhhh
," said Alvar. It was quiet. How could it be so quiet, Russell
thought? And up ahead the old man's pressure suit with a corpse inside
went on ahead, leading the other three at the front of the
gravity-rope.
"Maybe he was wrong," Alvar said. "But now do we know which way is
right?"
Sometime later, Johnson said, "We got to decide now. Let's forget the
old man. Let's forget him and all that's gone and let's start now and
decide what to do."
And Alvar said, "Guess he was crazy all right, and I guess we trusted
him because we didn't have the strength to make up our own minds. Why
does a crazy man's laugh sound so good when you're desperate and don't
know what to do?"
"I always had a feeling we were going wrong," Johnson said. "Anyway,
it's forgotten, Russ. It's swallowed up in the darkness all around.
It's never been."
Russell said, "I've had a hunch all along that maybe the old man was
here before, and that he was right about there being a star here with
a world we can live on. But I've known we was heading wrong. I've had
a hunch all along that the right star was the one to the left."
"I don't know," Johnson sighed. "I been feeling partial toward that
one on the right. What about you, Alvar?"
"I always thought we were going straight in the opposite direction
from what we should, I guess. I always wanted to turn around and go
back. It won't make over maybe a month's difference. And what does a
month matter anyway out here—hell there never was any time out here
until we came along. We make our own time here, and a month don't
matter to me."
Sweat ran down Russell's face. His voice trembled. "No—that's wrong.
You're both wrong." He could see himself going it alone. Going crazy
because he was alone. He'd have broken away, gone his own direction,
long ago but for that fear.
"How can we tell which of us is right?" Alvar said. "It's like
everything was changing all the time out here. Sometimes I'd swear
none of those suns had red rims, and at other times—like the old man
said, they're all pretty and lying and saying nothing, just changing
all the time. Jezebel stars, the old man said."
"I know I'm right," Russell pleaded. "My hunches always been right.
My hunch got us out of that prison didn't it? Listen—I tell you it's
that star to the left—"
"The one to the right," said Johnson.
"We been going away from the right one all the time," said Alvar.
"We got to stay together," said Russell. "Nobody could spend a year
out here ... alone...."
"Ah ... in another month or so we'd be lousy company anyway," Alvar
said. "Maybe a guy could get to the point where he'd sleep most of the
time ... just wake up enough times to give himself another boost with
the old life-gun."
"We got to face it," Johnson said finally. "We three don't go on
together any more."
"That's it," said Alvar. "There's three suns that look like they might
be right seeing as how we all agree the old man was wrong. But we
believe there is one we can live by, because we all seem to agree that
the old man might have been right about that. If we stick together,
the chance is three to one against us. But if each of us makes for one
star, one of us has a chance to live. Maybe not in paradise like the
old man said, but a place where we can live. And maybe there'll be
intelligent life, maybe even a ship, and whoever gets the right star
can come and help the other two...."
"No ... God no...." Russell whispered over and over. "None of us can
ever make it alone...."
Alvar said, "We each take the star he likes best. I'll go back the
other way. Russ, you take the left. And you, Johnson, go to the
right."
Johnson started to laugh. Russell was yelling wildly at them, and
above his own yelling he could hear Johnson's rising laughter. "Every
guy's got a star of his own," Johnson said when he stopped laughing.
"And we got ours. A nice red-rimmed sun for each of us to call his
very own."
"Okay," Alvar said. "We cut off the gravity rope, and each to his own
sun."
Now Russell wasn't saying anything.
"And the old man," Alvar said, "can keep right on going toward what he
thought was right. And he'll keep on going. Course he won't be able to
give himself another boost with the life-gun, but he'll keep going.
Someday he'll get to that red-rimmed star of his. Out here in space,
once you're going, you never stop ... and I guess there isn't any
other body to pull him off his course. And what will time matter to
old Dunbar? Even less than to us, I guess. He's dead and he won't
care."
"Ready," Johnson said. "I'll cut off the gravity rope."
"I'm ready," Alvar said. "To go back toward whatever it was I started
from."
"Ready, Russ?"
Russell couldn't say anything. He stared at the endless void which now
he would share with no one. Not even crazy old Dunbar.
"All right," Johnson said. "Good-bye."
Russell felt the release, felt the sudden inexplicable isolation and
aloneness even before Alvar and Johnson used their life-guns and shot
out of sight, Johnson toward the left and Alvar back toward that other
red-rimmed sun behind them.
And old Dunbar shooting right on ahead. And all three of them
dwindling and dwindling and blinking out like little lights.
Fading, he could hear their voices. "Each to his own star," Johnson
said. "On a bee line."
"On a bee line," Alvar said.
Russell used his own life-gun and in a little while he didn't hear
Alvar or Johnson's voices, nor could he see them. They were thousands
of miles away, and going further all the time.
Russell's head fell forward against the front of his helmet, and he
closed his eyes. "Maybe," he thought, "I shouldn't have killed the old
man. Maybe one sun's as good as another...."
Then he raised his body and looked out into the year of blackness that
waited for him, stretching away to the red-rimmed sun. Even if he were
right—he was sure now he'd never make it alone.
The body inside the pressure suit drifted into a low-level orbit
around the second planet from the sun of its choice, and drifted there
a long time. A strato-cruiser detected it by chance because of the
strong concentration of radio-activity that came from it.
They took the body down to one of the small, quiet towns on the edge
of one of the many blue lakes where the domed houses were like bright
joyful jewels. They got the leathery, well-preserved body from the
pressure suit.
"An old man," one of them mused. "A very old man. From one of the lost
sectors. I wonder how and why he came so very far from his home?"
"Wrecked a ship out there, probably," one of the others said. "But he
managed to get this far. It looks as though a small meteor fragment
pierced his body. Here. You see?"
"Yes," another of them said. "But what amazes me is that this old man
picked this planet out of all the others. The only one in this entire
sector that would sustain life."
"Maybe he was just a very lucky old man. Yes ... a man who attains
such an age was usually lucky. Or at least that is what they say about
the lost sectors."
"Maybe he knew the way here. Maybe he was here before—sometime."
The other shook his head. "I don't think so. They say some humans from
that far sector did land here—but that's probably only a myth. And if
they did, it was well over a thousand years ago."
Another said. "He has a fine face, this old man. A noble face. Whoever
he is ... wherever he came from, he died bravely and he knew the way,
though he never reached this haven of the lost alive."
"Nor is it irony that he reached here dead," said the Lake Chieftain.
He had been listening and he stepped forward and raised his arm. "He
was old. It is obvious that he fought bravely, that he had great
courage, and that he knew the way. He will be given a burial suitable
to his stature, and he will rest here among the brave.
"Let the women dance and the music play for this old man. Let the
trumpets speak, and the rockets fly up. And let flowers be strewn over
the path above which the women will carry him to rest."
|
train | 29168 | [
"Which best describes the narrator's attitude towards his work?",
"Which of these is the best description of why the narrator strikes the spaceship?",
"What is Houlihan's relationship with the little people?",
"Which best describes Houlihan's perception of America?",
"Why did Houlihan consider his work to the advantage of humankind?",
"Which best describes the relationship between Keech and Houlihan?",
"Which of these is most true about why the little people are building what they are where they are?",
"Why of these is not a reason Houlihan agreed to help the little people?",
"Which best describes the role of history and faith in this story?"
] | [
[
"He is frustrated that nobody ever recognizes his progress",
"He wishes he were in a different country interacting with his own people",
"He is proud to be contributing to broad scientific questions",
"He is disappointed he has to work inside a lab but enjoys research"
],
[
"He is convinced there's nothing there and his hand will pass right through",
"He wants to test what it's made out of to see if it would make a good model for his own project",
"He wants to show he means business and call to their attention",
"He is upset that the people ran away and wants to harm something they care about"
],
[
"He has some kind of historical relationship with them but it's not clear what",
"He has seen them once before and is suspicious of what they're taking from the area",
"He is a little person himself and is glad to finally find his own people",
"He believes in all fantastical creatures so he is an honorary member of their group"
],
[
"He is proud to have grown up there and work is a prestigious lab ",
"He is suspicious of anyone who is not Irish but is willing to put up with Americans",
"He hates the country but is willing to work for their government in secret",
"He is thankful to be on a team working towards scientific progress, wherever it is"
],
[
"He has furthered the goals of the little people, and not just the humans, making Earth a better place",
"He thought taking advantage of the little people's project to further his own goals was in line with human ideals",
"He thinks that sabatoging the little people will be better for the goals of humans",
"He thought human goals of scientific advancement could not be completed without his work"
],
[
"Keech doesn't prefer interacting with scientists but he knows he can trust Houlihan",
"Houlihan is resentful for being taken away from time in his own lab but feels indebted to Keech",
"They have a tenuously constructed relationship based on trust necessitated by the situation",
"There is a lot of mutual trust and respect between scientists"
],
[
"They were kicked out of their own home for trying to leave the planet and had to find a new place to set up shop",
"It was the only think they knew would help them gain access to knowledge necessary for the project",
"They wanted to work close enough to the lab to be able to steal supplies",
"They wanted to be far away from people who believed in them so that their plans would not be discovered"
],
[
"He saw it as an opportunity to clear his head about his own work",
"He figured their ship could act as a test case for his work",
"He felt a kinship with them because of his family's history",
"He figured he was the only one with knowledge to help them solve their problem"
],
[
"It is both family history and faith in the truth of the little people that lets Houlihan interact with them",
"It is with knowlege of family history and some faith that Houlihan is able to decieve the little people into trusting him",
"It is Houlihan's faith and belief in the existence of fantastical creatures that lets him see the little people",
"Houlihan has heard about the little people in reading up on family history and this is why he can see him"
]
] | [
3,
3,
1,
4,
3,
3,
2,
4,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | Every writer must seek his own Flowery Kingdom in imagination's wide
demesne, and if that search can begin and end on Earth his problem has
been greatly simplified. In post-war Japan Walt Sheldon has found not only
serenity, but complete freedom to write undisturbed about the things he
treasures most. A one-time Air Force officer, he has turned to fantasy in
his lighter moments, to bring us such brightly sparkling little gems as this.
houlihan's
equation
by ... Walt Sheldon
The tiny spaceship had been built for a journey to a star. But its
small, mischievous pilots had a rendezvous with destiny—on Earth.
I must
admit that at first I
wasn't sure I was hearing those
noises. It was in a park near the
nuclear propulsion center—a cool,
green spot, with the leaves all telling
each other to hush, be quiet,
and the soft breeze stirring them up
again. I had known precisely such
a secluded little green sanctuary just
over the hill from Mr. Riordan's
farm when I was a boy.
Now it was a place I came to
when I had a problem to thrash out.
That morning I had been trying to
work out an equation to give the
coefficient of discharge for the matter
in combustion. You may call it
gas, if you wish, for we treated it
like gas at the center for convenience—as
it came from the rocket
tubes in our engine.
Without this coefficient to give
us control, we would have lacked a
workable equation when we set
about putting the first moon rocket
around those extraordinary engines
of ours, which were still in the undeveloped
blueprint stage.
I see I shall have to explain this,
although I had hoped to get right
along with my story. When you
start from scratch, matter discharged
from any orifice has a velocity directly
proportional to the square
root of the pressure-head driving it.
But when you actually put things
together, contractions or expansions
in the gas, surface roughness
and other factors make the velocity
a bit smaller.
At the terrible discharge speed
of nuclear explosion—which is
what the drive amounts to despite
the fact that it is simply water in
which nuclear salts have been previously
dissolved—this small factor
makes quite a difference. I had
to figure everything into it—diameter
of the nozzle, sharpness of the
edge, the velocity of approach to the
point of discharge, atomic weight
and structure— Oh, there is so
much of this that if you're not a
nuclear engineer yourself it's certain
to weary you.
Perhaps you had better take my
word for it that without this equation—correctly
stated, mind you—mankind
would be well advised not
to make a first trip to the moon.
And all this talk of coefficients and
equations sits strangely, you might
say, upon the tongue of a man
named Kevin Francis Houlihan.
But I am, after all, a scientist. If I
had not been a specialist in my field
I would hardly have found myself
engaged in vital research at the
center.
Anyway, I heard these little
noises in the park. They sounded
like small working sounds, blending
in eerily mysterious fashion with a
chorus of small voices. I thought at
first it might be children at play,
but then at the time I was a bit
absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge
of the trees, not wanting to deprive
any small scalawags of their pleasure,
and peered out between the
branches. And what do you suppose
I saw? Not children, but a
group of little people, hard at work.
There was a leader, an older one
with a crank face. He was beating
the air with his arms and piping:
"Over here, now! All right, bring
those electrical connections over
here—and see you're not slow as
treacle about it!"
There were perhaps fifty of the
little people. I was more than startled
by it, too. I had not seen little
people in—oh, close to thirty years.
I had seen them first as a boy of
eight, and then, very briefly again,
on my tenth birthday. And I had
become convinced they could
never
be seen here in America. I had
never seen them so busy, either.
They were building something in
the middle of the glade. It was long
and shiny and upright and a little
over five feet in height.
"Come along now, people!" said
this crotchety one, looking straight
at me. "Stop starin' and get to
work! You'll not be needin' to
mind that man standin' there! You
know he can't see nor hear us!"
Oh, it was good to hear the rich
old tongue again. I smiled, and the
foreman of the leprechauns—if
that's what he was—saw me smile
and became stiff and alert for a moment,
as though suspecting that perhaps
I actually could see him. Then
he shrugged and turned away, clearly
deeming such a thing impossible.
I said, "Just a minute, friend,
and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens
I
can
see you."
He whirled to face me again,
staring open-mouthed. Then he
said, "What? What's that, now?"
"I can see you," I said.
"Ohhh!" he said and put his
palms to his cheekbones. "Saints be
with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run
for your lives!"
And they all began running, in
as many directions as there were
little souls. They began to scurry
behind the trees and bushes, and a
sloping embankment nearby.
"No, wait!" I said. "Don't go
away! I'll not be hurting you!"
They continued to scurry.
I knew what it was they feared.
"I don't intend catching one of
you!" I said. "Come back, you daft
little creatures!"
But the glade was silent, and they
had all disappeared. They thought I
wanted their crock of gold, of
course. I'd be entitled to it if I could
catch one and keep him. Or so the
legends affirmed, though I've wondered
often about the truth of them.
But I was after no gold. I only wanted
to hear the music of an Irish
tongue. I was lonely here in America,
even if I had latched on to a fine
job of work for almost shamefully
generous pay. You see, in a place as
full of science as the nuclear propulsion
center there is not much
time for the old things. I very much
wanted to talk to the little people.
I walked over to the center of
the glade where the curious shiny
object was standing. It was as
smooth as glass and shaped like a
huge cigar. There were a pair of
triangular fins down at the bottom,
and stubby wings amidships. Of
course it was a spaceship, or a
miniature replica of one. I looked
at it more closely. Everything seemed
almost miraculously complete
and workable.
I shook my head in wonder, then
stepped back from the spaceship
and looked about the glade. I knew
they were all hiding nearby, watching
me apprehensively. I lifted my
head to them.
"Listen to me now, little people!"
I called out. "My name's
Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.
I am descended from King
Niall himself—or so at least my
father used to say! Come on out
now, and pass the time o' day!"
Then I waited, but they didn't
answer. The little people always
had been shy. Yet without reaching
a decision in so many words I knew
suddenly that I
had
to talk to them.
I'd come to the glen to work out a
knotty problem, and I was up
against a blank wall. Simply because
I was so lonely that my mind had
become clogged.
I knew that if I could just once
hear the old tongue again, and talk
about the old things, I might be able
to think the problem through to a
satisfactory conclusion.
So I stepped back to the tiny
spaceship, and this time I struck it
a resounding blow with my fist.
"Hear me now, little people! If you
don't show yourselves and come out
and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship
from stem to stern!"
I heard only the leaves rustling
softly.
"Do you understand? I'll give
you until I count three to make an
appearance! One!"
The glade remained deathly silent.
"Two!"
I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,
as if a small, brittle twig had
snapped in the underbrush.
"
Three!
"
And with that the little people
suddenly appeared.
The leader—he seemed more
wizened and bent than before—approached
me slowly and warily as I
stood there. The others all followed
at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure
them and then waved my arm
in a friendly gesture of greeting.
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning," the foreman
said with some caution. "My name
is Keech."
"And mine's Houlihan, as I've
told you. Are you convinced now
that I have no intention of doing
you any injury?"
"Mr. Houlihan," said Keech,
drawing a kind of peppered dignity
up about himself, "in such matters
I am never fully convinced. After
living for many centuries I am all
too acutely aware of the perversity
of human nature."
"Yes," I said. "Well, as you will
quickly see, all I want to do is
talk." I nodded as I spoke, and sat
down cross-legged upon the grass.
"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.
Houlihan."
"And often that's
all
he wants,"
I said. "Sit down with me now, and
stop staring as if I were a snake
returned to the Island."
He shook his head and remained
standing. "Have your say, Mr.
Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate
it if you'll go away and
leave us to our work."
"Well, now, your work," I said,
and glanced at the spaceship.
"That's exactly what's got me curious."
The others had edged in a bit
now and were standing in a circle,
intently staring at me. I took out my
pipe. "Why," I asked, "would a
group of little people be building a
spaceship here in America—out in
this lonely place?"
Keech stared back without much
expression, and said, "I've been
wondering how you guessed it was
a spaceship. I was surprised enough
when you told me you could see us
but not overwhelmingly so. I've run
into believers before who could see
the little people. It happens every
so often, though not as frequently
as it did a century ago. But knowing
a spaceship at first glance! Well, I
must confess that
does
astonish
me."
"And why wouldn't I know a
spaceship when I see one?" I said.
"It just so happens I'm a doctor of
science."
"A doctor of science, now," said
Keech.
"Invited by the American government
to work on the first moon
rocket here at the nuclear propulsion
center. Since it's no secret I
can advise you of it."
"A scientist, is it," said Keech.
"Well, now, that's very interesting."
"I'll make no apologies for it," I
said.
"Oh, there's no need for apology,"
said Keech. "Though in truth
we prefer poets to scientists. But it
has just now crossed my mind, Mr.
Houlihan that you, being a scientist,
might be of help to us."
"How?" I asked.
"Well, I might try starting at the
beginning," he replied.
"You might," I said. "A man
usually does."
Keech took out his own pipe—a
clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.
I gave him a pinch of tobacco from
my pouch. "Well, now," he said,
"first of all you're no doubt surprised
to find us here in America."
"I am surprised from time to
time to find myself here," I said.
"But continue."
"We had to come here," said
Keech, "to learn how to make a
spaceship."
"A spaceship, now," I said, unconsciously
adopting some of the
old manner.
"Leprechauns are not really mechanically
inclined," said Keech.
"Their major passions are music
and laughter and mischief, as anyone
knows."
"Myself included," I agreed.
"Then why do you need a spaceship?"
"Well, if I may use an old expression,
we've had a feelin' lately
that we're not long for this world.
Or let me put it this way. We feel
the world isn't long for itself."
I scratched my cheek. "How
would a man unravel a statement
such as that?"
"It's very simple. With all the
super weapons you mortals have
developed, there's the distinct possibility
you might be blowin' us all
up in the process of destroying
yourselves."
"There
is
that possibility," I said.
"Well, then, as I say," said
Keech, "the little people have decided
to leave the planet in a spaceship.
Which we're buildin' here and
now. We've spied upon you and
learned how to do it. Well—almost
how to do it. We haven't learned
yet how to control the power—"
"Hold on, now," I said. "Leaving
the planet, you say. And where
would you be going?"
"There's another committee
working on that. 'Tis not our concern.
I was inclined to suggest the
constellation Orion, which sounds
as though it has a good Irish name,
but I was hooted down. Be that as it
may, my own job was to go into
your nuclear center, learn how to
make the ship, and proceed with its
construction. Naturally, we didn't
understand all of your high-flyin'
science, but some of our people are
pretty clever at gettin' up replicas
of things."
"You mean you've been spying
on us at the center all this time? Do
you know, we often had the feeling
we were being watched, but we
thought it was by the Russians.
There's one thing which puzzles
me, though. If you've been constantly
around us—and I'm still
able to see the little people—why
did I never see you before?"
"It may be we never crossed your
path. It may be you can only see us
when you're thinkin' of us, and of
course truly believin' in us. I don't
know—'tis a thing of the mind, and
not important at the moment.
What's important is for us to get
our first ship to workin' properly
and then we'll be on our way."
"You're determined to go."
"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.
Now—to business. Just during
these last few minutes a certain matter
has crossed my mind. That's
why I'm wastin' all this time with
you, sir. You say you are a scientist."
"A nuclear engineer."
"Well, then, it may be that you
can help us—now that you know
we're here."
"Help you?"
"The power control, Mr. Houlihan.
As I understand it, 'tis necessary
to know at any instant exactly
how much thrust is bein' delivered
through the little holes in back.
And on paper it looks simple
enough—the square of somethin' or
other. I've got the figures jotted in
a book when I need 'em. But when
you get to doin' it it doesn't come
out exactly as it does on paper."
"You're referring to the necessity
for a coefficient of discharge."
"Whatever it might be named,"
said Keech, shrugging. "'Tis the
one thing we lack. I suppose eventually
you people will be gettin'
around to it. But meanwhile we
need it right now, if we're to make
our ship move."
"And you want me to help you
with this?"
"That is exactly what crossed my
mind."
I nodded and looked grave and
kneaded my chin for a moment softly.
"Well, now, Keech," I said
finally, "why should I help you?"
"Ha!" said Keech, grinning, but
not with humor, "the avarice of
humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,
I'll give you reason enough.
The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!"
"The one at the end of the rainbow?"
"It's not at the end of the rainbow.
That's a grandmother's tale.
Nor is it actually in an earthen
crock. But there's gold, all right,
enough to make you rich for the
rest of your life. And I'll make you
a proposition."
"Go ahead."
"We'll not be needin' gold where
we're goin'. It's yours if you show
us how to make our ship work."
"Well, now, that's quite an
offer," I said. Keech had the goodness
to be quiet while I sat and
thought for a while. My pipe had
gone out and I lit it again. I finally
said, "Let's have a look at your
ship's drive and see what we can
see."
"You accept the proposition
then?"
"Let's have a look," I said, and
that was all.
Well, we had a look, and then
several looks, and before the morning
was out we had half the spaceship
apart, and were deep in argument
about the whole project.
It was a most fascinating session.
I had often wished for a true working
model at the center, but no allowance
had been inserted in the
budget for it. Keech brought me
paper and pencil and I talked with
the aid of diagrams, as engineers
are wont to do. Although the pencils
were small and I had to hold
them between thumb and forefinger,
as you would a needle, I was
able to make many sensible observations
and even a few innovations.
I came back again the next day—and
every day for the following
two weeks. It rained several times,
but Keech and his people made a
canopy of boughs and leaves and I
was comfortable enough. Every once
in a while someone from the town
or the center itself would pass by,
and stop to watch me. But of course
they wouldn't see the leprechauns
or anything the leprechauns had
made, not being believers.
I would halt work, pass the time
of day, and then, in subtle fashion,
send the intruder on his way. Keech
and the little people just stood by
and grinned all the while.
At the end of sixteen days I had
the entire problem all but whipped.
It is not difficult to understand why.
The working model and the fact
that the small people with their
quick eyes and clever fingers could
spot all sorts of minute shortcomings
was a great help. And I was
hearing the old tongue and talking
of the old things every day, and
truly that went far to take the clutter
out of my mind. I was no longer
so lonely that I couldn't think properly.
On the sixteenth day I covered a
piece of paper with tiny mathematical
symbols and handed it to Keech.
"Here is your equation," I said. "It
will enable you to know your thrust
at any given moment, under any
circumstances, in or out of gravity,
and under all conditions of friction
and combustion."
"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan," said
Keech. All his people had gathered
in a loose circle, as though attending
a rite. They were all looking at
me quietly.
"Mr. Houlihan," said Keech,
"you will not be forgotten by the
leprechauns. If we ever meet again,
upon another world perchance,
you'll find our friendship always
eager and ready."
"Thank you," I said.
"And now, Mr. Houlihan," said
Keech, "I'll see that a quantity of
gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,
and so keep my part of the
bargain."
"I'll not be needing the gold," I
said.
Keech's eyebrows popped upward.
"What's this now?"
"I'll not be needing it," I repeated.
"I don't feel it would be
right to take it for a service of this
sort."
"Well," said Keech in surprise,
and in some awe, too, "well, now,
musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first
time I ever heard such a speech
from a mortal." He turned to his
people. "We'll have three cheers
now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend
of the little people as
long as he shall live!"
And they cheered. And little tears
crept into the corners of some of
their turned-up eyes.
We shook hands, all of us, and I
left.
I walked through the park, and
back to the nuclear propulsion center.
It was another cool, green morning
with the leaves making only
soft noises as the breezes came
along. It smelled exactly like a
wood I had known in Roscommon.
And I lit my pipe and smoked it
slowly and chuckled to myself at
how I had gotten the best of the
little people. Surely it was not every
mortal who could accomplish that. I
had given them the wrong equation,
of course. They would never get
their spaceship to work now, and
later, if they tried to spy out the
right information I would take special
measures to prevent it, for I had
the advantage of being able to see
them.
As for our own rocket ship, it
should be well on its way by next
St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed
determined the true coefficient of
discharge, which I never could have
done so quickly without those sessions
in the glade with Keech and
his working model.
It would go down in scientific
literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's
Equation, and that was honor
and glory enough for me. I could
do without Keech's pot of gold,
though it would have been pleasant
to be truly rich for a change.
There was no sense in cheating
him out of the gold to boot, for
leprechauns are most clever in matters
of this sort and he would have
had it back soon enough—or else
made it a burden in some way.
Indeed, I had done a piece of
work greatly to my advantage, and
also to the advantage of humankind,
and when a man can do the first and
include the second as a fortunate byproduct
it is a most happy accident.
For if I had shown the little people
how to make a spaceship they
would have left our world. And
this world, as long as it lasts—what
would it be in that event? I ask you
now, wouldn't we be even
more
likely to blow ourselves to Kingdom
Come without the little people here
for us to believe in every now and
then?
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe
September 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 99903 | [
"What is the significance of Jimmy Savile to the article?",
"Which is the least likely thing computers could pick up on from a photo?",
"Which is not true about our judgements of people from photos, according to the article?",
"Which is the best characterization of the overgeneralization hypotheses?",
"Which of these is most true about physiognomy?",
"What is the biggest effect when criminals are noted as having similar facial features to other wrongdoers?",
"Which would the author think is most true?",
"Which of these is the most valid critique of the Shanghai study?",
"What does the author think of physiognomy?"
] | [
[
"To introduce the idea of the importance of questioning friends of people under investigation",
"To introduce discussion of documentaries' influence on public perception of criminals",
"To introduce discussion of murderers and other criminals",
"To introduce the idea that people think they can tell certain things from looking at someone"
],
[
"The impact of socioeconomic status on a person's character",
"An underlying capability of committing crime",
"The effect of wealth on someone's life",
"How social a person is likely to be"
],
[
"Our judgements are easily manipulated by small, hardly noticeable changes in photos",
"We are able to make objective decisions about people, keeping our opinions of their facial structure separate from the facts",
"We judge people in a way that compares them to people we've seen before that we know more about",
"We are all influenced by underlying bias when we see photos of other people"
],
[
"People are more likely to find others to be friendly based on their photos if they are surrounded by friendly people themselves",
"Computers are more likely to draw correct conclusions about people if they have larger pools of photos to draw from",
"We are likely to assume more photos are doctored than the number that actually are",
"We are likely to attribute things to people based on people close to us who may look similar"
],
[
"If this were not an area of study, people would not be drawing false conclusions about people on trial",
"It has helped to put a number of important criminals behind bars",
"It is a brand new area of study that focuses on the application of machine learning to see how computers can help",
"People have been interested in this area for centuries but only recently applied technology to it"
],
[
"These sets of criminals are often shown to have similar socioeconomic backgrounds",
"This occurs when people are making judgements but not computers",
"This perpetuates the belief in the area of study that should not be held up",
"These coincidences are held under scrutiny and often disproved"
],
[
"We post pictures of ourselves online that we think are attractive to gain approval from specific people whose eyes we want to catch",
"Regular people can use their social media accounts to help locate bad people before crimes are committed, because people are better at this than computers",
"People know their photos are being judged by others when they post them so they critically judge them themselves first",
"The application of machine learning in the study of social media photos could make it easier to find criminals before they commit cimes"
],
[
"This type of task is good at identifying petty criminals but not more dangerous ones like murderers",
"If you only study men in these examples we cannot know how to locate females who may be a danger to those around them",
"They did not study enough types of facial expressions ",
"Very different conclusions can be drawn from different images of the same person"
],
[
"It is flimsy and relies on too many assumptions",
"It is useful once someone is accused of a crime but not beforehand",
"It deserves more attention but from people outside of tech",
"It is a promising but little-understood field of study "
]
] | [
4,
2,
2,
4,
4,
3,
3,
4,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0
] | Face value
When the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment.
"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile," read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.
We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?
A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. "What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images ("controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression") they claim to have established the validity of "automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry."
In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.
It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that "it is possible to infer character from features" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from
physis
(nature),
nomos
(law) and (or)
gnomon
(judge or interpreter).
All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to "concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation."
Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.
In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for "fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition."
Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: "Whether they are or are not sensible of it," he wrote, "all men are daily influenced by physiognomy."
Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. "Attractive people are regarded as better at everything," says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. "And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't."
Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. "They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal," says Hancock. "But then they did!"
We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. "People," he wrote, "use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person)."
In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.
Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.
When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent.
This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a "deceitful chin" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.
After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:
Unusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.
In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.
The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.
Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.
The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as "What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?" prompted a wave of press coverage.
The vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. "The main problem is the sampling of the images," he says. "There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status."
In other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.
Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. "Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do," he says. "One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box."
This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. "You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy," says Hancock. "I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'."
The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. "Are we back to Lombroso's theory," he asks, "that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions."
While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99901 | [
"When does Stephen Cave think the general public will react to the role of AI?",
"Which of these does Stephen think is a strong benefit of AIs in jobs?",
"Which does Stephen think is a useful impact of AIs in a broad context?",
"How would Stephen compare humans and machines?",
"Which is the most likely social consequence of AIs?",
"Which best describes Stephen's vision for the future of innovation?",
"What does Stephen think is the most important impact of trying to be more efficient in using resources?"
] | [
[
"Once they realize they can lose money if they are not in the AI industry",
"Once they realize that AI can be dangerous",
"Once they think jobs are being lost to AIs",
"Once the AI companies have a larger share of the general market"
],
[
"They are an easy way to keep an eye on employees to make sure they are doing what needs to be done",
"To automate a lot of reports and make communication easier",
"To let people spend their time in jobs doing things they want to do",
"They can support employees with disabilities who have to do a lot of tech work"
],
[
"They can have a strong moral impact on the communities they interact with",
"They will allow us to put the social frameworks we live in under a microscope",
"They will boost the economy all over the world",
"There can be regulation that can help people decide how to shape the future"
],
[
"He thinks they are similar enough that a conflict will arise",
"They are complementary in their abilities and can benefit from one another",
"They operate with similar systems of intelligence but to entirely different ends",
"Humans are at risk of losing access to knowledge if they let machines take over most tasks"
],
[
"The AI developers will be able to shape societal structures as they see fit",
"There will be an overwhelming amount of regulation that will add control to people's lives",
"Over-reliance on technology might cause some loss of valuable intuition from educated people",
"There will be no jobs left for humans to complete if AIs continue developing"
],
[
"He thinks innovation should be led by the AI developers but checked by people in other industrues",
"The regulation of technological development will provide the necessary structure for successful innovation",
"He says that international connections are the only way true innovation will happen over time",
"He wants people to be responsible and held accountable by different kinds of people"
],
[
"It is cheaper for any technology to operate if it has to rely on fewer resources",
"The resources availalbe on the Earth are finite and are running low enough to possibly impede technological progress",
"The earth has been hurt by previous technological developments and it could be partly counteracted",
"Having fewer cars on the road would mean a safer environment for most drivers"
]
] | [
3,
3,
4,
2,
3,
2,
3
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | AI: what's the worst that could happen?
The Centre for the Future of Intelligence is seeking to investigate the implications of artificial intelligence for humanity, and make sure humans take advantage of the opportunities while dodging the risks. It launched at the University of Cambridge last October, and is a collaboration between four universities and colleges – Cambridge, Oxford, Imperial and Berkeley – backed with a 10-year, £10m grant from the Leverhulme Trust.
Because no single discipline is ideally suited to this task, the centre emphasises the importance of interdisciplinary knowledge-sharing and collaboration. It is bringing together a diverse community of some of the world's best researchers, philosophers, psychologists, lawyers and computer scientists.
Executive director of the centre is Stephen Cave, a writer, philosopher and former diplomat. Harry Armstrong, head of futures at Nesta, which publishes The Long + Short, spoke with Cave about the impact of AI.
Their conversation has been edited.
Harry Armstrong: Do you see the interdisciplinary nature of the centre as one of its key values and one of the key impacts you hope it will have on the field?
Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together.
That means bringing together the technologists and the experts at developing these algorithms together with social scientists, philosophers, legal scholars and so forth.
I think there are many areas of science where more interdisciplinary engagement would be valuable. Biotech’s another example. In that sense AI isn’t unique, but I think because thinking about AI is still in very early stages, we have an opportunity to shape the way in which we think about it, and build that community.
We want to create a space where many different disciplines can come together and develop a shared language, learn from each other’s approaches, and hopefully very quickly move to be able to actually develop new ideas, new conclusions, together. But the first step is learning how to talk to each other.
At a recent talk, Naomi Klein said that addressing the challenge of climate change could not have come at a worse time. The current dominant political and economic ideologies, along with growing isolationist sentiment, runs contrary to the bipartisan, collaborative approaches needed to solve global issues like climate change. Do you see the same issues hampering a global effort to respond to the challenges AI raises?
Climate change suffers from the problem that the costs are not incurred in any direct way by the industrialists who own the technology and are profiting from it. With AI, that has been the case so far; although not on the same scale. There has been disruption but so far, compared to industrialisation, the impact has been fairly small. That will probably change.
AI companies, and in particular the big tech companies, are very concerned that this won't go like climate change, but rather it will go like GMOs: that people will have a gut reaction to this technology as soon as the first great swathe of job losses take hold. People speculate that 50m jobs could be lost in the US if trucking is automated, which is conceivable within 10 years. You could imagine a populist US government therefore simply banning driverless cars.
So I think there is anxiety in the tech industry that there could be a serious reaction against this technology at any point. And so my impression is that there is a feeling within these companies that these ethical and social implications need to be taken very seriously, now. And that a broad buy-in by society into some kind of vision of the future in which this technology plays a role is required, if a dangerous – or to them dangerous – counteraction is to be avoided.
My personal experience working with these tech companies is that they are concerned for their businesses and genuinely want to do the right thing. Of course there are intellectual challenges and there is money to be made, but equally they are people who don't think when they get up in the morning that they're going to put people out of jobs or bring about the downfall of humanity. As the industry matures it's developing a sense of responsibility.
So I think we've got a real opportunity, despite the general climate, and in some ways because of it. There's a great opportunity to bring industry on board to make sure the technology is developed in the right way.
One of the dominant narratives around not only AI but technology and automation more generally is that we, as humans, are at the mercy of technological progress. If you try and push against this idea you can be labelled as being anti-progress and stuck in the past. But we do have a lot more control than we give ourselves credit for. For example, routineness and susceptibility to automation are not inevitable features of occupations, job design is hugely important. How do we design jobs? How do we create jobs that allow people to do the kind of work they want to do? There can be a bit of a conflict between being impacted by what's happening and having some sort of control over what we want to happen.
Certainly, we encounter technological determinism a lot. And it's understandable. For us as individuals, of course it does feel like it always is happening and we just have to cope. No one individual can do much about it, other than adapt.
But that's different when we consider ourselves at a level of a society, as a polis [city state], or as an international community. I think we can shape the way in which technology develops. We have various tools. In any given country, we have regulations. There's a possibility of international regulation.
Technology is emerging from a certain legal, political, normative, cultural, and social framework. It's coming from a certain place. And it is shaped by all of those things.
And I think the more we understand a technology's relationship with those things, and the more we then consciously try to shape those things, the more we are going to influence the technology. So, for example, developing a culture of responsible innovation. For example, a kind of Hippocratic oath for AI developers. These things are within the realms of what is feasible, and I think will help to shape the future.
One of the problems with intervention, generally, is that we cannot control the course of events. We can attempt to, but we don't know how things are going to evolve. The reality is, societies are much too complex for us to be able to shape them in any very specific way, as plenty of ideologies and political movements have found to their cost. There are often unforeseen consequences that can derail a project.
I think, nonetheless, there are things we can do. We can try to imagine how things might go very badly wrong, and then work hard to develop systems that will stop that from happening. We can also try collectively to imagine how things could go very right. The kind of society that we actually want to live in that uses this technology. And I'm sure that will be skewed in all sorts of ways, and we might imagine things that seem wonderful and actually have terrible by-products.
This conversation cannot be in the hands of any one group. It oughtn't be in the hands of Silicon Valley billionaires alone. They've got their role to play, but this is a conversation we need to be having as widely as possible.
The centre is developing some really interesting projects but perhaps one of the most interesting is the discussion of what intelligence might be. Could you go into a bit more detail about the kinds of questions you are trying to explore in this area?
You mean kinds of intelligence?
Yeah.
I think this is very important because historically, we've had an overwhelming tendency to anthropomorphise. We define what intelligence is, historically, as being human-like. And then within that, being like certain humans.
And it's taken a very long time for the academic community to accept that there could be such a thing as non-human intelligence at all. We know that crows, for example, who have had a completely different evolutionary history, or octopuses, who have an even more different evolutionary history, might have a kind of intelligence that's very different to ours. That in some ways rivals our own, and so forth.
But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans.
And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human.
When the first pocket calculator was made, it didn't do maths like a human. It was vastly better. It didn't make the occasional mistake. When we set about creating these artificial agents to solve these problems, because they have a completely different evolutionary history to humans, they solve problems in very different ways.
And until now, people have been fairly shy about describing them as intelligent. Or rather, in the history of AIs, we think solving a particular problem would require intelligence. Then we solve it. And then that's no longer intelligence, because we've solved it. Chess is a good example.
But the reality is, we are creating a whole new world of different artificial agents. And we need to understand that world. We need to understand all the different ways of being clever, if you like. How you can be extremely sophisticated at some particular rational process, and yet extremely bad at another one in a way that bears no relation to the way humans are on these axes.
And this is important, partly because we need to expand our sense of what is intelligent, like we have done with the natural world. Because lots of things follow from saying something is intelligent. Historically, we have a long tradition in Western philosophy of saying those who are intelligent should rule. So if intelligence equates to power, then obviously we need to think about what we mean by intelligence. Who has it and who doesn't. Or how it equates to rights and responsibilities.
It certainly is a very ambitious project to create the atlas of intelligence.
There was a point I read in something you wrote on our ideas of intelligence that I thought was very interesting. We actually tend to think of intelligence at the societal level when we think about human ability, rather than at the individual level but in the end conflate the two. I think that's a very good point, when we think about our capabilities, we think about what we can achieve as a whole, not individually. But when we talk about AI, we tend to think about that individual piece of technology, or that individual system. So for example if we think about the internet of things and AI, we should discuss intelligence as something encompassed by the whole.
Yeah, absolutely. Yes, right now, perhaps it is a product of our anthropomorphising bias. But there is a tendency to see a narrative of AI versus humanity, as if it's one or the other. And yet, obviously, there are risks in this technology long before it acquires any kind of manipulative agency.
Robotic technology is dangerous. Or potentially dangerous. But at the same time, most of what we're using technology for is to enhance ourselves, to increase our capacities. And a lot of what AI is going to be doing is augmenting us – we're going to be working as teams, AI-human teams.
Where do you think this AI-human conflict, or concept of a conflict, comes from? Do you think that's just a reflection of historical conversations we've had about automation, or do you think it is a deeper fear?
I do think it comes both from some biases that might well be innate, such as anthropomorphism, or our human tendency to ascribe agency to other objects, particularly moving ones, is well-established and probably has sound evolutionary roots. If it moves, it's probably wise to start asking yourself questions like, "What is it? What might it want? Where might it be going? Might it be hungry? Do I look like food to it?" I think it makes sense, it's natural for us to think in terms of agency. And when we do, it's natural for us to project our own ways of being and acting. And we, as primates, are profoundly co-operative.
But at the same time, we're competitive and murderous. We have a strong sense of in-group versus out-group, which is responsible for both a great deal of cooperation, within the in-group, but also terrible crimes. Murder, rape, pillage, genocide; and they're pointed at the out-group.
And so I think it's very natural for us to see AIs in terms of agents. We anthropomorphise them as these kind of android robots. And then we think about, well, you know, are they part of our in-group, or are they some other group? If they're some other group, it's us against them. Who's going to win? Well, let's see. So I think that's very natural, I think that's very human.
There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example.
You can think, well, we in the West have long been justifying power relations of a certain kind on the basis that we're 'cleverer'. That's why men get to vote and women don't, or whatever. In a culture where power is not based on intelligence but, say, on a caste system, which is purely hereditary, we’d build an AI, and it would just tune in, drop out, attain enlightenment, just sit in the corner. Or we beg it to come back and help us find enlightenment. It might be that we find a completely different narrative to the one that's dominant in the West.
One of the projects the centre is running is looking into what kind of AI breakthroughs may come, when and what the social consequences could be. What do you think the future holds? What are your fears – what do you think could go right and wrong in the short, medium and long term?
That's a big question. Certainly I don't lie awake at night worried that robots are going to knock the door down and come in with a machine gun. If the robots take over the world, it won't be by knocking the door down. At the moment, I think it's certainly as big a risk that we have a GMO moment, and there's a powerful reaction against the technology which prevents us from reaping the benefits, which are enormous. I think that's as big a risk as the risks from the technologies themselves.
I think one worry that we haven't talked about is that we've become extremely dependent upon this technology. And that we essentially become deskilled. There's an extent to which the history of civilisation is the history of the domestication of the human species sort of by ourselves, and also by our technology, to some extent. And AI certainly allows for that to reach a whole new level.
Just think about GPs with diagnostic tools. Even now, my GP consults the computer fairly regularly. But as diagnostic tools get better, what are they going to be doing other than just typing something into the computer and reading out what comes back? At which point, you might as well do away with the GP. But then, who does know about medicine?
And so we do need to worry about deskilling and about becoming dependent. And it is entirely possible that you can imagine a society in which we're all sort of prosperous, in a sense. Our basic bodily needs are provided for, perhaps, in a way, to an extent that we've never before even dreamed of. Unprecedented in human history.
And yet, we're stripped of any kind of meaningful work. We have no purpose. We're escaping to virtual reality. And then you could imagine all sorts of worrying countercultures or Luddite movements or what have you. I guess that's the kind of scenario that – I haven't sketched it terribly well – but that's the kind of thing that worries me more than missile-toting giant robots.
As to utopian, yes, that's interesting. I certainly mentioned a couple of things. One thing that I hope is that this new technological revolution enables us to undo some of the damage of the last one. That's a very utopian thought and not terribly realistic, but we use fossil fuels so incredibly efficiently. The idea that driverless cars that are shared, basically a kind of shared service located off a Brownfield site does away with 95 per cent of all cars, freeing up a huge amount of space in the city to be greener, many fewer cars need to be produced, they would be on the road much less, there'd be fewer traffic jams.
It's just one example, but the idea that we can live much more resource-efficiently, because we are living more intelligently through using these tools. And therefore can undo some of the damage of the last Industrial Revolution. That's my main utopian hope, I guess.
Vintage toy robot image by josefkubes/Shutterstock
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99902 | [
"What is the relationship like between Ed and Sheryl?",
"What is Sara's relationship with her mom?",
"What is the implication about getting TV networks through Facebook?",
"Why is Sara upset when her dad asks her to read the article about solar panels?",
"What is the immediate significance of Ed defending the ads on his Facebook?",
"How does Ed feel about the Super Bowl?",
"Which of these is true about the ad break?",
"How does Sara feel about the Chevrolet ad?",
"Which is the most likely method that the ads were personalized?",
"What is the primary significance of the final scene?"
] | [
[
"Their relationship is tense as Ed will not get help when he needs it, but it is mostly cordial",
"They are fairly indifferent towards each other but interact more when there are other people around",
"They have a good relationship but do not like to watch the same TV, as Sheryl hates football",
"They are very tense and the only thing that brings them together is their daughter"
],
[
"Sara's mom doesn't trust Sara very much given the history Sara has with her dad",
"Sara's mom is endlessly proud of Sara even if this is tense in the rest of the family",
"Sara is worried she has disappointed her mom who is exhausted by being in the middle of a family fight",
"Sara does everything driven by a desire to make her mom proud, and she is praised in return"
],
[
"The channels would be customized by age group so Sara would not have anything she'd like to watch",
"There would only be a few channels because it was a basic package",
"There would not be much available to watch besides sports",
"The available media is conservative-leaning which meant Sara would not want to watch it"
],
[
"She is embarassed to admit she hasn't read up on the solar panels",
"There is an implication that she's not informed about the job she does every day",
"She was trying to avoid having phones out at the dinner table",
"She doesn't want it to come up that she blocked him on facebook"
],
[
"It shows how interested in guns he is",
"It shows his dedication to capitalism",
"It shows he has no idea how tailored the feed is ",
"It shows what kinds of things he looks up to purchase"
],
[
"He doesn't care for football but enjoys all of the celebration around it",
"He loves the ads even more than the game",
"He likes the football and the time he spends with his daughter",
"It is his favorite sporting event and he would never miss a football game"
],
[
"Sara's patience allows for some rebuilding of trust",
"It's ironic that Ed things ads about things that separate people will bring him and his daughter together",
"The family can agree that they all enjoy watching ads together even if other things are rough",
"It is the one chance daughter and father have to patch things up"
],
[
"She thinks it's a final chance to bond with her father",
"She is sorry she did not watch the whole ad before she reacted to it",
"She is upset at the glorification of the military",
"She is frustrated that it tokenized a Mexican family"
],
[
"The TV version is different from the streaming version people see on Twitter",
"Facebook is creating echo chambers of specific ways of thought for each user",
"Ed has a specific TV plan that allows him to see conservative-bent programming",
"The television network shows different videos in different regions"
],
[
"It shows that Sheryl is going to be okay in the end",
"It shows a subversion of expectations to add irony to the story",
"It shows that the media control runs deeper than the reader might have expected",
"It shows that Ed and Sara will really be able to settle their differences"
]
] | [
1,
3,
4,
2,
3,
3,
4,
2,
2,
3
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
1
] | Divided we stand
Sara lets the Lyft park itself in the drive, lets out a sigh, and tweets
wish me luck
plus some emojis before slipping her phone into a hoody pocket. Curtains twitch, and before she can get her bag out of the back Mom is there, right there next to her, their hands touching on the handle as they compete for control.
"It's OK Mom, I got it."
"You should have let us come pick you up."
"It's fine, there was no need. I didn't want to put any-"
"But you shouldn't be wasting money, not with how much rent you pay and-"
Jesus. Not this already. "Mom. I can afford a cab ride. I'm not
that
much of a failure."
Mom sighs, shoulders falling, looks at Sara directly. "I'm sorry honey." She looks old, Sara thinks, watching a resigned tiredness flicker across her face in a way she'd not noticed before. Like she's exhausted by conflict, surrendered to it. "Now, don't I get a hug?"
Sara smiles. They hold each other for a few long seconds, rubbing and squeezing each other as the Lyft silently backs itself out of the driveway. When they part it's Mom's hand that's on the bag's handle.
Inside she unwraps herself from scarves and layers, the heat in the house almost a shock after the cold air. Michigan in February. Mom is already halfway up the stairs, bag in tow, headed for her room.
"Mom, just leave that and I'll…"
"Your father's in the front room," she says, just before she disappears from view. "Go say hi."
For a few seconds Sara is alone in the hallway, the smell of cooking meat coming from one doorway, the sound of rolling news from another. She shakes her head, kicks off shoes, tucks hair behind her ears. Braces herself.
He's sat in the living room, reclining in the Lazy Boy. He doesn't hear her enter - her socked feet silent on the pile carpet floor, his attention lost in the screen that fills most of the wall. Fox News. She braces herself again.
"Hey Dad."
His head jerks to look at her. "Hey! When did you get here?" He starts to push himself up.
"Don't get up Dad, it's fine. Really." She takes a seat on the couch. "I just got here, like two minutes ago."
"Good flight?"
"Yeah. Fine. Y'know. Same as always."
He smiles back at her, nods knowingly.
Their first words in nearly a year. Fine. So far. She relaxes. Of course it is. How bad could it be?
"I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?"
"Ah, no. I got a cab. I didn't want to bother you."
"Bother me? You think I'm too old and infirm to pick my own daughter up from the airport?"
"No Dad, of course not."
The war spills out of Fox News, casualty figures scrolling across monochrome drone footage, attack helicopters circling over Caracas apartment blocks, pundits with bronzed skin and immaculate blond hair smiling from four-way split screens.
"So you just got a cab?"
"Yeah."
"How much did that cost?"
"Not much. Really. I can afford-"
"Cabs are expensive. You shouldn't be wasting your money."
"It wasn't expensive. It wasn't a cab, it was a Lyft."
"One of those driverless things?"
"Yeah."
Ad break. An elderly couple ride a tandem bicycle through a park, laughing and smiling in Instagram-perfect sunshine, as a calm, relaxing voice lists the potentially lethal side effects of a diabetes drug.
Dad shakes his head. "I don't know how you can use those things. I don't trust them."
"Dad, they're perfectly safe."
"That's not what I mean. They're stealing people's jobs."
There's a brief second, a fleeting moment, where Sara can bite her lip, let it go. She misses it. "But I thought it was immigrants that are stealing people's jobs?"
"You might think it's funny little lady, but let me tell you - you remember Kyle and Max, Bill Cooper's boys? Live up off Lafayette, past the Checkers?"
"Nope."
"Well let me tell you," He shifts in the recliner, with some obvious pain and effort, to face her. "Both of 'em lost their jobs just this last year. Both of 'em were truckers. Both of 'em been driving trucks since high school. Now the damn trucks are driving themselves and they're both out of work. And they got families to support. Kids."
"Well I'm sure they'll be fine." She regrets the sarcasm as soon as she hears it in her own voice, but she still can't stop herself, like it's expected, like it's part of the routine. Part of their schtick. "They just got to get themselves out there, huh Dad? Pull themselves up by their bootstraps. That's the American way, right?"
"I'm glad you think this is funny, I really do. But what you New York types need to realise is-"
"Ed!" Mom had appeared in the doorway. "Please! Both of you. No fighting today, please."
"Sheryl-"
"No. I don't want to hear you two as much as disagreeing about anything today, unless it's about the game. And even then you'd better keep it civil. Otherwise you can both go hungry. Understand?"
Awkward pause.
"Fine."
"Sorry Mom."
Sara turns back to the TV, to watching the war, to trying to work out which one it is.
It had always been this way, ever since she was about thirteen. Up until then it just seemed like constant warmth, as though she didn't have any childhood concept of Dad apart from him getting home from work, then her sitting on his knee, eating cookies and watching football highlights until Mom came in and scolded them both for ruining their appetites before dinner.
And then everything changed. Suddenly there was rap music and nose rings, sneaking out of the house to see her friends and not wanting to go to church. Suddenly he was no longer this lovable bear-man that ruffled her hair and gave her candy and explained defensive plays to her, but this huge obelisk of injustice that just wanted to crush her high school life into dust. It was constant warfare; every opinion she had became a battle, every decision she made a conflict. Getting away to college gave her escape, but bred resentment too; he hated that she went to New York, even though NYU was a good school, and her decision to stay there after she finished made things even worse. And then politics got all crazy, weirder then ever, and it became impossible for them to talk without it erupting into fights almost instantly. It was bad enough when the smart, young guy she liked was president and Dad constantly spewed his hate for him at her, but somehow it got even worse when the old, racist, women hating war-starter he liked won. Twice.
So they didn't talk much now, barely online, never on the phone. Since her second year of school he'd never been to NYC to visit her. She came back when she could face it; sometimes for birthdays, sometimes for Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas. But somehow always, like now, for the Super Bowl. Like football was the one thing they still had, that one thing they could still sit in the same room together for. Shouting at players, screaming at the ref, laughing at the ads.
Dad is in the bathroom, and Sara has had enough of Fox and whichever war this is. She reaches over and grabs the remote from the arm of his chair, and tries to find something else to watch. The government had scrapped all the rules about how the internet worked, and for most people like her parents it had suddenly gotten a lot cheaper to get their TV through Facebook, so all she can find is
Fox, Breitbart News, Family Values TV, Info Wars, The Rebel, Glenn Beck, The Voice of America, America First, The Bible Today
and lots of hunting and sports channels she doesn't even recognise. It's signed in to her Dad's FB account, and the last thing she wants is to try and log in on hers before he gets back from the john. Yeah. There was no way that would end up with them keeping it civil.
In her pocket her phone vibrates, purrs against her skin, reminding her it's there, making sure she's not forgotten where her real friends are, that there's a world outside, beyond Dad and his TV. She takes it out and cradles it in her hands, the dark screen fleetingly reflecting back her face before it jumps awake at her very touch, opening up to bathe her in blue light, in comfort and warmth and the familiar. For the first time since she got home she feels herself relax.
Dinner is Mom's meatloaf, with gravy and mashed potatoes. Cornbread and broccoli. Every mouthful tastes like nostalgia, and Sara can feel herself being encompassed by a bubble, this barrier of warm air and long forgotten simplicity enveloping her body, protecting her from the confusion of the world outside.
"How's work, honey?" Mom asks.
"Yeah, going OK." Sara works for a non-profit in Brooklyn that helps big organisations to transition to renewable energy. The pay is lousy but it feels important. "We just got the last few schools in the city to agree to put solar panels on their roofs. Big deal for us. I've been working on them for the last two years."
Mom says nothing, just looks down at her plate.
Dad finishes chewing his mouthful, swallows, wipes his beard with a napkin. Sighs, barely controlled anger simmering behind his face. "Solar panels cause cancer."
Sara laughs, covering her mouth as she nearly chokes on chewed food. "What? No they don't Dad."
"They do. The material they use to coat them reacts to sunlight, and produces an airborne carcinogen. It's based on a particular kind of rare earth. It's a bit like teflon. The Chinese have known about this for decades but have kept it covered up, because they-"
"Dad, no. Just no. Trust me."
"-because they are the world's largest manufacturers of solar panels. But the research has been done. The scientific evidence is out there. Look it up."
"Look it up?" Sara shakes her head, not knowing where to even start. "Dad, who is telling you this stuff?"
"No one is telling me it, Sara. I read it. It's in the news. I mean, really, I'm surprised you've not seen it. It was all over Facebook."
"Maybe on yours, but it's not all over my Facebook." She doesn't have the heart to tell him she muted him six months ago.
"Well, I don't read the news and I don't know any science," says Mom, "But I do know this: after they opened that solar farm up near Mary, within just a few years her and two of her neighbours had cancer. I mean I don't know anything for sure honey, but given the risk are you sure it's safe to be putting these panels on top of schools?"
"There's no risk, Mom. None at all. Dad, I wish you'd stop believing everything you see on Facebook."
"Well, maybe you should read things yourself before passing judgement on them." He pushes himself up from his seat, steps away from the table. Sara sighs, thinking she's upset him that much that he's actually abandoning his dinner, but he stops to grab something off a nearby shelf. His iPad. He heads back and takes his seat again.
Oh, here we fucking go
she thinks to herself.
He stabs at the screen, looks for a while, stabs again. Flips it over and hands it to her. "Here. Read."
Reluctantly, she takes it. His Facebook feed. Somewhere in the middle of it is the article, a very to the point CHINESE SOLAR PANELS CAUSE CANCER headline. But she can't even focus on it, because the rest of the screen is filled with distractions, looping videos and animated gifs, all adverts, and all for guns. Or security systems. Panic rooms. Back up power generators. Emergency rations. More guns.
"Jesus Christ Dad, these ads!"
"No blasphemy at the dinner table, please honey" says Mom.
"What about them?"
"Just… just look at them. They're terrifying. They're like… like adverts for the end of the world! You know they show you this stuff just to make you scared, right? Just to keep you paranoid."
"They show me this stuff because they've got products to sell. That's how the economy works. That's how we create jobs. Godammit Sara, are you telling me you hate
advertising
now? Do you just hate everything about America?"
Sara looks over to Mom, who looks like she's on the brink of tears. Suddenly she finds she's also lost the will to fight. Gently she closes the iPad and puts it down on the table, next to her plate.
"No, of course not Dad. Maybe I'll read this later, after the game."
After dinner she helps Mom clean-up, the two of them loading the dishwasher in near silence. She's leaning against the counter, scrolling through Twitter on her phone, when Mom finally speaks.
"You should go easy on your father, you know. He's worried about a lot of things."
"What things? Solar panel cancer?"
"Don't joke Sara, I'm serious. There's a lot that bothers him. The state of the world. The future. All these damn wars."
"We're all worried about all that, Mom."
"He's worried about his health.
I'm
worried about his health. Probably more than he is."
Sara looks up from her phone, genuine concern. "Is he OK?"
"I don't know. He won't go to the doctor. Hasn't been in months. He's worried about his insurance."
"I had no idea-"
"Yeah, well you know your father. Doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to burden other people with his problems. Hates pity." She pauses, looks out the window into the yard. When she turns back to Sara her eyes are damp. "This is why I was so excited about you coming back. Why he was so excited! I thought it'd take his mind of all this. He was so excited to see you. You know he loves watching the game with you, Sara."
"I know. I'm sorry I-"
"And the ads! The Super Bowl ads! You know how much he loves watching the new ads with you. It's a stupid thing, sure, but he loves it. Talks about it all the time. It's like a tradition to him. That's why he got so upset over dinner when you got angry at his ads. It's something special he has with you, he doesn't want to lose it."
Sara slips her phone into her pocket, genuine guilt. Feels like a spoiled kid. "I didn't realise. I'm sorry."
Mom smiles, walks over and kisses her on the forehead. "It's OK honey. Don't feel bad. Just go. Just go sit in there with him and watch some TV. Please."
It's the second down on the Falcon's 60 yard line with 30 yards to cover, and the Lions need one touchdown to equalise. Sara and her Dad are sat in the front room, working their way through a family sized pack of Oreos, when the ad break starts.
Dawn. Red skies over the desert. A Chevrolet truck pulls up next to a large, trailer. Low shot next to the front tire, as a cowboy booted foot drops down from the door, disturbing dust.
Cut to: internal shot of the trailer, darkness split by morning light through the opening door. The figure enters, flicks on lights. The room is full of equipment, computers. The figure takes a seat, puts on a headset, thumbs on screens. Rests their hands on two large joysticks on the desk.
Cut to: airfield, the desert. The distinctive silhouette of a Predator drone taxis across the screen, rising heat shimmering the air around it.
Cut to: interior of the trailer. The faceless figure works controls, the joysticks, touch screens.
Voiceover: They say you need to get up pretty early to get past America's finest. But the truth is we never sleep.
Cut to: a uniformed guard on top of the border wall. He looks up and gives a salute to the drone as it soars above him, out and across the desert.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
"Fuck this," says Sara, getting up from her seat.
"Sara!" says Mom.
"No I'm sorry, I can't. I can't sit here and watch this… this bullshit. This propaganda." She storms out of the room.
"Sara!" Mom makes to get up.
"No, just leave her," says Dad, gently, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Just let her go."
Out in the kitchen Sara sits at the table and wants to scream. She's angry, mainly with herself. She should never have fucking come here. She should have known better. There was never any fucking way anything good was going to come from this. As much as Mom wants to romanticise things, to make them sound cute and adorable, the truth is shit with Dad has never been right since she was a teenager. Too much resentment, too much bad blood, too much control and rebellion. They hadn't agreed on anything - they hadn't managed to have a simple conversation that didn't descend into fighting - in 15 goddamn years, and no amount of eating cookies and watching fucking Super Bowl ads on the TV was going to fix that.
She sighs, wipes a tear from her cheek. On autopilot she takes her phone from her pocket, feels its reassuring warmth in her hand, and swipes open Twitter.
Everybody seems to be talking about the same thing.
omg im crying
holy shit that chevrolet ad /fire emoji
that was sooooo beautiful
who knew chevrolet were so woke
i can't believe they did that, so amazing
Hang on, are they taking about the same ad?
Hastily she opens her FB TV app, pulls up the game. The ad is just finishing. She hits the 10-second rewind icon a couple of times, then leans the phone on its side against a ketchup bottle.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
Cut to: on the ground, in the desert. The group of figures are revealed to be a Mexican family, maybe two. Men, women, children. They look tired, hungry. They stop to rest, sipping the little water they have left from tattered plastic bottles.
A little way away from the main group sits a small child, a girl. Maybe 8 years old. She is drawing shapes in the dust with a stick. She's drawn quite a bit it looks like, but from our angle we can't see what.
Cut to: drone footage. The pilot is watching the group. As he tracks away from the main party to where the girl is sat, the camera reveals what she has drawn.
A large, child's rendition of the American flag.
Underneath it, it childlike handwriting, some words. 'I have a dream'
Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. ALL PATROLS: STAND DOWN
Cut to: the drone, banking and turning, flying away.
Cut to: exterior shot of the trailer. The still anonymous pilot exits, walks back towards his jeep.
Voiceover: Keeping America safe means never sleeping, but keeping America great means never forgetting who we are, and how we got here.
The jeep starts up, pulls away from the camera in a cloud of dust.
Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black.
'We know what really makes America great'
Sara finds herself in the front room, sobbing.
"Honey?"
Dad pauses the TV, looks up at her. It looks like he's been crying too. "Sara?"
"Did you - did you watch it?"
"The Chevrolet ad?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, we did." Embarrassed, he wipes a tear from his cheek. "It was… it was very moving."
She falls on him, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "I'm sorry Dad. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be so mean-"
"It's OK, honey. It really is."
"No, no it's not. We always fight. And I know that's mainly my fault-"
'Well, now, c'mon-"
"No, it is. It's my fault. I got myself into thinking we can never agree on anything, that we can never see eye to eye. That we've got nothing in common anymore." She lifts her head to look up at him. "But I know that's wrong. That I shouldn't assume things about you. That there's still things that can bring us together."
He grins back at her. "Like Super Bowl ads?"
She laughs. "I guess. But you know what I mean, really."
"I know honey. And I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said earlier. I know you don't really hate this country." He gestures to the couch next to him. "Why don't you sit down, huh? We can watch the rest of the game together."
She straightens herself up, wipes her eyes. Suddenly feels a little self conscious. "Sure. Let me just go freshen up first."
"Of course honey."
Mom and Dad watch Sara leave the room, and then look at each other.
"Well."
"Well indeed."
"What did I tell you? You two just needed to spend some time together. Some quality time."
"I guess so. What did I ever do to deserve a woman as hot and as smart as you, huh Sheryl?"
Mom stands up and makes to leave the room, leaning down to kiss him as she passes. "I ask myself that question every day."
Alone, seen only by the TV, Dad smiles to himself. He picks up the remote, but instead of hitting play, he finds himself hitting rewind.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
Cut to: on the ground, in the desert. The group of figures are all men. Dirty, scruffy, furtive. Like they mean business.They carry guns, pistols, and assault riffles. Bad hombres. One of them pulls open a bag, looks inside.
Cut to: close up of the inside of the bag. Inside are packets of white powder.
Suddenly, one of the party looks up, shouts something in Spanish. They all go to grab their guns.
But it's too late.
From three different directions, three different Chevrolet jeeps appear, screeching to a halt, kicking up dust. From them jump Border Patrol agents and Minutemen militia, guns drawn and ready.
The gang of men don't even put up a fight. They know they're surrounded, they drop their weapons and pathetically raise their hands.
All except one. The guy with the bag full of drugs. He's got nothing to lose. He reaches for his rifle.
Cut to: Border Patrol agents, opening fire.
Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. THREAT NEUTRALISED.
Cut to: the drone, banking and turning, flying away.
Cut to: exterior shot of the trailer. The still anonymous pilot exits, walks back towards his jeep.
Voiceover: Keeping America safe means never sleeping, but keeping America great means never forgetting who we are, and what keeps us strong.
The jeep starts up, pulls away from the camera in a cloud of dust.
Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black.
'We know what really makes America great'
Dad wipes another team from his eye. "I think we're going to be OK," he says to himself. "I think we're going to be just fine."
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 60713 | [
"What is significant about the captain's initial reaction to Mr. Janssens attache case being stolen?",
"Which is not a reason the captain does not want to create a police force?",
"What is the significance of the story's title?",
"Which of these is true about the Red Mask?",
"Why does Captain Branson warn Ellason that he won't be able to publish his observations?",
"Which is true about the role of Interstellar in this story?",
"Which of these is not true about Harrel Critten?",
"Which of these was not an effect of giving the police force half-powered staters?",
"What is the relationship between Captain Branson and Harrel Critten?"
] | [
[
"It reveals his negligence as a leader",
"It proves that the captain does not think anything could be wrong",
"It shows that the captain wants to give people the impression that he thinks the passengers are all okay",
"It shows the passengers that the captain cannot be trusted"
],
[
"He doesn't want to violate the trust of the crew",
"He does not have people to spare",
"He doesn't think it's part of his job",
"He figures passengers will eventually be blamed"
],
[
"There is a reporter on board to act as a set of eyes to keep passengers from acting up",
"It hints at the importance of the balance of weight on the ship for successful mission",
"There is a man on board hired specifically to act as the weight to keep the others balanced",
"It refers to the fact that a lot of belongings are thrown overboard"
],
[
"He is entirely harmless and it just looks like he's trouble",
"He is a passenger looking for some entertainment",
"He throws the passengers' belongings overboard",
"He does not hesitate to use physical violence"
],
[
"He knows there are secrets too gruesome for public consumption",
"He is going to ask Ellason to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement",
"He does not think they will make it back to Earth alive",
"He will be observing an inside job meant to protect the crew "
],
[
"They hire Ellason so that memories of the journey can be documented for the families who are traveling",
"They hire the Red Mask so that they can make back some of the costs of running the mission",
"They hire the Red Mask as well as a reporter to make it look like they have nothing to hide",
"They are the company who hired Ellason in order to get to the bottom of why the missions are going awry"
],
[
"He was in cahoots with the captain all along",
"He is a member of the crew",
"He was hired by the same people as the reporter was",
"He is killed in order to protect the secret of the Red Mask"
],
[
"It caused some issues while the police force got trigger-happy, adding to the paranoia",
"It made the ship's environment safer now that the police were armed",
"The passenger police force felt they had some power",
"It was what allowed the Red Mask to finally acquire a weapon"
],
[
"They both just wanted to get the expedition done so they could settle on a new planet",
"They let their tension grew between them with their opposite goals",
"They were old friends working together for the good of the ship",
"They were colleagues in multiple capacities"
]
] | [
3,
4,
3,
1,
4,
3,
4,
2,
4
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | COUNTERWEIGHT
By JERRY SOHL
Every town has crime—but
especially a town that is
traveling from star to star!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sure I'm a Nilly, and I've died seven times, always in the blackness
of the outer reaches, and I'm not alone, although there aren't very
many of us, never were.
It made sense. Interstellar was new and they wanted him on the ship
because he was a trained observer. They wanted facts, not gibberish.
But to ask a man to give up two years of his life—well, that was
asking a lot. Two years in a sardine can. Still, it had an appeal Keith
Ellason knew he couldn't deny, a newsman's joy of the clean beat, a
planetary system far afield, a closeup view of the universe, history in
the making.
Interstellar Chief Rexroad knocked the dottle from his pipe in a tray,
saying, "Transworld Press is willing to let you have a leave of
abscence, if you're interested."
He knew Secretary Phipps from years of contacting, and now Phipps said,
"Personally, I don't want to see anybody else on the job. You've got a
fine record in this sort of thing."
Keith Ellason smiled, but just barely. "You should have called me for
the first trip."
Phipps nodded. "I wish we had had you on the
Weblor I
."
"Crewmen," Rexroad said, "make poor reporters."
The
Weblor I
had taken off on the first trip to Antheon five years
before with a thousand families, reached the planet with less than five
hundred surviving colonists. Upon the return to Earth a year later, the
crew's report of suffering and chaos during the year's outgoing voyage
was twisted, distorted and fragmentary. Ellason remembered it well. The
decision of Interstellar was that the colonists started a revolution
far out in space, that it was fanned by the ignorance of Captain
Sessions in dealing with such matters.
"Space affects men in a peculiar way," Phipps said. "We have conquered
the problem of small groups in space—witness the discovery of
Antheon, for example—but when there are large groups, control is more
difficult."
"Sessions," Rexroad said, "was a bully. The trouble started at about
the halfway point. It ended with passengers engaging in open warfare
with each other and the crew. Sessions was lucky to escape with his
life."
"As I recall," Ellason said, "there was something about stunners."
Phipps rubbed his chin. "No weapons were allowed on the ship, but you
must remember the colonists were selected for their intelligence and
resourcefulness. They utilized these attributes to set up weapon shops
to arm themselves."
"The second trip is history," Rexroad said. "And a puzzle."
Ellason nodded. "The ship disappeared."
"Yes. We gave control to the colonists."
"Assuming no accident in space," Phipps said, "it was a wrong decision.
They probably took over the ship."
"And now," Ellason said, "you're going to try again."
Rexroad said very gravely, "We've got the finest captain in
Interplanetary. Harvey Branson. No doubt you've heard of him. He's
spent his life in our own system, and he's handpicking his own crew. We
have also raised prerequisites for applicants. We don't think anything
is going to happen, but if it does, we want to get an impersonal,
unprejudiced view. That's where you come in. You do the observing, the
reporting. We'll evaluate it on your return."
"If I return," said Ellason.
"I suppose that's problematical," Phipps said, "but I think you will.
Captain Branson and his fifty crewmen want to return as badly as you
do." He grinned. "You can write that novel you're always talking about
on your return trip on the
Weblor II
."
Being a Nilly is important, probably as important as running the ship,
and I think it is this thought that keeps us satisfied, willing to be
what we are.
The
Weblor II
had been built in space, as had its predecessor, the
Weblor I
, at a tremendous cost. Basically, it was an instrument
which would open distant vistas to colonization, reducing the
shoulder-to-shoulder pressure of a crowded solar system. A gigantic,
hollow spike, the ship would never land anywhere, but would circle
Antheon as it circled Earth, shuttling its cargo and passengers to the
promised land, the new frontier. A space-borne metropolis, it would
be the home for three thousand persons outward bound, only the crew
on the return trip. It was equipped with every conceivable facility
and comfort—dining rooms, assembly hall, individual and family
compartments, recreation areas, swimming pool, library, theater.
Nothing had been overlooked.
The captain's briefing room was crowded, the air was heavy with the
breathing of so many men, and the ventilators could not quite clear the
air of tobacco smoke that drifted aimlessly here and there before it
was caught and whisked away.
In the tradition of newspaperman and observer, Keith Ellason tried
to be as inconspicuous as possible, pressing against a bulkhead, but
Captain Branson's eyes sought his several times as Branson listened
to final reports from his engineers, record keepers, fuel men,
computermen, and all the rest. He grunted his approval or disapproval,
made a suggestion here, a restriction there. There was no doubt that
Branson was in charge, yet there was a human quality about him that
Ellason liked. The captain's was a lean face, well tanned, and his eyes
were chunks of blue.
"Gentlemen," Branson said at last, as Ellason knew he would, "I want
to introduce Keith Ellason, whose presence Interstellar has impressed
upon us. On loan from Transworld, he will have an observer status." He
introduced him to the others. All of them seemed friendly; Ellason
thought it was a good staff.
Branson detained him after the others had gone. "One thing, Mr.
Ellason. To make it easier for you, I suggest you think of this journey
strictly from the observer viewpoint. There will be no story for
Transworld at the end."
Ellason was startled. While he had considered the possibility, he had
not dwelt on it. Now it loomed large in his mind. "I don't understand,
Captain Branson. It seems to me—"
"Let me put it differently. Let me say that you will not understand why
I say that until the journey ends." He smiled. "Perhaps I shouldn't
have mentioned it."
Ellason left the captain's quarters with an odd taste in his mouth. Now
why had Branson said that? Why hadn't Rexroad or Phipps said something,
if it was important?
He made himself comfortable in his seven-foot-by-seven-foot cubicle,
which is to say he dropped on his bed, found it more comfortable than
he thought it would be, put his arms behind his head, stared at the
ceiling. Metal walls, no windows, one floor vent, one ceiling vent,
and a solitary ceiling molding tube-light. This would be his home for
a year, just as there were homes like it for three thousand others,
except that the family rooms would be larger. His quarters were near
the front of the spike near the officers' quarters.
He felt rather than heard the dull rumble. It was a sound he knew would
be with him for two years—one year going and one year returning.
He looked at his watch, picked up his notebook and made an entry. The
ship right now would be slipping ever so slowly away from Earth. He got
up. He'd have to go forward to the observation dome to see that. Last
view of Earth for two years.
The penetration of space by large groups is the coming out from under
the traditions of thousands of years, and as these planet-orginated
rules fall away, the floundering group seeks a new control, for they
are humanity adrift, rudderless, for whom the stars are no longer
bearings but nonexistent things, and values are altered if they are not
shown the way.
The theft of Carver Janssen's attache case occurred on the thirty-first
day out. In Ellason's mind the incident, though insignificant from the
standpoint of the ship as a whole, could very well be the cause of
dissension later on. His notes covering it were therefore very thorough.
Janssen's case contained vegetable and flower seeds—thousands of
them, according to the Captain's Bulletin, the ship's daily newsletter
which went to all hands and passengers. In the Bulletin the captain
appealed to the thief to return the case to Mr. Janssen. He said it
was significant that all en route had passed stability tests, and that
it was to the ship's discredit that someone with criminal tendencies
should have been permitted aboard.
Ellason had to smile at that. What did Captain Branson think of those
colonists who killed each other on the
Weblor I
? They had passed
stability tests too. This, then, was what happened when you took three
thousand strangers and stuck them in a can for a year.
When Ellason saw Branson about it, the captain said, "Of course I
realize it takes only a little thing like this to set things off. I
know people get tired of seeing each other, playing the same tapes,
looking at the stars from the observation dome, walking down the same
corridors, reading the same books, eating the same meals, though God
knows we try to vary it as much as we can. Space creates rough edges.
But the point is, we know all this, and knowing it, we shouldn't let it
happen. We've got to find that thief."
"What would he want seeds for? Have you thought of that?"
"Of course. They'd have real value on Antheon."
Ellason sought out Carver Janssen. He was a middle-aged man with a
tired face and sad eyes. He said, "Now what am I going to Antheon
for? I could only take along so much baggage and I threw out some
comfort items to make room for the seeds. I'm a horticulturist, and
Interstellar asked me to go along. But what use am I now? Where am
I going to get seeds like those? Do you know how long it took me to
collect them? They're not ordinary seeds, Mr. Ellason."
There was an appeal from Janssen in the next day's newsletter
describing the seeds, telling of their value, and requesting their
return in the interests of the Antheon colony and of humanity.
On the thirty-fourth day a witness turned up who said he had seen a
man emerging from Janssen's compartment with the black case. "I didn't
think anything of it at the time," Jamieson Dievers said.
Branson asked him to describe the man.
"Oh, he was about six feet tall, stocky build, and he wore a red rubber
mask that covered his head completely."
"Didn't you think that was important?" Branson asked in an outraged
voice. "A man wearing a red mask?"
Dievers shrugged. "This is a spaceship. How would I know whether a red
mask—or a blue or green one—does or doesn't belong on a spaceship?"
Although Dievers' account appeared in the newsletter, it was largely
discounted.
"If it is true," Branson told Ellason, "the theft must be the work of
a psychotic. But I don't believe Jamieson Dievers. It may well be he's
the psychotic." He snorted. "Red rubber mask! I think I'll have Dievers
put through psychiatry."
Attendant to taking notes on this incident, Ellason noted a strange
thing. Janssen lived in that part of the ship known as the First
Quadrant, and those who lived in that quadrant—more than seven hundred
men, women and children—felt that the thief must surely live in
Quadrant Two or Four. Elias Cromley, who had the compartment next to
Janssen's, sounded the consensus when he said, "Surely a man wouldn't
steal from his own quadrant, now would he, Mr. Ellason?"
And so, Ellason observed in his notebook, are wars created.
Seen in space, stars are unmoving, silent, sterile bright eyes ever
watchful and accusing. To men unused to it, such a sight numbs,
compresses, stultifies. He introduces a countermeasure, proof he
exists, which is any overt act, sometimes violent.
On the forty-fifth day June Failright, the young wife of one of the
passenger meteorologists, ran screaming down one of the long corridors
of the Third Quadrant. She told the captain she had been attacked in
her compartment while her husband was in the ship's library. She was
taken to one of the ship's doctors, who confirmed it.
She said the culprit was a husky man wearing a red rubber mask, and
though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story
in the newsletter, it lost no time in penetrating every compartment of
the ship.
Ellason was present when a delegation from the Third Quadrant called on
Captain Branson, demanding action.
Branson remained seated behind his desk, unperturbed, saying, "I have
no crewmen to spare for police duty."
The delegation commenced speaking vehemently, to be quieted by
Branson's raised hand.
"I sympathize," Branson said, "but it is up to each quadrant to deal
with its problems, whatever they may be. My job is to get us to
Antheon."
The group left in a surly mood.
"You wonder at my reluctance, Mr. Ellason," Captain Branson said. "But
suppose I assign the crew to patrol duties, the culprit isn't caught,
and further incidents occur. What then? It soon becomes the crew's
fault. And soon the colonists will begin thinking these things might be
the crew's doing in the first place."
"Yes," Ellason said, "but what if the intruder is a crewman?"
"I know my men," Branson said flatly.
"You could have a shake-down for the mask and the seed case."
"Do you think it is a member of the crew?" Branson's eyes were bright.
"No, I trust my men. I won't violate that trust."
Ellason left, feeling uneasy. If he were Branson, he'd initiate an
investigation, if nothing else than to prove the crew guiltless. Why
couldn't Branson see the wisdom of setting an example for the colonists?
As a Nilly, I knew that space breeds hate. There is a seed of
malevolence in every man. It sometimes blossoms out among the stars. On
the
Weblor II
it was ready for ripening.
Raymond Palugger was killed in the ship's hospital on the sixty-first
day. Palugger, a Fourth Quadrant passenger, had complained of feeling
ill, had been hospitalized with a diagnosis of ileus. He had put his
money belt in the drawer of the small stand beside his bed. A man
in a red mask was seen hurrying from the hospital area, and a staff
investigation revealed that Palugger had died trying to prevent the
theft of the belt.
Captain Branson did not wait for the newsletter. Through the ship's
speaker system, he reported that Palugger had a fortune in credits
in the belt and had died of a severe beating. He said that since the
incident occurred in the staff section of the ship, his crew would be
forced to submit to a thorough inspection in an effort to find the
mask, the seed case, the money and the man.
"I will not countenance such an act by a crewman," Branson said. "If
and when he is found, he will be severely dealt with. But he might not
be a member of the crew. I am ordering an assembly of all passengers at
nine tomorrow morning in the auditorium. I will speak to you all then."
Faces were angry, tongues were sharp at the meeting, eyes suspicious
and tempers short. Above it all was the overpowering presence of
Captain Branson speaking to them.
"It is not my desire to interfere in passenger affairs," he said.
"Insofar as the ship is concerned, it is my duty to make certain no
crewman is guilty. This I am doing. But my crew is not and cannot be
a police force for you. It is up to you people to police and protect
yourselves."
"How can we protect ourselves without stunners?" one colonist called
out.
"Has Red Mask a gun?" Branson retorted. "It seems to me you have a
better weapon than any gun."
"What's that?"
"This ship is only so wide, so long and so deep. If every inch is
searched, you'll find your man. He has to be somewhere aboard."
The colonists quieted. Benjamin Simpson, one of the older men, was
elected president of the newly formed Quadrant Council. One man from
each of the quadrants was named to serve under him. Each of these men
in turn selected five others from his own group.
Those assembled waited in the hall while each team of six inspected
the compartments of the others. These compartments were then locked,
everyone returned to his compartment, and the larger search was
conducted. It took twenty hours.
No mask was found. No mask, no case, no money, no man.
The captain reported that his search had been equally fruitless.
At another assembly the following day it was decided to make the
inspection teams permanent, to await further moves on the part of Red
Mask. The Quadrant Council held periodic meetings to set up a method of
trial for him when he was caught. It was all recorded in the newsletter
and by Keith Ellason.
We Nillys know about hate and about violence. We know too that where
there is hate there is violence, and where there is violence there is
death.
During sleep time on the seventy-ninth day Barbara Stoneman, awakened
by a strange sound, sat up in the bed of her compartment to find a
man in a red mask in her room. Her cries brought neighbors into the
corridor. The flight of the man was witnessed by many, and several men
tried to stop him. But the intruder was light on his feet and fast. He
escaped.
The Quadrant Council confronted the captain, demanding weapons.
"Are you out of your minds?" Branson exclaimed.
Tom Tilbury, Fourth Quadrant leader, said, "We want to set up a police
force, Captain. We want stunners."
"There's no law against it," Branson said, "but it's a rule of mine
that no weapons are to be issued en route."
"If we had had a gun, we'd have got Red Mask," Tilbury said.
"And I might have a murder on my conscience."
Tilbury said, "We've also thought of that. Suppose you supply us with
half-power stunners? That way we can stun but not kill."
They got their guns. Now there were twenty-four policemen on duty in
the corridors—eight on at a time. Ellason observed that for the first
time the passengers seemed relaxed.
Let Red Mask move against armed men, they said.
Yeah, let him see what happens now.
Red Mask did.
On the 101st day he was seen in a corridor in Quadrant Four. Emil
Pierce, policeman on duty, managed to squeeze off several shots at his
retreating figure.
Red Mask was seen again on the 120th day, on the 135th day, and the
157th day. He was seen, shot at, but not hit. He was also unable to
commit any crime.
We've got him on the run, the colonists said.
He's afraid to do anything, now that we've got police protection, they
said smugly.
The Quadrant Council congratulated itself. The passengers were proud
of themselves. A special congratulatory message from Captain Branson
appeared one day in the Bulletin newsletter.
The colonists settled down to living out the rest of the voyage until
the landing on Antheon.
But on the 170th day calamity struck. Red Mask appropriated one of the
stunners, made his way down one whole corridor section in Quadrant Two,
put occupants to sleep as he went, taking many articles of value and
leaving disorder behind.
Ellason interviewed as many victims as he could, noted it all in
his book. The things taken were keepsakes, photographs and items of
personal value. It seemed to be the work of a madman. If Red Mask
wanted to make everyone furious, he certainly succeeded.
"What does he want that stuff for?" Casey Stromberg, a passenger
doctor, asked. "I can see him taking my narcotics, my doctor's kit—but
my dead wife's picture? That I don't understand."
It was the same with others. "The man's insane, Mr. Ellason. Positively
insane." Many people said it.
The council issued orders that all passengers from now on would be
required to lock their compartments at all times. More guns were
obtained from the captain. More policemen were appointed.
Ellason was busy noting it all in his book. It became filled with
jottings about innocent people being accidentally stunned when
trigger-happy policemen thought their movements suspicious, about one
man's suspicion of another and the ensuing search of compartments,
people who saw Red Mask here, saw him there. Hardly a day went by
without some new development.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Ellason, we're going to get him," said Tilbury, now chief
of police, cracking his knuckles, his eyes glowing at the thought.
"We're bound to get him. We've got things worked out to the finest
detail. He won't be able to get through our fingers now. Just let him
make so much as a move."
"And what will you do when you get him?"
"Kill him," Tilbury said, licking his lips, his eyes glowing more
fiercely than ever.
"Without a trial?"
"Oh, there'll be a trial, Mr. Ellason, but you don't think any jury'd
let him live after all the things he's done, do you?"
Red Mask was stunned in Quadrant Four in a corridor by a policeman
named Terryl Placer on the 201st day. The criminal was carried to the
assembly room surrounded by guards, for he surely would have been
mauled, if not killed, by angry colonists who crowded around. In the
assembly hall his mask was whipped off. The crowd gasped. Nobody knew
him.
Ellason's first thought was that he must be a stowaway, but then he
remembered the face, and Captain Branson, who came to have a look at
him, unhappily admitted the man was a member of the crew. His name was
Harrel Critten and he was a record keeper third class.
"Well, Critten," Branson roared at him, "what have you got to say for
yourself?"
"Go to hell," Critten said quietly. As if it were an afterthought, he
spat at the captain.
Branson looked as if he were going to kill the man himself right there
and then.
It was a long trial—from the 220th to the 241st day—and there didn't
seem to be much doubt about the outcome, for Critten didn't help his
own cause during any of it.
Lemuel Tarper, who was appointed prosecutor, asked him, "What did you
do with the loot, Critten?"
Critten looked him square in the eye and said, "I threw it out one of
the escape chutes. Does that answer your question?"
"Threw it away?" Tarper and the crowd were incredulous.
"Sure," Critten said. "You colonists got the easy life as passengers,
just sitting around. I had to work my head off keeping records for you
lazy bastards."
The verdict was, of course, death.
They executed Harrel Critten on the morning of the 270th day with
blasts from six stunners supplied with full power. It was witnessed
by a great crowd in the assembly hall. A detail from the ship's crew
disposed of his body through a chute.
It was all duly recorded in Keith Ellason's notebooks.
Dying is easy for a Nilly. Especially if it's arranged for beforehand,
which it always is.
The
Weblor II
was only one day out of orbit when Captain Branson sent
for Ellason and introduced him to the executed man.
"Hello," Critten said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I figured as much," Ellason said. "I've been doing a lot of thinking."
"You're perhaps a little too good as an observer," Branson said. "Or
maybe it was because you really weren't one of the colonists. But no
matter, Critten did a good job. He was trained by an old friend of mine
for this job, Gelthorpe Nill. Nill used to be in counter-espionage when
there were wars."
"You were excellent," Ellason said.
"Can't say I enjoyed the role," said Critten, "but I think it saved
lives."
"Let me get this straight. Interstellar thought that it was idleness
and boredom that caused the killings on the
Weblor I
, so they had you
trained to be a scapegoat. Is that right?"
Critten nodded. "When great numbers are being transported, they are apt
to magnify each little event because so little happens. It was my job
to see that they directed none of their venom against each other or the
crew, only toward me."
Branson smiled. "It made the time pass quickly and interestingly for
the passengers."
"To say nothing of me," Critten said.
"And you, Mr. Ellason, were along to observe it all," Captain Branson
put in. "Interstellar wanted an accurate picture of this. If it worked,
they told me they'd use it on other trips to Antheon."
Ellason nodded. "No time for brooding, for differences of opinion on
small matters. Just time to hate Mr. Critten. Unanimously."
"Probably," Critten said, "you are wondering about the execution."
"Naturally."
"We removed the charges before the guns were used."
"And Carver Janssen's case?"
"He'll get it back when he's shuttled to Antheon. And all the other
items will be returned. They're all tagged with their owner's names.
Captain Branson will say they were found somewhere on the ship. You
see, I was a liar."
"How about that assault on June Failright?"
Critten grinned again. "She played right into our hands. She ran out
into the hall claiming I'd attacked her, which I did not. She was
certainly amazed when the ship's physicians agreed with her. Of course
Captain Branson told them to do that."
"And the murder?"
"Raymond Palugger died in the hospital all right, but he died from
his illness on the operating table. We turned it into an advantage by
making it look suspicious."
Ellason brightened. "And by that time everybody was seeing Red Mask
everywhere and the colonists organized against him."
"Gave them something to do," Branson said.
"Every time things got dull, I livened them up. I got a stunner and
robbed along the corridor. That really stirred them. Lucky nobody got
hurt during any of it, including that Stoneman woman. I was trying to
rob her when she woke up."
Branson cleared his throat. "Ah, Ellason about that story. You
understand you can't write it, don't you?"
Ellason said regretfully that he did understand.
"The colonists will never know the truth," Branson went on. "There will
be other ships outward bound."
Critten sighed. "And I'll have to be caught again."
Yes, we're anonymous, nameless, we Nillys, for that's what we call
each other, and are a theme, with variations, in the endless stretches
of deep space, objects of hatred and contempt, professional heels,
dying once a trip when the time is ripe, antidote to boredom, and we'll
ply our trade, our little tragedies, on a thousand ships bringing
humanity to new worlds.
|
train | 60747 | [
"How does the narrator feel about his special ability?",
"Which is not a reason the narrator did not tell anyone about the bomb when he discovered it?",
"Which is the best description of how Julia reacted to the narrator trying to take her bag?",
"What is Julia's role in the existence of the bomb?",
"What is the role of the stewardess in the bomb situation?",
"Which is the best description of why Julia and the narrator decide not to report their bags stolen?",
"Which is likely true about Julia's sister given the information in the story?",
"What likely happens to the narrator after the story ends?",
"Why did the dumpy man not start running when he picked up the suitcases?"
] | [
[
"He doesn't find it that useful most of the time but he does consistently use it in specific situations",
"He finds it to be his greatest source of amusement, and enjoys keeping secrets of what others carry",
"He is glad he has this ability instead of a different more dangerous one",
"He is disappointed he cannot tell anyone about it because he wants to show it off"
],
[
"He did not want to have to explain how he knew it was there",
"He figured it was futile, if there were no specialists to disarm it on board",
"He thought he might be able to keep it from becoming dangerous if he tried hard enough",
"He did not want to be asked to diffuse it because he did not know how"
],
[
"She was surprised enough by the request that she wasn't quite sure how to react",
"She was unsettled because a strange man had approached her trying to take her things",
"She was nervous because she thought the narrator had figured out her plan and the existence of the bomb",
"She was frustrated with him for further delaying her already postponed trip"
],
[
"She tried to off her husband which made him angry and he tried to retaliate",
"She is part of a scheme run by a terrorist organization",
"She and her sister devised a plan to blow up the ship",
"She was likely a target but possibly a co-conspirator"
],
[
"She is able to interact with the narrator consistently to keep him calm",
"She likely never becomes aware of the situation at all",
"She is the first person the narrator confides in about the bomb",
"She keeps the passengers calm when she is aware there is a threat"
],
[
"They are worried that the bags will be traced back to them and they'll get caught",
"They don't want to get mixed up in the investigation of the explosives",
"It is the cleanest way to enact their plan and they don't need to be involved anymore",
"They don't want to be tied to the death of a known thief, as the police might think they retaliated"
],
[
"She and Julia have a very close bond ",
"She has enough money that she is comfortable calling taxis instead of driving with visitors are in town",
"She was in on the plan with Julia's husband",
"She is flaky and can't be trusted when it comes to travel plans"
],
[
"He eventually makes his meeting but is too shaken up to successfully close the sale",
"He and Julia get together after Julia's divorce",
"The narrator stays with Julia's sister on his trip and misses his meeting",
"He probably returns to his unsatisfying life negotiating printing orders"
],
[
"He knew there was a bomb and didn't want to jostle it before he retrieved the other contents",
"He didn't know there was a bomb so he had no reason to rush",
"He didn't want to arouse suspicion unless he was spotted",
"He was too big to be able to move quickly"
]
] | [
1,
4,
1,
4,
2,
2,
3,
2,
3
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0
] | Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no
satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and
now it had me fighting for my life in
...
THE LITTLE RED BAG
By JERRY SOHL
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I made
the discovery. I had finished reading the
Chronicle
, folded and put
it beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see the
San Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So I
returned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffed
gray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seats
before me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.
I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Now
she had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle and
calf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out a
window where there was nothing to see.
I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, a
togetherness-type-magazine reader.
Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing I
should be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angeles
for, and not wanting to.
So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhaps
that sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody ever
complained.
It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explore
the insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawers
and—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.
It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away from
electric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me
how
they hurt.
Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I always
knew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, and
therefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feel
the color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about the
same as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tell
if there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Just
the feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned to
become pretty good at guessing.
Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal object
in her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hard
object with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a small
book, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few bills
and coins. Not much else.
I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.
But I never say anything.
I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade when
Miss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eat
my sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with some
of the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.
Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'd
be gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard during
her absence, which I dutifully did.
Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk for
her favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, and
looking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it while
she was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, which
she always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.
"It's in your purse," I blurted out.
I was sent home with a stinging note.
Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was able
to sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many other
people are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.
I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, but
how? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of the
things I sense in probing really are.
But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. A
feather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light or
heat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler's
window. And I can stop clocks.
Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirty
because I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San Francisco
International Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, it
seems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapement
and balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The last
time I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between the
pawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and its
delicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exerting
influence to decrease the restoring torque.
The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quite
a bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. I
can't stand the alarm.
When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even went
to Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawls
and cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicate
about a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I dropped
quite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.
So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except that
it amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.
The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me out
the window. "Where are we?" she asked in a surprised voice. I told her
we were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, "Oh," glanced
at her wristwatch and sank back again.
Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so I
contented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think about
Amos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusement
chain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices were
maybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mind
wandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece of
luggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went through
slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a
ukulele.
I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.
The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,
flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was a
bomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,
quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held me
was that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must be
electrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock more
closely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hard
round cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of my
neck when I suddenly realized what it was.
The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up past
the train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my own
alarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.
It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.
My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look around
at the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. I
thought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it was
there. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.
We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angeles
soon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.
But of course that had been the plan!
My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mind
was numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'd
think I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would be
panic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.
"Sir." My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,
smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a small
paper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrapped
doughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and a
napkin.
I goggled at her, managed to croak, "No, thanks." She gave me an odd
look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at
the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.
I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent
a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that
balance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I tried
to close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, the
woman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock and
surrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;
when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it was
like trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't going
to be able to stop it.
Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could not
afford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my hold
until it came to a dead stop.
"Anything the matter?"
My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next to
me. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she was
still chewing.
"No," I said, letting out my breath. "I'm all right."
"You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head back
and forth."
"Must have been dreaming," I said as I rang for the stewardess. When
she came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,
just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammy
with sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.
All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead to
the landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel would
start again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.
I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe
calling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.
Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before the
bomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life would
be changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a man
literally with gimlet eyes.
Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north of
the city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,
but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but it
was also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.
To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closing
my eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tugging
and pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.
A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.
"Your cup," my seat partner said, pointing.
I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then I
looked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She took
it without a word and went away.
"Were you really asleep that time?"
"Not really," I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject to
fits, but I didn't.
It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longest
minutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel when
the plane dipped and bumped to a landing.
Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk as
unconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walking
through the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. I
had my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.
So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane and
watch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfield
carts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.
It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag contained
the bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. The
assortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—was
packed in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate where
I was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining the
balance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down a
ramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloaded
and placed in a long rack. I went with it.
There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,
and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to
determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was
the attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, and
a fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.
I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—a
clock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.
I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched toward
and grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. I
entered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it to
immobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.
The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment I
stared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presented
it to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and I
was ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags with
his eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed it
toward me.
"Thanks," I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the
remaining bag. "One left over, eh?"
"Yeah." He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But
he was eying me with a "well-why-don't-you-get-along?" look.
I said, "What happens if nobody claims it?"
"Take it inside. Why?"
He was getting too curious. "Oh, I just wondered, that's all."
I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entrance
and put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurrying
over.
"Cab?"
I shook my head. "Just waiting."
Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.
I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggage
claim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ran
through my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfied
me.
I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with a
man named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussing
something very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what could
I do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take the
bag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able to
live with myself.
No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—until
what?
A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out of
the entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on a
pair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I could
tell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain the
whole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my own
business.
But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and started
across the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,
"Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag." But
I didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claim
counter out of the side of my eye.
The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the ramp
to the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I went
inside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bag
on the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. The
clerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.
I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. How
many minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to the
counter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. I
had to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop the
clock again.
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.
"No. I'm waiting for someone."
I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against the
counter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach the
device, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheel
escaped my grasp.
"Do you have my suitcase?"
I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stood
there looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right hand
she had a green baggage claim check.
The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnight
case and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,
glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.
"Just a moment," I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurrying
after her.
At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, "Listen to me."
She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.
"It's a matter of life or death," I said. I wanted to wrest the bag
from her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but I
restrained myself.
She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpled
suitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,
"Please put the bag down. Over there." I indicated a spot beside a
telephone booth where it would be out of the way.
She didn't move. She just said, "Why?"
"For God's sake!" I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put her
bag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standing
there looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blue
and brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,
I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at me
or anything else right now if it had.
"I've got to talk to you. It's very important."
The girl said, "Why?" I was beginning to think it was the only word she
knew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to kill
someone so lovely.
"I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make a
telephone call." I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, "And
don't ask me why."
She gave me a speculative look.
I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, "All right,
but—"
I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,
pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was in
there, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At this
range it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.
Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.
"Now will you please tell me what this is all about?" she said stiffly.
"Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain."
She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followed
the short, fat man into the coffee shop.
Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensory
ability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, and
how I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.
During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grew
pale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tears
there when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.
"Joe did," she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more but
staring vacantly across the room. "Joe put it there." Behind her eyes
she was reliving some recent scene.
"Who is Joe?"
"My husband." I thought she was going to really bawl, but she got
control again. "This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit my
sister." Her smile was bleak. "I see now why he wanted to put in those
books. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd put
in some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when he
must have put the—put it in there."
I said gently, "Why would he want to do a thing like that?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "I just don't know." And she was
close to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, "I'm not sure I
want to know." I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.
"It's all right now?" she asked.
I nodded. "As long as we don't move it."
I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd been
thinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell the
airport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said her
name was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was a
bomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worried
because she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but it
would have to do.
"We've got to get it deactivated," I said, watching the fat man pay for
his coffee and leave. "The sooner the better."
I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.
I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the other
people had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busy
for a long while.
"She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.
She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab." She smiled
a little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was all
for me. "That's where I was going when you caught up with me."
It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it again
when we reached the lobby.
The two bags weren't there.
I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.
"See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old battered
suitcase?"
"Bag? Suitcase?" he mumbled. Then he became excited. "Why, a man just
stepped out of here—" He turned to look down the street. "That's him."
The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,
mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.
"Hey!" I shouted, starting toward him.
The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He came
abreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the door
and threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.
The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time I
reached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, then
walked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with the
redcap, who said, "That man steal them suitcases?"
"That he did," I said.
Just then the airport policeman started across the street from the
parking lot. Redcap said, "Better tell him about it."
The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, "We'd better get
over to the office."
But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distant
shattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.
"Jets," the redcap said, eying the sky.
"I don't know," the policeman said. "Didn't sound much like a jet to
me."
We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupe
in the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. That
was all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia was
thinking.
She said, "About those bags," and looked at me.
The officer said, "Yes, miss?"
"I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it."
"I feel the same way," I said. "Would it be all right if we didn't
bother to report it?"
"Well," the policeman said, "I can't
make
you report it."
"I'd rather not then," Julia said. She turned to me. "I'd like some
air. Can't we walk a little?"
"Sure," I said.
We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fill
with the distant sounds of sirens.
|
train | 27492 | [
"Why do the Vegans want the humans to be involved in their political struggle?",
"What likely happens to Crownwall after the story is over?",
"What is the significance of the title of the story?",
"Why is Crownwall the representative from Earth sent to Vega?",
"Which is the best deccription of why the humans are feared by other alien races?",
"Which is not true about why Crownwall was able to travel to Vega undetected?",
"Which is not a reason Ggaran might have asked a bowman to shoot a soldier in front of Crownwall? ",
"How do the others in the Council Chamber feel about Marshall and Crownwall's news?"
] | [
[
"They think their numbers will even the fight",
"They see the humans as having a complementary skillset",
"They are desparate and will try anything to change their situation",
"They think the humans can add an unexpected element to their war"
],
[
"He has to find a new line of work because he messed up so badly",
"He works to rebuild the space travel technology that he eventually can share with other species",
"He is left to help find a new path for the Earth government as his old work is no longer possible",
"He is promoted for accomplishing his mission and continues to explore space"
],
[
"It reinforces the importance of engine technology in space travel",
"It refers to the way the Vegans rule their territories",
"It hints toward the types of political negotiations that will happen",
"It points to how the alien races see the humans"
],
[
"He was the only one who was willing to undergo the time travel procedure",
"He was the only one without connections on Earth, making it easier for him to take time away",
"He was the default choice once the humans determined that Marshall was not fit for the job",
"He was a reasonable option given his prior leadership experience on missions"
],
[
"Their technology and ideas develop at a rapid pace",
"They are known to wipe out alien races with their time travel technology",
"They have superior strategies to get past any race's defense system",
"They have control of large amounts of bombs that can be used to destroy planets"
],
[
"He was not technically moving through space in a typical sense",
"He employed technology unfamiliar to the Vegans",
"His ship's drive does not give off the usual traceable signals",
"He traveled into the future so as to not need to experience the distance travel himself"
],
[
"To show off his general power in the community",
"To give the bowman a chance to practice his skill",
"To punish the solider for his earlier misstep",
"To demonstrate the use of traditional weapons in political situations"
],
[
"They are disappointed that they will not have the chance to wage war against an alien species",
"They are relived to not have a threat to handle but unsure of how to proceed",
"They are ecstatic that all of their problems have been solved, and know they sent the right person",
"They are unsure if they sent the right person to do their job because of the outcome"
]
] | [
4,
3,
4,
4,
1,
4,
3,
4
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | UPSTARTS
By L. J. STECHER, JR.
Illustrated by DILLON
The
sight of an Earthman
on Vega III, where it was
impossible for an outlander
to be, brought angry crowds to surround
John Crownwall as he strode
toward the palace of Viceroy
Tronn Ffallk, ruler of Sector XII
of the Universal Holy Empire of
Sunda. He ignored the snarling, the
spitting, the waving of boneless
prehensile fingers, as he ignored the
heavy gravity and heavier air of
the unfamiliar planet.
John Crownwall, florid, red-headed
and bulky, considered himself
to be a bold man. But here,
surrounded by this writhing, slithering
mass of eight-foot creatures,
he felt distinctly unhappy. Crownwall
had heard about creatures that
slavered, but he had never before
seen it done. These humanoids had
large mouths and sharp teeth, and
they unquestionably slavered. He
wished he knew more about them.
If they carried out the threats of
their present attitude, Earth would
have to send Marshall to replace
him. And if Crownwall couldn't do
the job, thought Crownwall, then
it was a sure bet that Marshall
wouldn't have a chance.
He climbed the great ramp, with
its deeply carved Greek key design,
toward the mighty entrance
gate of the palace. His manner
demonstrated an elaborate air of
unconcern that he felt sure was entirely
wasted on these monsters.
The clashing teeth of the noisiest
of them were only inches from the
quivering flesh of his back as he
reached the upper level. Instantly,
and unexpectedly to Crownwall,
the threatening crowd dropped
back fearfully, so that he walked
the last fifty meters alone.
Crownwall all but sagged with
relief. A pair of guards, their purple
hides smoothly polished and gleaming
with oil, crossed their ceremonial
pikes in front of him as he
approached the entrance.
"And just what business do you
have here, stranger?" asked the
senior of the guards, his speaking
orifice framing with difficulty the
sibilances of Universal Galactic.
"What business
would
I have at
the Viceroy's Palace?" asked
Crownwall. "I want to see Ffallk."
"Mind your tongue," growled
the guard. "If you mean His Effulgence,
Right Hand of the Glorious
Emperor, Hereditary Ruler of the
Seventy Suns, Viceroy of the
Twelfth Sector of the Universal
Holy Empire"—Universal Galactic
had a full measure of ceremonial
words—"he sees only those whom
he summons. If you know what's
good for you, you'll get out of here
while you can still walk. And if you
run fast enough, maybe you can
even get away from that crowd out
there, but I doubt it."
"Just tell him that a man has
arrived from Earth to talk to him.
He'll summon me fast enough.
Meanwhile, my highly polished
friends, I'll just wait here, so why
don't you put those heavy pikes
down?"
Crownwall sat on the steps,
puffed alight a cigarette, and blew
expert smoke rings toward the
guards.
An elegant courtier, with elaborately
jeweled harness, bustled
from inside the palace, obviously
trying to present an air of strolling
nonchalance. He gestured fluidly
with a graceful tentacle. "You!" he
said to Crownwall. "Follow me. His
Effulgence commands you to appear
before him at once." The two
guards withdrew their pikes and
froze into immobility at the sides
of the entrance.
Crownwall stamped out his
smoke and ambled after the hurrying
courtier along tremendous corridors,
through elaborate waiting
rooms, under guarded doorways,
until he was finally bowed through
a small curtained arch.
At the far side of the comfortable,
unimpressive room, a plump
thing, hide faded to a dull violet,
reclined on a couch. Behind him
stood a heavy and pompous appearing
Vegan in lordly trappings.
They examined Crownwall with
great interest for a few moments.
"It's customary to genuflect
when you enter the Viceroy's presence,"
said the standing one at
last. "But then I'm told you're an
Earthling. I suppose we can expect
you to be ignorant of those niceties
customary among civilized peoples."
"It's all right, Ggaran," said the
Viceroy languidly. He twitched a
tentacle in a beckoning gesture.
"Come closer, Earthling. I bid you
welcome to my capital. I have been
looking forward to your arrival for
some time."
Crownwall
put his hands
in his pockets. "That's hardly
possible," he said. "It was only decided
yesterday, back on Earth,
that I would be the one to make
the trip here. Even if you could
spy through buildings on Earth
from space, which I doubt, your
communications system can't get
the word through that fast."
"Oh, I didn't mean
you
in particular,"
the Vegan said with a
negligent wave. "Who can tell one
Earthling from another? What I
meant was that I expected someone
from Earth to break through
our blockade and come here. Most
of my advisors—even Ggaran here—thought
it couldn't be done, but
I never doubted that you'd manage
it. Still, if you were on your
home planet only yesterday, that's
astonishing even to me. Tell me,
how did you manage to get here so
fast, and without even alerting my
detection web?"
"You're doing the talking," said
Crownwall. "If you wanted someone
from Earth to come here to see
you, why did you put the cordon
around Earth? And why did you
drop a planet-buster in the Pacific
Ocean, and tell us that it was triggered
to go off if we tried to use
the distorter drive? That's hardly
the action of somebody who expects
visitors."
Ffallk glanced up at Ggaran. "I
told you that Earthlings were unbelievably
bold." He turned back
to Crownwall. "If you couldn't
come to me in spite of the trifling
inconveniences I put in your way,
your presence here would be useless
to both of us. But you did
come, so I can tell you that although
I am the leader of one of
the mightiest peoples in the Galaxy,
whereas there are scarcely six
billions of you squatting on one
minor planet, we still need each
other. Together, there is nothing
we can't do."
"I'm listening," said Crownwall.
"We offer you partnership with
us to take over the rule of the
Galaxy from the Sunda—the so-called
Master Race."
"It would hardly be an equal
partnership, would it, considering
that there are so many more of you
than there are of us?"
His Effulgence twitched his ear
stalks in amusement. "I'm Viceroy
of one of the hundred Sectors of
the Empire. I rule over a total of
a hundred Satrapies; these average
about a hundred Provinces each.
Provinces consist, in general, of
about a hundred Clusters apiece,
and every Cluster has an average
of a hundred inhabited solar systems.
There are more inhabited
planets in the Galaxy than there
are people on your single world.
I, personally, rule three hundred
trillion people, half of them of my
own race. And yet I tell you that
it would be an equal partnership."
"I don't get it. Why?"
"Because you came to me."
Crownwall shrugged. "So?"
The
Vegan reached up and engulfed
the end of a drinking
tube with his eating orifice. "You
upstart Earthlings are a strange
and a frightening race," he said.
"Frightening to the Sunda, especially.
When you showed up in the
spaceways, it was decreed that you
had to be stopped at once. There
was even serious discussion of destroying
Earth out of hand, while
it is still possible.
"Your silly little planet was carefully
examined at long range in a
routine investigation just about fifty
thousand years ago. There were
at that time three different but
similar racial strains of pulpy bipeds,
numbering a total of perhaps
a hundred thousand individuals.
They showed many signs of an
ability to reason, but a complete
lack of civilization. While these
creatures could by no means be
classed among the intelligent races,
there was a general expectation,
which we reported to the Sunda,
that they would some day come to
be numbered among the Servants
of the Emperor. So we let you
alone, in order that you could develop
in your own way, until you
reached a high enough civilization
to be useful—if you were going to.
"Intelligence is very rare in the
Galaxy. In all, it has been found
only fifteen times. The other races
we have watched develop, and
some we have actively assisted to
develop. It took the quickest of
them just under a million years.
One such race we left uncontrolled
too long—but no matter.
"You Earthlings, in defiance of
all expectation and all reason, have
exploded into space. You have developed
in an incredibly short
space of time. But even that isn't
the most disconcerting item of your
development. As an Earthling, you
have heard of the details of the
first expedition of your people into
space, of course?"
"
Heard
about it?" exclaimed
Crownwall. "I was
on
it." He settled
down comfortably on a couch,
without requesting permission, and
thought back to that first tremendous
adventure; an adventure that
had taken place little more than
ten years before.
The
Star Seeker
had been built
in space, about forty thousand kilometers
above the Earth. It had
been manned by a dozen adventurous
people, captained by Crownwall,
and had headed out on its ion
drive until it was safely clear of
the warping influence of planetary
masses. Then, after several impatient
days of careful study and calculation,
the distorter drive had
been activated, for the first time
in Earth's history, and, for the
twelve, the stars had winked out.
The men of Earth had decided
that it should work in theory. They
had built the drive—a small machine,
as drives go—but they had
never dared to try it, close to a
planet. To do so, said their theory,
would usually—seven point three
four times out of 10—destroy the
ship, and everything in space for
thousands of miles around, in a
ravening burst of raw energy.
So the drive had been used for
the first time without ever having
been tested. And it had worked.
In less than a week's time, if
time has any meaning under such
circumstances, they had flickered
back into normal space, in the vicinity
of Alpha Centauri. They had
quickly located a dozen planets,
and one that looked enough like
Earth to be its twin sister. They
had headed for that planet confidently
and unsuspectingly, using
the ion drive.
Two weeks later, while they
were still several planetary diameters
from their destination, they
had been shocked to find more
than two score alien ships of space
closing in on them—ships that
were swifter and more maneuverable
than their own. These ships
had rapidly and competently englobed
the
Star Seeker
, and had
then tried to herd it away from the
planet it had been heading toward.
Although
caught by surprise,
the Earthmen had acted
swiftly. Crownwall recalled the discussion—the
council of war, they
had called it—and their unanimous
decision. Although far within the
dangerous influence of a planetary
mass, they had again activated the
distorter drive, and they had beaten
the odds. On the distorter drive,
they had returned to Earth as swiftly
as they had departed. Earth had
immediately prepared for war
against her unknown enemy.
"Your reaction was savage," said
Ggaran, his tentacles stiffening
with shock at the memory. "You
bloody-minded Earthlings must
have been aware of the terrible
danger."
Ffallk rippled in agreement.
"The action you took was too swift
and too foolhardy to be believed.
You knew that you could have destroyed
not only yourself, but also
all who live on that planet. You
could also have wrecked the planet
itself and the ships and those of
my own race who manned them.
We had tried to contact you, but
since you had not developed subspace
radio, we were of course not
successful. Our englobement was
just a routine quarantine. With
your total lack of information
about us, what you did was more
than the height of folly. It was madness."
"Could we have done anything
else that would have kept you from
landing on Earth and taking us
over?" asked Crownwall.
"Would that have been so bad?"
said Ggaran. "We can't tolerate
wild and warlike races running free
and uncontrolled in the Galaxy.
Once was enough for that."
"But what about my question?
Was there any other way for us to
stay free?"
"Well, no. But you didn't have
enough information to realize that
when you acted so precipitously. As
a matter of fact, we didn't expect
to have much trouble, even after
your surprising action. Of course,
it took us a little time to react. We
located your planet quickly enough,
and confirmed that you were a new
race. But by the time we could
try to set up communications and
send ambassadors, you had already
organized a not inconsiderable defense.
Your drones blew up our unmanned
ships as fast as we could
send them down to your planet.
And by the time we had organized
properly for war against you, it was
obvious that we could not conquer
you. We could only destroy you."
"That old fool on Sunda, the
Emperor, decided that we should
blow you up, but by that time I
had decided," said His Effulgence,
"that you might be useful to me—that
is, that we might be useful to
each other. I traveled halfway
across the Galaxy to meet him, to
convince him that it would be sufficient
just to quarantine you.
When we had used your radio system
to teach a few of you the Universal
Galactic tongue, and had
managed to get what you call the
'planet-buster' down into the
largest of your oceans, he figured
we had done our job.
"With his usual lack of imagination,
he felt sure that we were safe
from you—after all, there was no
way for you to get off the planet.
Even if you could get down to the
bottom of the ocean and tamper
with the bomb, you would only succeed
in setting it off, and that's
what the Sunda had been in favor
of in the first place.
"But I had different ideas. From
what you had already done, I suspected
it wouldn't be long before
one of you amazing Earthlings
would dream up some device or
other, head out into space, and
show up on our planet. So I've been
waiting for you, and here you are."
"It was the thinking of a genius,"
murmured Ggaran.
"All right, then, genius, here I
am," said Crownwall. "So what's
the pitch?"
"Ggaran, you explain it to the
Earthling," said His Effulgence.
Ggaran
bowed. "The crustaceans
on Sunda—the lobsterlike
creatures that rule the Galaxy—are
usurpers. They have no rights
to their position of power. Our race
is much older than theirs. We were
alone when we found the Sundans—a
primitive tribe, grubbing in the
mud at the edge of their shallow
seas, unable even to reason. In
those days we were desperately
lonely. We needed companionship
among the stars, and we helped
them develop to the point where,
in their inferior way, they were able
to reason, almost as well as we, The
People, can. And then they cheated
us of our rightful place.
"The Emperor at Sunda is one
of them. They provide sixty-eight
of the hundred Viceroys; we provide
only seventeen. It is a preposterous
and intolerable situation.
"For more than two million
years we have waited for the opportunity
for revenge. And now
that you have entered space, that
opportunity is at hand."
"If you haven't been able to help
yourselves for two million years,"
asked Crownwall, "how does the
sight of me give you so much gumption
all of a sudden?"
Ggaran's tentacles writhed, and
he slavered in fury, but the clashing
of his teeth subsided instantly
at a soothing wave from His Effulgence.
"War in space is almost an impossibility,"
said the aged ruler.
"We can destroy planets, of course,
but with few exceptions, we cannot
conquer them. I rule a total of
seven races in my Sector. I rule
them, but I don't let them intermingle.
Each race settles on the
planets that best suit it. Each of
those planets is quite capable of defending
itself from raids, or even
large-scale assaults that would result
in its capture and subjugation—just
as your little Earth can defend
itself.
"Naturally, each is vulnerable to
economic blockade—trade provides
a small but vital portion of the
goods each planet uses. All that a
world requires for a healthy and
comfortable life cannot be provided
from the resources of that
single world alone, and that gives
us a very considerable measure of
control.
"And it is true that we can always
exterminate any planet that
refuses to obey the just and legal
orders of its Viceroy. So we achieve
a working balance in our Empire.
We control it adequately, and we
live in peace.
"The Sundans, for example,
though they took the rule of the
Empire that was rightfully ours
away from us, through trickery,
were unable to take over the
Sectors we control. We are still
powerful. And soon we will be all-powerful.
In company with you
Earthlings, that is."
Crownwall nodded. "In other
words, you think that we Earthmen
can break up this two-million-year-old
stalemate. You've got the
idea that, with our help, you can
conquer planets without the necessity
of destroying them, and thereby
take over number one spot from
these Sunda friends of yours."
"Don't call those damn lobsters
friends," growled Ggaran. He subsided
at the Viceroy's gesture.
"Exactly," said His Effulgence
to Crownwall. "You broke our
blockade without any trouble. Our
instruments didn't even wiggle
when you landed here on my capital
world. You can do the same on
the worlds of the Sunda. Now, just
tell us how you did it, and we're
partners."
Crownwall
lifted one eyebrow
quizzically, but remained
silent. He didn't expect his facial
gesture to be interpreted correctly,
but he assumed that his silence
would be. He was correct.
"Of course," His Effulgence said,
"we will give you any assurances
that your people may desire in order
to feel safe, and we will guarantee
them an equal share in the
government of the Galaxy."
"Bunk," said Crownwall.
His Effulgence lifted a tentacle
swiftly, before Ggaran, lunging angrily
forward, could speak. "Then
what do you want of us?"
"It seems to me that we need
no wordy assurances from each
other," said Crownwall, and he
puffed a cigarette aglow. "We can
arrange something a little more
trustworthy, I believe. On your
side, you have the power to destroy
our only planet at any time. That
is certainly adequate security for
our own good behavior and sincerity.
"It is impossible for us of Earth
to destroy all of your planets. As
you have said, there are more planets
that belong to you than there
are human beings on Earth. But
there is a way for us to be reasonably
sure that you will behave
yourselves. You will transfer to us,
at once, a hundred of your planet-destroying
bombs. That will be a
sufficient supply to let us test some
of them, to see that they are in
good working order. Then, if you
try any kind of double-cross, we
will be able to use our own methods—which
you cannot prevent—to
send one of those bombs here to
destroy this planet.
"And if you try to move anywhere
else, by your clumsy distorter
drive, we can follow you, and
destroy any planet you choose to
land on. You would not get away
from us. We can track you without
any difficulty.
"We wouldn't use the bombs
lightly, to be sure, because of what
would happen to Earth. And don't
think that blowing up our planet
would save you, because we naturally
wouldn't keep the bombs on
Earth. How does that sound to
you?"
"Ridiculous," snorted Ggaran.
"Impossible."
After several minutes of silent
consideration, "It is an excellent
plan," said His Effulgence. "It is
worthy of the thinking of The People
ourselves. You Earthlings will
make very satisfactory allies. What
you request will be provided without
delay. Meanwhile, I see no reason
why we cannot proceed with
our discussions."
"Nor do I," consented Crownwall.
"But your stooge here doesn't
seem very happy about it all."
His Effulgence wiggled his tentacles.
"I'm afraid that Ggaran had
expected to take what you Earthlings
have to offer without giving
anything in return. I never had any
such ideas. I have not underestimated
you, you see."
"That's nice," said Crownwall
graciously.
"And now," Ggaran put in, "I
think it's time for you to tell us
something about how you get
across light-years of space in a few
hours, without leaving any traces
for us to detect." He raised a tentacle
to still Crownwall's immediate
exclamation of protest. "Oh,
nothing that would give us a chance
to duplicate it—just enough to
indicate
how we can make use of
it, along with you—enough to allow
us to
begin
to make intelligent
plans to beat the claws off the Master
Race."
After
due consideration,
Crownwall nodded. "I don't
see why not. Well, then, let me tell
you that we don't travel in space
at all. That's why I didn't show up
on any of your long-range detection
instruments. Instead, we travel
in time. Surely any race that has
progressed as far as your own must
know, at least theoretically, that
time travel is entirely possible. After
all, we knew it, and we haven't
been around nearly as long as you
have."
"We know about it," said Ffallk,
"but we've always considered it
useless—and very dangerous—knowledge."
"So have we, up until the time
you planted that bomb on us. Anyone
who tried to work any changes
in his own past would be almost
certain to end up finding himself
never having been born. So we
don't do any meddling. What we
have discovered is a way not only
of moving back into the past, but
also of making our own choice of
spatial references while we do it,
and of changing our spatial anchor
at will.
"For example, to reach this
planet, I went back far enough, using
Earth as the spatial referent,
to move with Earth a little more
than a third of the way around this
spiral nebula that is our Galaxy.
Then I shifted my frame of reference
to that of the group of galaxies
of which ours is such a distinguished
member.
"Then of course, as I continued
to move in time, the whole Galaxy
moved spatially with reference to
my own position. At the proper instant
I shifted again, to the reference
frame of this Galaxy itself.
Then I was stationary in the Galaxy,
and as I continued time traveling,
your own mighty sun moved
toward me as the Galaxy revolved.
I chose a point where there was a
time intersection of your planet's
position and my own. When you
got there, I just changed to the reference
plane of this planet I'm on
now, and then came on back with
it to the present. So here I am. It
was a long way around to cover a
net distance of 26 light-years, but
it was really very simple.
"And there's no danger of meeting
myself, or getting into any anachronistic
situation. As you probably
know, theory shows that these
are excluded times for me, as is the
future—I can't stop in them."
"Are you sure that you haven't
given us a little too much information
for your own safety?" asked
Ffallk softly.
"Not at all. We were enormously
lucky to have learned how to control
spatial reference frames ourselves.
I doubt if you could do it in
another two million years." Crownwall
rose to his feet. "And now,
Your Effulgence, I think it's about
time I went back to my ship and
drove it home to Earth to make my
report, so we can pick up those
bombs and start making arrangements."
"Excellent," said Ffallk. "I'd better
escort you; my people don't like
strangers much."
"I'd noticed that," Crownwall
commented drily.
"Since this is a very important
occasion, I think it best that we
make this a Procession of Full
Ceremony. It's a bother, but the
proprieties have to be observed."
Ggaran
stepped out into the
broad corridor and whistled a
shrill two-tone note, using both his
speaking and his eating orifices. A
cohort of troops, pikes at the ready
and bows strapped to their backs,
leaped forward and formed a
double line leading from His Effulgence's
sanctum to the main door.
Down this lane, carried by twenty
men, came a large sedan chair.
"Protocol takes a lot of time,"
said His Effulgence somewhat sadly,
"but it must be observed. At
least, as Ambassador, you can ride
with me in the sedan, instead of
walking behind it, like Ggaran."
"I'm glad of that," said Crownwall.
"Too bad Ggaran can't join
us." He climbed into the chair beside
Ffallk. The bearers trotted
along at seven or eight kilometers
an hour, carrying their contraption
with absolute smoothness. Blasts
from horns preceded them as they
went.
When they passed through the
huge entrance doors of the palace
and started down the ramp toward
the street, Crownwall was astonished
to see nobody on the previously
crowded streets, and mentioned
it to Ffallk.
"When the Viceroy of the Seventy
Suns," said the Viceroy of the
Seventy Suns, "travels in state, no
one but my own entourage is permitted
to watch. And my guests, of
course," he added, bowing slightly
to Crownwall.
"Of course," agreed Crownwall,
bowing back. "Kind of you, I'm
sure. But what happens if somebody
doesn't get the word, or
doesn't hear your trumpeters, or
something like that?"
Ggaran stepped forward, already
panting slightly. "A man with knots
in all of his ear stalks is in a very
uncomfortable position," he explained.
"Wait. Let me show you.
Let us just suppose that that runner
over there"—he gestured toward
a soldier with a tentacle—"is
a civilian who has been so unlucky
as to remain on the street
after His Effulgence's entourage arrived."
He turned to one of the
bowmen who ran beside the sedan
chair, now strung and at the ready.
"Show him!" he ordered peremptorily.
In one swift movement the bowman
notched an arrow, drew and
fired. The arrow hissed briefly, and
then sliced smoothly through the
soldier's throat.
"You see," said Ggaran complacently,
"we have very little trouble
with civilians who violate this particular
tradition."
His Effulgence beckoned to the
bowman to approach. "Your results
were satisfactory," he said, "but
your release was somewhat shaky.
The next time you show such sloppy
form, you will be given thirty
lashes."
He leaned back on the cushion
and spoke again to Crownwall.
"That's the trouble with these requirements
of civilization. The men
of my immediate guard must practice
with such things as pikes and
bows and arrows, which they seldom
get an opportunity to use. It
would never do for them to use
modern weapons on occasions of
ceremony, of course."
"Of course," said Crownwall,
then added, "It's too bad that you
can't provide them with live targets
a little more often." He stifled
a shudder of distaste. "Tell me,
Your Effulgence, does the Emperor's
race—the Master Race—also
enjoy the type of civilization
you have just had demonstrated
for me?"
"Oh, no. They are far too brutal,
too morally degraded, to know anything
of these finer points of etiquette
and propriety. They are
really an uncouth bunch. Why, do
you know, I am certain that they
would have had the bad taste to
use an energy weapon to dispose
of the victim in a case such as you
just witnessed! They are really
quite unfit to rule. They can scarcely
be called civilized at all. But we
will soon put a stop to all of that—your
race and mine, of course."
"I sincerely hope so," said
Crownwall.
Refreshments
were served
to His Effulgence and to
Crownwall during the trip, without
interrupting the smooth progress
of the sedan. The soldiers of
the cohort, the bearers and Ggaran
continued to run—without food,
drink or, except for Ggaran, evidence
of fatigue.
After several hours of travel, following
Crownwall's directions, the
procession arrived at the copse in
which he had concealed his small
transportation machine. The machine,
for spatial mobility, was
equipped with the heavy and grossly
inefficient anti-gravity field generator
developed by Kowalsky. It
occupied ten times the space of the
temporal translation and coordination
selection systems combined,
but it had the great advantage of
being almost undetectable in use. It
emitted no mass or radiation.
After elaborate and lengthy farewells,
Crownwall climbed into his
machine and fell gently up until he
was out of the atmosphere, before
starting his enormous journey
through time back to Earth. More
quickly than it had taken him to
reach his ship from the palace of
His Effulgence, he was in the Council
Chamber of the Confederation
Government of Earth, making a full
report on his trip to Vega.
When he had finished, the President
sighed deeply. "Well," he
said, "we gave you full plenipotentiary
powers, so I suppose we'll
have to stand behind your agreements—especially
in view of the
fact that we'll undoubtedly be
blown into atoms if we don't. But
from what you say, I'd rather be
in bed with a rattler than have a
treaty with a Vegan. They sound
ungodly murderous to me. There
are too many holes in that protection
plan of yours. It's only a question
of time before they'll find some
way around it, and then—poof—we'll
all be dust."
"Things may not be as bad as
they seem," answered Crownwall
complacently. "After I got back a
few million years, I'm afraid I got
a little careless and let my ship dip
down into Vega III's atmosphere
for a while. I was back so far that
the Vegans hadn't appeared yet.
Now, I didn't land—or
deliberately
kill anything—but I'd be mighty
surprised if we didn't find a change
or two. Before I came in here, I
asked Marshall to take the ship out
and check on things. He should be
back with his report before long.
Why don't we wait and see what
he has to say?"
Marshall
was excited when
he was escorted into the
Council Chamber. He bowed briefly
to the President and began to
speak rapidly.
"They're gone without trace—
all
of them
!" he cried. "I went clear
to Sunda and there's no sign of
intelligent life anywhere! We're all
alone now!"
"There, you see?" exclaimed
Crownwall. "Our enemies are all
gone!"
He looked around, glowing with
victory, at the others at the table,
then slowly quieted and sat down.
He turned his head away from
their accusing eyes.
"Alone," he said, and unconsciously
repeated Marshall's words:
"We're all alone now."
In silence, the others gathered
their papers together and left the
room, leaving Crownwall sitting at
the table by himself. He shivered
involuntarily, and then leaped to
his feet to follow after them.
Loneliness, he found, was something
that he couldn't face alone.
—L. J. STECHER, JR.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine
June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 51699 | [
"Which is the most accurate description of the planet Stinson finds himself on? ",
"Which is the best description of the Sand God?",
"Which is not a reason that Stinson decided to journey on the ice by foot [mostly didn't want to leave Sybtl behind on her own and felt important and had some level of curiosity]",
"Which is the best characterization of why Stinson decided he did not want to bring his people to this planet?",
"How does Stinson feel about the Sand God at the end of the story? ",
"What likely happens after the story ends? ",
"What drove Stinson to decide to stay in the end?",
"How do humans perceive the transportation devices?"
] | [
[
"A haven for amphibious creatures",
"A research outpost for discovering new species",
"Some kind of penal colony",
"An abandoned desert planet that cannot sustain life"
],
[
"An ancient being who carries centuries of wisdom but has become more volatile with age",
"One of many like beings, all with the same types of powers",
"Volatile and convinced of old ideas without putting them under scrutiny",
"A tempermental, angry power who has always lived on this planet"
],
[
"He figured he could not be tracked in this environent",
"He was drawn to his companion",
"He preferred to stay near the other people to keep an eye on them",
"He wanted to feel important for protecting someone"
],
[
"He is suspicious of the moodiness of the Sand God",
"He doesn't want to bear the weight of being treated like a God",
"He does not want to have to confront his feelings for Sybtl",
"He is not convinced that the Sand God will let humand and the web-footed people coexist"
],
[
"He is angry that he will not keep up the original deal of the humans getting the whole planet",
"He doesn't' care about the Sand God at all and is focused on Sybtl",
"He is sad that the Sand God will never get the life he deserves with friends of his own kind",
"He felt some pity for the abandoned creature"
],
[
"Sybtl and Stinson get together and Stinson forgets about his prior missions",
"Stinson and Sybtl are re-introduced into the web-footed community",
"Sybtl becomes upset with Stinson and makes sure he does not return",
"Stinson eventually brings his friends to live on the planet with him"
],
[
"He sees that there is some hope for a successful though challenging life",
"His transportation device needs to be repaired before he can return to Earth",
"He is curious enough about the web-footed people's abilities that it is worth investigating",
"He has given up trying to find somewhere to move to"
],
[
"They are only used to transport between worlds but humans wish they could be used for local travel",
"They are untrustworthy technology that are dangerous to implant",
"They are luxury goods that many have strong independent motivation to acquire",
"They are commodities in the current economy"
]
] | [
3,
4,
3,
1,
4,
4,
1,
3
] | [
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | THE GOD NEXT DOOR
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by IVIE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sand-thing was powerful, lonely and
strange. No doubt it was a god—but who wasn't?
Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success
of his arrival.
He touched the pencil-line scar behind his ear where the cylinder was
buried, marveling at the power stored there, power to fling him from
earth to this fourth planet of the Centaurian system in an instant.
It had happened so fast that he could almost feel the warm, humid
Missouri air, though he was light years from Missouri.
He got up. A gray, funnel-shaped cloud of dust stood off to his left.
This became disturbing, since there was scarcely enough wind to move
his hair. He watched it, trying to recall what he might know about
cyclones. But he knew little. Weather control made cyclones and other
climatic phenomena on earth practically non-existent. The cloud
did not move, though, except to spin on its axis rapidly, emitting
a high-pitched, scarcely audible whine, like a high speed motor. He
judged it harmless.
He stood on a wide valley floor between two mountain ranges. Dark
clouds capped one peak of the mountains on his left. The sky was deep
blue.
He tested the gravity by jumping up and down. Same as Earth gravity.
The sun—no, not
the
sun. Not Sol. What should he call it, Alpha or
Centaurus? Well, perhaps neither. He was here and Earth was somewhere
up there. This was
the
sun of this particular solar system. He was
right the first time.
The sun burned fiercely, although he would have said it was about four
o'clock in the afternoon, if this had been Earth. Not a tree, nor a
bush, nor even a wisp of dry grass was in sight. Everywhere was desert.
The funnel of sand had moved closer and while he watched it, it seemed
to drift in the wind—although there was no wind. Stinson backed away.
It stopped. It was about ten feet tall by three feet in diameter at the
base. Then Stinson backed away again. It was changing. Now it became a
blue rectangle, then a red cube, a violet sphere.
He wanted to run. He wished Benjamin were here. Ben might have an
explanation. "What am I afraid of?" he said aloud, "a few grains of
sand blowing in the wind? A wind devil?"
He turned his back and walked away. When he looked up the wind devil
was there before him. He looked back. Only one. It had moved. The sun
shone obliquely, throwing Stinson's shadow upon the sand. The wind
devil also had a shadow, although the sun shone through it and the
shadow was faint. But it moved when the funnel moved. This was no
illusion.
Again Stinson felt the urge to run, or to use the cylinder to project
himself somewhere else, but he said, "No!" very firmly to himself. He
was here to investigate, to determine if this planet was capable of
supporting life.
Life? Intelligence? He examined the wind devil as closely as he dared,
but it was composed only of grains of sand. There was no core, no
central place you could point to and say, here is the brain, or the
nervous system. But then, how could a group of loosely spaced grains of
sand possibly have a nervous system?
It was again going through its paces. Triangle, cube, rectangle,
sphere. He watched, and when it became a triangle again, he smoothed
a place in the sand and drew a triangle with his forefinger. When it
changed to a cube he drew a square, a circle for a sphere, and so on.
When the symbols were repeated he pointed to each in turn, excitement
mounting. He became so absorbed in doing this that he failed to notice
how the wind devil drew closer and closer, but when he inhaled the
first grains of sand, the realization of what was happening dawned with
a flash of fear. Instantly he projected himself a thousand miles away.
Now he was in an area of profuse vegetation. It was twilight. As he
stood beside a small creek, a chill wind blew from the northwest. He
wanted to cover himself with the long leaves he found, but they were
dry and brittle, for here autumn had turned the leaves. Night would be
cold.
He was not a woodsman. He doubted if he could build a fire without
matches. So he followed the creek to where it flowed between two great
hills. Steam vapors rose from a crevice. A cave was nearby and warm air
flowed from its mouth. He went inside.
At first he thought the cave was small, but found instead that he was
in a long narrow passageway. The current of warm air flowed toward him
and he followed it, cautiously, stepping carefully and slowly. Then it
was not quite so dark. Soon he stepped out of the narrow passageway
into a great cavern with a high-vaulted ceiling.
The light source was a mystery. He left no shadow on the floor. A
great crystal sphere hung from the ceiling, and he was curious about
its purpose, but a great pool of steaming water in the center of the
cavern drew his attention. He went close, to warm himself. A stone
wall surrounding the pool was inscribed with intricate art work and
indecipherable symbols.
Life. Intelligence. The planet was inhabited.
Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for
his people? Warming his hands there over the great steaming pool he
thought of Benjamin, and Straus, and Jamieson—all those to whom he had
given cylinders, and who were now struggling for life against those who
desired them.
He decided it would not be just, to give up so easily.
The wide plaza between the pool and cavern wall was smooth as polished
glass. Statues lined the wall. He examined them.
The unknown artist had been clever. From one angle they were animals,
from another birds, from a third they were vaguely humanoid creatures,
glowering at him with primitive ferocity. The fourth view was so
shocking he had to turn away quickly. No definable form or sculptured
line was visible, yet he felt, or saw—he did not know which senses
told him—the immeasurable gulf of a million years of painful
evolution. Then nothing. It was not a curtain drawn to prevent him from
seeing more.
There was no more.
He stumbled toward the pool's wall and clutched for support, but
his knees buckled. His hand slid down the wall, over the ancient
inscriptions. He sank to the floor. Before he lost consciousness he
wondered, fleetingly, if a lethal instrument was in the statue.
He woke with a ringing in his ears, feeling drugged and sluggish.
Sounds came to him. He opened his eyes.
The cavern was crowded. These creatures were not only humanoid, but
definitely human, although more slight of build than earth people. The
only difference he could see at first sight was that they had webbed
feet. All were dressed from the waist down only, in a shimmering skirt
that sparkled as they moved. They walked with the grace of ballet
dancers, moving about the plaza, conversing in a musical language with
no meaning for Stinson. The men were dark-skinned, the women somewhat
lighter, with long flowing hair, wide lips and a beauty that was
utterly sensual.
He was in chains! They were small chains, light weight, of a metal that
looked like aluminum. But all his strength could not break them.
They saw him struggling. Two of the men came over and spoke to him in
the musical language.
"My name is Stinson," he said, pointing to himself. "I'm from the
planet Earth."
They looked at each other and jabbered some more.
"Look," he said, "Earth. E-A-R-T-H, Earth." He pointed upward,
described a large circle, then another smaller, and showed how Earth
revolved around the sun.
One of the men poked him with a stick, or tube of some kind. It did not
hurt, but angered him. He left the chains by his own method of travel,
and reappeared behind the two men. They stared at the place where he
had been. The chains tinkled musically. He grasped the shoulder of the
offender, spun him around and slapped his face.
A cry of consternation rose from the group, echoing in the high
ceilinged cavern. "SBTL!" it said, "ZBTL ... XBTL ... zbtl."
The men instantly prostrated themselves before him. The one who had
poked Stinson with the stick rose, and handed it to him. Still angered,
Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his
head. As he did so, a flash of blue fire sprang from it. The man
disappeared. A small cloud of dust settled slowly to the floor.
Disintegrated!
Stinson's face drained pale, and suddenly, unaccountably, he was
ashamed because he had no clothes.
"I didn't mean to kill him!" he cried. "I was angry, and...."
Useless. They could not understand. For all he knew, they might think
he was threatening them. The object he had thought of as a stick was
in reality a long metal tube, precisely machined, with a small button
near one end.
This weapon was completely out of place in a culture such as this.
Or was it? What did he know of these people? Very little. They were
humanoid. They had exhibited human emotions of anger, fear and, that
most human of all characteristics, curiosity. But up to now the tube
and the chain was the only evidence of an advanced technology, unless
the ancient inscriptions in the stone wall of the pool, and the statues
lining the wall were evidences.
There was a stirring among the crowd. An object like a pallet was
brought, carried by four of the women. They laid it at his feet, and
gestured for him to sit. He touched it cautiously, then sat.
Instantly he sprang to his feet. There, at the cavern entrance, the
wind devil writhed and undulated in a brilliant harmony of colors. It
remained in one spot, though, and he relaxed somewhat.
One of the women came toward him, long golden hair flowing, firm
breasts dipping slightly at each step. Her eyes held a language all
their own, universal. She pressed her body against him and bore him to
the pallet, her kisses fire on his face.
Incongruously, he thought of Benjamin back on earth, and all the others
with cylinders, who might be fighting for their lives at this moment.
He pushed her roughly aside.
She spoke, and he understood! Her words were still the same gibberish,
but now he knew their meaning. Somehow he knew also that the wind devil
was responsible for his understanding.
"You do not want me?" she said sadly. "Then kill me."
"Why should I kill you?"
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "It is the way of the Gods," she
said. "If you do not, then the others will."
He took the tube-weapon in his hands, careful not to touch the button.
"Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to kill the man. It was an accident. I
will protect you."
She shook her head. "One day they will find me alone, and they'll kill
me."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I have not pleased you."
"On the contrary, you have. There is a time and place for everything,
though."
Suddenly a great voice sounded in the cavern, a voice with no
direction. It came from the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the steaming
pool. It was in the language of the web-footed people; it was in his
own tongue. "No harm must come to this woman. The God with fingers on
his feet has decreed this."
Those in the cavern looked at the woman with fear and respect. She
kissed Stinson's feet. Two of the men came and gave her a brilliant
new skirt. She smiled at him, and he thought he had never seen a more
beautiful face.
The great, bodiless voice sounded again, but those in the cavern went
about their activities. They did not hear.
"Who are you?"
Stinson looked at the wind devil, since it could be no one else
speaking, and pointed to himself. "Me?"
"Yes."
"I am Stinson, of the planet Earth."
"Yes, I see it in your mind, now. You want to live here, on this
planet."
"Then you must know where I came from, and how."
"I do not understand how. You have a body, a physical body composed
of atoms. It is impossible to move a physical body from one place to
another by a mere thought and a tiny instrument, yet you have done so.
You deserted me out in the desert."
"I deserted you?" Stinson cried angrily, "You tried to kill me!"
"I was attempting communication. Why should I kill you?"
He was silent a moment, looking at the people in the cavern. "Perhaps
because you feared I would become the God of these people in your
place."
Stinson felt a mental shrug. "It is of no importance. When they arrived
on this planet I attempted to explain that I was not a God, but the
primitive is not deeply buried in them. They soon resorted to emotion
rather than reason. It is of no importance."
"I'd hardly call them primitive, with such weapons."
"The tube is not of their technology. That is, they did not make
it directly. These are the undesirables, the incorrigibles, the
nonconformists from the sixth planet. I permit them here because it
occupies my time, to watch them evolve."
"You should live so long."
"Live?" the wind devil said. "Oh, I see your meaning. I'd almost
forgotten. You are a strange entity. You travel by a means even I
cannot fully understand, yet you speak of time as if some event
were about to take place. I believe you think of death. I see your
physical body has deteriorated since yesterday. Your body will cease to
exist, almost as soon as those of the sixth planet peoples. I am most
interested in you. You will bring your people, and live here."
"I haven't decided. There are these web-footed people, who were hostile
until they thought I was a God. They have destructive weapons. Also, I
don't understand you. I see you as a cone of sand which keeps changing
color and configuration. Is it your body? Where do you come from? Is
this planet populated with your kind?"
The wind devil hesitated.
"Where do I originate? It seems I have always been. You see this
cavern, the heated pool, the statues, the inscriptions. Half a million
years ago my people were as you. That is, they lived in physical
bodies. Our technology surpassed any you have seen. The tube these
webfoots use is a toy by comparison. Our scientists found the ultimate
nature of physical law. They learned to separate the mind from the
body. Then my people set a date. Our entire race was determined to free
itself from the confines of the body. The date came."
"What happened?"
"I do not know. I alone exist. I have searched all the levels of time
and matter from the very beginning. My people are gone. Sometimes it
almost comes to me, why they are gone. And this is contrary to the
greatest law of all—that an entity, once in existence, can never cease
to exist."
Stinson was silent, thinking of the endless years of searching through
the great gulf of time. His eyes caught sight of the woman, reclining
now on the pallet. The men had left her and stood in groups, talking,
glancing at him, apparently free of their awe and fear already.
The woman looked at him, and she was not smiling. "Please ask the Sand
God," she said, "to speak to my people again. Their fear of him does
not last. When He is gone they will probably kill us."
"As for the webfoots," the wind devil, or Sand God, said, "I will
destroy them. You and your people will have the entire planet."
"Destroy them?" Stinson asked, incredulously, "all these people? They
have a right to live like any one else."
"Right? What is it—'right?' They are entities. They exist, therefore
they always will. My people are the only entities who ever died. To
kill the body is unimportant."
"No. You misunderstand. Listen, you spoke of the greatest law. Your law
is a scientific hypothesis. It has to do with what comes after physical
existence, not with existence itself. The greatest law is this, that an
entity, once existing, must not be harmed in any way. To do so changes
the most basic structure of nature."
The Sand God did not reply. The great bodiless, directionless voice was
silent, and Stinson felt as if he had been taken from some high place
and set down in a dark canyon. The cone of sand was the color of wood
ashes. It pulsed erratically, like a great heart missing a beat now and
then. The web-footed people milled about restlessly. The woman's eyes
pleaded.
When he looked back, the Sand God was gone.
Instantly a new note rose in the cavern. The murmur of unmistakable mob
fury ran over the webfoots. Several of the men approached the woman
with hatred in their voices. He could not understand the words now.
But he understood her. "They'll kill me!" she cried.
Stinson pointed the disintegrating weapon at them and yelled. They
dropped back. "We'll have to get outside," he told her. "This mob will
soon get out of hand. Then the tube won't stop them. They will rush in.
I can't kill them all at once, even if I wanted to. And I don't."
Together they edged toward the cavern entrance, ran quickly up the
inclined passageway, and came out into crisp, cold air. The morning sun
was reflected from a million tiny mirrors on the rocks, the trees and
grass. A silver thaw during the night had covered the whole area with
a coating of ice. Stinson shivered. The woman handed him a skirt she
had thoughtfully brought along from the cavern. He took it, and they
ran down the slippery path leading away from the entrance. From the
hiding place behind a large rock they watched, as several web-footed
men emerged into the sunlight. They blinked, covered their eyes, and
jabbered musically among themselves. One slipped and fell on the ice.
They re-entered the cave.
Stinson donned the shimmering skirt, smiling as he did so. The others
should see him now. Benjamin and Straus and Jamieson. They would
laugh. And Ben's wife, Lisa, she would give her little-girl laugh, and
probably help him fasten the skirt. It had a string, like a tobacco
pouch, which was tied around the waist. It helped keep him warm.
He turned to the woman. "I don't know what I'll do with you, but now
that we're in trouble together, we may as well introduce ourselves. My
name is Stinson."
"I am Sybtl," she said.
"Syb-tl." He tried to imitate her musical pronunciation. "A very nice
name."
She smiled, then pointed to the cavern. "When the ice is gone, they
will come out and follow us."
"We'd better make tracks."
"No," she said, "we must run, and make no tracks."
"Okay, Sis," he said.
"Sis?"
"That means, sister."
"I am not your sister. I am your wife."
"
What?
"
"Yes. When a man protects a woman from harm, it is a sign to all that
she is his chosen. Otherwise, why not let her die? You are a strange
God."
"Listen, Sybtl," he said desperately, "I am not a God and you are not
my wife. Let's get that straight."
"But...."
"No buts. Right now we'd better get out of here."
He took her hand and they ran, slid, fell, picked themselves up again,
and ran. He doubted the wisdom of keeping her with him. Alone, the
webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot
he chose. But with Sybtl it was another matter; he was no better than
any other man, perhaps not so good as some because he was forty, and
never had been an athlete.
How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people,
hampered by a woman, slinking through a frozen wilderness like an
Indian? But the woman's hand was soft. He felt strong knowing she
depended on him.
Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the
ice. They were safe, unless the webfoots possessed talents unknown to
him.
So they followed the path leading down from the rocks, along the creek
with its tumbling water. Frozen, leafless willows clawed at their
bodies. The sun shone fiercely in a cloudless sky. Already water ran in
tiny rivulets over the ice. The woman steered him to the right, away
from the creek.
Stinson's bare feet were numb from walking on ice. Christ, he thought,
what am I doing here, anyway? He glanced down at Sybtl and remembered
the webfoots. He stopped, tempted to use his cylinder and move to a
warmer, less dangerous spot.
The woman pulled on his arm. "We must hurry!"
He clutched the tube-weapon. "How many shots in this thing?"
"Shots?"
"How often can I use it?"
"As often as you like. It is good for fifty years. Kaatr—he is the one
you destroyed—brought it from the ship when we came. Many times he has
used it unwisely."
"When did you come?"
"Ten years ago. I was a child."
"I thought only criminals were brought here."
She nodded. "Criminals, and their children."
"When will your people come again?"
She shook her head. "Never. They are no longer my people. They have
disowned us."
"And because of me even those in the cavern have disowned you."
Suddenly she stiffened beside him. There, directly in their path, stood
the Sand God. It was blood red now. It pulsed violently. The great
voice burst forth.
"Leave the woman!" it demanded angrily. "The webfoots are nearing your
position."
"I cannot leave her. She is helpless against them."
"What form of primitive stupidity are you practicing now? Leave, or
they will kill you."
Stinson shook his head.
The Sand God pulsed more violently than before. Ice melted in a wide
area around it. Brown, frozen grass burned to ashes.
"You will allow them to kill you, just to defend her life? What
business is it of yours if she lives or dies? My race discarded such
primitive logic long before it reached your level of development."
"Yes," Stinson said, "and your race no longer exists."
The Sand God became a sphere of blue flame. A wave of intense heat
drove them backward. "Earthman," the great voice said, "go back to your
Earth. Take your inconsistencies with you. Do not come here again to
infect my planet with your primitive ideas. The webfoots are not as
intelligent as you, but they are sane. If you bring your people here, I
shall destroy you all."
The sphere of blue fire screamed away across the frozen wilderness, and
the thunder of its passing shook the ground and echoed among the lonely
hills.
Sybtl shivered against his arm. "The Sand God is angry," she said. "My
people tell how he was angry once before, when we first came here. He
killed half of us and burned the ship that brought us. That is how
Kaatr got the tube-weapon. It was the only thing the Sand God didn't
burn, that and the skirts. Then, when he had burned the ship, the Sand
God went to the sixth planet and burned two of the largest cities, as a
warning that no more of us must come here."
Well, Stinson said to himself, that does it. We are better off on
Earth. We can't fight a monster like him.
Sybtl touched his arm. "Why did the Sand God come? He did not speak."
"He spoke to me."
"I did not hear."
"Yes, I know now. His voice sounds like thunder in the sky, but it is a
voice that speaks only in the mind. He said I must leave this planet."
She glanced at him with suddenly awakened eyes, as if thinking of it
for the first time. "Where is your ship?"
"I have no ship."
"Then he will kill you." She touched her fingers on his face. "I am
sorry. It was all for me."
"Don't worry. The Sand God travels without a ship, why shouldn't I?"
"Now?"
"As soon as you are safe. Come."
Steam rose from the burned area, charred like a rocket launching pit.
They stepped around it carefully. Stinson felt warm air, but there was
no time, now, to warm cold feet or dwell on the vagaries of Sand Gods.
Together they crossed the narrow valley. Sybtl led him toward a tall
mound of rock. Here they came to the creek again, which flowed into a
small canyon. They climbed the canyon wall. Far away, small figures
moved. The webfoots were on their trail.
She drew him into a small cave. It was heated, like the great cavern,
but held no walled pool nor mysterious lighting. But it was warm, and
the small entrance made an excellent vantage point for warding off
attack.
"They will not find us...."
A high-pitched keening burst suddenly around them. Stinson knew they
had heard, or felt the sound for some time, that now its frequency was
in an audible range.
"The Sand God," Sybtl said. "Sometimes he plays among the clouds. He
makes it rain in a dry summer, or sometimes warms the whole world
for days at a time in winter, so the snow melts and the grass begins
to green. Then he tires and lets winter come back again. He is the
loneliest God in the universe."
"What makes you think he's lonely?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I just know. But he's an angry God now.
See those clouds piling in the East? Soon they will hide the sun. Then
he will make them churn and boil, like river whirlpools in spring. At
least he does this when he plays. Who knows what he will do when he's
angry?"
"The Sand God isn't doing this," Stinson said. "It's only a storm."
She covered his lips with her fingers. "Don't say that. He may hear you
and be more angry."
"But it is, don't you see? You give him powers he does not possess."
Sybtl shook her head and stroked his face with her long, slim fingers.
"Poor little God-with-fingers-on-his-feet," she said. "You do not
understand. The Sand God is terrible, even when he plays. See the
lightning? It is blue. The lightning of a storm that comes by itself is
not blue. He is running around the world on feet like the rockets of
space ships, and when he strikes the clouds, blue fire shoots away."
The clouds continued to build on one another. Soon the blue flashes of
lightning extended across the sky from horizon to horizon. The earth
trembled. Sybtl moved closer, trembling also.
"He never did this before," she said. "He never made the earth shake
before."
Great boulders crashed down the canyon walls and dropped into the
creek. They dared not move from the cave, although death seemed certain
if they stayed.
"I'll leave for a moment," he said. "I'll be back soon."
"You're leaving?" There was panic in her voice.
"Only for a moment."
"And you won't come back. You will go to your world."
"No. I'll be back."
"Promise? No, don't promise. The promises of Gods often are forgotten
before the sounds die away."
"I'll be back."
He disappeared at once, giving her no chance to object again, and went
to the desert of sand, where he had first arrived on the planet. He
wanted to see if the storm were world-wide.
Stinson had never been in a sand storm before, even on Earth. He could
not breathe. He could not see. Bullets of sand stung his skin. Bullets
of sand shot into his eyes. Clouds of sand howled around him. He fell,
and the wind rolled him over and over in the sand like a tumbleweed.
The skirt flew up around his face. He could not get up again.
He returned to the cave.
Soon after, while they sat huddled together, watching the chaos of
tumbling rocks, lightning, and driving rain, the high-pitched keening
came again. A sphere of blue fire appeared in the east. Its brilliance
put the lightning to shame. It bore down on the cave swiftly,
purposefully. Stinson prepared himself to leave. In spite of his desire
to protect Sybtl, it was useless to get himself killed when he was
powerless to help her. But at the last moment it veered off.
"Fiend!" Stinson screamed the word, vaguely marvelling at his own fury.
The blue sphere turned and came back.
"Monster!"
Again.
"Murderer!"
"Adolescent!"
This time it kept going. The rain and wind ceased. Lightning stopped.
Thunder rumbled distantly. Clouds disappeared. Stinson and Sybtl
emerged from the cave.
There was no longer a question of attack from the webfoots, the storm
had taken care of that. The fierce sun began its work of drying rocks
and throwing shadows and coaxing life out into the open again. Down in
the canyon a bird sang, a lonely, cheerful twitter.
"The Sand God is tired," Sybtl said. "He is not angry now. I'm glad.
Perhaps he will let you stay."
"No. Even if he allowed it, I couldn't stay. My people could never live
here with a God who is half devil."
The cone of sand suddenly appeared. It stood in the canyon, its base
on a level with the cave. It was quiet. It was dull gray in color. It
exuded impressions of death, of hopeful words solemnly spoken over
lowered coffins, of cold earth and cold space, of dank, wet catacombs,
of creeping, crawling nether things.
The bird's twitter stopped abruptly.
"Earthman," the Sand God said, as if he were about to make a statement.
Stinson ignored him. He glanced down at Sybtl, who sensed that this was
a time for good-bys. He thought, perhaps I can stay here alone with
her. The webfoots might find us, or the Sand God might destroy us in
one of his fits, but it might be worth it.
"Don't go," she said. "Not yet."
"Earthman, hear me."
"I hear you."
"Why does your mind shrink backward?"
"I've decided not to bring my people here."
"
You
decided?"
"Certainly," Stinson said boldly. "Call it rationalization, if you
wish. You ordered us away; and I have several good reasons for not
coming here if the door was open."
"I've changed my mind. You will be welcomed."
"Listen to that, will you?" Stinson said angrily. "Just listen! You
set yourself up as a God for the webfoots. You get them eating out of
your hand. Then what do you do? You throw a fit. Yes, a fit! Like an
adolescent. Worse."
"Earthman, wait...."
"No!" Stinson shot back. "You've owned this planet for a million
years. You have brooded here alone since before my people discovered
fire, and in all those ages you never learned self-control. I can't
subject my people to the whims of an entity who throws a planetary fit
when it pleases him."
Stinson relaxed. He'd had his say. Sybtl trembled beside him. A small
mammal, round, furry, hopped by, sniffing inquisitively.
Sybtl said, "Is the Sand God happy?" She shook her head. "No, he is not
happy. He is old, old, old. I can feel it. My people say that when one
gets too old it is well to die. But Gods never die, do they? I would
not like to be a God."
"Stinson," the Sand God said. "You said I was adolescent. You are
correct. Do you remember I told you how my people, the entire race,
left their bodies at the same time? Do you imagine all of us were
adults?"
"I suppose not. Sounds reasonable. How old were you?"
"Chronologically, by our standards, I was nine years old."
"But you continued to develop after...."
"No."
Stinson tried to imagine it. At first there must have been a single
voice crying into a monstrous emptiness, "Mother, where are you?
MOTHER!
Where is
everyone
?" A frenzied searching of the planet,
the solar system, the galaxy. Then a returning to the planet. Empty....
Change. Buildings, roads, bridges weathering slowly. Such a race would
have built of durable metal. Durable? Centuries, eons passed. Buildings
crumbled to dust, dust blew away. Bridges eroded, fell, decomposed
into basic elements. The shape of constellations changed. All trace
of civilization passed except in the cavern of the heated pool.
Constellations disappeared, new patterns formed in the night sky. The
unutterably total void of time—FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS!
And a nine-year-old child brooding over an empty world.
"I don't understand why your development stopped," Stinson said.
"Nor do I. But perhaps ... well, I sense that I would continue, if you
brought your people here. You have already taught me the value of
life. There is a oneness, a bond that ties each living thing to every
other living thing. It is a lesson my people never knew. Select any
portion of this planet that suits you. Take the web-footed woman for
your wife. Have children. I promise never to harm you in any way."
"The webfoots?"
"You and they shall share the planet."
The Sand God disappeared. Sybtl said; "Is the Sand God angry again?"
"No, he is not angry."
"I'm glad. You will leave now?"
"No. This is my home."
She laughed softly. "You are a strange God."
"Listen," he said, "I am not a God. Get that through your head."
She drew him into the cave. Her lips were cool and sweet. The cave was
pleasantly warm.
|
train | 58733 | [
"What is Major Banes' opinion of Lt. Alice Britton's husband?",
"What is the importance of White Sands?",
"Why do the astronouts have to wait to talk to White Sands?",
"How does the relationship between Lt. Britton and Mj. Banes change over the course of the story?",
"What is the role of the British accent?",
"Why did Lt. Britton go into labor 7.5mo after becoming pregnant?",
"Why did Lt. Britton laugh at Major Banes' anxiety?",
"Which is not a reason Major Banes does not feel prepared to deliver a baby?",
"Which is not true about why a baby has to be delivered in a small room on the Station?",
"What does Lt. Britton think of her husband Jim?"
] | [
[
"He thinks highly of his ability but not about his personality",
"He thinks he's very skilled as a pilot and a great husband too",
"He doesn't think much of him at all",
"He thinks he's a talentless impulsive man who bought his way to his position"
],
[
"It's where the only doctors who can offer advice are stationed",
"It is where Lt. Britton's family lives",
"This is where Lt. Britton wants to start her family",
"It's where the base is that can send help"
],
[
"Some of their communication systems are down",
"They have to wait until they are in the right place in orbit to send a signal",
"It takes a couple of hours for a signal to get to Earth",
"They are waiting on a response from the base so they have more information"
],
[
"The tension between them increases as Major Banes becomes more frustrated at the situation",
"There is strong tension between them that does not subside",
"They become more cordial as they try to keep each other calm",
"Major Banes becomes more stressed about Lt. Britton throughout, though he is no longer angry"
],
[
"To comfort Lt. Britton when she is going into labor",
"To show Major Banes reverting to his natural accent when stressed",
"To call out the Brittons who Major Banes is angry with",
"To make a joke to relieve some stress"
],
[
"The environment of outer space speeds up the amount of time a baby needs to develop",
"She had to induce labor to time it right so that the would be safe",
"She needed to have the baby before she could return to Earth so she had to induce labor",
"An accident on board pushed labor to start early"
],
[
"The British accent he used as a coping mechanism sounded ridiculous",
"He had forgotten to order the simplest of supplies",
"She didn't think his worries were an actual problem",
"She already had the equipment he thought he was missing"
],
[
"He was not trained as a doctor",
"It was a surprise when Lt. Britton went into labor",
"His medical expertise was in other areas",
"He did not think he had all the proper equipment"
],
[
"It was the only space available for the delivery",
"The oxygen levels in the baby's environment had to be carefully controlled",
"Returning to Earth while pregnant would be too dangerous for the baby",
"The temperature in the med bay was not safe for the baby"
],
[
"She's frustrated with him for getting her pregnant when she'd be on the Station",
"She's disappointed that he can't be there for the delivery",
"She loves his dedication to his piloting",
"She is excited that he'll be on board as soon as he can"
]
] | [
1,
4,
2,
4,
4,
4,
3,
1,
1,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | SPATIAL DELIVERY
BY RANDALL GARRETT
Women on space station assignments
shouldn't get pregnant. But there's a first
time for everything. Here's the story of
such a time——and an historic situation.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
One thousand seventy-five miles above the wrinkled surface of Earth, a
woman was in pain.
There, high in the emptiness of space, Space Station One swung in its
orbit. Once every two hours, the artificial satellite looped completely
around the planet, watching what went on below. Outside its bright
steel hull was the silence of the interplanetary vacuum; inside, in the
hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her
bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away.
Major Banes looked at her and smiled a little. "How do you feel,
Lieutenant?"
She smiled back; she knew the pain wouldn't return for a few minutes
yet. "Fine, doctor. It's no worse than I was expecting. How long will
it before we can contact White Sands?"
The major looked nervously at his wristwatch. "Nearly an hour. You'll
be all right."
"Certainly," she agreed, running a hand through her brown hair, "I'll
be okay. Just you be on tap when I call."
The major's grin broadened. "You don't think I'd miss a historical
event like this, do you? You take it easy. We're over Eastern Europe
now, but as soon as we get within radio range of New Mexico, I'll beam
a call in." He paused, then repeated, "You just take it easy. Call the
nurse if anything happens." Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Banes was all smiles and cheer
now, but he hadn't been that way five months ago. She chuckled softly
to herself as she thought of his blistering speech.
"Lieutenant Britton, you're either careless or brainless; I don't
know which! Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the Space
Service, but that doesn't give him the right to come blasting up here
on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant!"
Alice had said: "I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, doctor. I
know it never entered mine."
"But that was two and a half months ago! Why didn't you come to
me before this? Of all the tom-fool—" His voice had died off in
suppressed anger.
"I didn't know," she had said stolidly. "You know my medical record."
"I know. I know." A puzzled frown had come over his face then, a frown
which almost hid the green eyes that contrasted so startlingly with the
flaming red of his hair. "The question is: what do we do next? We're
not equipped for obstetrics up here."
"Send me back down to Earth, of course."
And he had looked up at her scathingly. "Lieutenant Britton, it is
my personal opinion that you need your head examined, and not by a
general practitioner, either! Why, I wouldn't let you get into an
airplane, much less land on Earth in a rocket! If you think I'd permit
you to subject yourself to eight gravities of acceleration in a rocket
landing, you're daffy!"
She hadn't thought of it before, but the major was right. The terrible
pressure of a rocket landing would increase her effective body weight
to nearly half a ton; an adult human being couldn't take that sort of
punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within
her.
So she had stayed on in the Space Station, doing her job as always.
As Chief Radar Technician, she was important in the operation of the
station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable; the slow
rotation of the wheel-shaped station about its axis gave an effective
gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to
the hub she went, the less her weight became.
According to the major, the baby was due sometime around the first of
September. "Two hundred and eighty days," he had said. "Luckily, we can
pinpoint it almost exactly. And at a maximum of half of Earth gravity,
you shouldn't weigh more than seventy pounds then. You're to report to
me at least once a week, Lieutenant."
As the words went through her mind, another spasm of pain hit her, and
she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away, and
she took a deep breath.
Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago,
a meteor had hit the radar room. It had been only a tiny bit of rock,
no bigger than a twenty-two bullet, and it hadn't been traveling more
than ten miles per second, but it had managed to punch its way through
the shielding of the station.
The self-sealing walls had closed the tiny hole quickly, but even in
that short time, a lot of air had gone whistling out into the vacuum of
space.
The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been
enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early.
She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing
to worry about; she had absolute faith in the red-haired major.
The major himself was not so sure. He sat in his office, massaging his
fingertips and looking worriedly at the clock on the wall.
The Chief Nurse at a nearby desk took off her glasses and looked at him
speculatively. "Something wrong, doctor?"
"Incubator," he said, without taking his eyes off the clock.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an
incubator."
The nurse's eyes widened. "Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are
you going to do?"
"Right now, I can't do anything. I can't beam a radio message through
to the Earth. But as soon as we get within radio range of White Sands,
I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But—"
"But what?"
"Will we have time? The pains are coming pretty fast now. It will be at
least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us
on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that
long."
The Chief Nurse turned her eyes to the slowly moving second hand of the
wall clock. She could feel a lump in her throat.
Major Banes was in the Communications Center a full five minutes
before the coastline of California appeared on the curved horizon of
the globe beneath them. He had spent the hour typing out a complete
report of what had happened to Alice Britton and a list of what he
needed. He handed it to the teletype operator and paced the floor
impatiently as he waited for the answer.
When the receiver teletype began clacking softly, he leaned over the
page, waiting anxiously for every word.
WHITE SANDS ROCKET BASE 4 JULY 1984 0913 HRS URGENT TO: MAJ PETER
BANES (MC) 0-266118 SS-1 MEDICAL OFFICER FROM: GEN DAVID BARRETT
0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT NOW BEING COMPUTED FOR
RENDEZVOUS WITH SS-1 AS OF NEXT PASSAGE ABOVE USA. CAPT. JAMES
BRITTON PILOTING. MEDICS LOADING SHIP TWELVE WITH INCUBATOR AND OTHER
SUPPLIES. BASE OBSTETRICIAN LT COL GATES ALSO COMING TO ASSIST IN
DELIVERY. HANG ON. OVER.
Banes nodded and turned to the operator. "I want a direct open
telephone line to my office in case I have to get another message to
the base before we get out of range again."
He turned and left through the heavy door. Each room of the space
station was protected by airtight doors and individual heating units;
if some accident, such as a really large meteor hit, should release the
air from one room, nearby rooms would be safe.
Banes' next stop was the hospital ward.
Alice Britton was resting quietly, but there were lines of strain
around her eyes which hadn't been there an hour before.
"How's it coming, Lieutenant?"
She smiled, but another spasm hit her before she could answer. After a
time, she said: "I'm doing fine, but you look as if you'd been through
the mill. What's eating you?"
He forced a nervous smile. "Nothing but the responsibility. You're
going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the
first child born in space. And it's my job to see to it that you're
both all right."
She grinned. "Another Dr. Dafoe?"
"Something on that order, I suppose. But it won't be all my glory.
Colonel Gates, the O.B. man, was supposed to come up for the delivery
in September, so when White Sands contacted us, they said he was coming
immediately." He paused, and a genuine smile crossed his face. "Your
husband is bringing him up."
"Jim! Coming up here? Wonderful! But I'm afraid the colonel will be too
late. This isn't going to last that long."
Banes had to fight hard to keep his face smiling when she said that,
but he managed an easy nod. "We'll see. Don't hurry it, though. Let
nature take its course. I'm not such a glory hog that I'd not let Gates
have part of it—or all of it, for that matter. Relax and take it easy."
He went on talking, trying to keep the conversation light, but his eyes
kept wandering to his wristwatch, timing Alice's pain intervals. They
were coming too close together to suit him.
There was a faint rap, and the heavy airtight door swung open to admit
the Chief Nurse. "There's a message for you in your office, doctor.
I'll send a nurse in to be with her."
He nodded, then turned back to Alice. "Stiff uppah lip, and all that
sort of rot," he said in a phony British accent.
"Oh, raw
ther
, old chap," she grinned.
Back in his office, Banes picked up the teletype flimsy.
WHITE SANDS ROCKET BASE 4 JULY 1984 0928 HRS URGENT TO: MAJ PETER
BANES (MC) 0-266118 SS-1 MEDICAL OFFICER FROM: GEN DAVID BARRETT
0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT COMPUTED FOR RENDEZVOUS AT 1134
HRS MST. CAPT BRITTON SENDS PERSONAL TO LT BRITTON AS FOLLOWS: HOLD
THE FORT, BABY, THE WHOLE WORLD IS PRAYING FOR YOU. OUT.
Banes sat on the edge of his desk, pounding a fist into the palm of
his left hand. "Two hours. It isn't soon enough. She'll never hold out
that long. And we don't have an incubator." His voice was a clipped
monotone, timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist.
The Chief Nurse said: "Can't we build something that will do until the
rocket gets here?"
Banes looked at her, his face expressionless. "What would we build it
out of? There's not a spare piece of equipment in the station. It costs
money to ship material up here, you know. Anything not essential is
left on the ground."
The phone rang. Banes picked it up and identified himself.
The voice at the other end said: "This is Communications, Major. I tape
recorded all the monitor pickups from the Earth radio stations, and it
looks as though the Space Service has released the information to the
public. Lieutenant Britton's husband was right when he said the whole
world's praying for her. Do you want to hear the tapes?"
"Not now, but thanks for the information." He hung up and looked into
the Chief Nurse's eyes. "They've released the news to the public."
She frowned. "That really puts you on the spot. If the baby dies,
they'll blame you."
Banes slammed his fist to the desk. "Do you think I give a tinker's dam
about that? I'm interested in saving a life, not in worrying about what
people may think!"
"Yes, sir. I just thought—"
"Well, think about something useful! Think about how we're going to
save that baby!" He paused as he saw her eyes. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant.
My nerves are all raw, I guess. But, dammit, my field is space
medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things
like that, but I don't know anything about babies! I know what I read
in medical school, and I watched a delivery once, but that's all I
know. I don't even have any references up here; people aren't supposed
to go around having babies on a space station!"
"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?"
His laugh was hard and short. "Delivery room! I wish to Heaven we had
one! Prepare the ward room next to the one she's in now, I guess. It's
the best we have.
"So help me Hannah, I'm going to see some changes made in regulations!
A situation like this won't happen again!"
The nurse left quietly. She knew Banes wasn't really angry at the
Brittons; it was simply his way of letting off steam to ease the
tension within him.
The slow, monotonous rotation of the second hand on the wall clock
seemed to drag time grudgingly along with it. Banes wished he could
smoke to calm his raw nerves, but it was strictly against regulations.
Air was too precious to be used up by smoking. Every bit of air on
board had had to be carried up in rockets when the station was built
in space. The air purifiers in the hydroponics section could keep the
air fresh enough for breathing, but fire of any kind would overtax the
system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere.
It was a few minutes of ten when he decided he'd better get back to
Alice Britton. She was trying to read a book between spasms, but she
wasn't getting much read. She dropped it to the floor when he came in.
"Am I glad to see you! It won't be long now." She looked at him
analytically. "Say! Just what
is
eating you? You look more haggard
than I do!"
Again he tried to force a smile, but it didn't come off too well.
"Nothing serious. I just want to make sure everything comes out all
right."
She smiled. "It will. You're all set. You ordered the instruments
months ago. Or did you forget something?"
That hit home, but he just grinned feebly. "I forgot to get somebody to
boil water."
"Whatever for?"
"Coffee, of course. Didn't you know that? Papa always heats up the
water; that keeps him out of the way, and the doctor has coffee
afterwards."
Alice's hands grasped the sheet again, and Banes glanced at his watch.
Ninety seconds! It was long and hard.
When the pain had ebbed away, he said: "We've got the delivery room all
ready. It won't be much longer now."
"I'll say it won't! How about the incubator?"
There was a long pause. Finally, he said softly: "There isn't any
incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into
account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though; the ship is
bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive
until—"
He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant Britton! Alice! This is no time to get
hysterical! Stop it!"
Her laughter slowed to a chuckle. "
Me
get hysterical! That's a good
one! What about you? You're so nervous you couldn't sip water out of a
bathtub without spilling it!"
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
Another pain came, and he had to wait until it was over before he got
her answer. "Doctor," she said, "I thought you would have figured it
out. Ask yourself just one question. Ask yourself, 'Why is a space
station like an incubator?'"
Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven
thirty-four, and two men in spacesuits pushed a large, bulky package
through the airlock.
Major Peter Banes, haggard but smiling, met Captain Britton in the
corridor as he and the colonel entered the hospital ward.
Banes nodded to Colonel Gates, then turned to Britton. "I don't know
whether to congratulate you or take a poke at you, Captain, but I
suppose congratulations come first. Your son, James Edward Britton II,
is doing fine, thank you."
"You mean—
already
?"
The colonel said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow.
"Over an hour ago," said Banes.
"But—but—the incubator—"
Banes' grin widened. "We'll put the baby in it, now that we've got it,
but it really isn't necessary. Your wife figured that one out. A space
station is a kind of incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor,
weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do
was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and
put in extra oxygen from the emergency tanks. Young James is perfectly
comfortable."
"Excellent, Major!" said the colonel.
"Don't thank me. It was Captain Britton's wife who—"
But Captain Britton wasn't listening any more. He was headed toward his
wife's room at top speed.
|
train | 60291 | [
"Which of these is not true about the helmet the young boy wears?",
"What is the significance of the story's title?",
"What is not true about Dr. Melrose?",
"What is the significance of the conference that Dr. Lessing is invited to?",
"What is the significance of the idea of authority?",
"Why does Dr. Melrose think it is bad to have authority in their field? ",
"Which is the best representation of Dr. Lessing's worries about his book?",
"What is the best representation of the significance of the boy who falls sick at the end? "
] | [
[
"It is entirely made of plastic",
"He chose to wear it because he knows it's good for him",
"It is for the protection of adults as much as the boy",
"It makes him feel trapped while wearing it"
],
[
"It shows how disorganized Dr. Lessing is, and how his mind cannot stay on a single path",
"It signals the importance of outdoor activity for the development of the children being studied",
"It points to the confusion around the data and potential conclusions in this field of inquiry",
"It represents the environment of The Farm, where the special children live"
],
[
"He is curious to learn what others think about the issues in the field",
"He wants to try to teach the children to use their abilities",
"He is dedicated to the pursuit of true understanding of phenomena",
"He has no qualms about tearing down a fellow researcher"
],
[
"Invitations are the primary source of imposter syndrome for scientists in this field",
"It shows that Dr. Melrose has more control in the field that we realize ",
"It offers a chance for Dr. Lessing to get feedback on the parts of his theories he's not certain of",
"It serves as an opportunity for Dr. Lessing to publicize his book"
],
[
"It is the only way Dr. Lessing will get enough traction to publish his book",
"It is the only thing that drives Dr. Melrose and his goals",
"It is one of many concerns the scientists have surrounding their research",
"It is the deciding factor in who gets to speak at the major conference"
],
[
"The focus of maintaining authority in an area takes away the focus from the quality of work",
"People who have titles and recognition are assumed to be at their peak, and their work can only go downhill from there",
"It is too easy to disprove any of the conclusions they reach so there is no sense of a true authority that can be trusted",
"He thinks having particular authorities takes away the spotlight from potentially important younger researchers"
],
[
"He is anxious about the amount of time it will take to revise",
"He is concerned that having to back up his claims could keep him from being objective",
"He is having second thoughts about his qualifications to publish a volume like this",
"He is not sure how he will be able to publish the facts without including the confusing information about the boy"
],
[
"It shows that Dr. Melrose could have been right, because this is not consistent with Dr. Lessing's prior conclusions",
"The incident is proof that Dr. Lessing should give up on his work",
"It means Dr. Lessing's book needs another round of edits which will take a lot of time",
"It shows Dr. Melrose where the weak points in Dr. Lessing's work is"
]
] | [
2,
3,
2,
4,
3,
1,
2,
1
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
0
] | BRAMBLE BUSH
BY ALAN E. NOURSE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes.
And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main
He jumped into another bush and scratched them in again.
MOTHER GOOSE
Dr. David Lessing found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office
when he arrived at the Hoffman Center that morning. Dorffman looked as
though he'd been running all night. There were dark pouches under his
eyes; his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing
glanced sharply at his Field Director and sank down behind his desk
with a sigh. "All right, Jack—what's wrong?"
"This kid is driving me nuts," said Dorffman through clenched teeth.
"He's gone completely hay-wire. Nobody's been able to get near him
for three weeks, and now at six o'clock this morning he decides he's
leaving the Farm. I talk to him, I sweat him down, I do everything but
tie him to the bed, and I waste my time. He's leaving the Farm. Period."
"So you bring him down here," said Lessing sourly. "The worst place he
could be, if something's really wrong." He looked across at the boy.
"Tommy? Come over and sit down."
There was nothing singular about the boy's appearance. He was thin,
with a pale freckled face and the guileless expression of any normal
eight-year-old as he blinked across the desk at Lessing. The awkward
grey monitor-helmet concealed a shock of sandy hair. He sat with a mute
appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and
blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape.
The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear.
Lessing sat back slowly. "Tell me about it, Tommy," he said gently.
"I don't want to go back to the Farm," said the boy.
"Why?"
"I just don't. I hate it there."
"Are you frightened?"
The boy bit his lip and nodded slowly.
"Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?"
"No. Oh, no!"
"Then what?"
Again the mute appeal in the boy's eyes. He groped for words, and none
came. Finally he said, "If I could only take this off—" He fingered
the grey plastic helmet.
"You think
that
would make you feel better?"
"It would, I know it would."
Lessing shook his head. "I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the
monitor is for, don't you?"
"It stops things from going out."
"That's right. And it stops things from going in. It's an insulator.
You need it badly. It would hurt you a great deal if you took it off,
away from the Farm."
The boy fought back tears. "But I don't want to go back there—" The
fear-pattern was alive again on the tape. "I don't feel good there. I
never want to go back."
"Well, we'll see. You can stay here for a while." Lessing nodded at
Dorffman and stepped into an adjoining room with him. "You say this has
been going on for
three weeks
?"
"I'm afraid so. We thought it was just a temporary pattern—we see so
much of that up there."
"I know, I know." Lessing chewed his lip. "I don't like it. We'd better
set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I'm afraid
you'll have to set it up. I've got that young Melrose from Chicago to
deal with this morning—the one who's threatening to upset the whole
Conference next month with some crazy theories he's been playing with.
I'll probably have to take him out to the Farm to shut him up." Lessing
ran a hand through sparse grey hair. "See what you can do for the boy
downstairs."
"Full psi precautions?" asked Dorffman.
"Certainly! And Jack—in this case, be
sure
of it. If Tommy's in the
trouble I think he's in, we don't dare risk a chance of Adult Contact
now. We could end up with a dead boy on our hands."
Two letters were waiting on Lessing's desk that morning. The first was
from Roberts Bros., announcing another shift of deadline on the book,
and demanding the galley proofs two weeks earlier than scheduled.
Lessing groaned. As director of psionic research at the Hoffman Medical
Center, he had long since learned how administrative detail could suck
up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm—yet he
hadn't even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And now, as the book
approached publication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really
get back to work again.
The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the
International Psionics Conference:
Dear Dr. Lessing:
In recognition of your position as an authority on human Psionic
behavior patterns, we would be gratified to schedule you as principle
speaker at the Conference in Chicago on October 12th. A few remarks in
discussion of your forthcoming book would be entirely in order—
They were waiting for it, then! He ran the galley proofs into the
scanner excitedly. They knew he had something up his sleeve. His
earlier papers had only hinted at the direction he was going—but the
book would clear away the fog. He scanned the title page proudly. "A
Theory of Psionic Influence on Infant and Child Development." A good
title—concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right.
And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a
guide to the men who were floundering in the jungle of a strange and
baffling new science.
For they were floundering. When they were finally forced to recognize
that this great and powerful force did indeed exist in human minds,
with unimaginable potential if it could only be unlocked, they had
plunged eagerly into the search, and found themselves in a maddening
bramble bush of contradictions and chaos. Nothing worked, and
everything worked too well. They were trying to study phenomena which
made no sense, observing things that defied logic. Natural laws came
crashing down about their ears as they stood sadly by and watched
things happen which natural law said could never happen. They had never
been in this jungle before, nor in any jungle remotely like it. The
old rules didn't work here, the old methods of study failed. And the
more they struggled, the thicker and more impenetrable the bramble bush
became—
But now David Lessing had discovered a pathway through that jungle, a
theory to work by—
At his elbow the intercom buzzed. "A gentleman to see you," the girl
said. "A Dr. Melrose. He's very impatient, sir."
He shut off the scanner and said, "Send him in, please."
Dr. Peter Melrose was tall and thin, with jet black hair and dark
mocking eyes. He wore a threadbare sport coat and a slouch. He offered
Lessing a bony hand, then flung himself into a chair as he stared about
the office in awe.
"I'm really overwhelmed," he said after a moment. "Within the
stronghold of psionic research at last. And face to face with the
Master in the trembling flesh!"
Lessing frowned. "Dr. Melrose, I don't quite understand—"
"Oh, it's just that I'm impressed," the young man said airily. "Of
course, I've seen old dried-up Authorities before—but never before
a brand spanking new one, just fresh out of the pupa, so to speak!"
He touched his forehead in a gesture of reverence. "I bow before the
Oracle. Speak, oh Motah, live forever! Cast a pearl at my feet!"
"If you've come here to be insulting," Lessing said coldly, "you're
just wasting time." He reached for the intercom switch.
"I think you'd better wait before you do that," Melrose said sharply,
"because I'm planning to take you apart at the Conference next month
unless I like everything I see and hear down here today. And if you
don't think I can do it, you're in for quite a dumping."
Lessing sat back slowly. "Tell me—just what, exactly, do you want?"
"I want to hear this fairy tale you're about to publish in the name of
'Theory'," Melrose said. "I want to see this famous Farm of yours up in
Connecticut and see for myself how much pressure these experimental
controls you keep talking about will actually bear. But mostly, I want
to see just what in psionic hell you're so busy making yourself an
Authority about." There was no laughter in the man's sharp brown eyes.
"You couldn't touch me with a ten foot pole at this conference,"
snapped Lessing.
The other man grinned. "Try me! We shook you up a little bit last year,
but you didn't seem to get the idea."
"Last year was different." Lessing scowled. "As for our 'fairy tale',
we happen to have a staggering body of evidence that says that it's
true."
"If the papers you've already published are a preview, we think it's
false as Satan."
"And our controls are above suspicion."
"So far, we haven't found any way to set up logical controls," said
Melrose. "We've done a lot of work on it, too."
"Oh, yes—I've heard about your work. Not bad, really. A little
misdirected, is all."
"According to your Theory, that is."
"Wildly unorthodox approach to psionics—but at least you're energetic
enough."
"We haven't been energetic enough to find an orthodox approach that got
us anywhere. We doubt if you have, either. But maybe we're all wrong."
Melrose grinned unpleasantly. "We're not unreasonable, your Majesty. We
just ask to be shown. If you dare, that is."
Lessing slammed his fist down on the desk angrily. "Have you got the
day to take a trip?"
"I've got 'til New Year."
Lessing shouted for his girl. "Get Dorffman up here. We're going to the
Farm this afternoon."
The girl nodded, then hesitated. "But what about your lunch?"
"Bother lunch." He gave Melrose a sidelong glare. "We've got a guest
here who's got a lot of words he's going to eat for us...."
Ten minutes later they rode the elevator down to the transit levels
and boarded the little shuttle car in the terminal below the
Hoffman Center. They sat in silence as the car dipped down into the
rapid-transit channels beneath the great city, swinging northward in
the express circuit through Philadelphia and Camden sectors, surfacing
briefly in Trenton sector, then dropping underground once again for the
long pull beneath Newark, Manhattan and Westchester sectors. In less
than twenty minutes the car surfaced on a Parkway channel and buzzed
north and east through the verdant Connecticut countryside.
"What about Tommy?" Lessing asked Dorffman as the car sped along
through the afternoon sun.
"I just finished the prelims. He's not cooperating."
Lessing ground his teeth. "I should be running him now instead of
beating the bushes with this—" He broke off to glare at young Melrose.
Melrose grinned. "I've heard you have quite a place up here."
"It's—unconventional, at any rate," Lessing snapped.
"Well, that depends on your standards. Sounds like a country day
school, from what I've heard. According to your papers, you've even
used conventional statistical analysis on your data from up here."
"Until we had to throw it out. We discovered that what we were trying
to measure didn't make sense in a statistical analysis."
"Of course, you're sure you were measuring
something
."
"Oh, yes. We certainly were."
"Yet you said that you didn't know what."
"That's right," said Lessing. "We don't."
"And you don't know
why
your instruments measure whatever they're
measuring." The Chicago man's face was thoughtful. "In fact, you can't
really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at
all. It's not inconceivable that the
children
might be measuring the
instruments
, eh?"
Lessing blinked. "It's conceivable."
"Mmmm," said Melrose. "Sounds like a real firm foundation to build a
theory on."
"Why not?" Lessing growled. "It wouldn't be the first time the tail
wagged the dog. The psychiatrists never would have gotten out of their
rut if somebody hadn't gotten smart and realized that one of their new
drugs worked better in combatting schizophrenia when the doctor took
the medicine instead of the patient. That was quite a wall to climb."
"Yes, wasn't it," mused Melrose, scratching his bony jaw. "Only took
them seventy years to climb it, thanks to a certain man's theories.
I wonder how long it'll take psionics to crawl out of the pit you're
digging for it?"
"We're not digging any pit," Lessing exploded angrily. "We're
exploring—nothing more. A phenomenon exists. We've known that, one way
or another, for centuries. The fact that it doesn't seem to be bound by
the same sort of natural law we've observed elsewhere doesn't mean that
it isn't governed by natural law. But how can we define the law? How
can we define the limits of the phenomenon, for that matter? We can't
work in the dark forever—we've
got
to have a working hypothesis to
guide us."
"So you dreamed up this 'tadpole' idea," said Melrose sourly.
"For a working hypothesis—yes. We've known for a long time that every
human being has extrasensory potential to one degree or another. Not
just a few here and there—every single one. It's a differentiating
quality of the human mind. Just as the ability to think logically in a
crisis instead of giving way to panic is a differentiating quality."
"Fine," said Melrose. "Great. We can't
prove
that, of course, but
I'll play along."
Lessing glared at him. "When we began studying this psi-potential, we
found out some curious things. For one thing, it seemed to be immensely
more powerful and active in infants and children than in adults.
Somewhere along the line as a child grows up, something happens. We
don't know what. We do know that the child's psi-potential gradually
withdraws deeper and deeper into his mind, burying itself farther and
farther out of reach, just the way a tadpole's tail is absorbed deeper
and deeper into the growing frog until there just isn't any tail any
more." Lessing paused, packing tobacco into his pipe. "That's why we
have the Farm—to try to discover why. What forces that potential
underground? What buries it so deeply that adult human beings can't get
at it any more?"
"And you think you have an answer," said Melrose.
"We think we might be near an answer. We have a theory that explains
the available data."
The shuttle car bounced sharply as it left the highway automatics.
Dorffman took the controls. In a few moments they were skimming through
the high white gates of the Farm, slowing down at the entrance to a
long, low building.
"All right, young man—come along," said Lessing. "I think we can show
you our answer."
In the main office building they donned the close-fitting psionic
monitors required of all personnel at the Farm. They were of a
hard grey plastic material, with a network of wiring buried in the
substance, connected to a simple pocket-sized power source.
"The major problem," Lessing said, "has been to shield the children
from any external psionic stimuli, except those we wished to expose
them to. Our goal is a perfectly controlled psi environment. The
monitors are quite effective—a simple Renwick scrambler screen."
"It blocks off all types of psi activity?" asked Melrose.
"As far as we can measure, yes."
"Which may not be very far."
Jack Dorffman burst in: "What Dr. Lessing is saying is that they seem
effective for our purposes."
"But you don't know why," added Melrose.
"All right, we don't know why. Nobody knows why a Renwick screen
works—why blame us?" They were walking down the main corridor and out
through an open areaway. Behind the buildings was a broad playground. A
baseball game was in progress in one corner; across the field a group
of swings, slides, ring bars and other playground paraphernalia was in
heavy use. The place was teeming with youngsters, all shouting in a
fury of busy activity. Occasionally a helmeted supervisor hurried by;
one waved to them as she rescued a four-year-old from the parallel bars.
They crossed into the next building, where classes were in progress.
"Some of our children are here only briefly," Lessing explained as
they walked along, "and some have been here for years. We maintain a
top-ranking curriculum—your idea of a 'country day school' wasn't
so far afield at that—with scholarships supported by Hoffman Center
funds. Other children come to us—foundlings, desertees, children from
broken homes, children of all ages from infancy on. Sometimes they
stay until they have reached college age, or go on to jobs. As far as
psionics research is concerned, we are not trying to be teachers. We
are strictly observers. We try to place the youngsters in positions
where they can develope what potential they have—
without
the
presence of external psionic influences they would normally be subject
to. The results have been remarkable."
He led them into a long, narrow room with chairs and ash trays, facing
a wide grey glass wall. The room fell into darkness, and through the
grey glass they could see three children, about four years old, playing
in a large room.
"They're perfectly insulated from us," said Lessing. "A variety of
recording instruments are working. And before you ask, Dr. Melrose,
they are all empirical instruments, and they would all defy any
engineer's attempts to determine what makes them go. We don't know what
makes them go, and we don't care—they go. That's all we need. Like
that one, for instance—"
In the corner a flat screen was flickering, emitting a pale green
fluorescent light. It hung from the wall by two plastic rods which
penetrated into the children's room. There was no sign of a switch,
nor a power source. As the children moved about, the screen flickered.
Below it, a recording-tape clicked along in little spurts and starts of
activity.
"What are they doing?" Melrose asked after watching the children a few
moments.
"Those three seem to work as a team, somehow. Each one, individually,
had a fairly constant recordable psi potential of about seventeen on
the arbitrary scale we find useful here. Any two of them scale in at
thirty-four to thirty-six. Put the three together and they operate
somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred on the same scale."
Lessing smiled. "This is an isolated phenomenon—it doesn't hold for
any other three children on the Farm. Nor did we make any effort to
place them together—they drew each other like magnets. One of our
workers spent two weeks trying to find out why the instruments weren't
right. It wasn't the instruments, of course."
Lessing nodded to an attendant, and peered around at Melrose. "Now, I
want you to watch this very closely."
He opened a door and walked into the room with the children. The
fluorescent screen continued to flicker as the children ran to Lessing.
He inspected the block tower they were building, and stooped down to
talk to them, his lips moving soundlessly behind the observation wall.
The children laughed and jabbered, apparently intrigued by the game he
was proposing. He walked to the table and tapped the bottom block in
the tower with his thumb.
The tower quivered, and the screen blazed out with green light, but the
tower stood. Carefully Lessing jogged all the foundation blocks out of
place until the tower hung in midair, clearly unsupported. The children
watched it closely, and the foundation blocks inched still further out
of place....
Then, quite casually, Lessing lifted off his monitor. The children
continued staring at the tower as the screen gave three or four violent
bursts of green fire and went dark.
The block tower fell with a crash.
Moments later Lessing was back in the observation room, leaving the
children busily putting the tower back together. There was a little
smile on his lips as he saw Melrose's face. "Perhaps you're beginning
to see what I'm driving at," he said slowly.
"Yes," said Melrose. "I think I'm beginning to see." He scratched his
jaw. "You think that it's adult psi-contact that drives the child's
potential underground—that somehow adult contact acts like a damper, a
sort of colossal candle-snuffer."
"That's what I think," said Lessing.
"How do you know those children didn't make you take off your monitor?"
Lessing blinked. "Why should they?"
"Maybe they enjoy the crash when the blocks fall down."
"But that wouldn't make any difference, would it? The blocks still fall
down."
Melrose paced down the narrow room. "This is very good," he said
suddenly, his voice earnest. "You have fine facilities here, good
workers. And in spite of my flippancy, Dr. Lessing, I have never
imagined for a moment that you were not an acute observer and a
careful, highly imaginative worker. But suppose I told you, in perfect
faith, that we have data that flatly contradicts everything you've told
me today. Reproducible data, utterly incompatable with yours. What
would you say to that?"
"I'd say you were wrong," said Lessing. "You couldn't have such data.
According to the things I am certain are true, what you're saying is
sheer nonsense."
"And you'd express that opinion in a professional meeting?"
"I would."
"And as an Authority on psionic behavior patterns," said Melrose
slowly, "you would kill us then and there. You would strangle us
professionally, discredit anything we did, cut us off cold." The
tall man turned on him fiercely. "Are you blind, man? Can't you see
what danger you're in? If you publish your book now, you will become
an Authority in a field where the most devastating thing that could
possibly happen would be—
the appearance of an Authority
."
Lessing and Dorffman rode back to the Hoffman Center in grim silence.
At first Lessing pretended to work; finally he snapped off the tape
recorder in disgust and stared out the shuttle-car window. Melrose had
gone on to Idlewild to catch a jet back to Chicago. It was a relief to
see him go, Lessing thought, and tried to force the thin, angry man
firmly out of his mind. But somehow Melrose wouldn't force.
"Stop worrying about it," Dorffman urged. "He's a crackpot. He's
crawled way out on a limb, and now he's afraid your theory is going to
cut it off under him. Well, that's his worry, not yours." Dorffman's
face was intense. "Scientifically, you're on unshakeable ground. Every
great researcher has people like Melrose sniping at him. You just have
to throw them off and keep going."
Lessing shook his head. "Maybe. But this field of work is different
from any other, Jack. It doesn't follow the rules. Maybe scientific
grounds aren't right at all, in this case."
Dorffman snorted. "Surely there's nothing wrong with theorizing—"
"He wasn't objecting to the theory. He's afraid of what happens after
the theory."
"So it seems. But why?"
"Have you ever considered what makes a man an Authority?"
"He knows more about his field than anybody else does."
"He
seems
to, you mean. And therefore, anything he says about it
carries more weight than what anybody else says. Other workers follow
his lead. He developes ideas, formulates theories—and then
defends
them for all he's worth
."
"But why shouldn't he?"
"Because a man can't fight for his life and reputation and still keep
his objectivity," said Lessing. "And what if he just happens to be
wrong? Once he's an Authority the question of what's right and what's
wrong gets lost in the shuffle. It's
what he says
that counts."
"But we
know
you're right," Dorffman protested.
"Do we?"
"Of course we do! Look at our work! Look at what we've seen on the
Farm."
"Yes, I know." Lessing's voice was weary. "But first I think we'd
better look at Tommy Gilman, and the quicker we look, the better—"
A nurse greeted them as they stepped off the elevator. "We called
you at the Farm, but you'd already left. The boy—" She broke off
helplessly. "He's sick, Doctor. He's sicker than we ever imagined."
"What happened?"
"Nothing exactly—happened. I don't quite know how to describe it."
She hurried them down the corridor and opened a door into a large
children's playroom. "See what you think."
The boy sat stolidly in the corner of the room. He looked up as they
came in, but there was no flicker of recognition or pleasure on his
pale face. The monitor helmet was still on his head. He just sat there,
gripping a toy fire engine tightly in his hands.
Lessing crossed the room swiftly. "Tommy," he said.
The boy didn't even look at him. He stared stupidly at the fire engine.
"Tommy!" Lessing reached out for the toy. The boy drew back in terror,
clutching it to his chest. "Go away," he choked. "Go away, go away—"
When Lessing persisted the boy bent over swiftly and bit him hard on
the hand.
Lessing sat down on the table. "Tommy, listen to me." His voice was
gentle. "I won't try to take it again. I promise."
"Go away."
"Do you know who I am?"
Tommy's eyes shifted haltingly to Lessing's face. He nodded. "Go away."
"Why are you afraid, Tommy?"
"I hurt. My head hurts. I hurt all over. Go away."
"Why do you hurt?"
"I—can't get it—off," the boy said.
The monitor
, Lessing thought suddenly. Something had suddenly gone
horribly wrong—could the boy really be sensing the source of the
trouble? Lessing felt a cold knot gather in the pit of his stomach. He
knew what happened when adult psi-contact struck a psi-high youngster's
mind. He had seen it a hundred times at the Farm. But even more—he
had felt it in his own mind, bursting from the child. Like a violent
physical blow, the hate and fear and suspicion and cruelty buried and
repressed in the adult mind, crushing suddenly into the raw receptors
of the child's mind like a smothering fog—it was a fearful thing. A
healthy youngster could survive it, even though the scar remained. But
this youngster was sick—
And yet
an animal instinctively seeks its own protection
. With
trembling fingers Lessing reached out and opened the baffle-snap on the
monitor. "Take it off, Tommy," he whispered.
The boy blinked in amazement, and pulled the grey helmet from his head.
Lessing felt the familiar prickly feeling run down his scalp as the
boy stared at him. He could feel deep in his own mind the cold chill
of terror radiating from the boy. Then, suddenly, it began to fade. A
sense of warmth—peace and security and comfort—swept in as the fear
faded from the boy's face.
The fire engine clattered to the floor.
They analyzed the tapes later, punching the data cards with greatest
care, filing them through the machines for the basic processing and
classification that all their data underwent. It was late that night
when they had the report back in their hands.
Dorffman stared at it angrily. "It's obviously wrong," he grated. "It
doesn't fit. Dave, it doesn't agree with
anything
we've observed
before. There must be an error."
"Of course," said Lessing. "According to the theory. The theory says
that adult psi-contact is deadly to the growing child. It smothers
their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely.
We've proved that, haven't we? Time after time. Everything goes
according to the theory—except Tommy. But Tommy's psi-potential was
drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the
balance of his mind. Then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he
bloomed." Lessing sank down to his desk wearily. "What are we going to
do, Jack? Formulate a separate theory for Tommy?"
"Of course not," said Dorffman. "The instruments were wrong. Somehow we
misread the data—"
"Didn't you see his
face
?" Lessing burst out. "Didn't you see how he
acted
? What do you want with an instrument reading?" He shook his
head. "It's no good, Jack. Something different happened here, something
we'd never counted on. It's something the theory just doesn't allow
for."
They sat silently for a while. Then Dorffman said: "What are you going
to do?"
"I don't know," said Lessing. "Maybe when we fell into this bramble
bush we blinded ourselves with the urge to classify—to line everything
up in neat rows like pins in a paper. Maybe we were so blind we missed
the path altogether."
"But the book is due! The Conference speech—"
"I think we'll make some changes in the book," Lessing said slowly.
"It'll be costly—but it might even be fun. It's a pretty dry, logical
presentation of ideas, as it stands. Very austere and authoritarian.
But a few revisions could change all that—" He rubbed his hands
together thoughtfully. "How about it, Jack? Do we have nerve enough to
be laughed at? Do you think we could stand a little discredit, making
silly asses of ourselves? Because when I finish this book, we'll be
laughed out of existence. There won't be any Authority in psionics for
a while—and maybe that way one of the lads who's
really
sniffing out
the trail will get somebody to listen to him!
"Get a pad, get a pencil! We've got work to do. And when we finish, I
think we'll send a carbon copy out Chicago way. Might even persuade
that puppy out there to come here and work for me—"
|
train | 29196 | [
"Why is Lane flying over Newyork at the beginning? ",
"Which best describes the relationship between Lane and Colonel Klett?",
"What does the reader learn from Lane's inability to identify a flag he sees flying outside a tower?",
"Which is the most accurate description of the relationship between Gerri and Lane?",
"What is the goal of the analogue computer?",
"Which is the best description of Colonel Klett?",
"How did Lane eventually find the Mayor? ",
"Why does Lane want to go to Mars?"
] | [
[
"He intends to take over the city's government",
"His cybrain has malfunctioned and sent him to the city",
"He is on a mission assigned by Colonel Klett",
"He cracked after being trapped after combat and needed to get out"
],
[
"Lane relies on Klett when he can't make his own decisions independently",
"Lane despises Klett for working as a cog in the government's machine",
"They are friends and colleagues",
"Lane follows all of Klett's commands blindly"
],
[
"That he is colorblind",
"That he wants to abstain from political conversations",
"That he knows his city's flag but not those of other American cities",
"That he is not well-informed on general politics"
],
[
"Gerri becomes Lane's boss when he decides to go to Mars",
"Geri despises Lane for what he is and tricks him to get him out of the room",
"Gerri feels some kind of pity for Lane and tries to make him feel better",
"They connect instantly and eventually become lovers"
],
[
"To develop strategies for the Newyork Troopers in battle",
"To predict what a cybrain's actions will be to counteract it",
"To find an unexpected strategy against military forces",
"To develop improvements on the cybrains"
],
[
"He is ornery and a bit tempermental",
"He is sly and willing to accept authoritative responsibility",
"He is a liar and tricks Lane into helping him",
"He is paranoid and does not want to take risks"
],
[
"Gerri helped him plan his route",
"He had some clues from Gerri and the rest was instinct",
"The cybrain knew exactly where to go after he jumped",
"The Mayor had a flag indicating his room"
],
[
"To fulfill a mission he has been assigned",
"To follow Gerri Kin, for love",
"To have a chance to make his own decisions",
"To learn more about a place that is not the Armory"
]
] | [
4,
1,
4,
3,
2,
2,
2,
3
] | [
1,
1,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | MUTINEER
By ROBERT J. SHEA
For every weapon there was a defense, but not against
the deadliest weapon—man himself!
Raging
, Trooper Lane
hovered three thousand
feet above Tammany Square.
The cool cybrain surgically
implanted in him was working
on the problem. But Lane
had no more patience. They'd
sweat, he thought, hating the
chill air-currents that threw
his hovering body this way
and that. He glared down at
the three towers bordering on
the Square. He spat, and
watched the little white speck
fall, fall.
Lock me up in barracks.
All I wanted was a
little time off. Did I fight in
Chi for them? Damn right I
did. Just a little time off, so
I shouldn't blow my top. Now
the lid's gone.
He was going over all their
heads. He'd bowled those city
cops over like paper dolls,
back at the Armory. The
black dog was on Lane's back.
Old Mayor himself was going
to hear about it.
Why not? Ain't old Mayor
the CinC of the Newyork
Troopers?
The humming paragrav-paks
embedded beneath his
shoulder blades held him
motionless above Newyork's
three administrative towers.
Tammany Hall. Mayor's Palace.
Court House. Lane cursed
his stupidity. He hadn't found
out which one was which
ahead of time.
They keep
Troopers in the Armory and
teach them how to fight. They
don't teach them about their
own city, that they'll be fighting
for. There's no time. From
seven years old up, Troopers
have too much to learn about
fighting.
The Mayor was behind one
of those thousands of windows.
Old cybrain, a gift from the
Trooper surgeons, compliments
of the city, would have
to figure out which one. Blood
churned in his veins, nerves
shrieked with impatience.
Lane waited for the electronic
brain to come up with the answer.
Then his head jerked up, to
a distant buzz. There were
cops coming. Two black paragrav-boats
whirred along the
translucent underside of Newyork's
anti-missile force-shield,
the Shell.
Old cybrain better be fast.
Damn fast!
The cybrain jolted an impulse
through his spine. Lane
somersaulted. Cybrain had
taken charge of his motor
nerves. Lane's own mind was
just along for the ride.
His
body snapped into a
stiff dive position. He began
to plummet down, picking
up speed. His mailed hands
glittered like arrowheads out
in front. They pointed to a
particular window in one of
the towers. A predatory excitement
rippled through him
as he sailed down through the
air. It was like going into
battle again. A little red-white-and-green
flag fluttered
on a staff below the window.
Whose flag? The city flag was
orange and blue. He shrugged
away the problem. Cybrain
knew what it was doing.
The little finger of his right
hand vibrated in its metal
sheath. A pale vibray leaped
from the lensed fingertip.
Breakthrough! The glasstic
pane dissolved. Lane streamed
through the window.
The paragrav-paks cut off.
Lane dropped lightly to the
floor, inside the room, in battle-crouch.
A 3V set was yammering.
A girl screamed. Lane's
hand shot out automatically.
A finger vibrated. Out of the
corner of his eye, Lane saw
the girl fold to the floor. There
was no one else in the room.
Lane, still in a crouch, chewed
his lip.
The Mayor?
His head swung around and
he peered at the 3V set. He
saw his own face.
"Lashing police with his
vibray," said the announcer,
"Lane broke through the cordon
surrounding Manhattan
Armory. Two policemen were
killed, four others seriously
injured. Tammany Hall has
warned that this man is extremely
dangerous. Citizens
are cautioned to keep clear of
him. Lane is an insane killer.
He is armed with the latest
military weapons. A built-in
electronic brain controls his
reflexes—"
"At ease with that jazz,"
said Lane, and a sheathed finger
snapped out. There was a
loud bang. The 3V screen dissolved
into a puddle of glasstic.
The Mayor.
Lane strode to the window.
The two police boats were
hovering above the towers.
Lane's mailed hand snapped
open a pouch at his belt. He
flipped a fist-sized cube to the
floor.
The force-bomb "exploded"—swelled
or inflated, really,
but with the speed of a blast.
Lane glanced out the window.
A section of the energy globe
bellied out from above. It
shaded the view from his window
and re-entered the tower
wall just below.
Now the girl.
He turned back to the room.
"Wake up, outa-towner." He
gave the blonde girl a light
dose of the vibray to slap her
awake.
"Who are you?" she said,
shakily.
Lane grinned. "Trooper
Lane, of the Newyork Special
Troops, is all." He threw her
a mock salute. "You from
outa-town, girlie. I ain't seen
a Newyork girl with yellow
hair in years. Orange or
green is the action. Whatcha
doing in the Mayor's room?"
The
girl pushed herself to
her feet. Built, Lane saw.
She was pretty and clean-looking,
very out-of-town. She
held herself straight and her
blue-violet eyes snapped at
him.
"What the devil do you
think you're doing, soldier? I
am a diplomat of the Grassroots
Republic of Mars. This
is an embassy, if you know
what that means."
"I don't," said Lane, unconcerned.
"Well, you should have had
brains enough to honor the
flag outside this window.
That's the Martian flag, soldier.
If you've never heard of
diplomatic immunity, you'll
suffer for your ignorance."
Her large, dark eyes narrowed.
"Who sent you?"
"My cybrain sent me."
She went openmouthed.
"You're
Lane
."
"I'm the guy they told you
about on the 3V. Where's the
Mayor? Ain't this his place?"
"No. No, you're in the
wrong room. The wrong building.
That's the Mayor's suite
over there." She pointed. "See
where the balcony is? This is
the Embassy suite. If you
want the Mayor you'll have to
go over there."
"Whaddaya know," said
Lane. "Cybrain didn't know,
no more than me."
The girl noticed the dark
swell of the force-globe.
"What's that out there?"
"Force-screen. Nothing gets
past, except maybe a full-size
blaster-beam. Keeps cops out.
Keeps you in. You anybody
important?"
"I told you, I'm an ambassador.
From Mars. I'm on a
diplomatic mission."
"Yeah? Mars a big city?"
She stared at him, violet
eyes wide. "The
planet
Mars."
"Planet? Oh,
that
Mars.
Sure, I've heard of it—you
gotta go by spaceship. What's
your name?"
"Gerri Kin. Look, Lane,
holding me is no good. It'll
just get you in worse trouble.
What are you trying to do?"
"I wanna see the Mayor. Me
and my buddies, we just come
back from fighting in Chi,
Gerri. We won. They got a
new Mayor out there in Chi.
He takes orders from Newyork."
Gerri Kin said, "That's
what the force-domes did. The
perfect defense. But also the
road to the return to city-states.
Anarchy."
Lane said, "Yeah? Well, we
done what they wanted us to
do. We did the fighting for
them. So we come back home
to Newyork and they lock us
up in the Armory. Won't pay
us. Won't let us go nowhere.
They had cops guarding us.
City cops." Lane sneered. "I
busted out. I wanna see the
Mayor and find out why we
can't have time off. I don't
play games, Gerri. I go right
to the top."
Lane broke off. There was
a hum outside the window. He
whirled and stared out. The
rounded black hulls of the two
police paragrav-boats were
nosing toward the force-screen.
Lane could read the
white numbers painted on
their bows.
A loudspeaker shouted into
the room: "Come out of there,
Lane, or we'll blast you out."
"You can't," Lane called.
"This girl from Mars is here."
"I repeat, Lane—come out
or we'll blast you out."
Lane turned to the girl. "I
thought you were important."
She
stood there with her
hands together, calmly
looking at him. "I am. But
you are too, to them. Mars is
millions of miles away, and
you're right across the Square
from the Mayor's suite."
"Yeah, but—" Lane shook
his head and turned back to
the window. "All right, look!
Move them boats away and
I'll let this girl out!"
"No deal, Lane. We're coming
in." The police boats
backed away slowly, then shot
straight up, out of the line of
vision.
Lane looked down at the
Square. Far below, the long,
gleaming barrel of a blaster
cannon caught the dim light
filtering down through Newyork's
Shell. The cannon trundled
into the Square on its
olive-drab, box-shaped caterpillar
mounting and took up a
position equidistant from the
bases of the three towers.
Now a rumble of many
voices rose from below. Lane
stared down to see a large
crowd gathering in Tammany
Square. Sound trucks were
rolling to a stop around the
edges of the crowd. The people
were all looking up.
Lane looked across the
Square. The windows of the
tower opposite, the ones he
could see clearly, were crowded
with faces. There were
white dot faces on the balcony
that Gerri Kin had pointed
out as the Mayor's suite.
The voice of a 3V newscaster
rolled up from the Square,
reechoing against the tower
walls.
"Lane is holding the Martian
Ambassador, Gerri Kin,
hostage. You can see the Martian
tricolor behind his force-globe.
Police are bringing up
blaster cannon. Lane's defense
is a globe of energy
similar to the one which protects
Newyork from aerial attack."
Lane grinned back at Gerri
Kin. "Whole town's down
there." Then his grin faded.
Nice-looking, nice-talking girl
like this probably cared a lot
more about dying than he did.
Why the hell didn't they give
him a chance to let her out?
Maybe he could do it now.
Cybrain said no. It said the
second he dropped his force-screen,
they'd blast this room
to hell. Poor girl from Mars,
she didn't have a chance.
Gerri Kin put her hand to
her forehead. "Why did you
have to pick my room? Why
did they send me to this crazy
city? Private soldiers. Twenty
million people living under
a Shell like worms in a corpse.
Earth is sick and it's going to
kill me. What's going to happen?"
Lane looked sadly at her.
Only two kinds of girls ever
went near a Trooper—the
crazy ones and the ones the
city paid. Why did he have to
be so near getting killed when
he met one he liked? Now that
she was showing a little less
fear and anger, she was talking
straight to him. She was
good, but she wasn't acting as
if she was too good for him.
"They'll start shooting pretty
quick," said Lane. "I'm
sorry about you."
"I wish I could write a letter
to my parents," she said.
"What?"
"Didn't you understand
what I said?"
"What's a letter?"
"You don't know where
Mars is. You don't know what
a letter is. You probably can't
even read and write!"
Lane
shrugged. He carried
on the conversation disinterestedly,
professionally relaxed
before battle. "What's
these things I can't do? They
important?"
"Yes. The more I see of this
city and its people, the more
important I realize they are.
You know how to fight, don't
you? I'll bet you're perfect
with those weapons."
"Listen. They been training
me to fight since I was a little
kid. Why shouldn't I be a
great little fighter?"
"Specialization," said the
girl from Mars.
"What?"
"Specialization. Everyone
I've met in this city is a specialist.
SocioSpecs run the
government. TechnoSpecs run
the machinery. Troopers fight
the wars. And ninety per cent
of the people don't work at all
because they're not trained to
do anything."
"The Fans," said Lane.
"They got it soft. That's them
down there, come to watch the
fight."
"You know why you were
kept in the Armory, Lane? I
heard them talking about it,
at the dinner I went to last
night."
"Why?"
"Because they're afraid of
the Troopers. You men did too
good a job out in Chi. You are
the deadliest weapon that has
ever been made. You. Single
airborne infantrymen!"
Lane said, "They told us in
Trooper Academy that it's the
men that win the wars."
"Yes, but people had forgotten
it until the SocioSpecs of
Newyork came up with the
Troopers. Before the Troopers,
governments concentrated
on the big weapons, the
missiles, the bombs. And the
cities, with the Shells, were
safe from bombs. They learned
to be self-sufficient under
the Shells. They were so safe,
so isolated, that national governments
collapsed. But you
Troopers wiped out that feeling
of security, when you infiltrated
Chi and conquered
it."
"We scared them, huh?"
Gerri said, "You scared
them so much that they were
afraid to let you have a furlough
in the city when you
came back. Afraid you Troopers
would realize that you
could easily take over the city
if you wanted to. You scared
them so much that they'll let
me be killed. They'll actually
risk trouble with Mars just to
kill you."
"I'm sorry about you. I
mean it, I like—"
At that moment a titanic,
ear-splitting explosion hurled
him to the carpet, deafened
and blinded him.
He recovered and saw Gerri
a few feet away, dazed, groping
on hands and knees.
Lane jumped to the window,
looked quickly, sprang
back. Cybrain pumped orders
to his nervous system.
"Blaster cannon," he said.
"But just one. Gotcha, cybrain.
I can beat that."
He picked up the black box
that generated his protective
screen. Snapping it open with
thumb-pressure, he turned a
small dial. Then he waited.
Again an enormous, brain-shattering
concussion.
Again Lane and Gerri were
thrown to the floor. But this
time there was a second explosion
and a blinding flash
from below.
Lane laughed boyishly and
ran to the window.
"Look!" he called to Gerri.
There
was a huge gap in
the crowd below. The
pavement was blackened and
shattered to rubble. In and
around the open space
sprawled dozens of tiny black
figures, not moving.
"Backfire," said Lane. "I set
the screen to throw their
blaster beam right back at
them."
"And they knew you might—and
yet they let a crowd
congregate!"
Gerri reeled away from the
window, sick.
Lane said, "I can do that a
couple times more, but it
burns out the force-globe.
Then I'm dead."
He heard the 3V newscaster's
amplified voice: "—approximately
fifty killed. But
Lane is through now. He has
been able to outthink police
with the help of his cybrain.
Now police are feeding the
problem to their giant analogue
computer in the sub-basement
of the Court House.
The police analogue computer
will be able to outthink Lane's
cybrain, will predict Lane's
moves in advance. Four more
blaster cannon are coming
down Broadway—"
"Why don't they clear those
people out of the Square?"
Gerri cried.
"What? Oh, the Fans—nobody
clears them out." He
paused. "I got one more
chance to try." He raised a
mailed glove to his mouth and
pressed a small stud in the
wrist. He said, "Trooper HQ,
this is Lane."
A voice spoke in his helmet.
"Lane, this is Trooper
HQ. We figured you'd call."
"Get me Colonel Klett."
Thirty seconds passed. Lane
could hear the clank of caterpillar
treads as the mobile
blaster cannon rolled into
Tammany Square.
The voice of the commanding
officer of the Troopers
rasped into Lane's ear:
"Meat-head! You broke out
against my orders!
Now
look
at you!"
"I knew you didn't mean
them orders, sir."
"If you get out of there
alive, I'll hang you for disobeying
them!"
"Yes, sir. Sir, there's a girl
here—somebody important—from
Mars. You know, the
planet. Sir, she told me we
could take over the city if we
got loose. That right, sir?"
There was a pause. "Your
girl from Mars is right, Lane.
But it's too late now. If we
had moved first, captured the
city government, we might
have done it. But they're
ready for us. They'd chop us
down with blaster cannon."
"Sir, I'm asking for help. I
know you're on my side."
"I am, Lane." The voice of
Colonel Klett was lower. "I'd
never admit it if you had a
chance of getting out of there
alive. You've had it, son. I'd
only lose more men trying to
rescue you. When they feed
the data into that analogue
computer, you're finished."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sorry, Lane."
"Yes, sir. Over and out."
Lane pressed the stud on
his gauntlet again. He turned
to Gerri.
"You're okay. I wish I
could let you out. Old cybrain
says I can't. Says if I drop the
force-globe for a second,
they'll fire into the room, and
then we'll both be dead."
Gerri
stood with folded
arms and looked at him.
"Do what you have to do. As
far as I can see, you're the
only person in this city that
has even a little bit of right
on his side."
Lane laughed. "Any of them
purple-haired broads I know
would be crazy scared. You're
different."
"When my grandparents
landed on Mars, they found
out that selfishness was a luxury.
Martians can't afford
it."
Lane frowned with the effort
of thinking. "You said I
had a little right on my side.
That's a good feeling. Nobody
ever told me to feel that way
about myself before. It'll be
better to die knowing that."
"I know," she said.
The amplified voice from
below said, "The police analogue
computer is now hooked
directly to the controls of the
blaster cannon battery. It will
outguess Lane's cybrain and
check his moves ahead of
time."
Lane looked at Gerri. "How
about giving me a kiss before
they get us? Be nice if I kissed
a girl like you just once in
my life."
She smiled and walked forward.
"You deserve it, Lane."
He kissed her and it filled
him with longings for things
he couldn't name. Then he
stepped back and shook his
head. "It ain't right you
should get killed. If I take a
dive out that window, they
shoot at me, not in here."
"And kill you all the sooner."
"Better than getting burned
up in this lousy little room.
You also got right on your
side. There's too many damn
Troopers and not enough good
persons like you. Old cybrain
says stay here, but I don't
guess I will. I'm gonna pay
you back for that kiss."
"But you're safe in here!"
"Worry about yourself, not
about me." Lane picked up the
force-bomb and handed it to
her. "When I say now, press
this. Then take your hand off,
real fast. It'll shut off the
screen for a second."
He stepped up on to the
window ledge. Automatically,
the cybrain cut in his paragrav-paks.
"So long, outa-towner.
Now!
"
He jumped. He was hurtling
across the Square when the
blaster cannons opened up.
They weren't aimed at the
window where the little red-white-and-green
tricolor was
flying. But they weren't aimed
at Lane, either. They were
shooting wild.
Which way now? Looks
like I got a chance. Old cybrain
says fly right for the
cannons.
He saw the Mayor's balcony
ahead.
Go to hell, old cybrain.
I'm doing all right by myself.
I come to see the Mayor, and
I'm gonna see him.
Lane plunged forward. He
heard the shouts of frightened
men.
He swooped over the balcony
railing. A man was
pointing a blaster pistol at
him. There were five men
on the balcony—emergency!
Years of training and cybrain
took over. Lane's hand shot
out, fingers vibrating. As he
dropped to the balcony floor in
battle-crouch, the men slumped
around him.
He had seen the man with
the blaster pistol before. It
was the Mayor of Newyork.
Lane stood for a moment in
the midst of the sprawled
men, the shrieks of the crowd
floating up to him. Then he
raised his glove to his lips. He
made contact with Manhattan
Armory.
"Colonel Klett, sir. You
said if we captured the city
government we might have a
chance. Well, I captured the
city government. What do we
do with it now?"
Lane
was uncomfortable in
his dress uniform. First
there had been a ceremony in
Tammany Square inaugurating
Newyork's new Military
Protectorate, and honoring
Trooper Lane. Now there was
a formal dinner. Colonel Klett
and Gerri Kin sat on either
side of Lane.
Klett said, "Call me an opportunist
if you like, Miss
Kin, my government will be
stable, and Mars can negotiate
with it." He was a lean, sharp-featured
man with deep
grooves in his face, and gray
hair.
Gerri shook her head. "Recognition
for a new government
takes time. I'm going
back to Mars, and I think
they'll send another ambassador
next time. Nothing personal—I
just don't like it
here."
Lane said, "I'm going to
Mars, too."
"Did she ask you to?" demanded
Klett.
Lane shook his head. "She's
got too much class for me. But
I like what she told me about
Mars. It's healthy, like."
Klett frowned. "If I thought
there was a gram of talent involved
in your capture of the
Mayor, Lane, I'd never release
you from duty. But I
know better. You beat that
analogue computer by sheer
stupidity—by disregarding
your cybrain."
Lane said, "It wasn't so stupid
if it worked."
"That's what bothers me. It
calls for a revision in our tactics.
We've got a way of beating
those big computers now,
should anyone use them
against us."
"I just didn't want her to
be hurt."
"Exactly. The computer
could outguess a machine, like
your cybrain. But you introduced
a totally unpredictable
factor—human emotion.
Which proves what I, as a
military man, have always
maintained—that the deadliest
weapon in man's arsenal
is still, and will always be, the
individual soldier."
"What you just said there,
sir," said Lane. "That's why
I'm leaving Newyork."
"What do you mean?" asked
Colonel Klett.
"I'm tired of being a weapon,
sir. I want to be a human
being."
END
Work is the elimination of the traces of work.
—Michelangelo
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
If
July 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 99920 | [
"Which is true about managed systems?",
"What is the best representation of the author's view of human agency?",
"What is the connection between places of work and the government discussed in the article?",
"What is the role of the discussion of economic models?",
"Which is likely the mot direct benefit of Google employees getting a day each week to be creative?",
"What do Toyota and AT&T have in common? ",
"Which of the following would the author consider the most useful system to add to a company's structure?",
"Which is true about the role of trust in computing?"
] | [
[
"All of the actions in a process are performed by machines instead of humans",
"There are always computers that require outside permission for the users to perform tasks",
"There are clear team leaders but the rest of the hierarchy is more flexible",
"The communication and innovation is lower because the workers have less flexibility"
],
[
"Allowing human agency at specific points in a system allows it to be more flexible and adaptable",
"Systems should only have space for human agency for those who have provem themselves in leadership positions",
"Human agency should be allowed at all parts of a system, because it is only without structure that progress will be made",
"It is not necessary for systems in places of work to have room for human agency, because structure makes them more productive"
],
[
"The controlling governments show the same inclination towards fully-specified systems",
"The more free systems such as democracies show more space for innovation than totalitarian governments",
"The governments are in charge of the workplace systems so they are directly linked in any situation",
"Innovation is only found to arise in situations where the government does not control the workplace systems"
],
[
"Representing decisions with economic models only is not going to give the whole picture",
"The profit margin difference for Toyota versus older car companies can be easily explained",
"Tracking purchases of conoms over time can give an insight into other economic decisions",
"Economists have a strong idea of where the flexible points in a system need to be"
],
[
"Sparking their curiosity directly allows the workers to be more creative on their company-assigned tasks",
"This allows them to take breaks and be more productive when they return to their primary projects during the week",
"Allowing time for follow-up on side projects is an opportunity for innovation in areas where the company wasn't necessarily looking",
"They feel like they have vacations so they put more effort into their work because they are well-treated"
],
[
"They are examples of systems with different levels of control, more useful when contrasted than compared",
"They both have tried to establish loosely-coupled systems, to varying degrees of success",
"They are both run in newer, more flexible systems, with authority at edges of the system",
"They are both fading names in the tech world in contemporary times"
],
[
"A system that further specified job titles so that workers have a clearer sense of their responsibilities",
"A system that increases communication across parts of a company ",
"A system that gives employees opportunities to pursue college degrees when they're off the clock",
"A system that gives everyone detailed lists of tasks so that they can use their brainpower on side projects"
],
[
"Increased trust in computers and people is what allowed AT&T to rise in its day",
"Adding more types of computing system reflects an increase in the trust that higher-ups have in their employees to innovate",
"Adding more signposts for trust and approval in computing systems reflects a decrease in trust in their users",
"Increased trust in computers allows for more components of systems to be automated than before"
]
] | [
4,
1,
1,
1,
3,
1,
2,
3
] | [
1,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | COMPLEXITY AND HUMANITY
We have all seen the images. Volunteers pitching in. People working day
and night; coming up with the most ingenious, improvised solutions to
everything from food and shelter to communications and security. Working
together; patching up the fabric that is rent. Disaster, natural or
otherwise, is a breakdown of systems. For a time, chaos reigns. For a
time, what will happen in the next five minutes, five hours, and five
days is unknown. All we have to rely on are our wits, fortitude, and
common humanity
Contemporary life is not chaotic, in the colloquial sense we apply to
disaster zones. It is, however, complex and rapidly changing; much more
so than life was in the past; even the very near past. Life, of course,
was never simple. But the fact that day-to-day behaviors in Shenzhen and
Bangalore have direct and immediate effects on people from Wichita to
Strasbourg, from Rio de Janeiro to Sydney, or that unscrupulous lenders
and careless borrowers in the United States can upend economic
expectations everywhere else in the world, no matter how carefully
others have planned, means that there are many more moving parts that
affect each other. And from this scale of practical effects, complexity
emerges. New things too were ever under the sun; but the systematic
application of knowledge to the creation of new knowledge, innovation to
innovation, and information to making more information has become
pervasive; and with it the knowledge that next year will be very
different than this. The Web, after all, is less than a generation old.
These two features−the global scale of interdependence of human action,
and the systematic acceleration of innovation, make contemporary life a
bit like a slow motion disaster, in one important respect. Its very
unpredictability makes it unwise to build systems that take too much
away from what human beings do best: look, think, innovate, adapt,
discuss, learn, and repeat. That is why we have seen many more systems
take on a loose, human centric model in the last decade and a half: from
the radical divergence of Toyota’s production system from the highly
structured model put in place by Henry Ford, to the Internet’s radical
departure from the AT&T system that preceded it, and on to the way
Wikipedia constructs human knowledge on the fly, incrementally, in ways
that would have been seen, until recently, as too chaotic ever to work
(and are still seen so be many). But it is time we acknowledge that
systems work best by making work human.
Modern Times
Modern times were hard enough. Trains and planes, telegraph and
telephone, all brought many people into the same causal space. The
solution to this increased complexity in the late 19th, early 20th
century was to increase the role of structure and improve its design.
During the first two-thirds of the twentieth century, this type of
rationalization took the form of ever-more complex managed systems, with
crisp specification of roles, lines of authority, communication and
control.
In business, this rationalization was typified by Fredrick Taylor’s
Scientific Management, later embodied in Henry Ford’s assembly line. The
ambition of these approaches was to specify everything that needed doing
in minute detail, to enforce it through monitoring and rewards, and
later to build it into the very technology of work−the assembly line.
The idea was to eliminate human error and variability in the face of
change by removing thinking to the system, and thus neutralizing the
variability of the human beings who worked it. Few images captured that
time, and what it did to humanity, more vividly than Charlie Chaplin’s
assembly line worker in Modern Times.
At the same time, government experienced the rise of bureaucratization
and the administrative state. Nowhere was this done more brutally than
in the totalitarian states of mid-century. But the impulse to build
fully-specified systems, designed by experts, monitored and controlled
so as to limit human greed and error and to manage uncertainty, was
basic and widespread. It underlay the development of the enormously
successful state bureaucracies that responded to the Great Depression
with the New Deal. It took shape in the Marshall Plan to pull Europe out
of the material abyss into which it had been plunged by World War II,
and shepherded Japan’s industrial regeneration from it. In technical
systems too, we saw in mid-century marvels like the AT&T telephone
system and the IBM mainframe. For a moment in history, these large scale
managed systems were achieving efficiencies that seemed to overwhelm
competing models: from the Tennessee Valley Authority to Sputnik, from
Watson’s IBM to General Motors. Yet, to list these paragons from today’s
perspective is already to presage the demise of the belief in their
inevitable victory.
The increasing recognition of the limits of command-and-control systems
led to a new approach; but it turned out to be a retrenchment, not an
abandonment, of the goal of perfect rationalization of systems design,
which assumed much of the human away. What replaced planning and control
in these systems was the myth of perfect markets. This was achieved
through a hyper-simplification of human nature, wedded to mathematical
modeling of what hyper-simplified selfish rational actors, looking only
to their own interests, would do under diverse conditions. This approach
was widespread and influential; it still is. And yet it led to such
unforgettable gems as trying to understand why people do, or do not, use
condoms by writing sentences like: “The expected utility (EU) of unsafe
sex for m and for f is equal to the benefits (B) of unsafe sex minus its
expected costs, and is given by EUm = B - C(1-Pm)(Pf) and EUf = B -
C(1-Pf)(Pm),” and believing that you will learn anything useful about
lust and desire, recklessness and helplessness, or how to slow down the
transmission of AIDS. Only by concocting such a thin model of
humanity−no more than the economists’ utility curve−and neglecting any
complexities of social interactions that could not be conveyed through
prices, could the appearance of rationalization be maintained. Like
bureaucratic rationalization, perfect-market rationalization also had
successes. But, like its predecessor, its limits as an approach to human
systems design are becoming cleare
Work, Trust and Play
Pricing perfectly requires perfect information. And perfect information,
while always an illusion, has become an ever receding dream in a world
of constant, rapid change and complex global interactions. What we are
seeing instead is the rise of human systems that increasingly shy away
from either control or perfect pricing. Not that there isn’t control.
Not that there aren’t markets. And not that either of these approaches
to coordinating human action will disappear. But these managed systems
are becoming increasingly interlaced with looser structures, which
invite and enable more engaged human action by drawing on intrinsic
motivations and social relations. Dress codes and a culture of play in
the workplace in Silicon Valley, like the one day per week that Google
employees can use to play at whatever ideas they like, do not exist to
make the most innovative region in the United States a Ludic paradise,
gratifying employees at the expense of productivity, but rather to
engage the human and social in the pursuit of what is, in the long term,
the only core business competency−innovation. Wikipedia has eclipsed all
the commercial encyclopedias except Britannica not by issuing a large
IPO and hiring the smartest guys in the room, but by building an open
and inviting system that lets people learn together and pursue their
passion for knowledge, and each other’s company.
The set of human systems necessary for action in this complex,
unpredictable set of conditions, combining rationalization with human
agency, learning and adaptation, is as different from managed systems
and perfect markets as the new Toyota is from the old General Motors, or
as the Internet now is from AT&T then. The hallmarks of these newer
systems are: (a) location of authority and practical capacity to act at
the edges of the system, where potentialities for sensing the
environment, identifying opportunities and challenges to action and
acting upon them, are located; (b) an emphasis on the human: on trust,
cooperation, judgment and insight; (c) communication over the lifetime
of the interaction; and (d) loosely-coupled systems: systems in which
the regularities and dependencies among objects and processes are less
strictly associated with each other; where actions and interactions can
occur through multiple systems simultaneously, have room to fail,
maneuver, and be reoriented to fit changing conditions and new learning,
or shift from one system to another to achieve a solution.
Consider first of all the triumph of Toyota over the programs of Taylor
and Ford. Taylorism was typified by the ambition to measure and specify
all human and material elements of the production system. The ambition
of scientific management was to offer a single, integrated system where
all human variance (the source of slothful shirking and inept error)
could be isolated and controlled. Fordism took that ambition and
embedded the managerial knowledge in the technological platform of the
assembly line, guided by a multitude of rigid task specifications and
routines. Toyota Production System, by comparison, has a substantially
smaller number of roles that are also more loosely defined, with a
reliance on small teams where each team member can perform all tasks,
and who are encouraged to experiment, improve, fail, adapt, but above
all communicate. The system is built on trust and a cooperative dynamic.
The enterprise functions through a managerial control system, but also
through social cooperation mechanisms built around teamwork and trust.
However, even Toyota might be bested in this respect by the even more
loosely coupled networks of innovation and supply represented by
Taiwanese original-design manufacturers.
But let us also consider the system in question that has made this work
possible, the Internet, and compare it to the design principles of the
AT&T network in its heyday. Unlike the Internet, AT&T’s network was
fully managed. Mid-century, the company even retained ownership of the
phones at the endpoints, arguing that it needed to prohibit customers
from connecting unlicensed phones to the system (ostensibly to ensure
proper functioning of the networking and monitoring of customer
behavior, although it didn’t hurt either that this policy effectively
excluded competitors). This generated profit, but any substantial
technical innovations required the approval of management and a
re-engineering of the entire network. The Internet, on the other hand,
was designed to be as general as possible. The network hardware merely
delivers packets of data using standardized addressing information. The
hard processing work−manipulating a humanly-meaningful communication (a
letter or a song, a video or a software package) and breaking it up into
a stream of packets−was to be done by its edge devices, in this case
computers owned by users. This system allowed the breathtaking rate of
innovation that we have seen, while also creating certain
vulnerabilities in online security.
These vulnerabilities have led some to argue that a new system to manage
the Internet is needed. We see first of all that doubts about trust and
security on the Internet arise precisely because the network was
originally designed for people who could more-or-less trust each other,
and offloaded security from the network to the edges. As the network
grew and users diversified, trust (the practical belief that other human
agents in the system were competent and benign, or at least sincere)
declined. This decline was met with arguments in favor of building
security into the technical system, both at its core, in the network
elements themselves, and at its periphery, through “trusted computing.”
A “trusted computer” will, for example, not run a program or document
that its owner wants to run, unless it has received authorization from
some other locus: be it the copyright owner, the virus protection
company, or the employer. This is thought to be the most completely
effective means of preventing copyright infringement or system failure,
and preserving corporate security (these are the main reasons offered
for implementing such systems). Trusted computing in this form is the
ultimate reversal of the human-centric, loosely-coupled design approach
of the Internet. Instead of locating authority and capacity to act at
the endpoints, where human beings are located and can make decisions
about what is worthwhile, it implements the belief that
machines−technical systems−are trustworthy, while their human users are
malevolent, incompetent, or both.
Reintroducing the Human
Taylorism, the Bell system and trusted computing are all efforts to
remove human agency from action and replace it with well-designed,
tightly-bound systems. That is, the specifications and regularities of
the system are such that they control or direct action and learning over
time. Human agency, learning, communication and adaptation are minimized
in managed systems, if not eliminated, and the knowledge in the system
comes from the outside, from the designer, in the initial design over
time, and through observation of the system’s performance by someone
standing outside its constraints−a manager or systems designer. By
contrast, loosely-coupled systems affirmatively eschew this level of
control, and build in room for human agency, experimentation, failure,
communication, learning and adaptation. Loose-coupling is central to the
new systems. It is a feature of system design that leaves room for human
agency over time, only imperfectly constraining and enabling any given
action by the system itself. By creating such domains of human agency,
system designers are accepting the limitations of design and foresight,
and building in the possibilities of learning over time through action
in the system, by agents acting within
To deal with the new complexity of contemporary life we need to
re-introduce the human into the design of systems. We must put the soul
back into the system. If years of work on artificial intelligence have
taught us anything, it is that what makes for human insight is extremely
difficult to replicate or systematize. At the center of these new
systems, then, sits a human being who has a capacity to make judgments,
experiment, learn and adapt. But enabling human agency also provides
scope of action for human frailty. Although this idea is most alien to
the mainstream of system design in the twentieth century, we must now
turn our attention to building systems that support human sociality−our
ability to think of others and their needs, and to choose for ourselves
goals consistent with a broader social concern than merely our own
self-interest. The challenge of the near future is to build systems that
will allow us to be largely free to inquire, experiment, learn and
communicate, that will encourage us to cooperate, and that will avoid
the worst of what human beings are capable of, and elicit what is best.
Free software, Wikipedia, Creative Commons and the thousands of emerging
human practices of productive social cooperation in the networked
information economy give us real existence proofs that human-centric
systems can not merely exist, but thrive, as can the human beings and
social relations that make them.
|
train | 99924 | [
"What does the title BBB refer to?",
"Why does Open Access content not remove all barriers on the choice of the patron?",
"Which of these is not an expected impact of OA on academic inquiry?",
"How do authors benefit from open access?",
"Why is academic work considered low-hanging fruit?",
"What is the role of Budapest in open access generally?",
"Which of these has the least to gain from going open access as presented in this article?",
"Which is the most accurate representation of the relationship between authors and copyright issues in OA?",
"What is the relationship between conventional publishing and open access?"
] | [
[
"The type of certification a journal needs to be an OA venue",
"The Bureau in charge of decisions about OA",
"The cities where most of the early meetings were held",
"An organization beting developed to gather public opinion about OA"
],
[
"It was a term in the original Open Access agreements that they would start removing some barriers and move from there",
"It would be too difficult to remove all barriers given that most of this content is on the internet",
"It is not financially viable to cover all of the bases",
"It is important to retain proper citation practices"
],
[
"It shoud allow more open discussion of a wide variety of topics",
"More people will be able to pursue specialized knowledge that does not have a large target audience",
"There will be less of a reason for researchers to work only inside of popular trends",
"Scholars will be tempted to leave academia to pursue publishing options that they can make money from"
],
[
"There is potential for more citations because of the relative accessibility of the work",
"Papers get published faster in open-access journals",
"It is easier to get published in an open-access journal than one with a paywall",
"Readership could increase because open-access journals advertise more accessibly"
],
[
"It is easy to convince academics to do things for free",
"There are fewer potential revenue loss issues because authors still get money for open access work",
"There are no royalties to worry about ",
"It is a general expectation that academics make their work freely available anyway"
],
[
"Most of the scholars in this city tend to publish in OA journals, which means they have pull on the policies",
"It happens to be one city that hosted an early meeting about these issues",
"It is the location of the headquarters of the company that oversees OA publishing",
"Most of the decisions about OA policies are made in meetings hosted there"
],
[
"A short film producer looking to make a name for herself",
"An independently wealthy poet looking for people to read their work",
"A tenured faculty member wanting to publish their work on a very specialized topic",
"A graduate student in the sciences looking to publish their research"
],
[
"The authors have less control over what happens with their work",
"Authors do not want to publish in OA venues because of the constant legal battles",
"Publicly available content is more likely to be stolen and reproduced without permission",
"Authors do not lose any more rights to their work than they would publishing in more conventional venues"
],
[
"They tend to attract scholars of different disciplines, staying separate from one another",
"Conventional publishing is better for authors but open access is better for the readers",
"Many people interact with both, and each side is adapting over time to the needs of the readers and authors",
"Venues pick one or the other option and are classified as such"
]
] | [
3,
4,
4,
1,
3,
2,
1,
4,
3
] | [
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | What Is Open Access?
Shifting from ink on paper to digital text suddenly allows us to make perfect copies of our work. Shifting from isolated computers to a globe-spanning network of connected computers suddenly allows us to share perfect copies of our work with a worldwide audience at essentially no cost. About thirty years ago this kind of free global sharing became something new under the sun. Before that, it would have sounded like a quixotic dream.
Digital technologies have created more than one revolution. Let’s call this one the access revolution.
Why don’t more authors take advantage of the access revolution to reach more readers? The answer is pretty clear. Authors who share their works in this way aren’t selling them, and even authors with purposes higher than money depend on sales to make a living. Or at least they appreciate sales.
Let’s sharpen the question, then, by putting to one side authors who want to sell their work. We can even acknowledge that we’re putting aside the vast majority of authors.
Imagine a tribe of authors who write serious and useful work, and who follow a centuries-old custom of giving it away without charge. I don’t mean a group of rich authors who don’t need money. I mean a group of authors defined by their topics, genres, purposes, incentives, and institutional circumstances, not by their wealth. In fact, very few are wealthy. For now, it doesn’t matter who these authors are, how rare they are, what they write, or why they follow this peculiar custom. It’s enough to know that their employers pay them salaries, freeing them to give away their work, that they write for impact rather than money, and that they score career points when they make the kind of impact they hoped to make. Suppose that selling their work would actually harm their interests by shrinking their audience, reducing their impact, and distorting their professional goals by steering them toward popular topics and away from the specialized questions on which they are experts.
If authors like that exist, at least they should take advantage of the access revolution. The dream of global free access can be a reality for them, even if most other authors hope to earn royalties and feel obliged to sit out this particular revolution.
These lucky authors are scholars, and the works they customarily write and publish without payment are peer-reviewed articles in scholarly journals.
Open access
is the name of the revolutionary kind of access these authors, unencumbered by a motive of financial gain, are free to provide to their readers.
Open access (OA) literature is digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions.
We could call it “barrier-free” access, but that would emphasize the negative rather than the positive. In any case, we can be more specific about which access barriers OA removes.
A price tag
is a significant access barrier. Most works with price tags are individually affordable. But when a scholar needs to read or consult hundreds of works for one research project, or when a library must provide access for thousands of faculty and students working on tens of thousands of topics, and when the volume of new work grows explosively every year, price barriers become insurmountable. The resulting access gaps harm authors by limiting their audience and impact, harm readers by limiting what they can retrieve and read, and thereby harm research from both directions. OA removes price barriers.
Copyright
can also be a significant access barrier. If you have access to a work for reading but want to translate it into another language, distribute copies to colleagues, copy the text for mining with sophisticated software, or reformat it for reading with new technology, then you generally need the permission of the copyright holder. That makes sense when the author wants to sell the work and when the use you have in mind could undermine sales. But for research articles we’re generally talking about authors from the special tribe who want to share their work as widely as possible. Even these authors, however, tend to transfer their copyrights to intermediaries—publishers—who want to sell their work. As a result, users may be hampered in their research by barriers erected to serve intermediaries rather than authors. In addition, replacing user freedom with permission-seeking harms research authors by limiting the usefulness of their work, harms research readers by limiting the uses they may make of works even when they have access, and thereby harms research from both directions. OA removes these permission barriers.
Removing price barriers means that readers are not limited by their own ability to pay, or by the budgets of the institutions where they may have library privileges. Removing permission barriers means that scholars are free to use or reuse literature for scholarly purposes. These purposes include reading and searching, but also redistributing, translating, text mining, migrating to new media, long-term archiving, and innumerable new forms of research, analysis, and processing we haven’t yet imagined. OA makes work more useful in both ways, by making it available to more people who can put it to use, and by freeing those people to use and reuse it.
Terminology
When we need to, we can be more specific about access vehicles and access barriers. In the jargon, OA delivered by journals is called
gold OA
, and OA delivered by repositories is called
green OA
. Work that is not open access, or that is available only for a price, is called
toll access
(TA). Over the years I’ve asked publishers for a neutral, nonpejorative and nonhonorific term for toll-access publishers, and
conventional publishers
is the suggestion I hear most often. While every kind of OA removes price barriers, there are many different permission barriers we could remove if we wanted to. If we remove price barriers alone, we provide
gratis OA
, and if we remove at least some permission barriers as well, we provide
libre OA
. (Also see section 3.1 on green/gold and section 3.3 on gratis/libre.)
OA was defined in three influential public statements: the Budapest Open Access Initiative (February 2002), the Bethesda Statement on Open Access Publishing (June 2003), and the Berlin Declaration on Open Access to Knowledge in the Sciences and Humanities (October 2003).
I sometimes refer to their overlap or common ground as the BBB definition of OA. My definition here is the BBB definition reduced to its essential elements and refined with some post-BBB terminology (green, gold, gratis, libre) for speaking precisely about subspecies of OA. Here’s how the Budapest statement defined OA:
There are many degrees and kinds of wider and easier access to [research] literature. By “open access” to this literature, we mean its free availability on the public internet, permitting any users to read, download, copy, distribute, print, search, or link to the full texts of these articles, crawl them for indexing, pass them as data to software, or use them for any other lawful purpose, without financial, legal, or technical barriers other than those inseparable from gaining access to the internet itself. The only constraint on reproduction and distribution, and the only role for copyright in this domain, should be to give authors control over the integrity of their work and the right to be properly acknowledged and cited.
Here’s how the Bethesda and Berlin statements put it: For a work to be OA, the copyright holder must consent in advance to let users “copy, use, distribute, transmit and display the work publicly and to make and distribute derivative works, in any digital medium for any responsible purpose, subject to proper attribution of authorship.”
Note that all three legs of the BBB definition go beyond removing price barriers to removing permission barriers, or beyond gratis OA to libre OA. But at the same time, all three allow at least one limit on user freedom: an obligation to attribute the work to the author. The purpose of OA is to remove barriers to all legitimate scholarly uses for scholarly literature, but there’s no legitimate scholarly purpose in suppressing attribution to the texts we use. (That’s why my shorthand definition says that OA literature is free of “most” rather than “all” copyright and licensing restrictions.)
The basic idea of OA is simple: Make research literature available online without price barriers and without most permission barriers. Even the implementation is simple enough that the volume of peer-reviewed OA literature and the number of institutions providing it have grown at an increasing rate for more than a decade. If there are complexities, they lie in the transition from where we are now to a world in which OA is the default for new research. This is complicated because the major obstacles are not technical, legal, or economic, but cultural. (More in
chapter 9
on the future.)
In principle, any kind of digital content can be OA, since any digital content can be put online without price or permission barriers. Moreover, any kind of content can be digital: texts, data, images, audio, video, multimedia, and executable code. We can have OA music and movies, news and novels, sitcoms and software—and to different degrees we already do. But the term “open access” was coined by researchers trying to remove access barriers to research. The next section explains why.
1.1 What Makes OA Possible?
OA is made possible by the internet and copyright-holder consent. But why would a copyright holder consent to OA?
Two background facts suggest the answer. First, authors are the copyright holders for their work until or unless they transfer rights to someone else, such as a publisher.
Second, scholarly journals generally don’t pay authors for their research articles, which frees this special tribe of authors to consent to OA without losing revenue. This fact distinguishes scholars decisively from musicians and moviemakers, and even from most other kinds of authors. This is why controversies about OA to music and movies don’t carry over to OA for research articles.
Both facts are critical, but the second is nearly unknown outside the academic world. It’s not a new fact of academic life, arising from a recent economic downturn in the publishing industry. Nor is it a case of corporate exploitation of unworldly academics. Scholarly journals haven’t paid authors for their articles since the first scholarly journals, the
Philosophical Transactions
of the Royal Society of London and the
Journal des sçavans
, launched in London and Paris in 1665.
The academic custom to write research articles for impact rather than money may be a lucky accident that could have been otherwise. Or it may be a wise adaptation that would eventually evolve in any culture with a serious research subculture. (The optimist in me wants to believe the latter, but the evolution of copyright law taunts that optimism.) This peculiar custom does more than insulate cutting-edge research from the market and free scholars to consent to OA without losing revenue. It also supports academic freedom and the kinds of serious inquiry that advance knowledge. It frees researchers to challenge conventional wisdom and defend unpopular ideas, which are essential to academic freedom. At the same time it frees them to microspecialize and defend ideas of immediate interest to just a handful people in the world, which are essential to pushing the frontiers of knowledge.
This custom doesn’t guarantee that truth-seeking won’t be derailed by profit-seeking, and it doesn’t guarantee that we’ll eventually fill the smallest gaps in our collaborative understanding of the world. It doesn’t even guarantee that scholars won’t sometimes play for the crowd and detour into fad thinking. But it removes a major distraction by allowing them, if they wish, to focus on what is likely to be true rather than what is likely to sell. It’s a payment structure we need for good research itself, not just for good access to research, and it’s the key to the legal and economic lock that would otherwise shackle steps toward OA.
Creative people who live by royalties, such as novelists, musicians, and moviemakers, may consider this scholarly tradition a burden and sacrifice for scholars. We might even agree, provided we don’t overlook a few facts. First, it’s a sacrifice that scholars have been making for nearly 350 years. OA to research articles doesn’t depend on asking royalty-earning authors to give up their royalties. Second, academics have salaries from universities, freeing them to dive deeply into their research topics and publish specialized articles without market appeal. Many musicians and moviemakers might envy that freedom to disregard sales and popular taste. Third, academics receive other, less tangible rewards from their institutions—like promotion and tenure—when their research is recognized by others, accepted, cited, applied, and built upon.
It’s no accident that faculty who advance knowledge in their fields also advance their careers. Academics are passionate about certain topics, ideas, questions, inquiries, or disciplines. They feel lucky to have jobs in which they may pursue these passions and even luckier to be rewarded for pursuing them. Some focus single-mindedly on carrying an honest pebble to the pile of knowledge (as John Lange put it), having an impact on their field, or scooping others working on the same questions. Others focus strategically on building the case for promotion and tenure. But the two paths converge, which is not a fortuitous fact of nature but an engineered fact of life in the academy. As incentives for productivity, these intangible career benefits may be stronger for the average researcher than royalties are for the average novelist or musician. (In both domains, bountiful royalties for superstars tell us nothing about effective payment models for the long tail of less stellar professionals.)
There’s no sense in which research would be more free, efficient, or effective if academics took a more “businesslike” position, behaved more like musicians and moviemakers, abandoned their insulation from the market, and tied their income to the popularity of their ideas. Nonacademics who urge academics to come to their senses and demand royalties even for journal articles may be more naive about nonprofit research than academics are about for-profit business.
We can take this a step further. Scholars can afford to ignore sales because they have salaries and research grants to take the place of royalties. But why do universities pay salaries and why do funding agencies award grants? They do it to advance research and the range of public interests served by research. They don’t do it to earn profits from the results. They are all nonprofit. They certainly don’t do it to make scholarly writings into gifts to enrich publishers, especially when conventional publishers erect access barriers at the expense of research. Universities and funding agencies pay researchers to make their research into gifts to the public in the widest sense.
Public and private funding agencies are essentially public and private charities, funding research they regard as useful or beneficial. Universities have a public purpose as well, even when they are private institutions. We support the public institutions with public funds, and we support the private ones with tax exemptions for their property and tax deductions for their donors.
We’d have less knowledge, less academic freedom, and less OA if researchers worked for royalties and made their research articles into commodities rather than gifts. It should be no surprise, then, that more and more funding agencies and universities are adopting strong OA policies. Their mission to advance research leads them directly to logic of OA: With a few exceptions, such as classified research, research that is worth funding or facilitating is worth sharing with everyone who can make use of it. (See
chapter 4
on OA policies.)
Newcomers to OA often assume that OA helps readers and hurts authors, and that the reader side of the scholarly soul must beg the author side to make the necessary sacrifice. But OA benefits authors as well as readers. Authors want access to readers at least as much as readers want access to authors. All authors want to cultivate a larger audience and greater impact. Authors who work for royalties have reason to compromise and settle for the smaller audience of paying customers. But authors who aren’t paid for their writing have no reason to compromise.
It takes nothing away from a disinterested desire to advance knowledge to recognize that scholarly publication is accompanied by a strong interest in impact and career building. The result is a mix of interested and disinterested motives. The reasons to make work OA are essentially the same as the reasons to publish. Authors who make their work OA are always serving others but not always acting from altruism. In fact, the idea that OA depends on author altruism slows down OA progress by hiding the role of author self-interest.
Another aspect of author self-interest emerges from the well-documented phenomenon that OA articles are cited more often than non-OA articles, even when they are published in the same issue of the same journal. There’s growing evidence that OA articles are downloaded more often as well, and that journals converting to OA see a rise in their submissions and citation impact.
There are many hypotheses to explain the correlation between OA and increased citations, but it’s likely that ongoing studies will show that much of the correlation is simply due to the larger audience and heightened visibility provided by OA itself. When you enlarge the audience for an article, you also enlarge the subset of the audience that will later cite it, including professionals in the same field at institutions unable to afford subscription access. OA enlarges the potential audience, including the potential professional audience, far beyond that for even the most prestigious and popular subscription journals.
In any case, these studies bring a welcome note of author self-interest to the case for OA. OA is not a sacrifice for authors who write for impact rather than money. It increases a work’s visibility, retrievability, audience, usage, and citations, which all convert to career building. For publishing scholars, it would be a bargain even if it were costly, difficult, and time-consuming. But as we’ll see, it’s not costly, not difficult, and not time-consuming.
My colleague Stevan Harnad frequently compares research articles to advertisements. They advertise the author’s research. Try telling advertisers that they’re making a needless sacrifice by allowing people to read their ads without having to pay for the privilege. Advertisers give away their ads and even pay to place them where they might be seen. They do this to benefit themselves, and scholars have the same interest in sharing their message as widely as possible.
Because any content can be digital, and any digital content can be OA, OA needn’t be limited to royalty-free literature like research articles. Research articles are just ripe examples of low-hanging fruit. OA could extend to royalty-producing work like monographs, textbooks, novels, news, music, and movies. But as soon as we cross the line into OA for royalty-producing work, authors will either lose revenue or fear that they will lose revenue. Either way, they’ll be harder to persuade. But instead of concluding that royalty-producing work is off limits to OA, we should merely conclude that it’s higher-hanging fruit. In many cases we can still persuade royalty-earning authors to consent to OA. (See section 5.3 on OA for books.)
Authors of scholarly research articles aren’t the only players who work without pay in the production of research literature. In general, scholarly journals don’t pay editors or referees either. In general, editors and referees are paid salaries by universities to free them, like authors, to donate their time and labor to ensure the quality of new work appearing in scholarly journals. An important consequence follows. All the key players in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. OA needn’t dispense with peer review or favor unrefereed manuscripts over refereed articles. We can aim for the prize of OA to peer-reviewed scholarship. (See section 5.1 on peer review.)
Of course, conventional publishers are not as free as authors, editors, and referees to forgo revenue. This is a central fact in the transition to OA, and it explains why the interests of scholars and conventional publishers diverge more in the digital age than they diverged earlier. But not all publishers are conventional, and not all conventional publishers will carry print-era business models into the digital age.
Academic publishers are not monolithic. Some new ones were born OA and some older ones have completely converted to OA. Many provide OA to some of their work but not all of it. Some are experimenting with OA, and some are watching the experiments of others. Most allow green OA (through repositories) and a growing number offer at least some kind of gold OA (through journals). Some are supportive, some undecided, some opposed. Among the opposed, some have merely decided not to provide OA themselves, while others lobby actively against policies to encourage or require OA. Some oppose gold but not green OA, while others oppose green but not gold OA.
OA gains nothing and loses potential allies by blurring these distinctions. This variety reminds us (to paraphrase Tim O’Reilly) that OA doesn’t threaten publishing; it only threatens existing publishers who do not adapt.
A growing number of journal publishers have chosen business models allowing them to dispense with subscription revenue and offer OA. They have expenses but they also have revenue to cover their expenses. In fact, some OA publishers are for-profit and profitable. (See chapter 7 on economics.)
Moreover, peer review is done by dedicated volunteers who don’t care how a journal pays its bills, or even whether the journal is in the red or the black. If all peer-reviewed journals converted to OA overnight, the authors, editors, and referees would have the same incentives to participate in peer review that they had the day before. They needn’t stop offering their services, needn’t lower their standards, and needn’t make sacrifices they weren’t already making. They volunteer their time not because of a journal’s choice of business model but because of its contribution to research. They could carry on with solvent or insolvent subscription publishers, with solvent or insolvent OA publishers, or even without publishers.
The Budapest Open Access Initiative said in February 2002: “An old tradition and a new technology have converged to make possible an unprecedented public good. The old tradition is the willingness of scientists and scholars to publish the fruits of their research in scholarly journals without payment. . . . The new technology is the internet.”
To see what this willingness looks like without the medium to give it effect, look at scholarship in the age of print. Author gifts turned into publisher commodities, and access gaps for readers were harmfully large and widespread. (Access gaps are still harmfully large and widespread, but only because OA is not yet the default for new research.) To see what the medium looks like without the willingness, look at music and movies in the age of the internet. The need for royalties keeps creators from reaching everyone who would enjoy their work.
A beautiful opportunity exists where the willingness and the medium overlap. A scholarly custom that evolved in the seventeenth century frees scholars to take advantage of the access revolution in the twentieth and twenty-first. Because scholars are nearly unique in following this custom, they are nearly unique in their freedom to take advantage of this revolution without financial risk. In this sense, the planets have aligned for scholars. Most other authors are constrained to fear rather than seize the opportunities created by the internet.
1.2 What OA Is Not
We can dispel a cloud of objections and misunderstandings simply by pointing out a few things that OA is not. (Many of these points will be elaborated in later chapters.)
OA isn’t an attempt to bypass peer review. OA is compatible with every kind of peer review, from the most conservative to the most innovative, and all the major public statements on OA insist on its importance. Because scholarly journals generally don’t pay peer-reviewing editors and referees, just as they don’t pay authors, all the participants in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. While OA to unrefereed preprints is useful and widespread, the OA movement isn’t limited to unrefereed preprints and, if anything, focuses on OA to peer-reviewed articles. (More in section 5.1 on peer review.)
OA isn’t an attempt to reform, violate, or abolish copyright. It’s compatible with copyright law as it is. OA would benefit from the right kinds of copyright reforms, and many dedicated people are working on them. But it needn’t wait for reforms and hasn’t waited. OA literature avoids copyright problems in exactly the same way that conventional toll-access literature does. For older works, it takes advantage of the public domain, and for newer works, it rests on copyright-holder consent. (More in chapter 4 on policies and chapter 6 on copyright.)
OA isn’t an attempt to deprive royalty-earning authors of income. The OA movement focuses on research articles precisely because they don’t pay royalties. In any case, inside and outside that focus, OA for copyrighted work depends on copyright-holder consent. Hence, royalty-earning authors have nothing to fear but persuasion that the benefits of OA might outweigh the risks to royalties. (More in section 5.3 on OA for books.)
OA isn’t an attempt to deny the reality of costs. No serious OA advocate has ever argued that OA literature is costless to produce, although many argue that it is less expensive to produce than conventionally published literature, even less expensive than born-digital toll-access literature. The question is not whether research literature can be made costless, but whether there are better ways to pay the bills than charging readers and creating access barriers. (More in chapter 7 on economics.)
Terminology
We could talk about vigilante OA, infringing OA, piratical OA, or OA without consent. That sort of OA could violate copyrights and deprive royalty-earning authors of royalties against their will. But we could also talk about vigilante publishing, infringing publishing, piratical publishing, or publishing without consent. Both happen. However, we generally reserve the term “publishing” for lawful publishing, and tack on special adjectives to describe unlawful variations on the theme. Likewise, I’ll reserve the term “open access” for lawful OA that carries the consent of the relevant rightsholder.
OA isn’t an attempt to reduce authors’ rights over their work. On the contrary, OA depends on author decisions and requires authors to exercise more rights or control over their work than they are allowed to exercise under traditional publishing contracts. One OA strategy is for authors to retain some of the rights they formerly gave publishers, including the right to authorize OA. Another OA strategy is for publishers to permit more uses than they formerly permitted, including permission for authors to make OA copies of their work. By contrast, traditional journal-publishing contracts demand that authors transfer all rights to publishers, and author rights or control cannot sink lower than that. (See chapters
4
on policies and
6
on copyright.)
OA isn’t an attempt to reduce academic freedom. Academic authors remain free to submit their work to the journals or publishers of their choice. Policies requiring OA do so conditionally, for example, for researchers who choose to apply for a certain kind of grant. In addition, these policies generally build in exceptions, waiver options, or both. Since 2008 most university OA policies have been adopted by faculty deeply concerned to preserve and even enhance their prerogatives. (See
chapter 4
on OA policies.)
OA isn’t an attempt to relax rules against plagiarism. All the public definitions of OA support author attribution, even construed as a “restriction” on users. All the major open licenses require author attribution. Moreover, plagiarism is typically punished by the plagiarist’s institution rather than by courts, that is, by social norms rather than by law. Hence, even when attribution is not legally required, plagiarism is still a punishable offense and no OA policy anywhere interferes with those punishments. In any case, if making literature digital and online makes plagiarism easier to commit, then OA makes plagiarism easier to detect. Not all plagiarists are smart, but the smart ones will not steal from OA sources indexed in every search engine. In this sense, OA deters plagiarism.
OA isn’t an attempt to punish or undermine conventional publishers. OA is an attempt to advance the interests of research, researchers, and research institutions. The goal is constructive, not destructive. If OA does eventually harm toll-access publishers, it will be in the way that personal computers harmed typewriter manufacturers. The harm was not the goal, but a side effect of developing something better. Moreover, OA doesn’t challenge publishers or publishing per se, just one business model for publishing, and it’s far easier for conventional publishers to adapt to OA than for typewriter manufacturers to adapt to computers. In fact, most toll-access publishers are already adapting, by allowing author-initiated OA, providing some OA themselves, or experimenting with OA. (See section 3.1 on green OA and chapter 8 on casualties.)
OA doesn’t require boycotting any kind of literature or publisher. It doesn’t require boycotting toll-access research any more than free online journalism requires boycotting priced online journalism. OA doesn’t require us to strike toll-access literature from our personal reading lists, course syllabi, or libraries. Some scholars who support OA decide to submit new work only to OA journals, or to donate their time as editors or referees only to OA journals, in effect boycotting toll-access journals as authors, editors, and referees. But this choice is not forced by the definition of OA, by a commitment to OA, or by any OA policy, and most scholars who support OA continue to work with toll-access journals. In any case, even those scholars who do boycott toll-access journals as authors, editors, or referees don’t boycott them as readers. (Here we needn’t get into the complexity that some toll-access journals effectively create involuntary reader boycotts by pricing their journals out of reach of readers who want access.)
OA isn’t primarily about bringing access to lay readers. If anything, the OA movement focuses on bringing access to professional researchers whose careers depend on access. But there’s no need to decide which users are primary and which are secondary. The publishing lobby sometimes argues that the primary beneficiaries of OA are lay readers, perhaps to avoid acknowledging how many professional researchers lack access, or perhaps to set up the patronizing counter-argument that lay people don’t care to read research literature and wouldn’t understand it if they tried. OA is about bringing access to everyone with an internet connection who wants access, regardless of their professions or purposes. There’s no doubt that if we put “professional researchers” and “everyone else” into separate categories, a higher percentage of researchers will want access to research literature, even after taking into account that many already have paid access through their institutions. But it’s far from clear why that would matter, especially when providing OA to all internet users is cheaper and simpler than providing OA to just a subset of worthy internet users.
If party-goers in New York and New Jersey can both enjoy the Fourth of July fireworks in New York Harbor, then the sponsors needn’t decide that one group is primary, even if a simple study could show which group is more numerous. If this analogy breaks down, it’s because New Jersey residents who can’t see the fireworks gain nothing from New Yorkers who can. But research does offer this double or indirect benefit. When OA research directly benefits many lay readers, so much the better. But when it doesn’t, it still benefits everyone indirectly by benefiting researchers directly. (Also see section 5.5.1 on access for lay readers.)
Finally, OA isn’t universal access. Even when we succeed at removing price and permission barriers, four other kinds of access barrier might remain in place:
Filtering and censorship barriers
Many schools, employers, ISPs, and governments want to limit what users can see.
Language barriers
Most online literature is in English, or another single language, and machine translation is still very weak.
Handicap access barriers
Most web sites are not yet as accessible to handicapped users as they should be.
Connectivity barriers
The digital divide keeps billions of people offline, including millions of scholars, and impedes millions of others with slow, flaky, or low-bandwidth internet connections.
Most us want to remove all four of these barriers. But there’s no reason to save the term
open access
until we succeed. In the long climb to universal access, removing price and permission barriers is a significant plateau worth recognizing with a special name.
|
train | 99910 | [
"What is the purpose of the example of pianos in Greence?",
"What is meant by the invention of currency?",
"What is the best description of why the Scottish will not develop their own money?",
"Which is true about the various types of local currency?",
"How do shopkeepers feel about the complementary currencies?",
"How are the various local currencies connected?",
"Which of these is most true?",
"Which of these is not a barrier to the success of a complementary currency? "
] | [
[
"To show that valuable things are appreciated everywhere",
"To show how paper currency is not the only way of paying for something",
"To show how much more expensive luxury goods can be",
"To show a move away from contemporary currency towards a more traditional approach"
],
[
"The power of the people to determine what has monetary worth",
"The creation of new machines to produce the bills and coins",
"New designs being chosen to better represent the people",
"The switch to a traditional bartering system"
],
[
"They are not able to develop their own money because they do not have the printing resources",
"Only the politicians wanted a new system, the people all vote against the idea",
"The idea has some traction but is less of a priority than some other political issues",
"None of them have any interest in the idea"
],
[
"They are used in addition to the national currency, not as a replacement",
"They often try to replace the national currency to varying levels of success",
"Only some of them are considered legal by the national government",
"They are too hard to spend and thus the national currencies are always favored"
],
[
"They think it is worth tracking two sets of currency so they can advertise as a locally-focused business",
"They are happy to use anything that isn't the official British Pound",
"Only owners of small shops are willing to buy into it",
"Some see that it can help local business but others are skeptical"
],
[
"They are independnet systems but can sometimes be traded for currency in a town where there is an existing partnership",
"They are developed entirely independently from one another",
"They are all developed by the same national organization, adapting to the needs of specific areas",
"They are independently developed but there are groups dedicated to sharing information about the various systems"
],
[
"Local currencies as complementary systems will never be sustainable in the UK",
"People developing these currencies are looking to exhibit control over small populations of people",
"Bitcoin is likely going to replace these local currencies as the alternative currency",
"Success of these currencies can be loosely predicted based on the relative wealth of an area"
],
[
"The income levels of the populations using the currency",
"The misinformation and confusion surrounding how banks and currencies work",
"The varying opinions about the best possible currency system for a group of people",
"The lack of chain supermarkets in an area"
]
] | [
2,
1,
3,
1,
4,
4,
4,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | New money: Do local currencies actually work?
It's lunchtime at Glasgow Chambers in late November, and Councillor George Redmond is getting worked up at the prospect a Glasgow Pound. "We would be Glasgow-centric about it," he says conspiratorially, as though there is any other way to be. "Can you imagine having the face of Billy Connolly on our local currency? Or Alex Ferguson, or Kenny Dalglish?"
Inventing an alternative to sterling might sound far-fetched, even illegal. But it's not that strange. In the UK we think of the pound like fish think about water, which is to say not at all. It might never have occurred to many of us that there are other types of exchange that can stand in for ragged bank notes tucked away in pockets, or other objects that can stand in for those notes.
Not every country is so lucky. In crisis-hit Greece, where the euro can be hard to come by, businesses and citizens have turned to bartering using a points system where goods like pianos, pot and pans can be exchanged for security services or loaned farming equipment. In India last year, desperate people burned sacks of illegal cash after the government withdrew two high-denomination notes as part of a crackdown on corruption. Hoarders woke up to discover the banknotes under their mattresses were suddenly worthless.
The pound has been trading at its lowest level since 1985 since the UK voted to leave the European Union and there are fears that it could dip further as Brexit ensues. Timebanks, local exchange trading systems (LETS) and digital inventions like bitcoin can provide alternative ways for people to pay for goods and services when mainstream currencies hit crises. But they will only work if Britons are ready to accept that they have the power to invent their own currency.
"At the moment, if the pound stops working for us, the whole economy grinds to a halt because there aren't alternatives," Duncan McCann, a researcher at the New Economics Foundation, tells those gathered in a gilded room at Glasgow Chambers to discuss the Glasgow Pound. McCann is a long-time advocate of alternative means of exchange. He is behind the ScotPound, a proposal for a new national currency for Scotland that emerged after the referendum on Scottish independence. It's an idea he no longer thinks will work, because the debate, since Brexit, has shifted from the currency issue back to ideas about Scottish independence.
Today, he's preaching to the converted. Alex Walker, the chairman of the 250-person Ekopia community in Northern Scotland, listens at the back. The Eko has been the main means of buying everything from beer to bananas in Ekopia since Walker founded it 20 years ago. On an adjacent table, Tracy Duff, a community learning and development worker from Clackmannanshire Council, digs out some papers. She runs the Clacks Youth Timebank, a scheme where 12- to 15-year-olds can earn credit for volunteering. Taking notes up front is Ailie Rutherford, one of the people who organised the meeting. Rutherford runs the People's Bank of Govanhill, a currency that changes value depending on the income of the user. "I don't see any reason why we shouldn't invent our own currency and play with it," she says.
Everyone has gathered to decide what a Glasgow Pound might look like at a time when many are asking if local currencies can work at all. Councillor Redmond says Glasgow has been closely watching existing alternative currencies like the Brixton Pound in London, which was introduced in 2011.
The founders of the Brixton Pound wanted to do something to stop 80p of every £1 spent locally from leaking out of the area into the pockets of corporations, at the expense of small local traders. So they printed a currency that would have the same value as the pound, but could only be traded in independent Brixton shops, where the shopkeeper would also have to spend it locally. This year the Brixton Pound got its own cashpoint, from where people can withdraw local banknotes bearing colourful images of local heroes, like David Bowie and secret Agent Violette Szabo, to spend in over 150 local shops. It can also be used by residents to pay council tax and by employers to pay wages.
No two local currencies are exactly the same. But the Brixton Pound and other recent schemes follow the example ten years ago of the Totnes Pound, a 'complementary currency': that is, one supplementing the national currency. As fears for financial stability took hold during the recession, complementary currencies grew in popularity. The Bank of England does not consider these forms of currency legal tender, but the notes hold value in the same way as a gift-card from a department store, with the same kind of restrictions about where they can be spent. Proponents say complementary currencies boost spending in smaller geographical areas, which can have environmental benefits as businesses cut transport distances to deal with local suppliers. Detractors say they have no real economic impact and work only as a game for the middle classes, who can afford to buy from independent shops rather than chains.
In Britain, there are now schemes in Totnes, Lewes, Brixton, Bristol and Exeter. Hull has its own local digital currency that can be earned from volunteering and used to pay council tax. Kingston, Birmingham and Liverpool have schemes underway. Glasgow could be next. But the working group has some serious questions to answer first, not least: do complementary currencies actually work?
"People don't understand money," Molly Scott Cato, Green MEP for the South West of England and Gibraltar, says over the phone.
Scott Cato says the fish-in-water problem – the idea that sterling is so ubiquitous, it is never questioned – is the biggest challenge for complementary currencies. She knows all about it as a founder of the Stroud Pound in 2010, a currency that has since gone out of circulation.
"[People] think they put money into a bank and someone else takes it out. What they don't understand is that banks have the power to create money. We've given the power to create money to private corporations and people don't understand that we can have it back," she says.
In Stroud, suspicion of the local currency among local businesses became a barrier to success. Scott-Cato said traders refused to join the scheme because they were "running a business", as though putting the community first and placing the needs of others as equivalent to their own was in itself bad business practice, or as though they were somehow being disloyal to sterling.
The Bristol Pound (£B) entered into circulation in September 2012. By June 2015, 1m £B had been issued, with £B700,000 of that still in circulation. In a population of some 450,000 people, that's the equivalent of each Bristolian carrying less than £B2 in change in their pocket.
"The small scale is a problem and a strength," says Stephen Clarke, chief financial officer of the Bristol Pound. "The benefit comes from the fact that local currencies are trusted organisations: we're a Community Interest Company limited by guarantee." That means assets owned by the the Bristol Pound have to be used for the good of the community, rather than purely for profit.
Without enough currency in circulation, it ceases to work. Scott-Cato says Stroud's size meant meant the Stroud Pound was never viable: "We couldn't get the velocity of circulation right, which contrasts with the Bristol Pound."
Clarke also says the small scale of local currencies means they are "always scrabbling around looking for money". One way founders of the Bristol Pound have addressed his is by setting up an umbrella organisation, the Guild of Independent Currencies, to share information between local currencies in the UK and help new organisations. "At the moment we're all reinventing the wheel every time," Clarke says.
Technology might also have a solution. Peter Ferry, a commercial director, travels to Glasgow to tell those working on the Glasgow Pound that that his company Wallet has come up with a way to use the blockchain, the technology behind bitcoin, to make it easier for people to use multiple types of currency. "There might be many currencies around the country that people want to use. We need to make it simple for them to do that and also to make it simple to earn these currencies in many ways," he says.
Size doesn't always matter. Sometimes, the smallest places – like Totnes and the Ekopia community – are best able to support complementary currencies because the people who live there are engaged with their local economy in a meaningful way.
"Bristol is seen as a quirky, individualistic kind of place," Clarke says. "When we first produced the Bristol Pound note, people were really proud of it. It got through to people not just sat around coffee shops. I'm not sure a London Pound would work, because people identify with their local area in London rather than the city as a whole."
Bristol Pound users don't have high incomes necessarily, but surveys show they are engaged with their local community and they have a higher educational attainment than average. In the years since the financial crisis, as local authority budgets have shrunk, some areas have relied heavily on engaged communities to fill in gaps in public services. By contrast, deprived areas where people cannot afford time and money to put into their community have become more deprived, making them even harder for local currencies to reach.
"It is difficult to get into more disadvantaged areas," Stephen Clarke says. "We have a ten-year life expectancy gap between different parts of the city. When you go to disadvantaged areas with the Bristol Pound hat on you realise there aren't independent shops there, there's an Aldi and Lidl and that's it."
More than a third of children grow up in poverty in Glasgow. A Glasgow Pound might struggle to get poorer families to buy into a local currency that ties them to shopping at more expensive, independent shops, rather than getting deals at big supermarket chains.
When Scott-Cato and her colleagues wrote about the experience of setting up the Stroud Pound, they said it was telling that complementary currencies have been accused of being a game for middle-class people, rather than a genuine economic solution.
Perhaps for that reason, experts like Duncan McCann have stopped thinking of complementary currencies as a one-size-fits-all solution. He said they can function as a kind of 'gateway drug' to introduce people to a new way of thinking about money. "That is especially for those who use it, but also for those who just become aware of it," he says.
Ciaran Mundy, CEO of the Bristol Pound, says it is important to think of the systemic impact rather than looking for targeted treatment of symptoms of economic deprivation. "Poverty has many causes," he says. "One of these is how the economy is structured in terms of how money flows out of poor areas due to high dependence on larger national and international companies paying lower wages and using offshore accounts to hide the money from the tax man."
Nothing is tying Glasgow to existing models for complementary currencies. But during the first meeting about setting up the Glasgow Pound, the workshop shows just how hard it would be to invent a new system that works for everyone.
Each table is handed a wad of Post-it notes and a piece of white paper. A table leader asks everyone to write on the Post-its what they want the Glasgow Pound to achieve. Elbowing teacups out the way, people get to work. They scrawl a dizzying number of proposals, from keeping more wealth in the local area to empowering people who feel cut out of the national economy, or to moving towards land reform and saving the environment. Team leaders try to assemble these ideas in themes to report back to the room.
On one table, Duncan McCann encourages people to urge businesses to do things they have never done before. "One of the goals should be to move businesses from where they are today into the future," he says.
After years of researc,h McCann believes the only way complementary currencies can create real value for local economies is if they make transactions happen that wouldn't otherwise have taken place.
"They need to create additional spending power. This is this what the local currencies, despite all their good points, fail to do," McCann says.
Every time a Brixton Pound transaction is made, 1.5 per cent goes into a Brixton Fund. This is used to give micro-grants of between a few hundred and £2000 to local projects and community groups. "We aim to target projects that aren't large enough to apply for more formal grant funding," says Lucy Çava, project manager at the Brixton Pound.
"We see this as part of community building – linking the Brixton Pound user with community groups, so both groups become more visible to each other through the currency and fund. This is particularly important in Brixton because of the gentrification debates which are very salient round there," Çava says.
Meanwhile, the people behind the Bristol Pound are readying a mutual credit network called Bristol Prospects. Through this network, businesses in Bristol can exchange credit in the form of loans that are neutralised within the network, helping one another to grow without relying on the high rates of commercial lenders.
Once operational, loans offered through the Prospects network will have negative interest, so that businesses are encouraged to pass credit on as quickly as possible. "That's the plan," says Clarke, "because it's rather like a hot potato: people will want to pass it on."
"We know from research that a number of small businesses in Bristol are struggling to get money on reasonable terms," says Clarke, "and that banks are not interested in smaller loans to businesses. So we think there is a strength in the Bristol Pound network to start something like this that is linked, but separate."
Duncan McCann, with all his experience, knows that challenge is worthwhile. "As people we have a right to make credit and loan money. We mustn't forget that. We mustn't leave that to corporations and the state," he says.
This article is part of a series on local economies Hazel is documenting at farnearer.org, with funding from the Friends Provident Foundation
Illustration by PureSolution/Shutterstock
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 31357 | [
"Why do Arvid 6 and Tendal 13 want to take Nancy's baby?",
"Why did Tiger die?",
"What was Arvid 6's mistake?",
"What does Tendal 13 mean when he says he pulled himself together?",
"How does Tendal 13 feel about Arvid 6?",
"How many times did Tendal 13 and Arvid 6 go to the Laughton's home?",
"Who is John Smith?",
"Who is Kanad?",
"Who is Dr. Tompkins?",
"What was Kanad trying to do when he was accidentally transferred back in time 6000 years?"
] | [
[
"They took the baby because it is not human.",
"They took the baby to correct a mistake that Arvid 6 made.",
"They took the baby to rescue Kanad.",
"They took the baby for ransom."
],
[
"Tiger died from an allergic reaction to biting Arvid 6.",
"Tiger was poisoned.",
"Tiger suffocated.",
"Arvid 6 kicked Tiger to death."
],
[
"Arvid 6 dematerialized in front of humans.",
"Arvid 6 transferred Kanad back in time 6000 years.",
"Arvid 6 crashed a car into a tree which killed a woman.",
"Arvid 6 dropped the baby when the dog started barking at him."
],
[
"Tendal 13 is a mutant with the capability of stretching his body parts. He means that he resumed a normal body position.",
"Tendal 13 means he had to get his emotions under control.",
"His body was literally in pieces. He put his body back together, likey with the power of his mind.",
"Tendal 13 is an android with detachable limbs. He means his limbs reattached themselves."
],
[
"Arvid 6 is Tendal 13's training officer. He respects Arvid 6.",
"Tendal 13 thinks Arvid 6 is the worst partner ever. He cannot wait to be reassigned.",
"Tendal 13 despises Arvid 6 with a passion. He is plotting to kill Arvid 6.",
"Arvid 6 is Tendal 13's best friend. Tendal 13 is glad they work together."
],
[
"One",
"Four",
"Three",
"Two"
],
[
"Mr. Laughton",
"Tendal 13",
"Kanad",
"Arvid 6"
],
[
"Kanad is Tendal 13 and Arvid 6's supervisor at the Ultroom.",
"Kanad is Reggie Laughton.",
"Kanad is the head of the whole galactic system.",
"Kanad is the leader of the Mycenae."
],
[
"Arvid 6",
"Kanad",
"Reggie Laughton",
"Tendal 13"
],
[
"He was attempting to take over the entire galactic system.",
"He was trying to go forwards in time 6000 years.",
"He was going through a rejuvenation process that transfers his soul into a younger body.",
"He was trying to transfer his consciousness into a healthier body."
]
] | [
2,
3,
2,
3,
2,
3,
4,
3,
4,
3
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE ULTROOM ERROR
by
JERRY SOHL
Smith admitted he had made an error involving a few
murders—and a few thousand years. He was entitled to a
sense of humor, though, even in the Ultroom!
HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer
out of 1609 complete, intact, but too near limit of 1,000
days. Next Kanad transfer ready. 1951. Reginald, son of Mr.
and Mrs. Martin Laughton, 3495 Orland Drive, Marionville,
Illinois, U. S. A. Arrive his 378th day. TB73782.
Nancy Laughton sat on the blanket she had spread on the lawn in her
front yard, knitting a pair of booties for the PTA bazaar.
Occasionally she glanced at her son in the play pen, who was getting
his daily dose of sunshine. He was gurgling happily, examining a ball,
a cheese grater and a linen baby book, all with perfunctory interest.
When she looked up again she noticed a man walking by—except he
turned up the walk and crossed the lawn to her.
He was a little taller than her husband, had piercing blue eyes and a
rather amused set to his lips.
"Hello, Nancy," he said.
"Hello, Joe," she answered. It was her brother who lived in Kankakee.
"I'm going to take the baby for a while," he said.
"All right, Joe."
He reached into the pen, picked up the baby. As he did so the baby's
knees hit the side of the play pen and young Laughton let out a
scream—half from hurt and half from sudden lack of confidence in his
new handler. But this did not deter Joe. He started off with the
child.
Around the corner and after the man came a snarling mongrel dog, eyes
bright, teeth glinting in the sunlight. The man did not turn as the
dog threw himself at him, burying his teeth in his leg. Surprised, the
man dropped the screaming child on the lawn and turned to the dog. Joe
seemed off balance and he backed up confusedly in the face of the
snapping jaws. Then he suddenly turned and walked away, the dog at his
heels.
"I tell you, the man said he was my brother and he made me think he
was," Nancy told her husband for the tenth time. "I don't even have a
brother."
Martin Laughton sighed. "I can't understand why you believed him. It's
just—just plain nuts, Nancy!"
"Don't you think I know it?" Nancy said tearfully. "I feel like I'm
going crazy. I can't say I dreamt it because there was Reggie with his
bleeding knees, squalling for all he was worth on the grass—Oh, I
don't even want to think about it."
"We haven't lost Reggie, Nancy, remember that. Now why don't you try
to get some rest?"
"You—you don't believe me at all, do you, Martin?"
When her husband did not answer, her head sank to her arms on the
table and she sobbed.
"Nancy, for heaven's sake, of course I believe you. I'm trying to
think it out, that's all. We should have called the police."
Nancy shook her head in her arms. "They'd—never—believe me either,"
she moaned.
"I'd better go and make sure Reggie's all right." Martin got up out of
his chair and went to the stairs.
"I'm going with you," Nancy said, hurriedly rising and coming over to
him.
"We'll go up and look at him together."
They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib in his room upstairs.
They checked the windows and tucked in the blankets. They paused in
the room for a moment and then Martin stole his arm around his wife
and led her to the door.
"As I've said, sergeant, this fellow hypnotized my wife. He made her
think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he
tried to get away with the baby." Martin leaned down and patted the
dog. "It was Tiger here who scared him off."
The police sergeant looked at the father, at Nancy and then at the
dog. He scribbled notes in his book.
"Are you a rich man, Mr. Laughton?" he asked.
"Not at all. The bank still owns most of the house. I have a few
hundred dollars, that's all."
"What do you do?"
"Office work, mostly. I'm a junior executive in an insurance company."
"Any enemies?"
"No ... Oh, I suppose I have a few people I don't get along with, like
anybody else. Nobody who'd do anything like this, though."
The sergeant flipped his notebook closed. "You'd better keep your dog
inside and around the kid as much as possible. Keep your doors and
windows locked. I'll see that the prowl car keeps an eye on the house.
Call us if anything seems unusual or out of the way."
Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished
cleaning the .30-.30 rifle he used for deer hunting. He put it by the
stairs, ready for use, fully loaded, leaning it against the wall next
to the telephone stand.
The front door bell rang. He answered it. It was Dr. Stuart and
another man.
"I came as soon as I could, Martin," the young doctor said, stepping
inside with the other man. "This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins."
Martin and Tompkins shook hands.
"The baby—?" Dr. Stuart asked.
"Upstairs," Martin said.
"You'd better get him, Dr. Tompkins, if we're to take him to the
hospital. I'll stay here with Mr. Laughton. How've you been, Martin?"
"Fine."
"How's everything at the office?"
"Fine."
"And your wife?"
"She's fine, too."
"Glad to hear it, Martin. Mighty glad. Say, by the way, there's that
bill you owe me. I think it's $32, isn't that right?"
"Yes, I'd almost forgotten about it."
"Why don't you be a good fellow and write a check for it? It's been
over a year, you know."
"That's right. I'll get right at it." Martin went over to his desk,
opened it and started looking for his checkbook. Dr. Stuart stood by
him, making idle comment until Dr. Tompkins came down the stairs with
the sleeping baby cuddled against his shoulder.
"Never mind the check, now, Martin. I see we're ready to go." He went
over to his assistant and took the baby. Together they walked out the
front door.
"Good-bye," Martin said, going to the door.
Then he was nearly bowled over by the discharge of the .30-.30. Dr.
Stuart crumpled to the ground, the baby falling to the lawn. Dr.
Tompkins whirled and there was a second shot. Dr. Tompkins pitched
forward on his face.
The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieved the now squalling
infant and ran back into the house. Once inside, Nancy slammed the
door, gave the baby to the stunned Martin and headed for the
telephone.
"One of them was the same man!" she cried.
Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. "I believed them,"
he said slowly and uncomprehendingly. "They made me believe them!"
"Those bodies," the sergeant said. "Would you mind pointing them out
to me, please?"
"Aren't they—aren't they on the walk?" Mrs. Laughton asked.
"There is nothing on the walk, Mrs. Laughton."
"But there
must
be! I tell you I shot these men who posed as
doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this
afternoon. They hypnotized my husband—"
"Yes, I know, Mrs. Laughton. We've been through that." The sergeant
went to the door and opened it. "Say, Homer, take another look around
the walk and the bushes. There's supposed to be two of them. Shot with
a .30-.30."
He turned and picked up the gun and examined it again. "Ever shoot a
gun before, Mrs. Laughton?"
"Many times. Martin and I used to go hunting together before we had
Reggie."
The sergeant nodded. "You were taking an awful chance, shooting at a
guy carrying your baby, don't you think?"
"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in
the chest. I could even see his eyes when he turned around. If I
hadn't pulled the trigger then ... I don't want to remember it."
The patrolman pushed the door open. "There's no bodies out here but
there's some blood. Quite a lot of blood. A little to one side of the
walk."
The policemen went out.
"Thank God you woke up, Nancy," Martin said. "I'd have let them have
the baby." He reached over and smoothed the sleeping Reggie's hair.
Nancy, who was rocking the boy, narrowed her eyes.
"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We
don't have any money. We couldn't pay a ransom."
"Reggie's pretty cute, though," Martin said. "You will have to admit
that."
Nancy smiled. Then she suddenly stopped rocking.
"Martin!"
He sat up quickly.
"Where's Tiger?"
Together they rose and walked around the room. They found him in a
corner, eyes open, tongue protruding. He was dead.
If we keep Reggie in the house much longer he'll turn out to be a
hermit," Martin said at breakfast a month later. "He needs fresh air
and sunshine."
"I'm not going to sit on the lawn alone with him, Martin. I just
can't, that's all. I'd be able to think of nothing but that day."
"Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if
they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this
time." Martin finished his coffee and rose to kiss her good-bye. "But
for safety's sake I guess you'd better keep that gun handy."
The morning turned into a brilliant, sunshiny day. Puffs of clouds
moved slowly across the summer sky and a warm breeze rustled the
trees. It would be a crime to keep Reggie inside on a day like this,
Nancy thought.
So she called Mrs. MacDougal, the next door neighbor. Mrs. MacDougal
was familiar with what had happened to the Laughtons and she agreed to
keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first
sign of trouble.
With a fearful but determined heart Nancy moved the play pen and set
it up in the front yard. She spread a blanket for herself and put
Reggie in the pen. Her heart pounded all the while and she watched the
street for any strangers, ready to flee inside if need be. Reggie just
gurgled with delight at the change in environment.
This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men
were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway,
tires screaming, bounced over the curb and sidewalk, straight toward
the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up
to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms
against her cheeks and shrieked.
The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The
mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her
spine and tossing her against the house. The car plunged on into a
tree, hitting it a terrible blow, crumbling the car's forward end so
it looked like an accordion. The men were thrown from the machine.
"We'll never be able to prosecute in this case," the states attorney
said. "At least not on a drunken driving basis."
"I can't get over it," the chief of police said. "I've got at least
six men who will swear the man was drunk. He staggered, reeled and
gave the usual drunk talk. He reeked of whiskey."
The prosecutor handed the report over the desk. "Here's the analysis.
Not a trace of alcohol. He couldn't have even had a smell of near
beer. Here's another report. This is his physical exam made not long
afterwards. The man was in perfect health. Only variations are he had
a scar on his leg where something, probably a dog, bit him once. And
then a scar on his chest. It looked like an old gunshot wound, they
said. Must have happened years ago."
"That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Laughton in the afternoon was
bitten by their dog. Later that night she said she shot the same man
in the chest. Since the scars are healed it obviously couldn't be the
same man. But there's a real coincidence for you. And speaking of the
dogbite, the Laughton dog died that night. His menu evidently didn't
agree with him. Never did figure what killed him, actually."
"Any record of treatment on the man she shot?"
"The
men
. You'll remember, there were two. No, we never found a
trace of either. No doctor ever made a report of a gunshot wound that
night. No hospital had a case either—at least not within several
hundred miles—that night or several nights afterwards. Ever been shot
with .30-.30?"
The state attorney shook his head. "I wouldn't be here if I had."
"I'll say you wouldn't. The pair must have crawled away to die God
knows where."
"Getting back to the man who ran over the child and killed Mrs.
Laughton. Why did he pretend to be drunk?"
It was the chief's turn to shake his head. "Your guess is as good as
mine. There are a lot of angles to this case none of us understand. It
looks deliberate, but where's the motive?"
"What does the man have to say?"
"I was afraid you'd get to him," the chief said, his neck reddening.
"It's all been rather embarrassing to the department." He coughed
self-consciously. "He's proved a strange one, all right. He says his
name is John Smith and he's got cards to prove it, too—for example, a
social security card. It looks authentic, yet there's no such number
on file in Washington, so we've discovered. We've had him in jail for
a week and we've all taken turns questioning him. He laughs and admits
his guilt—in fact, he seems amused by most everything. Sometimes all
alone in his cell he'll start laughing for no apparent reason. It
gives you the creeps."
The states attorney leaned back in his chair. "Maybe it's a case for
an alienist."
"One jump ahead of you. Dr. Stone thinks he's normal, but won't put
down any I.Q. Actually, he can't figure him out himself. Smith seems
to take delight in answering questions—sort of anticipates them and
has the answer ready before you're half through asking."
"Well, if Dr. Stone says he's normal, that's enough for me." The
prosecutor was silent for a moment. Then, "How about the husband?"
"Laughton? We're afraid to let him see him. All broken up. No telling
what kind of a rumpus he'd start—especially if Smith started his
funny business."
"Guess you're right. Well, Mr. Smith won't think it's so funny when we
hang criminal negligence or manslaughter on him. By the way, you've
checked possible family connections?"
"Nobody ever saw John Smith before. Even at the address on his
driver's license. And there's no duplicate of that in Springfield, in
case you're interested."
The man who had laughingly told police his name was John Smith lay on
his cot in the county jail, his eyes closed, his arms folded across
his chest. This gave him the appearance of being alert despite
reclining. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile.
Arvid 6—for John Smith
was
Arvid 6—had lain in that position for
more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and
appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his
face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly.
Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the
building.
Eventually there were some sounds from beyond the steel cell and
doorway. There was a clang when the outer doorway was opened and Arvid
6 rose from his cot.
"Your lawyer's here to see you," the jailer said, indicating the man
with the brief case. "Ring the buzzer when you're through." The jailer
let the man in, locked the cell door and walked away.
The man threw the brief case on the jail cot and stood glaring.
"Your damned foolishness has gone far enough. I'm sick and tired of
it," he declared. "If you carry on any more we'll never get back to
the Ultroom!"
"I'm sorry, Tendal," the man on the cot said. "I didn't think—"
"You're absolutely right. You didn't think. Crashing that car into
that tree and killing that woman—that was the last straw. You don't
even deserve to get back to our era. You ought to be made to rot
here."
"I'm
really
sorry about that," Arvid 6 said.
You know the instructions. Just because you work in the Ultroom don't
get to thinking human life doesn't have any value. We wouldn't be here
if it hadn't. But to unnecessarily kill—" The older man shook his
head. "You could have killed yourself as well and we'd never get the
job done. As it is, you almost totally obliterated me." Tendal 13
paced the length of the cell and back again, gesturing as he talked.
"It was only with the greatest effort I pulled myself back together
again. I doubt that you could have done it. And then all the while
you've been sitting here, probably enjoying yourself with your special
brand of humor I have grown to despise."
"You didn't have to come along at all, you know," Arvid 6 said.
"How well I know! How sorry I am that I ever did! It was only because
I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than
you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13
reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back
6,000 years to bring Kanad back, to correct a mistake Arvid 6 made!"
He snorted. "I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only
prove it when I pinch myself and here I am.
"Oh, you've been a joy to be with! First it was that hunt in ancient
Mycenae when you let the lion escape the hunters' quaint spears and we
were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain, although you dazzled the
hunters, deflecting their spears. And then your zest for drink when we
were with Octavian in Alexandria that led to everybody's amusement but
ours when we were ambushed by Anthony's men. And worst of all, that
English barmaid you became engrossed with at our last stop in 1609,
when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart
piece by piece—"
"All right, all right," Arvid 6 said. "I'll admit I've made some
mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all."
"Shut up! For once you're going to listen to me. Our instructions
specifically stated we were to have as little as possible to do with
these people. But at every turn you've got us more and more enmeshed
with them. If that's adventure, you can have it." Tendal 13 sat down
wearily and sank his head in his hands. "It was you who conceived the
idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that
child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words.
And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important
factor in the equation—the dog, Tiger. And you nursed a dogbite most
of the afternoon before it healed. And then you took your spite out on
the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night.
"And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the
talking. But no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Laughton's
attention. 'I came as soon as I could, Martin,' you said. And suddenly
I played a very minor role. 'This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins,'
you said. And then what happened? I get shot in the legs and you get a
hole in your back. We were both nearly obliterated that time and we
didn't even come close to getting the child.
"Still you wanted to run the whole show. 'I'm younger than you,' you
said. 'I'll take the wheel.' And the next thing I know I'm floating in
space halfway to nowhere with two broken legs, a spinal injury,
concussion and some of the finest bruises you ever saw."
These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be," Arvid
6 said.
"You never run out of excuses, do you, Arvid? Remember what you said
in the Ultroom when you pushed the lever clear over and transferred
Kanad back 6,000 years? 'My hand slipped.' As simple as that. 'My hand
slipped.' It was so simple everyone believed you. You were given no
real punishment. In a way it was a reward—at least to you—getting to
go back and rescue the life germ of Kanad out of each era he'd be born
in."
Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. "Do you
know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as
far as it would go
just to see what would happen
. That's how simple
I think it was."
Arvid 6 flushed, turned away and looked at the floor.
"What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone?" Tendal
13 asked.
Arvid 6 sighed. "After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse
you, although it has me. They got to me right after the accident
before I had a chance to collect my wits, dematerialize or
anything—you said we shouldn't dematerialize in front of anybody."
"That's right."
"Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk,
so I was. But they had a blood sample before I could manufacture any
alcohol in my blood, although I implanted a memory in them that I
reeked of it." He laughed. "I fancy they're thoroughly confused."
"And you're thoroughly amused, no doubt. Have they questioned you?"
"At great length. They had a psychiatrist in to see me. He was a queer
fellow with the most stupid set of questions and tests I ever saw."
"And you amused yourself with him."
"I suppose you'd think so."
"Who do you tell them you are?"
"John Smith. A rather prevalent name here, I understand. I
manufactured a pasteboard called a social security card and a driver's
license—"
"Never mind. It's easy to see you've been your own inimitable self.
Believe me, if I ever get back to the Ultroom I hope I never see you
again. And I hope I'll never leave there again though I'm rejuvenated
through a million years."
"Was Kanad's life germ transferred all right this time?"
Tendal 13 shook his head. "I haven't heard. The transfers are getting
more difficult all the time. In 1609, you'll remember, it was a case
of pneumonia for the two-year-old. A simple procedure. It wouldn't
work here. Medicine's too far along." He produced a notebook. "The
last jump was 342 years, a little more than average. The next ought to
be around 2250. Things will be more difficult than ever there,
probably."
"Do you think Kanad will be angry about all this?"
"How would you like to have to go through all those birth processes,
to have your life germ knocked from one era to the next?"
"Frankly, I didn't think he'd go back so far."
"If it had been anybody but Kanad nobody'd ever have thought of going
back after it. The life germ of the head of the whole galactic system
who came to the Ultroom to be transplanted to a younger body—and then
sending him back beyond his original birth date—" Tendal 13 got up
and commenced his pacing again. "Oh, I suppose Kanad's partly to
blame, wanting rejuvenating at only 300 years. Some have waited a
thousand or more or until their bones are like paper."
"I just wonder how angry Kanad will be," Arvid muttered.
HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer
out of 1951 complete. Next Kanad transfer ready. 2267.
Phullam 19, son of Orla 39 and Rhoda R, 22H Level M,
Hemisphere B, Quadrant 3, Sector I. Arrive his 329th Day.
TB92167
Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other.
"Before we leave, Arvid," Tendal 13 started to say.
"I know, I know. You want me to let you handle everything."
"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?"
"I guess I have made mistakes. From now on you be the boss. I'll do
whatever you say."
"I hope I can count on that." Tendal 13 rang the jail buzzer.
The jailer unlocked the cell door.
"You remember the chief said it's all right to take him with me,
Matthews," Tendal 13 told the jailer.
"Yes, I remember," the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out
of the cell.
They walked together down the jail corridor. When they came to another
barred door the jailer fumbled with the keys and clumsily tried
several with no luck.
Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched
the jailer's expression as he walked through the bars of the door. He
laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge.
"Arvid!"
Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the
shoulders and shook him.
The jailer watched stupified as the two men vanished in the middle of
a violent argument.
|
train | 24275 | [
"What is the relationship between Meyerhoff and Zeckler?",
"How does Meyerhoff feel about Zeckler?",
"What did the Altairian's arrest Zeckler for?",
"Why does Meyerhoff arrest Zeckler?",
"Why do the Altairians let Zeckler go?",
"Why don't the Altairians leave Altair I if it is so overpopulated?",
"How do the Altairians treat the biggest liars?",
"What does the Trading Commission want from the Altairians?"
] | [
[
"Meyerhoff is Zeckler's employee.",
"Meyerhoff is Zeckler's employer.",
"Meyerhoff is Zeckler's lawyer.",
"Meyerhoff is Zeckler's Consulate representative."
],
[
"Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is a fool.",
"Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is a skilled con-man.",
"Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is misunderstood.",
"Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is an idiot."
],
[
"They arrested him for selling the same plot of land to a dozen different Altairians.",
"They arrested him for lying.",
"They arrested him for disrespecting the Goddess.",
"They arrested him for slaughtering twenty-three Altairians."
],
[
"He arrests Zeckler for perjury.",
"He arrests Zeckler for undermining the authority of the Terran Trading Commission.",
"He arrests Zeckler for murdering eighteen Altairians.",
"He arrests Zeckler for selling the same plot of land to a dozen different Altairians."
],
[
"They let Zeckler go because he did not murder any Altairians.",
"They let Zeckler go because he is the best liar.",
"They let Zeckler go because Altairian law doesn't apply to Earthmen.",
"They let Zeckler go because he converted to the religion of the Altairian Goddess."
],
[
"They don't leave because they can only eat food grown on Altair I.",
"The Goddess won't let them leave.",
"They don't leave because no other planets will clear ships from Altair I for landing. Nobody likes liars.",
"They don't leave because they have not achieved space travel."
],
[
"The biggest liars are sent to Earth.",
"The biggest liars can do whatever they want and get away with it.",
"The biggest liars are thrown into a pit. There they are eaten by the Goddess.",
"The biggest liars are hanged."
],
[
"The Goddess",
"Land",
"Uranium",
"Interplanetary rockets"
]
] | [
4,
1,
1,
2,
2,
1,
2,
3
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | Letter
of
the
Law
by Alan E. Nourse
The
place was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves.
Meyerhoff followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard
down the slippery flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the
dead, musty air with distaste. He drew his carefully tailored
Terran-styled jacket closer about his shoulders, shivering as his
eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holes they were passing.
His foot slipped on the slimy flags from time to time, and
finally he paused to wipe the caked mud from his trouser leg.
"How much farther is it?" he shouted angrily.
The guard waved a heavy paw vaguely into the blackness
ahead. Quite suddenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the
Altairian stopped, producing a huge key ring from some obscure
fold of his hairy hide. "I still don't see any reason for
all the fuss," he grumbled in a wounded tone. "We've treated
him like a brother."
One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhoff peered
into the blackness, catching a vaguely human outline against
the back wall. "Harry?" he called sharply.
There was a startled gasp from within, and a skinny, gnarled
little man suddenly appeared in the guard's light, like a grotesque,
twisted ghost out of the blackness. Wide blue eyes
regarded Meyerhoff from beneath uneven black eyebrows, and
then the little man's face broke into a crafty grin. "Paul! So
they sent
you
! I knew I could count on it!" He executed a
deep, awkward bow, motioning Meyerhoff into the dark
cubicle. "Not much to offer you," he said slyly, "but it's the
best I can do under the circumstances."
Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. "We'll
have some privacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling.
And leave us the light."
The guard grumbled, and started for the door. "It's about
time you showed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great
day! Lucky they sent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for
years—"
"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your
pal," Meyerhoff snapped. "And you've been here for two
weeks, three days, and approximately four hours. You're getting
as bad as your gentle guards when it comes to bandying
the truth around." He peered through the dim light at the
gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a
week's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin
on his lips. His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked
with great splotches of mud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened
a little. "So Harry Zeckler's in a jam again," he said.
"You
look
as if they'd treated you like a brother."
The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't
know what brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread
and water I've been getting, nothing more, and then only if they
feel like bringing it down." He sank wearily down on the rock
bench along the wall. "I thought you'd never get here! I sent
an appeal to the Terran Consulate the first day I was arrested.
What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a man
over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide transportation
off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've been
sitting here rotting—" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared
at Meyerhoff. "You
brought
the papers, didn't you? I mean,
we can leave now?"
Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and
disgust. "You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know
that?"
Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I
spend a couple of weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was
worth it! I've got three million credits sitting in the Terran
Consulate on Altair V, just waiting for me to walk in and pick
them up. Three million credits—do you hear? That's enough
to set me up for life!"
Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "
If
you live long enough to walk
in and pick them up, that is."
"What do you mean, if?"
Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense
whisper in the musty cell. "I mean that right now you are
practically dead. You may not know it, but you are. You walk
into a newly opened planet with your smart little bag of tricks,
walk in here with a shaky passport and no permit, with no
knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of inaccuracies
in the Explorer's Guide, and even then you're not
content to come in and sell something legitimate, something
the natives might conceivably be able to use. No, nothing so
simple for you. You have to pull your usual high-pressure stuff.
And this time, buddy, you're paying the piper."
"
You mean I'm not being extradited?
"
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. "I mean precisely that.
You've committed a crime here—a major crime. The Altairians
are sore about it. And the Terran Consulate isn't willing
to sell all the trading possibilities here down the river just to
get you out of a mess. You're going to stand trial—and these
natives are out to get you. Personally, I think they're
going
to get you."
Zeckler stood up shakily. "You can't believe anything the
natives say," he said uneasily. "They're pathological liars.
Why, you should see what they tried to sell
me
! You've never
seen such a pack of liars as these critters." He glanced up at
Meyerhoff. "They'll probably drop a little fine on me and let
me go."
"A little fine of one Terran neck." Meyerhoff grinned nastily.
"You've committed the most heinous crime these creatures can
imagine, and they're going to get you for it if it's the last thing
they do. I'm afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are
over."
Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette,
and lighted it with trembling fingers. "It's bad, then,"
he said finally.
"It's bad, all right."
Some shadow of the sly, elfin grin crept over the little con-man's
face. "Well, at any rate, I'm glad they sent you over,"
he said weakly. "Nothing like a good lawyer to handle a trial."
"
Lawyer?
Not me! Oh, no. Sorry, but no thanks." Meyerhoff
chuckled. "I'm your advisor, old boy. Nothing else. I'm here
to keep you from botching things up still worse for the Trading
Commission, that's all. I wouldn't get tangled up in a mess
with those creatures for anything!" He shook his head. "You're
your own lawyer, Mr. Super-salesman. It's all your show. And
you'd better get your head out of the sand, or you're going to
lose a case like it's never been lost before!"
Meyerhoff watched the man's pale face, and shook his head.
In a way, he thought, it was a pity to see such a change in the
rosy-cheeked, dapper, cocksure little man who had talked his
way glibly in and out of more jams than Meyerhoff could
count. Trading brought scalpers; it was almost inevitable that
where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered, it
would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out
from Terra with the first wave of exploration—the slick, fast-talking
con-men who could work new territories unfettered by
the legal restrictions that soon closed down the more established
planets. The first men in were the richest out, and
through some curious quirk of the Terrestrial mind, they knew
they could count on Terran protection, however crooked and
underhand their methods.
But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and
social practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper
with them. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading
Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value, but
early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on
the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, three-eyed
inhabitants—warned specifically against the confidence tactics
so frequently used—but there was always somebody, Meyerhoff
reflected sourly, who just didn't get the word.
Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face
a study in troubled concentration. "But I didn't
do
anything!"
he exploded finally. "So I pulled an old con game. So what?
Why should they get so excited? So I clipped a few thousand
credits, pulled a little fast business." He shrugged eloquently,
spreading his hands. "Everybody's doing it. They do it to each
other without batting an eye. You should
see
these critters
operate on each other. Why, my little scheme was peanuts by
comparison."
Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing
the bowl with infinite patience. "And precisely what sort of
con game was it?" he asked quietly.
Zeckler shrugged again. "The simplest, tiredest, moldiest
old racket that ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old
Terran gag about the Brooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only
these critters didn't want bridges. They wanted land—this
gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farm land.' So I gave them
what they wanted. I just sold them some land."
Meyerhoff nodded fiercely. "You sure did. A hundred square
kilos at a swipe. Only you sold the same hundred square kilos
to a dozen different natives." Suddenly he threw back his hands
and roared. "Of all the things you
shouldn't
have done—"
"But what's a chunk of land?"
Meyerhoff shook his head hopelessly. "If you hadn't been
so greedy, you'd have found out what a chunk of land was to
these natives before you started peddling it. You'd have found
out other things about them, too. You'd have learned that
in spite of all their bumbling and fussing and squabbling
they're not so dull. You'd have found out that they're marsupials,
and that two out of five of them get thrown out of
their mother's pouch before they're old enough to survive.
You'd have realized that they have to start fighting for individual
rights almost as soon as they're born. Anything goes,
as long as it benefits them as individuals."
Meyerhoff grinned at the little man's horrified face. "Never
heard of that, had you? And you've never heard of other things,
too. You've probably never heard that there are just too many
Altairians here for the food their planet can supply, and their
diet is so finicky that they just can't live on anything that
doesn't grow here. And consequently, land is the key factor
in their economy, not money; nothing but land. To get land,
it's every man for himself, and the loser starves, and their
entire legal and monetary system revolves on that principle.
They've built up the most confusing and impossible system of
barter and trade imaginable, aimed at individual survival, with
land as the value behind the credit. That explains the lying—of
course they're liars, with an economy like that. They've
completely missed the concept of truth. Pathological? You bet
they're pathological! Only a fool would tell the truth when his
life depended on his being a better liar than the next guy!
Lying is the time-honored tradition, with their entire legal
system built around it."
Zeckler snorted. "But how could they
possibly
have a legal
system? I mean, if they don't recognize the truth when it slaps
them in the face?"
Meyerhoff shrugged. "As we understand legal systems, I
suppose they don't have one. They have only the haziest idea
what truth represents, and they've shrugged off the idea as
impossible and useless." He chuckled maliciously. "So you
went out and found a chunk of ground in the uplands, and
sold it to a dozen separate, self-centered, half-starved natives!
Encroachment on private property is legal grounds for murder
on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same
chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds."
Meyerhoff sighed. "You've got twelve mad Altairians in your
hair. You've got a mad planet in your hair. And in the meantime,
Terra's most valuable uranium source in five centuries
is threatening to cut off supply unless they see your blood
splattered liberally all the way from here to the equator."
Zeckler was visibly shaken. "Look," he said weakly, "so I
wasn't so smart. What am I going to do? I mean, are you
going to sit quietly by and let them butcher me? How could
I defend myself in a legal setup like
this
?"
Meyerhoff smiled coolly. "You're going to get your sly little
con-man brain to working, I think," he said softly. "By Interplanetary
Rules, they have to give you a trial in Terran legal
form—judge, jury, court procedure, all that folderol. They
think it's a big joke—after all, what could a judicial oath mean
to them?—but they agreed. Only thing is, they're going to
hang you, if they die trying. So you'd better get those stunted
little wits of yours clicking—and if you try to implicate
me
,
even a little bit, I'll be out of there so fast you won't know
what happened."
With that Meyerhoff walked to the door. He jerked it inward
sharply, and spilled two guards over on their faces.
"Privacy," he grunted, and started back up the slippery corridor.
It certainly
looked
like a courtroom, at any rate. In the front
of the long, damp stone room was a bench, with a seat behind
it, and a small straight chair to the right. To the left was a stand
with twelve chairs—larger chairs, with a railing running along
the front. The rest of the room was filled almost to the door
with seats facing the bench. Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired
guard into the room, nodding approvingly. "Not such a bad
arrangement," he said. "They must have gotten the idea fast."
Meyerhoff wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and
shot the little con-man a stony glance. "At least you've got
a courtroom, a judge, and a jury for this mess. Beyond that—"
He shrugged eloquently. "I can't make any promises."
In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang.
Loud, harsh voices were heard as half a dozen of the huge
Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler
clamped on the headset to his translator unit, and watched the
hubbub in the anteroom with growing alarm. Finally the question
of precedent seemed to be settled, and a group of the
Altairians filed in, in order of stature, stalking across the room
in flowing black robes, pug-nosed faces glowering with self-importance.
They descended upon the jury box, grunting and
scrapping with each other for the first-row seats, and the judge
took his place with obvious satisfaction behind the heavy
wooden bench. Finally, the prosecuting attorney appeared,
flanked by two clerks, who took their places beside him. The
prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned
and delivered a sly wink at the judge.
In a moment the room was a hubbub as it filled with the
huge, bumbling, bear-like creatures, jostling each other and
fighting for seats, growling and complaining. Two small fights
broke out in the rear, but were quickly subdued by the group
of gendarmes guarding the entrance. Finally the judge glared
down at Zeckler with all three eyes, and pounded the bench top
with a wooden mallet until the roar of activity subsided. The
jurymen wriggled uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging
winks, and finally turned their attention to the front of the
court.
"We are reading the case of the people of Altair I," the
judge's voice roared out, "against one Harry Zeckler—" he
paused for a long, impressive moment—"Terran." The courtroom
immediately burst into an angry growl, until the judge
pounded the bench five or six times more. "This—creature—is
hereby accused of the following crimes," the judge bellowed.
"Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Altair I. Brutal
murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of
Karzan at the third hour before dawn in the second period
after his arrival. Desecration of the Temple of our beloved
Goddess Zermat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiracy with the
lesser gods to cause the unprecedented drought in the Dermatti
section of our fair globe. Obscene exposure of his pouch-marks
in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges of jail-break
and bribery—" The judge pounded the bench for order—"Espionage
with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation
for interplanetary invasion."
The little con-man's jaw sagged lower and lower, the color
draining from his face. He turned, wide-eyed, to Meyerhoff,
then back to the judge.
"The Chairman of the Jury," said the Judge succinctly, "will
read the verdict."
The little native in the front of the jury-box popped up like
a puppet on a string. "Defendant found guilty on all counts,"
he said.
"Defendant is guilty! The court will pronounce sentence—"
"
Now wait a minute!
" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed.
"What kind of railroad job—"
The judge blinked disappointedly at Paul Meyerhoff. "Not
yet?" he asked, unhappily.
"No." Meyerhoff's hands twitched nervously. "Not yet, Your
Honor. Later, Your Honor. The trial comes
first
."
The judge looked as if his candy had been stolen. "But you
said
I should call for the verdict."
"Later. You have to have the trial before you can have the
verdict."
The Altairian shrugged indifferently. "Now—later—" he
muttered.
"Have the prosecutor call his first witness," said Meyerhoff.
Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. "These charges," he
whispered. "They're insane!"
"Of course they are," Meyerhoff whispered back.
"But what am I going to—"
"Sit tight. Let
them
set things up."
"But those
lies
. They're liars, the whole pack of them—" He
broke off as the prosecutor roared a name.
The shaggy brute who took the stand was wearing a bright
purple hat which sat rakishly over one ear. He grinned the
Altairian equivalent of a hungry grin at the prosecutor. Then
he cleared his throat and started. "This Terran riffraff—"
"The oath," muttered the judge. "We've got to have the
oath."
The prosecutor nodded, and four natives moved forward,
carrying huge inscribed marble slabs to the front of the court.
One by one the chunks were reverently piled in a heap at the
witness's feet. The witness placed a huge, hairy paw on the
cairn, and the prosecutor said, "Do you swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you—" he
paused to squint at the paper in his hand, and finished on a
puzzled note, "—Goddess?"
The witness removed the paw from the rock pile long enough
to scratch his ear. Then he replaced it, and replied, "Of course,"
in an injured tone.
"Then tell this court what you have seen of the activities of
this abominable wretch."
The witness settled back into the chair, fixing one eye on
Zeckler's face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third
as if in meditation. "I think it happened on the fourth night
of the seventh crossing of Altair II (may the Goddess cast
a drought upon it)—or was it the seventh night of the fourth
crossing?—" he grinned apologetically at the judge—"when I
was making my way back through town toward my blessed
land-plot, minding my own business, Your Honor, after weeks
of bargaining for the crop I was harvesting. Suddenly from the
shadow of the building, this creature—" he waved a paw at
Zeckler—"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had
a weapon I'd never seen before, and before I could find my
voice he forced me back against the wall. I could see by the
cruel glint in his eyes that there was no warmth, no sympathy
in his heart, that I was—"
"Objection!" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his
feet. "This witness can't even remember what night he's talking
about!"
The judge looked startled. Then he pawed feverishly through
his bundle of notes. "Overruled," he said abruptly. "Continue,
please."
The witness glowered at Zeckler. "As I was saying before
this loutish interruption," he muttered, "I could see that I was
face to face with the most desperate of criminal types, even
for Terrans. Note the shape of his head, the flabbiness of his
ears. I was petrified with fear. And then, helpless as I was, this
two-legged abomination began to shower me with threats of
evil to my blessed home, dark threats of poisoning my land
unless I would tell him where he could find the resting place
of our blessed Goddess—"
"I never saw him before in my life," Zeckler moaned to
Meyerhoff. "Listen to him! Why should I care where their
Goddess—"
Meyerhoff gave him a stony look. "The Goddess runs things
around here. She makes it rain. If it doesn't rain, somebody's
insulted her. It's very simple."
"But how can I fight testimony like that?"
"I doubt if you
can
fight it."
"But they can't prove a word of it—" He looked at the jury,
who were listening enraptured to the second witness on the
stand. This one was testifying regarding the butcherous slaughter
of eighteen (or was it twenty-three? Oh, yes, twenty-three)
women and children in the suburban village of Karzan. The
pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an energy
weapon which ate great, gaping holes in the sides of buildings.
A third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the
room grew hotter and muggier. Zeckler grew paler and paler,
his eyes turning glassy as the testimony piled up. "But it's not
true
," he whispered to Meyerhoff.
"Of course it isn't! Can't you understand?
These people
have no regard for truth.
It's stupid, to them, silly, a mark of
low intelligence. The only thing in the world they have any
respect for is a liar bigger and more skillful than they are."
Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed
out. "Does the defendant have anything to say before
the jury delivers the verdict?"
"Do I have—" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his
pale cheeks suddenly taking on a feverish glow. He sat down
gingerly on the witness chair, facing the judge, his eyes bright
with fear and excitement. "Your—Your Honor, I—I have a
statement to make which will have a most important bearing
on this case. You must listen with the greatest care." He
glanced quickly at Meyerhoff, and back to the judge. "Your
Honor," he said in a hushed voice. "You are in gravest of
danger. All of you. Your lives—your very land is at stake."
The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly
as a murmur arose in the court. "Our land?"
"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear," Zeckler
said quickly, licking his lips nervously. "You must try to
understand me—" he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder
"now, because I may not live long enough to repeat what
I am about to tell you—"
The murmur quieted down, all ears straining in their headsets
to hear his words. "These charges," he continued, "all of
them—they're perfectly true. At least, they
seem
to be perfectly
true. But in every instance, I was working with heart and
soul, risking my life, for the welfare of your beautiful planet."
There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zeckler
frowned and rubbed his hands together. "It was my misfortune,"
he said, "to go to the wrong planet when I first came to
Altair from my homeland on Terra. I—I landed on Altair II,
a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very fortunate error.
Because in attempting to arrange trading in that frightful place,
I made certain contacts." His voice trembled, and sank lower.
"I learned the horrible thing which is about to happen to this
planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is
theirs, not mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her
and lied to her, coerced her all-powerful goodness to their own
evil interests, preparing for the day when they could persuade
her to cast your land into the fiery furnace of a ten-year-drought—"
Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing.
One by one the natives nudged one another, and booed, and
guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's
words. "The defendant is obviously lying," roared the prosecutor
over the pandemonium. "Any fool knows that the Goddess
can't be bribed. How could she be a Goddess if she could?"
Zeckler grew paler. "But—perhaps they were very clever—"
"And how could they flatter her, when she knows, beyond
doubt, that she is the most exquisitely radiant creature in all
the Universe? And
you
dare to insult her, drag her name in
the dirt."
The hisses grew louder, more belligerent. Cries of "Butcher
him!" and "Scald his bowels!" rose from the courtroom. The
judge banged for silence, his eyes angry.
"Unless the defendant wishes to take up more of our precious
time with these ridiculous lies, the jury—"
"Wait! Your Honor, I request a short recess before I present
my final plea."
"Recess?"
"A few moments to collect my thoughts, to arrange my
case."
The judge settled back with a disgusted snarl. "Do I have
to?" he asked Meyerhoff.
Meyerhoff nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his
shoulder to the anteroom. "You can go in there," he said.
Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness
stand, amid riotous boos and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom.
Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at
Meyerhoff with haunted eyes. "It—it doesn't look so good,"
he muttered.
Meyerhoff's eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he
felt a surge of pity and admiration for the haggard con-man.
"It's worse than I'd anticipated," he admitted glumly. "That
was a good try, but you just don't know enough about them
and their Goddess." He sat down wearily. "I don't see what
you can do. They want your blood, and they're going to have
it. They just won't believe you, no matter
how
big a lie you
tell."
Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. "This lying business,"
he said finally, "exactly how does it work?"
"The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It's as simple as
that. It doesn't matter how outlandish a whopper you tell.
Unless, of course, they've made up their minds that you just
naturally aren't as big a liar as they are. And it looks like that's
just what they've done. It wouldn't make any difference to
them
what
you say—unless, somehow, you could
make
them
believe it."
Zeckler frowned. "And how do they regard the—the biggest
liar? I mean, how do they feel toward him?"
Meyerhoff shifted uneasily. "It's hard to say. It's been my
experience that they respect him highly—maybe even fear him
a little. After all, the most convincing liar always wins in any
transaction, so he gets more land, more food, more power.
Yes, I think the biggest liar could go where he pleased without
any interference."
Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.
"Wait a minute," he said tensely. "To tell them a lie
that they'd have to believe—a lie they simply couldn't
help
but believe—" He turned on Meyerhoff, his hands trembling.
"Do they
think
the way we do? I mean, with logic, cause and
effect, examining evidence and drawing conclusions? Given
certain evidence, would they have to draw the same conclusions
that we have to draw?"
Meyerhoff blinked. "Well—yes. Oh, yes, they're perfectly
logical."
Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his
sallow face. His thin body fairly shook. He started hopping
up and down on one foot, staring idiotically into space. "If I
could only think—" he muttered. "Somebody—somewhere—something
I read."
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"It was a Greek, I think—"
Meyerhoff stared at him. "Oh, come now. Have you gone
off your rocker completely? You've got a problem on your
hands, man."
"No, no, I've got a problem in the bag!" Zeckler's cheeks
flushed. "Let's go back in there—I think I've got an answer!"
The courtroom quieted the moment they opened the door,
and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler
had taken his seat on the witness stand, the judge turned to
the head juryman. "Now, then," he said with happy finality.
"The jury—"
"Hold on! Just one minute more."
The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a
rock. "Oh, yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead
and say it."
Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. "You want
to convict me," he said softly, "in the worst sort of way. Isn't
that right?"
Eyes swung toward him. The judge broke into an evil grin.
"That's right."
"But you can't really convict me until you've considered
carefully any statement I make in my own defense. Isn't that
right?"
The judge looked uncomfortable. "If you've got something
to say, go ahead and say it."
"I've got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But
you'd better listen to it, and think it out carefully before you
decide that you really want to convict me." He paused, and
glanced slyly at the judge. "You don't think much of those
who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put
this
statement in your
record, then." His voice was loud and clear in the still room.
"
All Earthmen are absolutely incapable of telling the truth.
"
Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury's faces. One or two
exchanged startled glances, and the room was still as death.
The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back.
"But you"—he stammered. "You're"—He stopped in mid-sentence,
his jaw sagging.
One of the jurymen let out a little squeak, and fainted dead
away. It took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement
to soak in.
And then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.
"Really," said Harry Zeckler loftily, "it was so obvious I'm
amazed that it didn't occur to me first thing." He settled himself
down comfortably in the control cabin of the Interplanetary
Rocket and grinned at the outline of Altair IV looming larger
in the view screen.
Paul Meyerhoff stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed
angrily. "You might at least have told me what you
were planning."
"And take the chance of being overheard? Don't be silly.
It had to come as a bombshell. I had to establish myself as a
liar—the prize liar of them all, but I had to tell the sort of lie
that they simply could not cope with. Something that would
throw them into such utter confusion that they wouldn't
dare
convict me." He grinned impishly at Meyerhoff. "The paradox
of Epimenides the Cretan. It really stopped them cold. They
knew
I was an Earthmen, which meant that my statement that
Earthmen were liars was a lie, which meant that maybe I wasn't
a liar, in which case—oh, it was tailor-made."
"It sure was." Meyerhoff's voice was a snarl.
"Well, it made me out a liar in a class they couldn't approach,
didn't it?"
Meyerhoff's face was purple with anger. "Oh, indeed it did!
And it put
all
Earthmen in exactly the same class, too."
"So what's honor among thieves? I got off, didn't I?"
Meyerhoff turned on him fiercely. "Oh, you got off just fine.
You scared the living daylights out of them. And in an eon of
lying they never have run up against a short-circuit like that.
You've also completely botched any hope of ever setting up
a trading alliance with Altair I, and that includes uranium, too.
Smart people don't gamble with loaded dice. You scared them
so badly they don't want anything to do with us."
Zeckler's grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously.
"Ah, well. After all, the Trading Alliance was
your
outlook,
wasn't it? What a pity!" He clucked his tongue sadly. "Me,
I've got a fortune in credits sitting back at the consulate waiting
for me—enough to keep me on silk for quite a while, I
might say. I think I'll just take a nice, long vacation."
Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee
appeared in his eyes. "Yes, I think you will. I'm quite sure of
it, in fact. Won't cost you a cent, either."
"Eh?"
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary
lint fleck from his lapel, and looked up at Zeckler slyly. "That—uh—jury
trial. The Altairians weren't any too happy to
oblige. They wanted to execute you outright. Thought a trial
was awfully silly—until they got their money back, of course.
Not too much—just three million credits."
Zeckler went white. "But that money was in banking custody!"
"Is that right? My goodness. You don't suppose they could
have lost those papers, do you?" Meyerhoff grinned at the
little con-man. "And incidentally, you're under arrest, you
know."
A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. "
Arrest!
"
"Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? Conspiring to undermine the
authority of the Terran Trading Commission. Serious charge,
you know. Yes, I think we'll take a nice long vacation together,
straight back to Terra. And there I think you'll face a jury
trial."
Zeckler spluttered. "There's no evidence—you've got nothing
on me! What kind of a frame are you trying to pull?"
"A
lovely
frame. Airtight. A frame from the bottom up, and
you're right square in the middle. And this time—" Meyerhoff
tapped a cigarette on his thumb with happy finality—"this time
I
don't
think you'll get off."
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from "Tiger by the Tail and Other Science Fiction
Stories by Alan E. Nourse" and was first published in
If Magazine
January 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 23791 | [
"Why did Pop go to Lunar City?",
"How does Pop feel about Sattell?",
"Why don't tourists go to Lunar City?",
"Why does the red-headed man come to the moon?",
"How often does the Lunar colony get supplies delivered from earth?"
] | [
[
"Pop went to Lunar City because the Earth is overcrowded.",
"Pop went to Lunar City because Sattell went to Lunar City.",
"Pop went to Lunar City because his family was murdered, and he couldn't stand to be on Earth any longer.",
"Pop went to Lunar City to mine diamonds."
],
[
"Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family, but he wants Sattell to live. Being near Sattell sparks lost memories.",
"Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family. Pop wants to torture Sattell.",
"Pop thinks Sattell murdered his family Now Sattell is going to destroy Lunar City, and steal the diamonds.",
"Sattell murdered Pop's family, Pop wants Sattell dead."
],
[
"Lunar City is on the far side of the moon. It's far too cold for tourism.",
"Tourists went insane when faced with the vastness of space.",
"Lunar City is not a resort, it's a mining town.",
"It's too expensive, $100,000 for a 12-day cruise."
],
[
"To kill Pop.",
"To steal the diamonds.",
"To rescue Sattell, the diamonds are his payment.",
"To destroy the lunar colony."
],
[
"Every twelve days",
"Every three months",
"Once a month",
"Every two weeks"
]
] | [
2,
1,
2,
3,
4
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
0
] | SCRIMSHAW
The old man
just wanted to get back his
memory—and the methods he used were
gently hellish, from the viewpoint of the
others....
BY MURRAY LEINSTER
Illustrated by Freas
Pop Young was the one known
man who could stand life on the
surface of the Moon's far side, and,
therefore, he occupied the shack on
the Big Crack's edge, above the
mining colony there. Some people
said that no normal man could do
it, and mentioned the scar of a
ghastly head-wound to explain his
ability. One man partly guessed the
secret, but only partly. His name was
Sattell and he had reason not to
talk. Pop Young alone knew the
whole truth, and he kept his mouth
shut, too. It wasn't anybody else's
business.
The shack and the job he filled
were located in the medieval notion
of the physical appearance of hell.
By day the environment was heat and
torment. By night—lunar night, of
course, and lunar day—it was frigidity
and horror. Once in two weeks
Earth-time a rocketship came around
the horizon from Lunar City with
stores for the colony deep underground.
Pop received the stores and
took care of them. He handed over
the product of the mine, to be forwarded
to Earth. The rocket went
away again. Come nightfall Pop
lowered the supplies down the long
cable into the Big Crack to the colony
far down inside, and freshened up
the landing field marks with magnesium
marking-powder if a rocket-blast
had blurred them. That was
fundamentally all he had to do. But
without him the mine down in the
Crack would have had to shut
down.
The Crack, of course, was that
gaping rocky fault which stretches
nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over
the side of the Moon that Earth
never sees. There is one stretch where
it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile
wide and unguessably deep. Where
Pop Young's shack stood it was only
a hundred yards, but the colony was
a full mile down, in one wall. There
is nothing like it on Earth, of course.
When it was first found, scientists
descended into it to examine the exposed
rock-strata and learn the history
of the Moon before its craters
were made. But they found more
than history. They found the reason
for the colony and the rocket landing
field and the shack.
The reason for Pop was something
else.
The shack stood a hundred feet
from the Big Crack's edge. It looked
like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and
it was. The outside was surface
moondust, piled over a tiny dome to
be insulation against the cold of
night and shadow and the furnace
heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone,
and in his spare time he worked
industriously at recovering some
missing portions of his life that Sattell
had managed to take away from
him.
He thought often of Sattell, down
in the colony underground. There
were galleries and tunnels and living-quarters
down there. There were
air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a
hydroponic garden to keep the air
fresh, and all sorts of things to make
life possible for men under if not
on the Moon.
But it wasn't fun, even underground.
In the Moon's slight gravity,
a man is really adjusted to existence
when he has a well-developed case
of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a
man can get into a tiny, coffinlike
cubbyhole, and feel solidity above
and below and around him, and
happily tell himself that it feels delicious.
Sometimes it does.
But Sattell couldn't comfort himself
so easily. He knew about Pop,
up on the surface. He'd shipped out,
whimpering, to the Moon to get far
away from Pop, and Pop was just
about a mile overhead and there was
no way to get around him. It was
difficult to get away from the mine,
anyhow. It doesn't take too long for
the low gravity to tear a man's
nerves to shreds. He has to develop
kinks in his head to survive. And
those kinks—
The first men to leave the colony
had to be knocked cold and shipped
out unconscious. They'd been underground—and
in low gravity—long
enough to be utterly unable to face
the idea of open spaces. Even now
there were some who had to be carried,
but there were some tougher
ones who were able to walk to the
rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin
over their heads so they didn't have
to see the sky. In any case Pop was
essential, either for carrying or
guidance.
Sattell got the shakes when he
thought of Pop, and Pop rather
probably knew it. Of course, by the
time he took the job tending the
shack, he was pretty certain about
Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.
Pop had come back to consciousness
in a hospital with a great
wound in his head and no memory
of anything that had happened before
that moment. It was not that his
identity was in question. When he
was stronger, the doctors told him
who he was, and as gently as possible
what had happened to his wife
and children. They'd been murdered
after he was seemingly killed defending
them. But he didn't remember
a thing. Not then. It was
something of a blessing.
But when he was physically recovered
he set about trying to pick
up the threads of the life he could
no longer remember. He met Sattell
quite by accident. Sattell looked familiar.
Pop eagerly tried to ask him
questions. And Sattell turned gray
and frantically denied that he'd ever
seen Pop before.
All of which happened back on
Earth and a long time ago. It seemed
to Pop that the sight of Sattell had
brought back some vague and cloudy
memories. They were not sharp,
though, and he hunted up Sattell
again to find out if he was right.
And Sattell went into panic when
he returned.
Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop
wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,
but he was deeply concerned with
the recovery of the memories that
Sattell helped bring back. Pop was
a highly conscientious man. He took
good care of his job. There was a
warning-bell in the shack, and when
a rocketship from Lunar City got
above the horizon and could send a
tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,
and Pop got into a vacuum-suit
and went out the air lock. He usually
reached the moondozer about the
time the ship began to brake for
landing, and he watched it come in.
He saw the silver needle in the
sky fighting momentum above a line
of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and
slowed, and curved down as it drew
nearer. The pilot killed all forward
motion just above the field and came
steadily and smoothly down to land
between the silvery triangles that
marked the landing place.
Instantly the rockets cut off,
drums of fuel and air and food came
out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept
forward with the dozer. It was a
miniature tractor with a gigantic
scoop in front. He pushed a great
mound of talc-fine dust before him
to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.
With freight costing what it
did, fuel and air and food came
frozen solid, in containers barely
thicker than foil. While they stayed
at space-shadow temperature, the foil
would hold anything. And a cover of
insulating moondust with vacuum
between the grains kept even air
frozen solid, though in sunlight.
At such times Pop hardly thought
of Sattell. He knew he had plenty
of time for that. He'd started to follow
Sattell knowing what had happened
to his wife and children, but
it was hearsay only. He had no memory
of them at all. But Sattell stirred
the lost memories. At first Pop followed
absorbedly from city to city,
to recover the years that had been
wiped out by an axe-blow. He did
recover a good deal. When Sattell
fled to another continent, Pop followed
because he had some distinct
memories of his wife—and the way
he'd felt about her—and some fugitive
mental images of his children.
When Sattell frenziedly tried to deny
knowledge of the murder in Tangier,
Pop had come to remember both his
children and some of the happiness
of his married life.
Even when Sattell—whimpering—signed
up for Lunar City, Pop tracked
him. By that time he was quite
sure that Sattell was the man who'd
killed his family. If so, Sattell had
profited by less than two days' pay
for wiping out everything that Pop
possessed. But Pop wanted it back.
He couldn't prove Sattell's guilt.
There was no evidence. In any case,
he didn't really want Sattell to die.
If he did, there'd be no way to recover
more lost memories.
Sometimes, in the shack on the far
side of the Moon, Pop Young had
odd fancies about Sattell. There was
the mine, for example. In each two
Earth-weeks of working, the mine-colony
nearly filled up a three-gallon
cannister with greasy-seeming white
crystals shaped like two pyramids
base to base. The filled cannister
would weigh a hundred pounds on
Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But
on Earth its contents would be computed
in carats, and a hundred
pounds was worth millions. Yet here
on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister
on a shelf in his tiny dome,
behind the air-apparatus. It rattled
if he shook it, and it was worth no
more than so many pebbles. But
sometimes Pop wondered if Sattell
ever thought of the value of the
mine's production. If he would kill
a woman and two children and think
he'd killed a man for no more than
a hundred dollars, what enormity
would he commit for a three-gallon
quantity of uncut diamonds?
But he did not dwell on such
speculation. The sun rose very, very
slowly in what by convention was
called the east. It took nearly two
hours to urge its disk above the
horizon, and it burned terribly in
emptiness for fourteen times twenty-four
hours before sunset. Then there
was night, and for three hundred
and thirty-six consecutive hours there
were only stars overhead and the
sky was a hole so terrible that a man
who looked up into it—what with
the nagging sensation of one-sixth
gravity—tended to lose all confidence
in the stability of things. Most men
immediately found it hysterically necessary
to seize hold of something
solid to keep from falling upward.
But nothing felt solid. Everything
fell, too. Wherefore most men tended
to scream.
But not Pop. He'd come to the
Moon in the first place because Sattell
was here. Near Sattell, he found
memories of times when he was a
young man with a young wife who
loved him extravagantly. Then pictures
of his children came out of
emptiness and grew sharp and clear.
He found that he loved them very
dearly. And when he was near Sattell
he literally recovered them—in
the sense that he came to know new
things about them and had new
memories of them every day. He
hadn't yet remembered the crime
which lost them to him. Until he
did—and the fact possessed a certain
grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate
Sattell. He simply wanted to be near
him because it enabled him to recover
new and vivid parts of his
youth that had been lost.
Otherwise, he was wholly matter-of-fact—certainly
so for the far side
of the Moon. He was a rather fussy
housekeeper. The shack above the
Big Crack's rim was as tidy as any
lighthouse or fur-trapper's cabin. He
tended his air-apparatus with a fine
precision. It was perfectly simple. In
the shadow of the shack he had an
unfailing source of extreme low
temperature. Air from the shack
flowed into a shadow-chilled pipe.
Moisture condensed out of it here,
and CO
2
froze solidly out of it there,
and on beyond it collected as restless,
transparent liquid air. At the same
time, liquid air from another tank
evaporated to maintain the proper
air pressure in the shack. Every so
often Pop tapped the pipe where the
moisture froze, and lumps of water
ice clattered out to be returned to the
humidifier. Less often he took out the
CO
2
snow, and measured it, and
dumped an equivalent quantity of
pale-blue liquid oxygen into the liquid
air that had been purified by
cold. The oxygen dissolved. Then the
apparatus reversed itself and supplied
fresh air from the now-enriched
fluid, while the depleted other
tank began to fill up with cold-purified
liquid air.
Outside the shack, jagged stony
pinnacles reared in the starlight, and
craters complained of the bombardment
from space that had made them.
But, outside, nothing ever happened.
Inside, it was quite different.
Working on his memories, one
day Pop made a little sketch. It
helped a great deal. He grew deeply
interested. Writing-material was
scarce, but he spent most of the time
between two particular rocket-landings
getting down on paper exactly
how a child had looked while sleeping,
some fifteen years before. He
remembered with astonishment that
the child had really looked exactly
like that! Later he began a sketch of
his partly-remembered wife. In time—he
had plenty—it became a really
truthful likeness.
The sun rose, and baked the
abomination of desolation which was
the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously
touched up the glittering
triangles which were landing guides
for the Lunar City ships. They glittered
from the thinnest conceivable
layer of magnesium marking-powder.
He checked over the moondozer.
He tended the air apparatus. He did
everything that his job and survival
required. Ungrudgingly.
Then he made more sketches. The
images to be drawn came back more
clearly when he thought of Sattell,
so by keeping Sattell in mind he recovered
the memory of a chair that
had been in his forgotten home.
Then he drew his wife sitting in it,
reading. It felt very good to see her
again. And he speculated about
whether Sattell ever thought of millions
of dollars' worth of new-mined
diamonds knocking about unguarded
in the shack, and he suddenly recollected
clearly the way one of his
children had looked while playing
with her doll. He made a quick
sketch to keep from forgetting that.
There was no purpose in the
sketching, save that he'd lost all his
young manhood through a senseless
crime. He wanted his youth back. He
was recovering it bit by bit. The
occupation made it absurdly easy to
live on the surface of the far side of
the Moon, whether anybody else
could do it or not.
Sattell had no such device for adjusting
to the lunar state of things.
Living on the Moon was bad enough
anyhow, then, but living one mile
underground from Pop Young was
much worse. Sattell clearly remembered
the crime Pop Young hadn't
yet recalled. He considered that Pop
had made no overt attempt to revenge
himself because he planned
some retaliation so horrible and lingering
that it was worth waiting for.
He came to hate Pop with an insane
ferocity. And fear. In his mind the
need to escape became an obsession
on top of the other psychotic states
normal to a Moon-colonist.
But he was helpless. He couldn't
leave. There was Pop. He couldn't
kill Pop. He had no chance—and he
was afraid. The one absurd, irrelevant
thing he could do was write
letters back to Earth. He did that.
He wrote with the desperate, impassioned,
frantic blend of persuasion
and information and genius-like invention
of a prisoner in a high-security
prison, trying to induce someone
to help him escape.
He had friends, of a sort, but for
a long time his letters produced
nothing. The Moon swung in vast
circles about the Earth, and the Earth
swung sedately about the Sun. The
other planets danced their saraband.
The rest of humanity went about its
own affairs with fascinated attention.
But then an event occurred which
bore directly upon Pop Young and
Sattell and Pop Young's missing
years.
Somebody back on Earth promoted
a luxury passenger-line of spaceships
to ply between Earth and
Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.
Three spacecraft capable of the journey
came into being with attendant
reams of publicity. They promised a
thrill and a new distinction for the
rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The
most expensive and most thrilling
trip in history! One hundred thousand
dollars for a twelve-day cruise
through space, with views of the
Moon's far side and trips through
Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,
plus sound-tapes of the journey
and fame hitherto reserved for
honest explorers!
It didn't seem to have anything
to do with Pop or with Sattell. But
it did.
There were just two passenger
tours. The first was fully booked.
But the passengers who paid so highly,
expected to be pleasantly thrilled
and shielded from all reasons for
alarm. And they couldn't be. Something
happens when a self-centered
and complacent individual unsuspectingly
looks out of a spaceship
port and sees the cosmos unshielded
by mists or clouds or other aids to
blindness against reality. It is shattering.
A millionaire cut his throat when
he saw Earth dwindled to a mere
blue-green ball in vastness. He could
not endure his own smallness in the
face of immensity. Not one passenger
disembarked even for Lunar
City. Most of them cowered in their
chairs, hiding their eyes. They were
the simple cases of hysteria. But the
richest girl on Earth, who'd had five
husbands and believed that nothing
could move her—she went into
catatonic withdrawal and neither
saw nor heard nor moved. Two other
passengers sobbed in improvised
strait jackets. The first shipload
started home. Fast.
The second luxury liner took off
with only four passengers and turned
back before reaching the Moon.
Space-pilots could take the strain of
space-flight because they had work
to do. Workers for the lunar mines
could make the trip under heavy
sedation. But it was too early in the
development of space-travel for
pleasure-passengers. They weren't
prepared for the more humbling
facts of life.
Pop heard of the quaint commercial
enterprise through the micro-tapes
put off at the shack for the men
down in the mine. Sattell probably
learned of it the same way. Pop didn't
even think of it again. It seemed
to have nothing to do with him. But
Sattell undoubtedly dealt with it
fully in his desperate writings back
to Earth.
Pop matter-of-factly tended the
shack and the landing field and the
stores for the Big Crack mine. Between-times
he made more drawings
in pursuit of his own private objective.
Quite accidentally, he developed
a certain talent professional artists
might have approved. But he was not
trying to communicate, but to discover.
Drawing—especially with his
mind on Sattell—he found fresh incidents
popping up in his recollection.
Times when he was happy. One
day he remembered the puppy his
children had owned and loved. He
drew it painstakingly—and it was
his again. Thereafter he could remember
it any time he chose. He did
actually recover a completely vanished
past.
He envisioned a way to increase
that recovery. But there was a marked
shortage of artists' materials on the
Moon. All freight had to be hauled
from Earth, on a voyage equal to
rather more than a thousand times
around the equator of the Earth.
Artists' supplies were not often included.
Pop didn't even ask.
He began to explore the area outside
the shack for possible material
no one would think of sending from
Earth. He collected stones of various
sorts, but when warmed up in the
shack they were useless. He found
no strictly lunar material which
would serve for modeling or carving
portraits in the ground. He found
minerals which could be pulverized
and used as pigments, but nothing
suitable for this new adventure in
the recovery of lost youth. He even
considered blasting, to aid his search.
He could. Down in the mine, blasting
was done by soaking carbon black—from
CO
2
—in liquid oxygen, and then
firing it with a spark. It exploded
splendidly. And its fumes were
merely more CO
2
which an air-apparatus
handled easily.
He didn't do any blasting. He didn't
find any signs of the sort of
mineral he required. Marble would
have been perfect, but there is no
marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet
Pop continued to search absorbedly
for material with which to capture
memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,
but—
Early one lunar morning he was
a good two miles from his shack
when he saw rocket-fumes in the
sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't
looking for anything of the sort, but
out of the corner of his eye he observed
that something moved. Which
was impossible. He turned his head,
and there were rocket-fumes coming
over the horizon, not in the direction
of Lunar City. Which was more
impossible still.
He stared. A tiny silver rocket to
the westward poured out monstrous
masses of vapor. It decelerated swiftly.
It curved downward. The rockets
checked for an instant, and flamed
again more violently, and checked
once more. This was not an expert
approach. It was a faulty one. Curving
surface-ward in a sharply changing
parabola, the pilot over-corrected
and had to wait to gather down-speed,
and then over-corrected again.
It was an altogether clumsy landing.
The ship was not even perfectly vertical
when it settled not quite in the
landing-area marked by silvery triangles.
One of its tail-fins crumpled
slightly. It tilted a little when fully
landed.
Then nothing happened.
Pop made his way toward it in
the skittering, skating gait one uses
in one-sixth gravity. When he was
within half a mile, an air-lock door
opened in the ship's side. But nothing
came out of the lock. No space-suited
figure. No cargo came drifting
down with the singular deliberation
of falling objects on the Moon.
It was just barely past lunar sunrise
on the far side of the Moon.
Incredibly long and utterly black
shadows stretched across the plain,
and half the rocketship was dazzling
white and half was blacker than
blackness itself. The sun still hung
low indeed in the black, star-speckled
sky. Pop waded through moondust,
raising a trail of slowly settling
powder. He knew only that the ship
didn't come from Lunar City, but
from Earth. He couldn't imagine
why. He did not even wildly connect
it with what—say—Sattell might
have written with desperate plausibility
about greasy-seeming white
crystals out of the mine, knocking
about Pop Young's shack in cannisters
containing a hundred Earth-pounds
weight of richness.
Pop reached the rocketship. He
approached the big tail-fins. On one
of them there were welded ladder-rungs
going up to the opened air-lock
door.
He climbed.
The air-lock was perfectly normal
when he reached it. There was a
glass port in the inner door, and he
saw eyes looking through it at him.
He pulled the outer door shut and
felt the whining vibration of admitted
air. His vacuum suit went slack
about him. The inner door began to
open, and Pop reached up and gave
his helmet the practiced twisting
jerk which removed it.
Then he blinked. There was a red-headed
man in the opened door. He
grinned savagely at Pop. He held a
very nasty hand-weapon trained on
Pop's middle.
"Don't come in!" he said mockingly.
"And I don't give a damn
about how you are. This isn't social.
It's business!"
Pop simply gaped. He couldn't
quite take it in.
"This," snapped the red-headed
man abruptly, "is a stickup!"
Pop's eyes went through the inner
lock-door. He saw that the interior
of the ship was stripped and bare.
But a spiral stairway descended from
some upper compartment. It had a
handrail of pure, transparent, water-clear
plastic. The walls were bare insulation,
but that trace of luxury remained.
Pop gazed at the plastic,
fascinated.
The red-headed man leaned forward,
snarling. He slashed Pop
across the face with the barrel of his
weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton,
savage brutality.
"Pay attention!" snarled the red-headed
man. "A stickup, I said! Get
it? You go get that can of stuff
from the mine! The diamonds!
Bring them here! Understand?"
Pop said numbly: "What the
hell?"
The red-headed man hit him
again. He was nerve-racked, and,
therefore, he wanted to hurt.
"Move!" he rasped. "I want the
diamonds you've got for the ship
from Lunar City! Bring 'em!" Pop
licked blood from his lips and the
man with the weapon raged at him.
"Then phone down to the mine!
Tell Sattell I'm here and he can
come on up! Tell him to bring any
more diamonds they've dug up since
the stuff you've got!"
He leaned forward. His face was
only inches from Pop Young's. It
was seamed and hard-bitten and
nerve-racked. But any man would be
quivering if he wasn't used to space
or the feel of one-sixth gravity on
the Moon. He panted:
"And get it straight! You try
any tricks and we take off! We
swing over your shack! The rocket-blast
smashes it! We burn you
down! Then we swing over the cable
down to the mine and the rocket-flame
melts it! You die and everybody
in the mine besides! No tricks!
We didn't come here for nothing!"
He twitched all over. Then he
struck cruelly again at Pop Young's
face. He seemed filled with fury, at
least partly hysterical. It was the tension
that space-travel—then, at its
beginning—produced. It was meaningless
savagery due to terror. But,
of course, Pop was helpless to resent
it. There were no weapons on the
Moon and the mention of Sattell's
name showed the uselessness of bluff.
He'd pictured the complete set-up
by the edge of the Big Crack. Pop
could do nothing.
The red-headed man checked
himself, panting. He drew back and
slammed the inner lock-door. There
was the sound of pumping.
Pop put his helmet back on and
sealed it. The outer door opened.
Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After
a second or two he went out and
climbed down the welded-on ladder-bars
to the ground.
He headed back toward his shack.
Somehow, the mention of Sattell had
made his mind work better. It always
did. He began painstakingly to
put things together. The red-headed
man knew the routine here in every
detail. He knew Sattell. That part
was simple. Sattell had planned this
multi-million-dollar coup, as a man
in prison might plan his break. The
stripped interior of the ship identified
it.
It was one of the unsuccessful
luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps
it was stolen for the journey
here. Sattell's associates had had to
steal or somehow get the fuel, and
somehow find a pilot. But there were
diamonds worth at least five million
dollars waiting for them, and the
whole job might not have called for
more than two men—with Sattell as
a third. According to the economics
of crime, it was feasible. Anyhow it
was being done.
Pop reached the dust-heap which
was his shack and went in the air
lock. Inside, he went to the vision-phone
and called the mine-colony
down in the Crack. He gave the
message he'd been told to pass on.
Sattell to come up, with what diamonds
had been dug since the
regular cannister was sent up for the
Lunar City ship that would be due
presently. Otherwise the ship on the
landing strip would destroy shack
and Pop and the colony together.
"I'd guess," said Pop painstakingly,
"that Sattell figured it out. He's
probably got some sort of gun to
keep you from holding him down
there. But he won't know his friends
are here—not right this minute he
won't."
A shaking voice asked questions
from the vision-phone.
"No," said Pop, "they'll do it anyhow.
If we were able to tell about
'em, they'd be chased. But if I'm
dead and the shacks smashed and
the cable burnt through, they'll be
back on Earth long before a new
cable's been got and let down to you.
So they'll do all they can no matter
what I do." He added, "I wouldn't
tell Sattell a thing about it, if I were
you. It'll save trouble. Just let him
keep on waiting for this to happen.
It'll save you trouble."
Another shaky question.
"Me?" asked Pop. "Oh, I'm going
to raise what hell I can. There's
some stuff in that ship I want."
He switched off the phone. He
went over to his air apparatus. He
took down the cannister of diamonds
which were worth five millions or
more back on Earth. He found a
bucket. He dumped the diamonds
casually into it. They floated downward
with great deliberation and
surged from side to side like a liquid
when they stopped. One-sixth gravity.
Pop regarded his drawings meditatively.
A sketch of his wife as he
now remembered her. It was very
good to remember. A drawing of his
two children, playing together. He
looked forward to remembering
much more about them. He grinned.
"That stair-rail," he said in deep
satisfaction. "That'll do it!"
He tore bed linen from his bunk
and worked on the emptied cannister.
It was a double container with a
thermware interior lining. Even on
Earth newly-mined diamonds sometimes
fly to pieces from internal
stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable
that diamonds be exposed to
repeated violent changes of temperature.
So a thermware-lined cannister
kept them at mine-temperature once
they were warmed to touchability.
Pop packed the cotton cloth in the
container. He hurried a little, because
the men in the rocket were shaky and
might not practice patience. He took
a small emergency-lamp from his
spare spacesuit. He carefully cracked
its bulb, exposing the filament within.
He put the lamp on top of the
cotton and sprinkled magnesium
marking-powder over everything.
Then he went to the air-apparatus
and took out a flask of the liquid
oxygen used to keep his breathing-air
in balance. He poured the frigid,
pale-blue stuff into the cotton. He
saturated it.
All the inside of the shack was
foggy when he finished. Then he
pushed the cannister-top down. He
breathed a sigh of relief when it was
in place. He'd arranged for it to
break a frozen-brittle switch as it
descended. When it came off, the
switch would light the lamp with its
bare filament. There was powdered
magnesium in contact with it and
liquid oxygen all about.
He went out of the shack by the
air lock. On the way, thinking about
Sattell, he suddenly recovered a completely
new memory. On their first
wedding anniversary, so long ago,
he and his wife had gone out to
dinner to celebrate. He remembered
how she looked: the almost-smug
joy they shared that they would be
together for always, with one complete
year for proof.
Pop reflected hungrily that it was
something else to be made permanent
and inspected from time to time.
But he wanted more than a drawing
of this! He wanted to make the memory
permanent and to extend it—
If it had not been for his vacuum
suit and the cannister he carried, Pop
would have rubbed his hands.
Tall, jagged crater-walls rose
from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended
inky shadows stretched
enormous distances, utterly black.
The sun, like a glowing octopod,
floated low at the edge of things and
seemed to hate all creation.
Pop reached the rocket. He
climbed the welded ladder-rungs to
the air lock. He closed the door. Air
whined. His suit sagged against his
body. He took off his helmet.
When the red-headed man opened
the inner door, the hand-weapon
shook and trembled. Pop said
calmly:
"Now I've got to go handle the
hoist, if Sattell's coming up from
the mine. If I don't do it, he don't
come up."
The red-headed man snarled. But
his eyes were on the cannister whose
contents should weigh a hundred
pounds on Earth.
"Any tricks," he rasped, "and you
know what happens!"
"Yeah," said Pop.
He stolidly put his helmet back
on. But his eyes went past the red-headed
man to the stair that wound
down, inside the ship, from some
compartment above. The stair-rail was
pure, clear, water-white plastic, not
less than three inches thick. There
was a lot of it!
The inner door closed. Pop opened
the outer. Air rushed out. He
climbed painstakingly down to the
ground. He started back toward the
shack.
There was the most luridly bright
of all possible flashes. There was no
sound, of course. But something
flamed very brightly, and the ground
thumped under Pop Young's vacuum
boots. He turned.
The rocketship was still in the act
of flying apart. It had been a splendid
explosion. Of course cotton sheeting
in liquid oxygen is not quite as
good an explosive as carbon-black,
which they used down in the mine.
Even with magnesium powder to
start the flame when a bare light-filament
ignited it, the cannister-bomb
hadn't equaled—say—T.N.T.
But the ship had fuel on board for
the trip back to Earth. And it blew,
too. It would be minutes before all
the fragments of the ship returned
to the Moon's surface. On the Moon,
things fall slowly.
Pop didn't wait. He searched
hopefully. Once a mass of steel plating
fell only yards from him, but it
did not interrupt his search.
When he went into the shack, he
grinned to himself. The call-light of
the vision-phone flickered wildly.
When he took off his helmet the bell
clanged incessantly. He answered. A
shaking voice from the mining-colony
panted:
"We felt a shock! What happened?
What do we do?"
"Don't do a thing," advised Pop.
"It's all right. I blew up the ship and
everything's all right. I wouldn't
even mention it to Sattell if I were
you."
He grinned happily down at a section
of plastic stair-rail he'd found
not too far from where the ship exploded.
When the man down in the
mine cut off, Pop got out of his
vacuum suit in a hurry. He placed
the plastic zestfully on the table
where he'd been restricted to drawing
pictures of his wife and children
in order to recover memories of
them.
He began to plan, gloatingly, the
thing he would carve out of a four-inch
section of the plastic. When it
was carved, he'd paint it. While he
worked, he'd think of Sattell, because
that was the way to get back the
missing portions of his life—the
parts Sattell had managed to get
away from him. He'd get back more
than ever, now!
He didn't wonder what he'd do
if he ever remembered the crime
Sattell had committed. He felt, somehow,
that he wouldn't get that back
until he'd recovered all the rest.
Gloating, it was amusing to remember
what people used to call
such art-works as he planned, when
carved by other lonely men in other
faraway places. They called those
sculptures scrimshaw.
But they were a lot more than
that!
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
September
1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24247 | [
"Who is Big Louis?",
"How did Joe get to 2133?",
"Why do Reston-Farrell and Brett-James bring Joe to the future?",
"Why do Reston-Farrell and Brett-James want Howard Temple-Tracy dead?",
"How does Joe feel about Brett-James and Reston-Farrell?",
"Why does Joe call Citizen Temple-Tracy Chief?",
"Why does everyone in the future have hyphenated names?",
"What city is Temple-Tracy in?",
"What is the punishment for murder in the future?",
"Why can't Joe go back to 1960?"
] | [
[
"Big Louis is Lawrence Reston-Farrell's boss.",
"Big Louis is Al Rossi's boss.",
"Big Louis is Warren Brett- James' boss.",
"Big Louis is Joe Prantera's boss."
],
[
"He was cryogenically frozen in 1960 and awakened in 2133.",
"He was transported through time from 1960 to 2133 by Brett-James and Reston-Farrell.",
"Joe fell through a crack in time, which put him in 2133.",
"Brett-James and Reston-Farrell used a vortex manipulator to transport Joe to 2133."
],
[
"Joe was going to kill Al Rossi. Reston-Farrell and Brett James need Rossi alive.",
"Joe is a caregiver. They want him to take care of someone.",
"Joe is a hitman. They want him to kill someone.",
"Joe is a variant. They removed him from 1960 to correct the timeline."
],
[
"Howard Temple-Tracy is an evil genius recruiting people to his cult.",
"Howard Temple-Tracy is a terrorist bent on destroying North America.",
"Howard Temple-Tracy is an evil genius trying to take over the world.",
"Howard Temple-Tracy is a hitman trying to kill Reston-Farrell and Brett-James. They are just defending themselves."
],
[
"Joe is a little intimidated by them as they seem to be significantly more educated than he is.",
"Joe doesn't know what to think. There's no such thing as time travel. He must be going crazy.",
"Joe thinks they are ridiculous and that Howard Temple-Tracy would make a better associate.",
"Joe thinks they are cowards as they are unable to kill their enemy themselves."
],
[
"Temple-Tracy is the Chief of Police.",
"Temple-Tracy is the head of the Fire Department.",
"Temple-Tracy is the head of the Time Travel Bureau.",
"Joe wants Temple-Tracy to know Joe regards him as superior."
],
[
"Everyone in the future is pretentious.",
"In the future, they honor the maternal lineage.",
"In the future, they have such a large population it was necessary to differentiate between citizens.",
"Everyone in the future uses the name of both spouses."
],
[
"Los Angeles",
"New New Mexico",
"New New York",
"Nuevo Los Angeles"
],
[
"Death",
"Erasure from the timeline",
"Life in prison",
"Psychiatric Care"
],
[
"Temple-Tracy destroyed the vortex manipulator.",
"The time circuits were damaged when they brought Joe into the future.",
"Temple -Tracy destroyed the time transmitter.",
"Time only moves one way."
]
] | [
4,
2,
3,
1,
3,
4,
2,
4,
4,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | Illustrated by van Dongen
A gun is an interesting weapon; it can be hired, of
course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something
much the same can be said of the gunman, too....
GUN FOR HIRE
By
MACK
REYNOLDS
Joe Prantera
called
softly, "Al." The pleasurable,
comfortable,
warm feeling began
spreading over him, the
way it always did.
The older man stopped and
squinted, but not suspiciously, even
now.
The evening was dark, it was unlikely
that the other even saw the
circle of steel that was the mouth of
the shotgun barrel, now resting on
the car's window ledge.
"Who's it?" he growled.
Joe Prantera said softly, "Big Louis
sent me, Al."
And he pressed the trigger.
And at that moment, the universe
caved inward upon Joseph Marie
Prantera.
There was nausea and nausea upon
nausea.
There was a falling through all
space and through all time. There was
doubling and twisting and twitching
of every muscle and nerve.
There was pain, horror and tumultuous
fear.
And he came out of it as quickly
and completely as he'd gone in.
He was in, he thought, a hospital
and his first reaction was to think,
This here California. Everything different.
Then his second thought was
Something went wrong. Big Louis, he
ain't going to like this.
He brought his thinking to the
present. So far as he could remember,
he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.
That at least meant that whatever
the rap was it wouldn't be too
tough. With luck, the syndicate would
get him off with a couple of years at
Quentin.
A door slid open in the wall in a
way that Joe had never seen a door
operate before.
This here California.
The clothes on the newcomer were
wrong, too. For the first time, Joe
Prantera began to sense an alienness—a
something that was awfully
wrong.
The other spoke precisely and
slowly, the way a highly educated man
speaks a language which he reads
and writes fluently but has little occasion
to practice vocally. "You have recovered?"
Joe Prantera looked at the other
expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck
was one of these foreign doctors, like.
The newcomer said, "You have undoubtedly
been through a most harrowing
experience. If you have any
untoward symptoms, possibly I could
be of assistance."
Joe couldn't figure out how he
stood. For one thing, there should
have been some kind of police guard.
The other said, "Perhaps a bit of
stimulant?"
Joe said flatly, "I wanta lawyer."
The newcomer frowned at him. "A
lawyer?"
"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I
get a mouthpiece."
The newcomer started off on another
tack. "My name is Lawrence
Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken,
you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's
maiden name. But it was unlikely
this character could have known that.
Joe had been born in Naples and his
mother had died in childbirth. His
father hadn't brought him to the
States until the age of five and by that
time he had a stepmother.
"I wanta mouthpiece," Joe said
flatly, "or let me outta here."
Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, "You
are not being constrained. There are
clothes for you in the closet there."
Joe gingerly tried swinging his
feet to the floor and sitting up, while
the other stood watching him, strangely.
He came to his feet. With the exception
of a faint nausea, which
brought back memories of that extreme
condition he'd suffered during
... during what? He hadn't the
vaguest idea of what had happened.
He was dressed in a hospital-type
nightgown. He looked down at it and
snorted and made his way over to the
closet. It opened on his approach, the
door sliding back into the wall in
much the same manner as the room's
door had opened for Reston-Farrell.
Joe Prantera scowled and said,
"These ain't my clothes."
"No, I am afraid not."
"You think I'd be seen dead wearing
this stuff? What is this, some religious
crackpot hospital?"
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid,
Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are
the only garments available. I suggest
you look out the window there."
Joe gave him a long, chill look
and then stepped to the window. He
couldn't figure the other. Unless he
was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in
some kind of pressure cooker and
this was one of the fruitcakes.
He looked out, however, not on the
lawns and walks of a sanitarium but
upon a wide boulevard of what was
obviously a populous city.
And for a moment again, Joe Prantera
felt the depths of nausea.
This was not his world.
He stared for a long, long moment.
The cars didn't even have wheels, he
noted dully. He turned slowly and
faced the older man.
Reston-Farrell said compassionately,
"Try this, it's excellent cognac."
Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,
flatly, "What's it all about?"
The other put down the unaccepted
glass. "We were afraid first
realization would be a shock to you,"
he said. "My colleague is in the adjoining
room. We will be glad to explain
to you if you will join us there."
"I wanta get out of here," Joe said.
"Where would you go?"
The fear of police, of Al Rossi's
vengeance, of the measures that
might be taken by Big Louis on his
failure, were now far away.
Reston-Farrell had approached the
door by which he had entered and it
reopened for him. He went through
it without looking back.
There was nothing else to do. Joe
dressed, then followed him.
In the adjoining room was a circular
table that would have accommodated
a dozen persons. Two were
seated there now, papers, books and
soiled coffee cups before them. There
had evidently been a long wait.
Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already
met, was tall and drawn of face
and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.
The other was heavier and more
at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,
somewhere in their middle fifties.
They both looked like docs. He
wondered, all over again, if this was
some kind of pressure cooker.
But that didn't explain the view
from the window.
Reston-Farrell said, "May I present
my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?
Warren, this is our guest from
... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,
so far as Joe could see. He said
gently, "I think it would be Mr. Joseph
Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal
linage was almost universally
ignored." His voice too gave the impression
he was speaking a language
not usually on his tongue.
Joe took an empty chair, hardly
bothering to note its alien qualities.
His body seemed to
fit
into the piece
of furniture, as though it had been
molded to his order.
Joe said, "I think maybe I'll take
that there drink, Doc."
Reston-Farrell said, "Of course,"
and then something else Joe didn't
get. Whatever the something else
was, a slot opened in the middle of
the table and a glass, so clear of texture
as to be all but invisible, was
elevated. It contained possibly three
ounces of golden fluid.
Joe didn't allow himself to think
of its means of delivery. He took up
the drink and bolted it. He put the
glass down and said carefully,
"What's it all about, huh?"
Warren Brett-James said soothingly,
"Prepare yourself for somewhat
of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no
longer in Los Angeles—"
"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see
that."
"I was about to say, Los Angeles of
1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you
to Nuevo Los Angeles."
"Ta where?"
"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to
the year—" Brett-James looked at his
companion. "What is the date, Old
Calendar?"
"2133," Reston-Farrell said. "2133
A.D. they would say."
Joe Prantera looked from one of
them to the other, scowling. "What
are you guys talking about?"
Warren Brett-James said softly,
"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in
the year 1960, you are now in the
year 2133."
He said, uncomprehendingly, "You
mean I been, like, unconscious for—"
He let the sentence fall away as he
realized the impossibility.
Brett-James said gently, "Hardly
for one hundred and seventy years,
Mr. Prantera."
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid we
are confusing you. Briefly, we have
transported
you, I suppose one might
say, from your own era to ours."
Joe Prantera had never been exposed
to the concept of time travel.
He had simply never associated with
anyone who had ever even remotely
considered such an idea. Now he said,
"You mean, like, I been asleep all
that time?"
"Not exactly," Brett-James said,
frowning.
Reston-Farrell said, "Suffice to say,
you are now one hundred and seventy-three
years after the last memory you
have."
Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted
to those last memories and his
eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt
suddenly at bay. He said, "Maybe
you guys better let me in on what's
this all about."
Reston-Farrell said, "Mr. Prantera,
we have brought you from your era
to perform a task for us."
Joe stared at him, and then at the
other. He couldn't believe he was getting
through to them. Or, at least,
that they were to him.
Finally he said, "If I get this, you
want me to do a job for you."
"That is correct."
Joe said, "You guys know the kind
of jobs I do?"
"That is correct."
"Like hell you do. You think I'm
stupid? I never even seen you before."
Joe Prantera came abruptly to
his feet. "I'm gettin' outta here."
For the second time, Reston-Farrell
said, "Where would you go, Mr.
Prantera?"
Joe glared at him. Then sat down
again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.
"Let's start all over again. I got this
straight, you brought me, some
screwy way, all the way ... here.
O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks
like out that window—" The real
comprehension was seeping through
to him even as he talked. "Everybody
I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big
Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even
Big Louis."
"Yes," Brett-James said, his voice
soft. "They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.
Their children are all dead, and their
grandchildren."
The two men of the future said
nothing more for long minutes while
Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.
Finally he said, "What's this bit
about you wanting me to give it to
some guy."
"That is why we brought you here,
Mr. Prantera. You were ... you
are, a professional assassin."
"Hey, wait a minute, now."
Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring
the interruption. "There is small
point in denying your calling. Pray
remember that at the point when we
...
transported
you, you were about
to dispose of a contemporary named
Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,
I might say, whose demise would
probably have caused small dismay to
society."
They had him pegged all right. Joe
said, "But why me? Why don't you
get some heavy from now? Somebody
knows the ropes these days."
Brett-James said, "Mr. Prantera,
there are no professional assassins in
this age, nor have there been for over
a century and a half."
"Well, then do it yourself." Joe
Prantera's irritation over this whole
complicated mess was growing. And
already he was beginning to long for
the things he knew—for Jessie and
Tony and the others, for his favorite
bar, for the lasagne down at Papa
Giovanni's. Right now he could have
welcomed a calling down at the hands
of Big Louis.
Reston-Farrell had come to his feet
and walked to one of the large room's
windows. He looked out, as though
unseeing. Then, his back turned, he
said, "We have tried, but it is simply
not in us, Mr. Prantera."
"You mean you're yella?"
"No, if by that you mean afraid. It
is simply not within us to take the
life of a fellow creature—not to speak
of a fellow man."
Joe snapped: "Everything you guys
say sounds crazy. Let's start all over
again."
Brett-James said, "Let me do it,
Lawrence." He turned his eyes to Joe.
"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did
you ever consider the future?"
Joe looked at him blankly.
"In your day you were confronted
with national and international, problems.
Just as we are today and just as
nations were a century or a millennium
ago."
"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I
know whatcha mean—like wars, and
depressions and dictators and like
that."
"Yes, like that," Brett-James
nodded.
The heavy-set man paused a moment.
"Yes, like that," he repeated.
"That we confront you now indicates
that the problems of your day were
solved. Hadn't they been, the world
most surely would have destroyed itself.
Wars? Our pedagogues are hard
put to convince their students that
such ever existed. More than a century
and a half ago our society eliminated
the reasons for international
conflict. For that matter," he added
musingly, "we eliminated most international
boundaries. Depressions?
Shortly after your own period, man
awoke to the fact that he had achieved
to the point where it was possible to
produce an abundance for all with a
minimum of toil. Overnight, for all
practical purposes, the whole world
was industrialized, automated. The
second industrial revolution was accompanied
by revolutionary changes
in almost every field, certainly in every
science. Dictators? Your ancestors
found, Mr. Prantera, that it is
difficult for a man to be free so long
as others are still enslaved. Today the
democratic ethic has reached a pinnacle
never dreamed of in your own
era."
"O.K., O.K.," Joe Prantera growled.
"So everybody's got it made. What I
wanta know is what's all this about
me giving it ta somebody? If everything's
so great, how come you want
me to knock this guy off?"
Reston-Farrell bent forward and
thumped his right index finger twice
on the table. "The bacterium of hate—a
new strain—has found the human
race unprotected from its disease.
We had thought our vaccines
immunized us."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
Brett-James took up the ball again.
"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of
Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,
Caesar?"
Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.
"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,
Stalin?"
"Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,"
Joe growled. "I ain't stupid."
The other nodded. "Such men are
unique. They have a drive ... a
drive to power which exceeds by far
the ambitions of the average man.
They are genii in their way, Mr. Prantera,
genii of evil. Such a genius of
evil has appeared on the current
scene."
"Now we're getting somewheres,"
Joe snorted. "So you got a guy what's
a little ambitious, like, eh? And you
guys ain't got the guts to give it to
him. O.K. What's in it for me?"
The two of them frowned, exchanged
glances. Reston-Farrell said,
"You know, that is one aspect we had
not considered."
Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,
"Had we not, ah, taken you at the
time we did, do you realize what
would have happened?"
"Sure," Joe grunted. "I woulda let
old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,
five times. Then I woulda took the
plane back to Chi."
Brett-James was shaking his head.
"No. You see, by coincidence, a police
squad car was coming down the
street just at that moment to arrest
Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.
As I understand Californian
law of the period, your life
would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera."
Joe winced. It didn't occur to him
to doubt their word.
Reston-Farrell said, "As to reward,
Mr. Prantera, we have already told
you there is ultra-abundance in this
age. Once this task has been performed,
we will sponsor your entry
into present day society. Competent
psychiatric therapy will soon remove
your present—"
"Waita minute, now. You figure on
gettin' me candled by some head
shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm
going back to my own—"
Brett-James was shaking his head
again. "I am afraid there is no return,
Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but
in one direction,
with
the flow of the
time stream. There can be no return
to your own era."
Joe Prantera had been rocking
with the mental blows he had been
assimilating, but this was the final
haymaker. He was stuck in this
squaresville of a world.
Joe Prantera on a job was thorough.
Careful, painstaking, competent.
He spent the first three days of his
life in the year 2133 getting the feel
of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell
had been appointed to work
with him. Joe didn't meet any of the
others who belonged to the group
which had taken the measures to
bring him from the past. He didn't
want to meet them. The fewer persons
involved, the better.
He stayed in the apartment of
Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,
Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.
Brett-James evidently had something
to do with the process that had enabled
them to bring Joe from the
past. Joe didn't know how they'd
done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a
realist. He was here. The thing was
to adapt.
There didn't seem to be any hurry.
Once the deal was made, they left it
up to him to make the decisions.
They drove him around the town,
when he wished to check the traffic
arteries. They flew him about the
whole vicinity. From the air, Southern
California looked much the same
as it had in his own time. Oceans,
mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,
are fairly permanent even
against man's corroding efforts.
It was while he was flying with
Brett-James on the second day that
Joe said, "How about Mexico? Could
I make the get to Mexico?"
The physicist looked at him questioningly.
"Get?" he said.
Joe Prantera said impatiently, "The
getaway. After I give it to this Howard
Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on
the run, don't I?"
"I see." Brett-James cleared his
throat. "Mexico is no longer a separate
nation, Mr. Prantera. All North
America has been united into one
unit. Today, there are only eight nations
in the world."
"Where's the nearest?"
"South America."
"That's a helluva long way to go on
a get."
"We hadn't thought of the matter
being handled in that manner."
Joe eyed him in scorn. "Oh, you
didn't, huh? What happens after I
give it to this guy? I just sit around
and wait for the cops to put the arm
on me?"
Brett-James grimaced in amusement.
"Mr. Prantera, this will probably
be difficult for you to comprehend,
but there are no police in this
era."
Joe gaped at him. "No police!
What happens if you gotta throw
some guy in stir?"
"If I understand your idiom correctly,
you mean prison. There are
no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera."
Joe stared. "No cops, no jails. What
stops anybody? What stops anybody
from just going into some bank, like,
and collecting up all the bread?"
Brett-James cleared his throat.
"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks."
"No banks! You gotta have banks!"
"And no money to put in them.
We found it a rather antiquated
method of distribution well over a
century ago."
Joe had given up. Now he merely
stared.
Brett-James said reasonably, "We
found we were devoting as much
time to financial matters in all their
endless ramifications—including
bank robberies—as we were to productive
efforts. So we turned to more
efficient methods of distribution."
On the fourth day, Joe said, "O.K.,
let's get down to facts. Summa the
things you guys say don't stick together
so good. Now, first place,
where's this guy Temple-Tracy you
want knocked off?"
Reston-Farrell and Brett-James
were both present. The three of them
sat in the living room of the latter's
apartment, sipping a sparkling wine
which seemed to be the prevailing
beverage of the day. For Joe's taste
it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was
available to those who wanted it.
Reston-Farrell said, "You mean,
where does he reside? Why, here in
this city."
"Well, that's handy, eh?" Joe
scratched himself thoughtfully. "You
got somebody can finger him for me?"
"Finger him?"
"Look, before I can give it to this
guy I gotta know some place where
he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al
Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's
house, see? He lets me know every
Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al
leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,
so I can make plans, like, to give it
to him." Joe Prantera wound it up
reasonably. "You gotta have a finger."
Brett-James said, "Why not just go
to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,
dispose of him?"
"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm
stupid? How do I know how many
witnesses hangin' around? How do I
know if the guy's carryin' heat?"
"Heat?"
"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?
I come to give it to him and he
gives it to me instead."
Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "Howard
Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily
receives visitors every afternoon,
largely potential followers. He
is attempting to recruit members to
an organization he is forming. It
would be quite simple for you to
enter his establishment and dispose
of him. I assure you, he does not possess
weapons."
Joe was indignant. "Just like that,
eh?" he said sarcastically. "Then what
happens? How do I get out of the
building? Where's my get car parked?
Where do I hide out? Where do I
dump the heat?"
"Dump the heat?"
"Get rid of the gun. You want I
should get caught with the gun on
me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber
so quick—"
"See here, Mr. Prantera," Brett-James
said softly. "We no longer have
capital punishment, you must realize."
"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.
What
is
the rap these days, huh?"
Joe scowled. "You said they didn't
have no jails any more."
"This is difficult for you to understand,
I imagine," Reston-Farrell told
him, "but, you see, we no longer punish
people in this era."
That took a long, unbelieving moment
to sink in. "You mean, like, no
matter what they do? That's crazy.
Everybody'd be running around giving
it to everybody else."
"The motivation for crime has
been removed, Mr. Prantera," Reston-Farrell
attempted to explain. "A
person who commits a violence
against another is obviously in need
of medical care. And, consequently,
receives it."
"You mean, like, if I steal a car or
something, they just take me to a
doctor?" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.
"Why would anybody wish to steal
a car?" Reston-Farrell said easily.
"But if I
give it
to somebody?"
"You will be turned over to a medical
institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy
is the last man you will
ever kill, Mr. Prantera."
A chillness was in the belly of Joe
Prantera. He said very slowly, very
dangerously, "You guys figure on me
getting caught, don't you?"
"Yes," Brett-James said evenly.
"Well then, figure something else.
You think I'm stupid?"
"Mr. Prantera," Dr. Reston-Farrell
said, "there has been as much progress
in the field of psychiatry in the
past two centuries as there has in
any other. Your treatment would be
brief and painless, believe me."
Joe said coldly, "And what happens
to you guys? How do you know I
won't rat on you?"
Brett-James said gently, "The moment
after you have accomplished
your mission, we plan to turn ourselves
over to the nearest institution
to have determined whether or not
we also need therapy."
"Now I'm beginning to wonder
about you guys," Joe said. "Look, all
over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to
this guy for?"
The doctor said, "We explained
the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen
Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous,
atavistic, evil genius. We are
afraid for our institutions if his plans
are allowed to mature."
"Well if you got things so good,
everybody's got it made, like, who'd
listen to him?"
The doctor nodded at the validity
of the question. "Mr. Prantera,
Homo
sapiens
is a unique animal. Physically
he matures at approximately the age
of thirteen. However, mental maturity
and adjustment is often not fully
realized until thirty or even more.
Indeed, it is sometimes never
achieved. Before such maturity is
reached, our youth are susceptible to
romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,
racism, the supposed glory of
the military, all seem romantic to the
immature. They rebel at the orderliness
of present society. They seek entertainment
in excitement. Citizen
Temple-Tracy is aware of this and
finds his recruits among the young."
"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.
You want him knocked off before he
screws everything up. But the way
things are, there's no way of making
a get. So you'll have to get some other
patsy. Not me."
"I am afraid you have no alternative,"
Brett-James said gently. "Without
us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera,
you do not even speak the language."
"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand
summa the big words you eggheads
use, but I get by O.K."
Brett-James said, "Amer-English is
no longer the language spoken by the
man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only
students of such subjects any longer
speak such tongues as Amer-English,
French, Russian or the many others
that once confused the race with
their limitations as a means of communication."
"You mean there's no place in the
whole world where they talk American?"
Joe demanded, aghast.
Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the
car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next
to him and Warren Brett-James sat
in the back. Joe had, tucked in his
belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed
in a museum. It had been
more easily procured than the ammunition
to fit it, but that problem too
had been solved.
The others were nervous, obviously
repelled by the very conception of
what they had planned.
Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now
that they had got in the clutch, the
others were on the verge of chickening
out. He knew it wouldn't have
taken much for them to cancel the
project. It wasn't any answer though.
If they allowed him to call it off today,
they'd talk themselves into it
again before the week was through.
Besides, already Joe was beginning
to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,
warm feeling that came to him on
occasions like this.
He said, "You're sure this guy talks
American, eh?"
Warren Brett-James said, "Quite
sure. He is a student of history."
"And he won't think it's funny I
talk American to him, eh?"
"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued."
They pulled up before a large
apartment building that overlooked
the area once known as Wilmington.
Joe was coolly efficient now. He
pulled out the automatic, held it
down below his knees and threw a
shell into the barrel. He eased the
hammer down, thumbed on the
safety, stuck the weapon back in his
belt and beneath the jacketlike garment
he wore.
He said, "O.K. See you guys later."
He left them and entered the building.
An elevator—he still wasn't used
to their speed in this era—whooshed
him to the penthouse duplex occupied
by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.
There were two persons in the reception
room but they left on Joe's
arrival, without bothering to look at
him more than glancingly.
He spotted the screen immediately
and went over and stood before it.
The screen lit and revealed a
heavy-set, dour of countenance man
seated at a desk. He looked into Joe
Prantera's face, scowled and said
something.
Joe said, "Joseph Salviati-Prantera
to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy."
The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.
"Indeed," he said. "In Amer-English?"
Joe nodded.
"Enter," the other said.
A door had slid open on the other
side of the room. Joe walked through
it and into what was obviously an office.
Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a
desk. There was only one other chair
in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it
and remained standing.
Citizen Temple-Tracy said, "What
can I do for you?"
Joe looked at him for a long, long
moment. Then he reached down to
his belt and brought forth the .45
automatic. He moistened his lips.
Joe said softly, "You know what
this here is?"
Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.
"It's a handgun, circa, I would
say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What
in the world are you doing with it?"
Joe said, very slowly, "Chief, in the
line you're in these days you needa
heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,
Chief, you're gunna wind up
in some gutter with a lotta holes in
you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a
job. You need a good man knows how
to handle wunna these, Chief."
Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy
eyed him appraisingly. "Perhaps," he
said, "you are right at that. In the near
future, I may well need an assistant
knowledgeable in the field of violence.
Tell me more about yourself.
You surprise me considerably."
"Sure, Chief. It's kinda a long
story, though. First off, I better tell
you you got some bad enemies, Chief.
Two guys special, named Brett-James
and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one
of the first jobs I'm gunna hafta do
for you, Chief, is to give it to those
two."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Analog
December
1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26843 | [
"Why wasn't the narrator's compartment clean during blastoff?",
"How does Pat feel about the narrator?",
"How long was the author away from earth on this trip?",
"What portion of the journey was spent in cryosleep?",
"Why do Lloyd and Jones shoot at the narrator?",
"How do the Martians reproduce?",
"How did Martians get aboard the ship?",
"Why can't the crew radio the Earth for help?"
] | [
[
"The crew ransacked the narrator's room. They were not happy to have a journalist forced upon them for this journey.",
"The narrator forgot to secure his belongings when they boarded the ship. The gyroscopic spin knocked unsecured items all around the room.",
"The force of the inertial gravities knocked unsecured items all around the room. The narrator did not secure his belongings when he boarded the ship.",
"The gyroscopic spin caused the narrator to vomit."
],
[
"Pat thinks the narrator is an idiot. He cannot believe the space agency allowed the journalist to tag along.",
"Pat is highly annoyed to have an untrained passenger like the narrator aborad for this long, scientific journey.",
"Pat thinks the narrator is simple-minded and tells him as much.",
"Pat hates the narrator. Pat tells him to go to hell."
],
[
"18 months",
"17 months",
"19 months",
"16 months"
],
[
"4 months",
"They did not use cryosleep.",
"6 months",
"8 months"
],
[
"After almost 9 months trapped on the ship together, the entire crew wanted to kill the narrator.",
"Lloyd and Jones were hallucinating and thought the narrator was an enemy combatant.",
"Lloyd and Jones were trying to scare the narrator. ",
"There was an alien lifeform following the narrator."
],
[
"The Martians are made of sugar. Once the body dissolves in the water a new body forms, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.",
"The Martians reproduce the same way humans do.",
"The red scales the Martians leave behind are like eggs. New Martians hatch out of the scales.",
"The Martians are covered in red scales. The scales are shed. The discarded scales grow into new aliens."
],
[
"Kroger brought two sugar crystals aboard.",
"Lloyd brought two sugar crystals aboard.",
"Pat brought two sugar crystals aboard.",
"Jones brought two sugar crystals aboard."
],
[
"Kroger broke the radio.",
"Jones broke the radio.",
"Lloyd broke the radio.",
"Pat broke the radio."
]
] | [
4,
2,
2,
2,
4,
4,
4,
3
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | THE DOPE
on Mars
By JACK SHARKEY
Somebody had to get the human
angle on this trip ... but what
was humane about sending me?
Illustrated by WOOD
My
agent was the one who
got me the job of going
along to write up the first
trip to Mars. He was always getting
me things like that—appearances
on TV shows, or mentions in writers'
magazines. If he didn't sell
much of my stuff, at least he sold
me
.
"It'll be the biggest break a
writer ever got," he told me, two
days before blastoff. "Oh, sure
there'll be scientific reports on the
trip, but the public doesn't want
them; they want the
human
slant
on things."
"But, Louie," I said weakly, "I'll
probably be locked up for the
whole trip. If there are fights or accidents,
they won't tell
me
about
them."
"Nonsense," said Louie, sipping
carefully at a paper cup of scalding
coffee. "It'll be just like the
public going along vicariously.
They'll
identify
with you."
"But, Louie," I said, wiping the
dampness from my palms on the
knees of my trousers as I sat there,
"how'll I go about it? A story? An
article? A
you-are-there
type of report?
What?"
Louie shrugged. "So keep a
diary. It'll be more intimate, like."
"But what if nothing happens?"
I insisted hopelessly.
Louie smiled. "So you fake it."
I got up from the chair in his office
and stepped to the door.
"That's dishonest," I pointed out.
"Creative is the word," Louie
said.
So I went on the first trip to
Mars. And I kept a diary. This is
it. And it is honest. Honest it is.
October 1, 1960
They picked
the launching
date from the March, 1959, New
York
Times
, which stated that this
was the most likely time for launching.
Trip time is supposed to take
260 days (that's one way), so
we're aimed toward where Mars
will be (had
better
be, or else).
There are five of us on board. A
pilot, co-pilot, navigator and biochemist.
And, of course, me. I've
met all but the pilot (he's very
busy today), and they seem friendly
enough.
Dwight Kroger, the biochemist,
is rather old to take the "rigors of
the journey," as he puts it, but the
government had a choice between
sending a green scientist who could
stand the trip or an accomplished
man who would probably not survive,
so they picked Kroger. We've
blasted off, though, and he's still
with us. He looks a damn sight better
than I feel. He's kind of balding,
and very iron-gray-haired and
skinny, but his skin is tan as an Indian's,
and right now he's telling
jokes in the washroom with the co-pilot.
Jones (that's the co-pilot; I
didn't quite catch his first name) is
scarlet-faced, barrel-chested and
gives the general appearance of belonging
under the spreading chestnut
tree, not in a metal bullet flinging
itself out into airless space.
Come to think of it, who
does
belong
where we are?
The navigator's name is Lloyd
Streeter, but I haven't seen his face
yet. He has a little cubicle behind
the pilot's compartment, with all
kinds of maps and rulers and things.
He keeps bent low over a welded-to-the-wall
(they call it the bulkhead,
for some reason or other)
table, scratching away with a ballpoint
pen on the maps, and now
and then calling numbers over a
microphone to the pilot. His hair
is red and curly, and he looks as
though he'd be tall if he ever gets
to stand up. There are freckles on
the backs of his hands, so I think
he's probably got them on his face,
too. So far, all he's said is, "Scram,
I'm busy."
Kroger tells me that the pilot's
name is Patrick Desmond, but that
I can call him Pat when I get to
know him better. So far, he's still
Captain Desmond to me. I haven't
the vaguest idea what he looks like.
He was already on board when I
got here, with my typewriter and
ream of paper, so we didn't meet.
My compartment is small but
clean. I mean clean now. It wasn't
during blastoff. The inertial gravities
didn't bother me so much as
the gyroscopic spin they put on the
ship so we have a sort of artificial
gravity to hold us against the
curved floor. It's that constant
whirly feeling that gets me. I get
sick on merry-go-rounds, too.
They're having pork for dinner
today. Not me.
October 2, 1960
Feeling much
better today.
Kroger gave me a box of Dramamine
pills. He says they'll help my
stomach. So far, so good.
Lloyd came by, also. "You play
chess?" he asked.
"A little," I admitted.
"How about a game sometime?"
"Sure," I said. "Do you have a
board?"
He didn't.
Lloyd went away then, but the
interview wasn't wasted. I learned
that he
is
tall and
does
have a
freckled face. Maybe we can build
a chessboard. With my paper and
his ballpoint pen and ruler, it should
be easy. Don't know what we'll use
for pieces, though.
Jones (I still haven't learned his
first name) has been up with the
pilot all day. He passed my room
on the way to the galley (the
kitchen) for a cup of dark brown
coffee (they like it thick) and told
me that we were almost past the
Moon. I asked to look, but he said
not yet; the instrument panel is
Top Secret. They'd have to cover
it so I could look out the viewing
screen, and they still need it for
steering or something.
I still haven't met the pilot.
October 3, 1960
Well, I've
met the pilot. He is
kind of squat, with a vulturish neck
and close-set jet-black eyes that
make him look rather mean, but he
was pleasant enough, and said I
could call him Pat. I still don't
know Jones' first name, though Pat
spoke to him, and it sounded like
Flants. That can't be right.
Also, I am one of the first five
men in the history of the world to
see the opposite side of the Moon,
with a bluish blurred crescent beyond
it that Pat said was the Earth.
The back of the Moon isn't much
different from the front. As to the
space in front of the ship, well, it's
all black with white dots in it, and
none of the dots move, except in a
circle that Pat says is a "torque"
result from the gyroscopic spin
we're in. Actually, he explained to
me, the screen is supposed to keep
the image of space locked into
place no matter how much we spin.
But there's some kind of a "drag."
I told him I hoped it didn't mean
we'd land on Mars upside down. He
just stared at me.
I can't say I was too impressed
with that 16 x 19 view of outer
space. It's been done much better
in the movies. There's just no awesomeness
to it, no sense of depth or
immensity. It's as impressive as a
piece of velvet with salt sprinkled
on it.
Lloyd and I made a chessboard
out of a carton. Right now we're using
buttons for men. He's one of
these fast players who don't stop
and think out their moves. And so
far I haven't won a game.
It looks like a long trip.
October 4, 1960
I won
a game. Lloyd mistook my
queen-button for my bishop-button
and left his king in jeopardy, and
I checkmated him next move. He
said chess was a waste of time
and he had important work to do
and he went away.
I went to the galley for coffee
and had a talk about moss with
Kroger. He said there was a good
chance of lichen on Mars, and I
misunderstood and said, "A good
chance of liking
what
on Mars?"
and Kroger finished his coffee and
went up front.
When I got back to my compartment,
Lloyd had taken away the
chessboard and all his buttons. He
told me later he needed it to back
up a star map.
Pat slept mostly all day in his
compartment, and Jones sat and
watched the screen revolve. There
wasn't much to do, so I wrote a
poem, sort of.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With Martian rime, Venusian slime,
And a radioactive hoe.
I showed it to Kroger. He says
it may prove to be environmentally
accurate, but that I should stick to
prose.
October 5, 1960
Learned Jones'
first name.
He wrote something in the ship's
log, and I saw his signature. His
name is Fleance, like in "Macbeth."
He prefers to be called Jones. Pat
uses his first name as a gag. Some
fun.
And only 255 days to go.
April 1, 1961
I've skipped
over the last 177
days or so, because there's nothing
much new. I brought some books
with me on the trip, books that I'd
always meant to read and never
had the time. So now I know all
about
Vanity Fair
,
Pride and Prejudice
,
War and Peace
,
Gone with
the Wind
, and
Babbitt
.
They didn't take as long as I
thought they would, except for
Vanity Fair
. It must have been a
riot when it first came out. I mean,
all those sly digs at the aristocracy,
with copious interpolations by Mr.
Thackeray in case you didn't get
it when he'd pulled a particularly
good gag. Some fun.
And only 78 days to go.
June 1, 1961
Only 17 days
to go. I saw Mars
on the screen today. It seems to be
descending from overhead, but Pat
says that that's the "torque" doing
it. Actually, it's we who are coming
in sideways.
We've all grown beards, too. Pat
said it was against regulations, but
what the hell. We have a contest.
Longest whiskers on landing gets a
prize.
I asked Pat what the prize was
and he told me to go to hell.
June 18, 1961
Mars has
the whole screen
filled. Looks like Death Valley. No
sign of canals, but Pat says that's
because of the dust storm down below.
It's nice to have a "down below"
again. We're going to land, so
I have to go to my bunk. It's all
foam rubber, nylon braid supports
and magnesium tubing. Might as
well be cement for all the good it
did me at takeoff. Earth seems awfully
far away.
June 19, 1961
Well, we're down.
We have
to wear gas masks with oxygen
hook-ups. Kroger says the air is
breathable, but thin, and it has too
much dust in it to be any fun to
inhale. He's all for going out and
looking for lichen, but Pat says he's
got to set up camp, then get instructions
from Earth. So we just have
to wait. The air is very cold, but the
Sun is hot as hell when it hits you.
The sky is a blinding pink, or maybe
more of a pale fuchsia. Kroger
says it's the dust. The sand underfoot
is kind of rose-colored, and not
really gritty. The particles are
round and smooth.
No lichen so far. Kroger says
maybe in the canals, if there are
any canals. Lloyd wants to play
chess again.
Jones won the beard contest. Pat
gave him a cigar he'd smuggled on
board (no smoking was allowed on
the ship), and Jones threw it away.
He doesn't smoke.
June 20, 1961
Got lost today.
Pat told me
not to go too far from camp, so,
when I took a stroll, I made sure
every so often that I could still see
the rocket behind me. Walked for
maybe an hour; then the oxygen
gauge got past the halfway mark,
so I started back toward the rocket.
After maybe ten steps, the rocket
disappeared. One minute it was
standing there, tall and silvery, the
next instant it was gone.
Turned on my radio pack and
got hold of Pat. Told him what happened,
and he told Kroger. Kroger
said I had been following a mirage,
to step back a bit. I did, and I could
see the ship again. Kroger said to
try and walk toward where the ship
seemed to be, even when it wasn't
in view, and meantime they'd come
out after me in the jeep, following
my footprints.
Started walking back, and the
ship vanished again. It reappeared,
disappeared, but I kept going. Finally
saw the real ship, and Lloyd
and Jones waving their arms at me.
They were shouting through their
masks, but I couldn't hear them.
The air is too thin to carry sound
well.
All at once, something gleamed
in their hands, and they started
shooting at me with their rifles.
That's when I heard the noise behind
me. I was too scared to turn
around, but finally Jones and Lloyd
came running over, and I got up
enough nerve to look. There was
nothing there, but on the sand,
paralleling mine, were footprints.
At least I think they were footprints.
Twice as long as mine, and
three times as wide, but kind of
featureless because the sand's loose
and dry. They doubled back on
themselves, spaced considerably
farther apart.
"What was it?" I asked Lloyd
when he got to me.
"Damned if I know," he said. "It
was red and scaly, and I think it
had a tail. It was two heads taller
than you." He shuddered. "Ran off
when we fired."
"Where," said Jones, "are Pat and
Kroger?"
I didn't know. I hadn't seen
them, nor the jeep, on my trip back.
So we followed the wheel tracks for
a while, and they veered off from
my trail and followed another, very
much like the one that had been
paralleling mine when Jones and
Lloyd had taken a shot at the scaly
thing.
"We'd better get them on the
radio," said Jones, turning back
toward the ship.
There wasn't anything on the
radio but static.
Pat and Kroger haven't come
back yet, either.
June 21, 1961
We're not
alone here. More of
the scaly things have come toward
the camp, but a few rifle shots send
them away. They hop like kangaroos
when they're startled. Their
attitudes aren't menacing, but their
appearance is. And Jones says,
"Who knows what's 'menacing' in
an alien?"
We're going to look for Kroger
and Pat today. Jones says we'd better
before another windstorm blows
away the jeep tracks. Fortunately,
the jeep has a leaky oil pan, so we
always have the smears to follow,
unless they get covered up, too.
We're taking extra oxygen, shells,
and rifles. Food, too, of course.
And we're locking up the ship.
It's later
, now. We found the
jeep, but no Kroger or Pat. Lots of
those big tracks nearby. We're taking
the jeep to follow the aliens'
tracks. There's some moss around
here, on reddish brown rocks that
stick up through the sand, just on
the shady side, though. Kroger
must be happy to have found his
lichen.
The trail ended at the brink of
a deep crevice in the ground. Seems
to be an earthquake-type split in
solid rock, with the sand sifting
over this and the far edge like pink
silk cataracts. The bottom is in the
shade and can't be seen. The crack
seems to extend to our left and
right as far as we can look.
There looks like a trail down the
inside of the crevice, but the Sun's
setting, so we're waiting till tomorrow
to go down.
Going down was Jones' idea,
not mine.
June 22, 1961
Well, we're
at the bottom, and
there's water here, a shallow stream
about thirty feet wide that runs
along the center of the canal (we've
decided we're in a canal). No sign
of Pat or Kroger yet, but the sand
here is hard-packed and damp, and
there are normal-size footprints
mingled with the alien ones, sharp
and clear. The aliens seem to have
six or seven toes. It varies from
print to print. And they're barefoot,
too, or else they have the damnedest-looking
shoes in creation.
The constant shower of sand
near the cliff walls is annoying, but
it's sandless (shower-wise) near
the stream, so we're following the
footprints along the bank. Also, the
air's better down here. Still thin,
but not so bad as on the surface.
We're going without masks to save
oxygen for the return trip (Jones
assures me there'll
be
a return
trip), and the air's only a little bit
sandy, but handkerchiefs over nose
and mouth solve this.
We look like desperadoes, what
with the rifles and covered faces. I
said as much to Lloyd and he told
me to shut up. Moss all over the
cliff walls. Swell luck for Kroger.
We've found
Kroger and Pat,
with the help of the aliens. Or maybe
I should call them the Martians.
Either way, it's better than what
Jones calls them.
They took away our rifles and
brought us right to Kroger and Pat,
without our even asking. Jones is
mad at the way they got the rifles so
easily. When we came upon them
(a group of maybe ten, huddling
behind a boulder in ambush), he
fired, but the shots either bounced
off their scales or stuck in their
thick hides. Anyway, they took the
rifles away and threw them into the
stream, and picked us all up and
took us into a hole in the cliff wall.
The hole went on practically forever,
but it didn't get dark. Kroger
tells me that there are phosphorescent
bacteria living in the mold on
the walls. The air has a fresh-dug-grave
smell, but it's richer in oxygen
than even at the stream.
We're in a small cave that is just
off a bigger cave where lots of tunnels
come together. I can't remember
which one we came in through,
and neither can anyone else. Jones
asked me what the hell I kept writing
in the diary for, did I want to
make it a gift to Martian archeologists?
But I said where there's life
there's hope, and now he won't talk
to me. I congratulated Kroger on
the lichen I'd seen, but he just said
a short and unscientific word and
went to sleep.
There's a Martian guarding the
entrance to our cave. I don't know
what they intend to do with us.
Feed us, I hope. So far, they've just
left us here, and we're out of rations.
Kroger tried talking to the guard
once, but he (or it) made a whistling
kind of sound and flashed a
mouthful of teeth. Kroger says the
teeth are in multiple rows, like a
tiger shark's. I'd rather he hadn't
told me.
June 23, 1961, I think
We're either
in a docket or a
zoo. I can't tell which. There's a
rather square platform surrounded
on all four sides by running water,
maybe twenty feet across, and
we're on it. Martians keep coming
to the far edge of the water and
looking at us and whistling at each
other. A little Martian came near
the edge of the water and a larger
Martian whistled like crazy and
dragged it away.
"Water must be dangerous to
them," said Kroger.
"We shoulda brought water pistols,"
Jones muttered.
Pat said maybe we can swim to
safety. Kroger told Pat he was
crazy, that the little island we're on
here underground is bordered by a
fast river that goes into the planet.
We'd end up drowned in some grotto
in the heart of the planet, says
Kroger.
"What the hell," says Pat, "it's
better than starving."
It is not.
June 24, 1961, probably
I'm hungry
. So is everybody
else. Right now I could eat a dinner
raw, in a centrifuge, and keep it
down. A Martian threw a stone at
Jones today, and Jones threw one
back at him and broke off a couple
of scales. The Martian whistled
furiously and went away. When the
crowd thinned out, same as it did
yesterday (must be some sort of
sleeping cycle here), Kroger talked
Lloyd into swimming across the
river and getting the red scales.
Lloyd started at the upstream part
of the current, and was about a hundred
yards below this underground
island before he made the far side.
Sure is a swift current.
But he got the scales, walked
very far upstream of us, and swam
back with them. The stream sides
are steep, like in a fjord, and we
had to lift him out of the swirling
cold water, with the scales gripped
in his fist. Or what was left of the
scales. They had melted down in
the water and left his hand all
sticky.
Kroger took the gummy things,
studied them in the uncertain light,
then tasted them and grinned.
The Martians are made of sugar.
Later, same day
. Kroger
said that the Martian metabolism
must be like Terran (Earth-type)
metabolism, only with no pancreas
to make insulin. They store their
energy on the
outside
of their
bodies, in the form of scales. He's
watched them more closely and
seen that they have long rubbery
tubes for tongues, and that they
now and then suck up water from
the stream while they're watching
us, being careful not to get their lips
(all sugar, of course) wet. He
guesses that their "blood" must be
almost pure water, and that it
washes away (from the inside, of
course) the sugar they need for
energy.
I asked him where the sugar
came from, and he said probably
their bodies isolated carbon from
something (he thought it might be
the moss) and combined it with
the hydrogen and oxygen in the
water (even
I
knew the formula for
water) to make sugar, a common
carbohydrate.
Like plants, on Earth, he said.
Except, instead of using special
cells on leaves to form carbohydrates
with the help of sunpower,
as Earth plants do in photosynthesis
(Kroger spelled that word
for me), they used the
shape
of the
scales like prisms, to isolate the
spectra (another Kroger word)
necessary to form the sugar.
"I don't get it," I said politely,
when he'd finished his spiel.
"Simple," he said, as though he
were addressing me by name.
"They have a twofold reason to fear
water. One: by complete solvency
in that medium, they lose all energy
and die. Two: even partial sprinkling
alters the shape of the scales,
and they are unable to use sunpower
to form more sugar, and still die,
if a bit slower."
"Oh," I said, taking it down verbatim.
"So now what do we do?"
"We remove our boots," said
Kroger, sitting on the ground and
doing so, "and then we cross this
stream, fill the boots with water,
and
spray
our way to freedom."
"Which tunnel do we take?"
asked Pat, his eyes aglow at the
thought of escape.
Kroger shrugged. "We'll have to
chance taking any that seem to
slope upward. In any event, we can
always follow it back and start
again."
"I dunno," said Jones. "Remember
those
teeth
of theirs. They must
be for biting something more substantial
than moss, Kroger."
"We'll risk it," said Pat. "It's better
to go down fighting than to die
of starvation."
The hell it is.
June 24, 1961, for sure
The Martians
have coal
mines.
That's
what they use those
teeth for. We passed through one
and surprised a lot of them chewing
gritty hunks of anthracite out
of the walls. They came running at
us, whistling with those tubelike
tongues, and drooling dry coal dust,
but Pat swung one of his boots in
an arc that splashed all over the
ground in front of them, and they
turned tail (literally) and clattered
off down another tunnel,
sounding like a locomotive whistle
gone berserk.
We made the surface in another
hour, back in the canal, and were
lucky enough to find our own trail
to follow toward the place above
which the jeep still waited.
Jones got the rifles out of the
stream (the Martians had probably
thought they were beyond recovery
there) and we found the jeep. It
was nearly buried in sand, but we
got it cleaned off and running, and
got back to the ship quickly. First
thing we did on arriving was to
break out the stores and have a
celebration feast just outside the
door of the ship.
It was pork again, and I got sick.
June 25, 1961
We're going back
. Pat says
that a week is all we were allowed
to stay and that it's urgent to return
and tell what we've learned
about Mars (we know there are
Martians, and they're made of
sugar).
"Why," I said, "can't we just tell
it on the radio?"
"Because," said Pat, "if we tell
them now, by the time we get back
we'll be yesterday's news. This way
we may be lucky and get a parade."
"Maybe even money," said
Kroger, whose mind wasn't always
on science.
"But they'll ask why we didn't
radio the info, sir," said Jones uneasily.
"The radio," said Pat, nodding to
Lloyd, "was unfortunately broken
shortly after landing."
Lloyd blinked, then nodded
back and walked around the
rocket. I heard a crunching sound
and the shattering of glass, not unlike
the noise made when one
drives a rifle butt through a radio.
Well, it's time for takeoff.
This time
it wasn't so bad. I
thought I was getting my space-legs,
but Pat says there's less gravity on
Mars, so escape velocity didn't
have to be so fast, hence a smoother
(relatively) trip on our shock-absorbing
bunks.
Lloyd wants to play chess again.
I'll be careful not to win this time.
However, if I don't win, maybe this
time
I'll
be the one to quit.
Kroger is busy in his cramped
lab space trying to classify the little
moss he was able to gather, and
Jones and Pat are up front watching
the white specks revolve on that
black velvet again.
Guess I'll take a nap.
June 26, 1961
Hell's bells
. Kroger says
there are two baby Martians loose
on board ship. Pat told him he
was nuts, but there are certain
signs he's right. Like the missing
charcoal in the air-filtration-and-reclaiming
(AFAR) system. And
the water gauges are going down.
But the clincher is those two sugar
crystals Lloyd had grabbed up
when we were in that zoo. They're
gone.
Pat has declared a state of emergency.
Quick thinking, that's Pat.
Lloyd, before he remembered and
turned scarlet, suggested we radio
Earth for instructions. We can't.
Here we are, somewhere in a
void headed for Earth, with enough
air and water left for maybe three
days—if the Martians don't take
any more.
Kroger is thrilled that he is
learning something, maybe, about
Martian reproductive processes.
When he told Pat, Pat put it to a
vote whether or not to jettison
Kroger through the airlock. However,
it was decided that responsibility
was pretty well divided.
Lloyd had gotten the crystals,
Kroger had only studied them, and
Jones had brought them aboard.
So Kroger stays, but meanwhile
the air is getting worse. Pat suggested
Kroger put us all into a state
of suspended animation till landing
time, eight months away. Kroger
said, "How?"
June 27, 1961
Air is foul
and I'm very
thirsty. Kroger says that at least—when
the Martians get bigger—they'll
have to show themselves.
Pat says what do we do
then
? We
can't afford the water we need to
melt them down. Besides, the
melted crystals might
all
turn into
little Martians.
Jones says he'll go down spitting.
Pat says why not dismantle interior
of rocket to find out where
they're holing up? Fine idea.
How do you dismantle riveted
metal plates?
June 28, 1961
The AFAR system
is no more
and the water gauges are still dropping.
Kroger suggests baking bread,
then slicing it, then toasting it till
it turns to carbon, and we can use
the carbon in the AFAR system.
We'll have to try it, I guess.
The Martians
ate the bread.
Jones came forward to tell us the
loaves were cooling, and when he
got back they were gone. However,
he did find a few of the red crystals
on the galley deck (floor). They're
good-sized crystals, too. Which
means so are the Martians.
Kroger says the Martians must
be intelligent, otherwise they
couldn't have guessed at the carbohydrates
present in the bread after
a lifelong diet of anthracite. Pat
says let's jettison Kroger.
This time the vote went against
Kroger, but he got a last-minute reprieve
by suggesting the crystals
be pulverized and mixed with sulphuric
acid. He says this'll produce
carbon.
I certainly hope so.
So does Kroger.
Brief reprieve
for us. The
acid-sugar combination not only
produces carbon but water vapor,
and the gauge has gone up a notch.
That means that we have a quart
of water in the tanks for drinking.
However, the air's a bit better,
and we voted to let Kroger stay inside
the rocket.
Meantime, we have to catch
those Martians.
June 29, 1961
Worse and worse
. Lloyd
caught one of the Martians in the
firing chamber. We had to flood
the chamber with acid to subdue
the creature, which carbonized
nicely. So now we have plenty of
air and water again, but besides
having another Martian still on
the loose, we now don't have
enough acid left in the fuel tanks
to make a landing.
Pat says at least our vector will
carry us to Earth and we can die
on our home planet, which is better
than perishing in space.
The hell it is.
March 3, 1962
Earth in sight
. The other
Martian is still with us. He's where
we can't get at him without blow-torches,
but he can't get at the carbon
in the AFAR system, either,
which is a help. However, his tail
is prehensile, and now and then it
snakes out through an air duct and
yanks food right off the table from
under our noses.
Kroger says watch out.
We
are
made of carbohydrates, too. I'd
rather not have known.
March 4, 1962
Earth fills
the screen in the
control room. Pat says if we're
lucky, he might be able to use the
bit of fuel we have left to set us
in a descending spiral into one of
the oceans. The rocket is tighter
than a submarine, he insists, and
it will float till we're rescued, if
the plates don't crack under the impact.
We all agreed to try it. Not that
we thought it had a good chance of
working, but none of us had a better
idea.
I guess
you know the rest of
the story, about how that destroyer
spotted us and got us and
my diary aboard, and towed the
rocket to San Francisco. News of
the "captured Martian" leaked out,
and we all became nine-day wonders
until the dismantling of the
rocket.
Kroger says he must have dissolved
in the water, and wonders
what
that
would do. There are
about a thousand of those crystal-scales
on a Martian.
So last week we found out, when
those red-scaled things began clambering
out of the sea on every coastal
region on Earth. Kroger tried
to explain to me about salinity osmosis
and hydrostatic pressure and
crystalline life, but in no time at all
he lost me.
The point is, bullets won't stop
these things, and wherever a crystal
falls, a new Martian springs up
in a few weeks. It looks like the
five of us have abetted an invasion
from Mars.
Needless to say, we're no longer
heroes.
I haven't heard from Pat or
Lloyd for a week. Jones was picked
up attacking a candy factory yesterday,
and Kroger and I were allowed
to sign on for the flight to
Venus scheduled within the next
few days—because of our experience.
Kroger says there's only enough
fuel for a one-way trip. I don't care.
I've always wanted to travel with
the President.
—JACK SHARKEY
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine
June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26569 | [
"How many comanalysis sessions can someone undergo in one day?",
"How does Bergstrom feel about Zarwell?",
"How does the comanalysis process work?",
"How does Zarwell feel about Bergstrom?",
"Why doesn't Bergstrom alert the authorities that he has a wanted criminal, drugged and unconscious in his office?",
"What is Bergstrom's relationship with Johnson?",
"How did Zarwell lose his memories?",
"Why doesn't Zarwell shoot Bergstrom?",
"Why does Zarwell want to retire from overthrowing corrupt governments?"
] | [
[
"Four",
"Two",
"One",
"Three"
],
[
"Bergstrom thinks Zarwell is a dangerous man. He is thinking about turning Zarwell over to the authorities.",
"Bergstrom thinks Zarwell is a very sick and confused individual. He is going to have Zarwell committed.",
"Bergstrom hates Zarwell. He is planning to kill Zarwell during the next therapy session.",
"Bergstrom admires Zarwell. He wants Zarwell to help him plan a government revolution."
],
[
"The patient is drugged and put in a wave machine so that they can relax and get insomnia relief.",
"The patient is drugged and experiences hallucinations to help cope with past trauma.",
"The patient is drugged to put them in a relaxed state so that they can recover lost memories.",
"The patient is drugged and put in a sponge-like material. This makes the patient relaxed enough to sleep and dream."
],
[
"Zarwell is afraid of Bergstrom. The dreams induced by Bergstrom's drugs grow more and more disturbing.",
"Zarwell is suspicious of Bergstrom. Bergstrom always seems to be uncomfortable in Zarwell's presence.",
"Zarwell is suspicious of Bergstrom. He's sure Bergstrom has been tampering with his memories.",
"Zarwell thinks Bergstrom is an alright guy. However, Zarwell isn't interested in making friends. He just wants to retire in anonymity."
],
[
"Bergstrom is Zarwell's partner and is wants Zarwell to regain his memories.",
"Bergstrom is a fan of Zarwell. He thinks Zarwell would overthrow the current dictatorship if Zarwell could regain his memories.",
"Bergstrom is afraid Zarwell might wake early and kill him before the authorities arrive.",
"Bergstrom wants Zarwell to meet with some people to overthrow the current dictatorship."
],
[
"Johnson is the dictator of St. Martin's where Bergstrom lives.",
"Johnson is the client paying Bergstrom to retrieve \nZarwell's memories.",
"Johnson is the man Bergstrom wants Zarwell to help overthrow the dictator.",
"Johnson is Bergstrom's boss."
],
[
"A soldier hit Zarwell in the head with the butt of a gun, leaving him with amnesia.",
"Zarwell was knocked unconscious when a building collapsed around him. He awoke with amnesia.",
"Zarwell had his memories removed so he could get out of the revolution business.",
"A bullet grazed Zarwell's head during the last revolution, leaving him with amnesia."
],
[
"Zarwell may have been a killer in the old life, but not now.",
"Zarwell is trying to start a new life. He doesn't want to kill anymore.",
"Zarwell is a freedom fighter, not a cold-blooded killer.",
"Zarwell likes Bergstrom. They are friends."
],
[
"Zarwell met the love of his life and wants to spend his days in peace.",
"Often the new government becomes just as oppressive as the old one.",
"Zarwell is getting too old to fight.",
"Zarwell has become ill and can no longer fight the good fight."
]
] | [
2,
4,
3,
4,
4,
3,
3,
3,
2
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | Transcriber’s note:
This story was published in
Galaxy
magazine, June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
[p
135
]
By CHARLES V. DE VET
monkey on his back
Under the cloud of cast-off identities
lay the shape of another man—
was it himself?
Illustrated by DILLON
HE was walking endlessly
down a long, glass-walled
corridor. Bright sunlight
slanted in through one wall, on the
blue knapsack across his shoulders.
Who he was, and what he was doing
here, was clouded. The truth lurked
in some corner of his consciousness,
but it was not reached by surface
awareness.
The corridor opened at last into
a large high-domed room, much
like a railway station or an air terminal.
He walked straight ahead.
At the sight of him a man leaning
negligently against a stone pillar,
to his right but within vision,
straightened and barked an order
to him, “Halt!” He lengthened his
stride but gave no other sign.
[p
136
]
Two men hurried through a
doorway of a small anteroom to his
left, calling to him. He turned away
and began to run.
Shouts and the sound of charging
feet came from behind him. He
cut to the right, running toward the
escalator to the second floor. Another
pair of men were hurrying
down, two steps at a stride. With
no break in pace he veered into an
opening beside the escalator.
At the first turn he saw that the
aisle merely circled the stairway,
coming out into the depot again on
the other side. It was a trap. He
glanced quickly around him.
At the rear of the space was a
row of lockers for traveler use. He
slipped a coin into a pay slot,
opened the zipper on his bag and
pulled out a flat briefcase. It took
him only a few seconds to push the
case into the compartment, lock it
and slide the key along the floor
beneath the locker.
There was nothing to do after
that—except wait.
The men pursuing him came
hurtling around the turn in the
aisle. He kicked his knapsack to
one side, spreading his feet wide
with an instinctive motion.
Until that instant he had intended
to fight. Now he swiftly
reassessed the odds. There were
five of them, he saw. He should be
able to incapacitate two or three
and break out. But the fact that
they had been expecting him meant
that others would very probably
be waiting outside. His best course
now was to sham ignorance. He
relaxed.
He offered no resistance as they
reached him.
They were not gentle men. A tall
ruffian, copper-brown face damp
with perspiration and body oil,
grabbed him by the jacket and
slammed him back against the
lockers. As he shifted his weight
to keep his footing someone drove
a fist into his face. He started to
raise his hands; and a hard flat
object crashed against the side of
his skull.
The starch went out of his legs.
“D
O you make anything out of
it?” the psychoanalyst Milton
Bergstrom, asked.
John Zarwell shook his head.
“Did I talk while I was under?”
“Oh, yes. You were supposed to.
That way I follow pretty well what
you’re reenacting.”
“How does it tie in with what I
told you before?”
Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinned
face betrayed no emotion
other than an introspective stillness
of his normally alert gaze. “I see
no connection,” he decided, his
words once again precise and meticulous.
“We don’t have enough to
go on. Do you feel able to try another
comanalysis this afternoon
yet?”
“I don’t see why not.” Zarwell
[p
137
]
opened the collar of his shirt. The
day was hot, and the room had no
air conditioning, still a rare luxury
on St. Martin’s. The office window
was open, but it let in no freshness,
only the mildly rank odor that pervaded
all the planet’s habitable
area.
“Good.” Bergstrom rose. “The
serum is quite harmless, John.” He
maintained a professional diversionary
chatter as he administered
the drug. “A scopolamine derivative
that’s been well tested.”
The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet
assumed abruptly the near transfluent
consistency of a damp
sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave
and rolled gently toward the far
wall.
Bergstrom continued talking,
with practiced urbanity. “When
psychiatry was a less exact science,”
his voice went on, seeming to come
from a great distance, “a doctor
had to spend weeks, sometimes
months or years interviewing a
patient. If he was skilled enough,
he could sort the relevancies from
the vast amount of chaff. We are
able now, with the help of the
serum, to confine our discourses to
matters cogent to the patient’s
trouble.”
The floor continued its transmutation,
and Zarwell sank deep into
viscous depths. “Lie back and relax.
Don’t …”
The words tumbled down from
above. They faded, were gone.
ZARWELL found himself
standing on a vast plain. There was
no sky above, and no horizon in the
distance. He was in a place without
space or dimension. There was
nothing here except himself—and
the gun that he held in his hand.
A weapon beautiful in its efficient
simplicity.
He should know all about the
instrument, its purpose and workings,
but he could not bring his
thoughts into rational focus. His
forehead creased with his mental
effort.
Abruptly the unreality about
him shifted perspective. He was
approaching—not walking, but
merely shortening the space between
them—the man who held
the gun. The man who was himself.
The other “himself” drifted
nearer also, as though drawn by a
mutual attraction.
The man with the gun raised his
weapon and pressed the trigger.
With the action the perspective
shifted again. He was watching the
face of the man he shot jerk and
twitch, expand and contract. The
face was unharmed, yet it was no
longer the same. No longer his own
features.
The stranger face smiled approvingly
at him.
“O
DD,” Bergstrom said.
He brought his hands up and joined
the tips of his fingers against his
chest. “But it’s another piece in the
[p
138
]
jig-saw. In time it will fit into
place.” He paused. “It means no
more to you than the first, I suppose?”
“No,” Zarwell answered.
He was not a talking man, Bergstrom
reflected. It was more than
reticence, however. The man had
a hard granite core, only partially
concealed by his present perplexity.
He was a man who could handle
himself well in an emergency.
Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing
his strayed thoughts. “I expected
as much. A quite normal first phase
of treatment.” He straightened a
paper on his desk. “I think that will
be enough for today. Twice in one
sitting is about all we ever try.
Otherwise some particular episode
might cause undue mental stress,
and set up a block.” He glanced
down at his appointment pad. “Tomorrow
at two, then?”
Zarwell grunted acknowledgment
and pushed himself to his
feet, apparently unaware that his
shirt clung damply to his body.
THE sun was still high when
Zarwell left the analyst’s office.
The white marble of the city’s
buildings shimmered in the afternoon
heat, squat and austere as
giant tree trunks, pock-marked and
gray-mottled with windows. Zarwell
was careful not to rest his hand
on the flesh searing surface of the
stone.
The evening meal hour was approaching
when he reached the
Flats, on the way to his apartment.
The streets of the old section were
near-deserted. The only sounds he
heard as he passed were the occasional
cry of a baby, chronically
uncomfortable in the day’s heat,
and the lowing of imported cattle
waiting in a nearby shed to be
shipped to the country.
All St. Martin’s has a distinctive
smell, as of an arid dried-out
swamp, with a faint taint of fish.
But in the Flats the odor changes.
Here is the smell of factories, warehouses,
and trading marts; the smell
of stale cooking drifting from the
homes of the laborers and lower
class techmen who live there.
Zarwell passed a group of
smaller children playing a desultory
game of lic-lic for pieces of
candy and cigarettes. Slowly he
climbed the stairs of a stone flat.
He prepared a supper for himself
and ate it without either enjoyment
or distaste. He lay down, fully
clothed, on his bed. The visit to the
analyst had done nothing to dispel
his ennui.
[p
139
]
The next morning when Zarwell
awoke he lay for a moment, unmoving.
The feeling was there
again, like a scene waiting only to
be gazed at directly to be perceived.
It was as though a great wisdom
lay at the edge of understanding.
If he rested quietly it would
all come to him. Yet always, when
his mind lost its sleep-induced
[p
140
]
lethargy, the moment of near understanding
slipped away.
This morning, however, the sense
of disorientation did not pass with
full wakefulness. He achieved no
understanding, but the strangeness
did not leave as he sat up.
He gazed about him. The room
did not seem to be his own. The
furnishings, and the clothing he observed
in a closet, might have belonged
to a stranger.
He pulled himself from his blankets,
his body moving with mechanical
reaction. The slippers into
which he put his feet were larger
than he had expected them to be.
He walked about the small apartment.
The place was familiar, but
only as it would have been if he
had studied it from blueprints, not
as though he lived there.
The feeling was still with him
when he returned to the psychoanalyst.
THE scene this time was more
kaleidoscopic, less personal.
A village was being ravaged.
Men struggled and died in the
streets. Zarwell moved among
them, seldom taking part in the
individual clashes, yet a moving
force in the
conflict
.
The background changed. He
understood that he was on a different
world.
Here a city burned. Its resistance
was nearing its end. Zarwell was
riding a shaggy pony outside a high
wall surrounding the stricken metropolis.
He moved in and joined a
party of short, bearded men, directing
them as they battered at the
wall with a huge log mounted on a
many-wheeled truck.
The log broke a breach in the
concrete and the besiegers charged
through, carrying back the defenders
who sought vainly to plug the
gap. Soon there would be rioting
in the streets again, plundering and
killing.
Zarwell was not the leader of the
invaders, only a lesser figure in the
rebellion. But he had played a leading
part in the planning of the
strategy that led to the city’s fall.
The job had been well done.
Time passed, without visible
break in the panorama. Now Zarwell
was fleeing, pursued by the
same bearded men who had been
his comrades before. Still he moved
with the same firm purpose, vigilant,
resourceful, and well prepared
for the eventuality that had befallen.
He made his escape without
difficulty.
He alighted from a space ship on
still another world—another shift
in time—and the atmosphere of
conflict engulfed him.
Weary but resigned he accepted
it, and did what he had to do …
BERGSTROM was regarding
him with speculative scrutiny.
“You’ve had quite a past, apparently,”
he observed.
[p
141
]
Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment.
“At least in my dreams.”
“Dreams?” Bergstrom’s eyes
widened in surprise. “Oh, I beg your
pardon. I must have forgotten to
explain. This work is so routine to
me that sometimes I forget it’s all
new to a patient. Actually what you
experienced under the drug were
not dreams. They were recollections
of real episodes from your
past.”
Zarwell’s expression became
wary. He watched Bergstrom
closely. After a minute, however,
he seemed satisfied, and he let himself
settle back against the cushion
of his chair. “I remember nothing
of what I saw,” he observed.
“That’s why you’re here, you
know,” Bergstrom answered. “To
help you remember.”
“But everything under the drug
is so …”
“Haphazard? That’s true. The
recall episodes are always purely
random, with no chronological sequence.
Our problem will be to reassemble
them in proper order
later. Or some particular scene may
trigger a complete memory return.
“It is my considered opinion,”
Bergstrom went on, “that your lost
memory will turn out to be no ordinary
amnesia. I believe we will find
that your mind has been tampered
with.”
“Nothing I’ve seen under the
drug fits into the past I do remember.”
“That’s what makes me so certain,”
Bergstrom said confidently.
“You don’t remember what we
have shown to be true. Conversely
then, what you think you remember
must be false. It must have been
implanted there. But we can go
into that later. For today I think
we have done enough. This episode
was quite prolonged.”
“I won’t have any time off again
until next week end,” Zarwell reminded
him.
“That’s right.” Bergstrom
thought for a moment. “We
shouldn’t let this hang too long.
Could you come here after work
tomorrow?”
“I suppose I could.”
“Fine,” Bergstrom said with satisfaction.
“I’ll admit I’m considerably
more than casually interested
in your case by this time.”
A WORK truck picked Zarwell
up the next morning and he
rode with a tech crew to the edge of
the reclam area. Beside the belt
bringing ocean muck from the converter
plant at the seashore his
bulldozer was waiting.
He took his place behind the
drive wheel and began working dirt
down between windbreakers anchored
in the rock. Along a makeshift
road into the badlands trucks
brought crushed lime and phosphorus
to supplement the ocean
sediment. The progress of life from
the sea to the land was a mechanical
[p
142
]
process of this growing world.
Nearly two hundred years ago,
when Earth established a colony on
St. Martin’s, the land surface of the
planet had been barren. Only its
seas thrived with animal and vegetable
life. The necessary machinery
and technicians had been supplied
by Earth, and the long struggle began
to fit the world for human
needs. When Zarwell arrived, six
months before, the vitalized area
already extended three hundred
miles along the coast, and sixty
miles inland. And every day the
progress continued. A large percentage
of the energy and resources
of the world were devoted to that
essential expansion.
The reclam crews filled and
sodded the sterile rock, planted
binding grasses, grain and trees, and
diverted rivers to keep it fertile.
When there were no rivers to divert
they blasted out springs and lakes
in the foothills to make their own.
Biologists developed the necessary
germ and insect life from what they
found in the sea. Where that failed,
they imported microorganisms
from Earth.
Three rubber-tracked crawlers
picked their way down from the
mountains until they joined the
road passing the belt. They were
loaded with ore that would be
smelted into metal for depleted
Earth, or for other colonies short
of minerals. It was St. Martin’s only
export thus far.
Zarwell pulled his sun helmet
lower, to better guard his hot, dry
features. The wind blew continuously
on St. Martin’s, but it furnished
small relief from the heat.
After its three-thousand-mile journey
across scorched sterile rock, it
sucked the moisture from a man’s
body, bringing a membrane-shrinking
dryness to the nostrils as it was
breathed in. With it came also the
cloying taste of limestone in a
worker’s mouth.
Zarwell gazed idly about at the
other laborers. Fully three-quarters
of them were beri-rabza ridden. A
cure for the skin fungus had not
yet been found; the men’s faces
and hands were scabbed and red.
The colony had grown to near self-sufficiency,
would soon have a moderate
prosperity, yet they still
lacked adequate medical and research
facilities.
Not all the world’s citizens were
content.
Bergstrom was waiting in his office
when Zarwell arrived that
evening.
HE was lying motionless on a
hard cot, with his eyes closed,
yet with his every sense sharply
quickened. Tentatively he tightened
small muscles in his arms and
legs. Across his wrists and thighs
he felt straps binding him to the
cot.
“So that’s our big, bad man,” a
coarse voice above him observed
[p
143
]
caustically. “He doesn’t look so
tough now, does he?”
“It might have been better to
kill him right away,” a second, less
confident voice said. “It’s supposed
to be impossible to hold him.”
“Don’t be stupid. We just do
what we’re told. We’ll hold him.”
“What do you think they’ll do
with him?”
“Execute him, I suppose,” the
harsh voice said matter-of-factly.
“They’re probably just curious to
see what he looks like first. They’ll
be disappointed.”
Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to
observe his surroundings.
It was a mistake. “He’s out of
it,” the first speaker said, and Zarwell
allowed his eyes to open fully.
The voice, he saw, belonged to
the big man who had bruised him
against the locker at the spaceport.
Irrelevantly he wondered how he
knew now that it had been a spaceport.
His captor’s broad face jeered
down at Zarwell. “Have a good
sleep?” he asked with mock solicitude.
Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge
that he heard.
The big man turned. “You can
tell the Chief he’s awake,” he said.
Zarwell followed his gaze to where
a younger man, with a blond lock of
hair on his forehead, stood behind
him. The youth nodded and went
out, while the other pulled a chair
up to the side of Zarwell’s cot.
While their attention was away
from him Zarwell had unobtrusively
loosened his bonds as much as
possible with arm leverage. As the
big man drew his chair nearer, he
made the hand farthest from him
tight and compact and worked it
free of the leather loop. He waited.
The big man belched. “You’re
supposed to be great stuff in a situation
like this,” he said, his smoke-tan
face splitting in a grin that revealed
large square teeth. “How
about giving me a sample?”
“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,”
Zarwell told him.
The grin faded from the oily face
as the man stood up. He leaned over
the cot—and Zarwell’s left hand
shot up and locked about his throat,
joined almost immediately by the
right.
The man’s mouth opened and he
tried to yell as he threw himself
frantically backward. He clawed at
the hands about his neck. When
that failed to break the grip he suddenly
reversed his weight and
drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.
Zarwell pulled the struggling
body down against his chest and
held it there until all agitated
movement ceased. He sat up then,
letting the body slide to the floor.
The straps about his thighs came
loose with little effort.
THE analyst dabbed at his upper
lip with a handkerchief. “The
episodes are beginning to tie together,”
he said, with an attempt at
[p
144
]
nonchalance. “The next couple
should do it.”
Zarwell did not answer. His
memory seemed on the point of
complete return, and he sat quietly,
hopefully. However, nothing more
came and he returned his attention
to his more immediate problem.
Opening a button on his shirt, he
pulled back a strip of plastic cloth
just below his rib cage and took
out a small flat pistol. He held it
in the palm of his hand. He knew
now why he always carried it.
Bergstrom had his bad moment.
“You’re not going to …” he began
at the sight of the gun. He tried
again. “You must be joking.”
“I have very little sense of humor,”
Zarwell corrected him.
“You’d be foolish!”
Bergstrom obviously realized
how close he was to death. Yet
surprisingly, after the first start,
he showed little fear. Zarwell had
thought the man a bit soft, too
adjusted to a life of ease and some
prestige to meet danger calmly.
Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.
“Why would I be foolish?” he
asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable
confidence?”
Bergstrom shook his head. “I
know it’s been broken before. But
you need me. You’re not through,
you know. If you killed me you’d
still have to trust some other
analyst.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“No.” Bergstrom was angry now.
“But use that logical mind you’re
supposed to have! Scenes before
this have shown what kind of man
you are. Just because this last happened
here on St. Martin’s makes
little difference. If I was going to
turn you in to the police, I’d have
done it before this.”
Zarwell debated with himself the
truth of what the other had said.
“Why didn’t you turn me in?” he
asked.
“Because you’re no mad-dog
killer!” Now that the crisis seemed
to be past, Bergstrom spoke more
calmly, even allowed himself to
relax. “You’re still pretty much in
the fog about yourself. I read more
in those comanalyses than you did.
I even know who you are!”
Zarwell’s eyebrows raised.
“Who am I?” he asked, very interested
now. Without attention he
put his pistol away in a trouser
pocket.
Bergstrom brushed the question
aside with one hand. “Your name
makes little difference. You’ve used
many. But you are an idealist. Your
killings were necessary to bring
justice to the places you visited. By
now you’re almost a legend among
the human worlds. I’d like to talk
more with you on that later.”
While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom
pressed his advantage. “One
more scene might do it,” he said.
“Should we try again—if you trust
me, that is?”
[p
145
]
Zarwell made his decision quickly.
“Go ahead,” he answered.
ALL Zarwell’s attention seemed
on the cigar he lit as he rode
down the escalator, but he surveyed
the terminal carefully over the rim
of his hand. He spied no suspicious
loungers.
Behind the escalator he groped
along the floor beneath the lockers
until he found his key. The briefcase
was under his arm a minute
later.
In the basement lave he put a
coin in the pay slot of a private
compartment and went in.
As he zipped open the briefcase
he surveyed his features in the mirror.
A small muscle at the corner of
one eye twitched spasmodically.
One cheek wore a frozen quarter
smile. Thirty-six hours under the
paralysis was longer than advisable.
The muscles should be rested at
least every twenty hours.
Fortunately his natural features
would serve as an adequate disguise
now.
He adjusted the ring setting on
the pistol-shaped instrument that
he took from his case, and carefully
rayed several small areas of
his face, loosening muscles that had
been tight too long. He sighed
gratefully when he finished, massaging
his cheeks and forehead with
considerable pleasure. Another
glance in the mirror satisfied him
with the changes that had been
made. He turned to his briefcase
again and exchanged the gun for
a small syringe, which he pushed
into a trouser pocket, and a single-edged
razor blade.
Removing his fiber-cloth jacket
he slashed it into strips with the
razor blade and flushed it down the
disposal bowl. With the sleeves of
his blouse rolled up he had the
appearance of a typical workman
as he strolled from the compartment.
Back at the locker he replaced
the briefcase and, with a wad of
gum, glued the key to the bottom
of the locker frame.
One step more. Taking the syringe
from his pocket, he plunged
the needle into his forearm and
tossed the instrument down a
waste chute. He took three more
steps and paused uncertainly.
When he looked about him it
was with the expression of a man
waking from a vivid dream.
“Q
UITE ingenious,” Graves
murmured admiringly. “You
had your mind already preconditioned
for the shot. But why would
you deliberately give yourself amnesia?”
“What better disguise than to
believe the part you’re playing?”
“A good man must have done
that job on your mind,” Bergstrom
commented. “I’d have hesitated to
try it myself. It must have taken a
lot of trust on your part.”
[p
146
]
“Trust and money,” Zarwell said
drily.
“Your memory’s back then?”
Zarwell nodded.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Bergstrom
assured him. “Now that
you’re well again I’d like to introduce
you to a man named Vernon
Johnson. This world …”
Zarwell stopped him with an upraised
hand. “Good God, man, can’t
you see the reason for all this? I’m
tired. I’m trying to quit.”
“Quit?” Bergstrom did not quite
follow him.
“It started on my home colony,”
Zarwell explained listlessly. “A
gang of hoods had taken over the
government. I helped organize a
movement to get them out. There
was some bloodshed, but it went
quite well. Several months later an
unofficial envoy from another
world asked several of us to give
them a hand on the same kind of
job. The political conditions there
were rotten. We went with him.
Again we were successful. It seems
I have a kind of genius for that
sort of thing.”
He stretched out his legs and regarded
them thoughtfully. “I
learned then the truth of Russell’s
saying: ‘When the oppressed win
their freedom they are as oppressive
as their former masters.’ When
they went bad, I opposed them.
This time I failed. But I escaped
again. I have quite a talent for that
also.
“I’m not a professional do-gooder.”
Zarwell’s tone appealed
to Bergstrom for understanding. “I
have only a normal man’s indignation
at injustice. And now I’ve done
my share. Yet, wherever I go, the
word eventually gets out, and I’m
right back in a fight again. It’s like
the proverbial monkey on my back.
I can’t get rid of it.”
He rose. “That disguise and
memory planting were supposed to
get me out of it. I should have
known it wouldn’t work. But this
time I’m not going to be drawn
back in! You and your Vernon
Johnson can do your own revolting.
I’m through!”
Bergstrom did not argue as he
left.
RESTLESSNESS drove Zarwell
from his flat the next day—a
legal holiday on St. Martin’s. At
a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered
in the shadow of an adjacent
building watching workmen drilling
an excavation for a new structure.
When a man strolled to his side
and stood watching the workmen,
he was not surprised. He waited for
the other to speak.
“I’d like to talk to you, if you
can spare a few minutes,” the
stranger said.
Zarwell turned and studied the
man without answering. He was
medium tall, with the body of an
athlete, though perhaps ten years
[p
147
]
beyond the age of sports. He had
a manner of contained energy.
“You’re Johnson?” he asked.
The man nodded.
Zarwell tried to feel the anger he
wanted to feel, but somehow it
would not come. “We have nothing
to talk about,” was the best he
could manage.
“Then will you just listen? After,
I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”
Against his will he found himself
liking the man, and wanting at least
to be courteous. He inclined his
head toward a curb wastebox with
a flat top. “Should we sit?”
Johnson smiled agreeably and
they walked over to the box and
sat down.
“When this colony was first
founded,” Johnson began without
preamble, “the administrative body
was a governor, and a council of
twelve. Their successors were to
be elected biennially. At first they
were. Then things changed. We
haven’t had an election now in the
last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s
is beginning to prosper. Yet
the only ones receiving the benefits
are the rulers. The citizens work
twelve hours a day. They are poorly
housed
, poorly fed, poorly clothed.
They …”
Zarwell found himself not listening
as Johnson’s voice went on. The
story was always the same. But why
did they always try to drag him into
their troubles?
Why hadn’t he chosen some
other world on which to hide?
The last question prompted a
new thought. Just why had he
chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a
coincidence? Or had he,
subconsciously
at least, picked this particular
world? He had always
considered himself the unwilling
subject of glib persuaders … but
mightn’t some inner compulsion of
his own have put the monkey on his
back?
“… and we need your help.”
Johnson had finished his speech.
Zarwell gazed up at the bright
sky. He pulled in a long breath,
and let it out in a sigh.
“What are your plans so far?”
he asked wearily.
—
CHARLES V. DE VET
|
train | 99917 | [
"What was the Hanseatic League?",
"When did the Hanseatic League begin?",
"What is a modern city that is large enough to be a city-state?",
"What is a potential risk of cities seceding from their nation-states?",
"Why was the Hanseatic League not always accepted by locals?",
"What did the Hanseatic League exchange other than commodities?",
"Where is the only Hanse House left in Britain?",
"What would lead a city like London to seek independence?",
"The Global Parliament of Mayors is a..."
] | [
[
"A loose federation of coastal cities that worked together to promote trade.",
"A casual federation of cities that worked together to promote trade.",
"A league of cities by the sea that agreed to come to each other's aid with armed forces when necessary.",
"A leauge of merchants that worked together to promote trade."
],
[
"The 1200s",
"The 1500s",
"The 1400s",
"The 1300s"
],
[
"Dublin",
"London",
"Trinidad",
"Glasgow"
],
[
"Rural areas may see a rapid economic decline.",
"Ideological differences between city and rural dwellers could grow farther and farther apart.",
"A food shortage could arise if the rural areas refuse to trade with the city that seceded.",
"Rural and city dwellers may decide to engage in warfare."
],
[
"Hanse traders forced some local traders out of business because they could not compete.",
"Hanse merchants were given special privileges.",
"Hanse merchants were mostly foreign. No one likes foreigners.",
"Hanse merchants were mostly German. No one likes the Germans."
],
[
"Animals",
"Women",
"Weapons",
"Knowledge"
],
[
"London",
"Lincolnshire",
"King's Lynn",
"Boston"
],
[
"They choose modernity over mythology.",
"They want to deal with rational thinkers, not people going backward.",
"They want to remain in the EU.",
"They want free movement of people, capital, goods, and ideas."
],
[
"...common platform for action.",
"...a monitor of culture and economic status.",
"...a kind of Hanse of all cities.",
"...a governing body like the UN."
]
] | [
1,
4,
2,
2,
1,
4,
3,
4,
3
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | What cities in the post-Brexit era could learn from a 14th-century trading bloc
As you fly from the country now known as Germany to Britain, the coastal geography of northern European cities gently unfurls. You can see where the sea smacks into them, or where yawning estuaries unfold like funnels between green and brown city and choppy blue water. You can track the snaking rivers and canals that form unrepentant umbilical connections to the settlements set a little further inland.
By their nature cities along coasts and rivers developed so they could be open to trade with each other. From the middle of the 13th century, and for some 300 years after, many settlements dotted along this route formed the prosperous Hanseatic League, a European trading confederation of market towns, before the rise of the nation state led to its dissolution.
The Hanseatic League is not well known, and today it lives on most prominently in the name of the German national airline Lufthansa, literally the 'Hansa of the skies', whose planes you can look out of – and down towards the Hanseatic cities – on the short journeys between mainland Europe and Britain. The letters HH on the number plates of cars in Hamburg stand for Hansestadt Hamburg: another proud little memory of this hidden history.
In the traumatised atmosphere of post-Brexit Britain, it is worth remembering the Hanseatic League. It could point us towards new relationships between progressive city dwellers in a world that otherwise seems to be putting the brakes on modernity.
Despite some of Britain's Leave voters longing to inhabit a fantastical realm immune to foreign influence, the reality is patently very different to that. In the late 1300s, Chaucer wrote about characters travelling to Jerusalem, and others who came from Europe; and it was at exactly this point that the Hanseatic League slowly started to coalesce, eventually influencing our isles.
The League is most easily understood as a loose federation of cities that acted together in self-interest to promote trade. The Hanseatic cities developed their own legal system, and their armies came to one another's aid. Merchants who wanted to buy and sell and travel were taking the lead at a time when nation states were not fit for purpose: in the case of England or Denmark, leadership was too centralised and authoritarian, while in German-speaking lands a nation had yet to be formed.
We think of nations today as elemental almost, immovable. Yet look at any city of Mitteleuropa and you'll see the many different names it has had as borders and regimes have shifted with the sands of time. Nations come and go. Cities endure.
"It is often said that great cities survived great empires," says Cristina Ampatzidou, editor-in-chief of the Rotterdam-based online publishing platform Amateur Cities. "So it is not unrealistic to think of cities as discrete entities that compete and collaborate with each other, independently from the states to which they belong."
The cities involved in the Hanseatic League are found along the Baltic and North Sea coasts, and slightly inland too. The League stretched from Novgorod in the east – in what is now Russia – to London in the west. Tallinn, Riga, Gdańsk, Visby, Berlin, Cologne, Antwerp, Stockholm, Bergen, Kiel, Rostock, Dinant, Bruges, Turku, Groningen, Hanover, Wroclaw, Kaliningrad: all were involved at different stages in the Hanse's history, which ran on into the 1500s.
The League covered lands that today find themselves a part of the modern nations of Finland, Sweden, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. It was a huge – and hugely ambitious – undertaking in the days when communications consisted of ink and paper and the only viable method of travel was by ship. Wood, fur, wool, silver, herring, cod and salt were the main items traded. But what was also exchanged was knowledge. In some ways it was an exercise in what we today call 'soft diplomacy'. There was no maniacal ruler overseeing things – merchants met and talked. They raised armies and waged war against kings who threatened their businesses and their freedoms and their peace.
There was a kind of proto-democracy at work. Professor Rainer Postel, of the Bundeswehr Universität (Germany's equivalent of Sandhurst military academy), has described the Hanse as "a community of interests without power politics". As David Abulafia, Professor of Mediterranean History at Cambridge points out, "The lack of an elaborate superstructure was one of the things that made the Hanse work. Having said that, one should recognise that Lübeck in particular dominated the League for long periods."
Lübeck was where the merchants most often met; and where renewed recent interest in the Hanse eventually led to Angela Merkel cutting the ribbon at the brand new European Hansemuseum in the city last year.
Germany today – multicultural, economically and culturally motoring, free and fair – seems like the ideal model for a modern European nation state. And part of that success lies in the gravitas the country has given to its Hanseatic history. For Germany is not a top-down country with one city unhealthily dominating as with France and Britain (regional economic inequalities have plagued Britain since the painful de-industrialisation of the 1980s, especially in the north). Germany respects federalism and its cities exist on a much more even keel. The way that Cologne, Munich, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Stuttgart all bring varied economic and cultural character to the party is pure Hanse. The former Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Berlin and Bremen have city state status within Germany, putting them on the same level as a whole region or 'land' like Bavaria or Brandenburg.
So how about a new Hanseatic League? I ask Benjamin Barber, senior fellow at New York's Fordham University. "I believe you will find there is a new Hanse," he says, "that constituted itself about 10 or 11 years ago – including many of the original Hanseatic League cities." Barber is founder of the Global Parliament of Mayors, which he describes as a kind of Hanse of all cities, not just European ports, which will give cities a global urban voice and a common platform for action. The parliament convenes for its inaugural session in The Hague in September.
"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of
de jure
autonomy ceded or granted by 'higher' levels of government," says Bruce Katz, centennial scholar at the Washington DC thinktank the Brookings Institution. "Rather, cities have de facto power, the result of larger market and demographic forces and environmental imperatives that value proximity, density, connectivity and quality. Smart nations will see themselves as partners to their cities, setting strong platforms for urban prosperity and devolving powers, where appropriate, to give cities the flexibility to perform… Dumb nations will continue to dictate from above, stifling market activity and urban potential."
But could we go further? Could cities like London declare independence from the UK? London's economy is larger than that of Scotland and Wales combined. "States will not vanish or surrender their waning sovereignty," says Benjamin Barber. "But cities will meet across frontiers and work together to solve problems. The objective is not an independent London or New York, but interdependent cities collaborating globally. And that is happening."
London's voters largely wanted to remain a part of the EU and to maintain the city's status as an entrepôt. There is clearly a widening chasm between urban and rural life at the heart of many nations. Visualisations of Austria's recent presidential election showed the issue clearly: the country's cities voted for the Green candidate Alexander Van der Bellen, while the the rural districts went for right-wing nationalist Norbert Hofer (whose legal challenge to the close result has resulted in a rerun being announced for October). And in the USA in November, it's likely that Trump voters will also come from rural areas and Clinton voters from the cities. City dwellers are finding ever more in common with the world's other city dwellers than with their countrymen 50 miles down the road.
Back in Britain, one of history's little oddities pops up on the east coast. Boston in Lincolnshire and King's Lynn in Norfolk were both forward-looking Hanseatic League towns that traded with far-flung ports and hosted foreign merchants. King's Lynn contains the only extantHanse House left in Britain (London's was knocked down to build Cannon Street Station in the 1800s). Yet in the EU referendum these two areas polled among the highest Leave votes of anywhere in the country.
"Things change," says LSE's Professor Tony Travers. "[King's Lynn] used to be very highly connected, but the economy moved on and left those trading ports like it in a different situation." Take, for example, the pivot towards the New World, with which trade made more sense from the west-coast ports like Bristol and Liverpool. While these boomed between the 1600s and 1800s, the Hanseatic ports declined and then died out. "One of the things that's interesting about the [referendum] decision is that it begs all sorts of questions about the future of the UK and its relationship with Europe; and of London and Scotland and their relationship with the rest of Europe. When the EU began as the EEC in the mid-20th century some saw it as a modern day Hanse. Now the EU seems to be waning, perhaps its successor will have to ape the Hanse even more."
For all its complex beauty, life can ultimately be reduced to a series of binary options: yes or no, stick or twist, in or out, innovation or stagnation, modernity or mythology. The referendum result was disappointing for many progressive observers because it felt like a step backwards. Despite being primarily about trade monopolies and money making, the Hanse was, in its way, an early stab at stepping forwards: it encompassed internationalism, rational thought, free trade, loose democratic institutions and, most crucially of all, movement.
The future, for many observers, can only be understood in terms of the free movement of people, capital, goods and ideas. It is this necessary movement, and its possible curtailment, that could be the spark that leads to cities like London to seek independence and parity with other world cities – rather than with the rural hinterlands of Britain.
Of course, cities seceding from their nation states would provide huge headaches for countries whose biggest economic driver had been removed – as well as likely deepening ideological differences between city and rural dwellers. Moreover, cities need the food the countryside provides.
Yet for all the potential pitfalls, city states can thrive. Look at Singapore, Hong Kong, or de facto city states like Dubai and Abu Dhabi. One of the most telling characteristics about these four – all of course former British imperial enclaves – is that they are utterly outward looking. To return to the sky analogy, it's the airlines of each of these (Singapore Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Emirates and Etihad) that open up each respective city to the world in the way that the machinery of the Hanse did on the Baltic Sea 600 years ago. And it's the unions each city makes with other places that also look thoroughly Hanseatic in character. A model for modern city states, then. But is it one that we want?
"The Hanseatic League was not always accepted by local citizens," says Cristina Ampatzidou, "because the privileges granted to the Hanse merchants were forcing local traders out of competition and many cities took steps to eliminate them. The reasons the countryside is turning to the right [globally] are not independent from cities turning increasingly into speculation machines for the profit of a happy few. It is basically these systemic contradictions that must be addressed before we resort to more isolationist ideas that would intensify the urban-rural political divide. The bottom line is not whether a contemporary Hanse-esque federation is possible, it probably is; but whether it is actually desirable."
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99912 | [
"What does the Tydeman tube do?",
"What is Desperate Debra?",
"What was Desperate Debra originally designed for?",
"What percentage of cesarean births in the UK every year are classified as emergencies?",
"What is one consequence caused by the concern over the increased number of babies born by cesarian?",
"When doing a cesarian for an impacted fetus, what might a doctor see?",
"How often do doctors request a push-up during an unplanned cesarian?",
"What inspired Dr. Tydeman's device?",
"What was Desperate Debra originally made of?",
"When was the earliest childbirth simulator developed?"
] | [
[
"The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The tube opens into a soft silicone cup, which is placed on the part of the head that is exposed through the cervix. Pushing air in through the tube releases suction forces that may be holding the baby in place.",
"The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The doctor can inflate or deflate the tube as necessary to help ease the baby out of the birth canal.",
"The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. The tube opens into a soft silicone cup, which is placed on the part of the head that is exposed through the cervix. Pulling air out through the tube releases suction forces that may be holding the baby in place.",
"The Tydeman tube is placed in the uterus near the baby's head. Pushing air in to inflate the tube keeps the umbilical cord from closing around the baby's neck."
],
[
"Desperate Debra is a training device obstetricians use to simulate delivering babies.",
"Desperate Debra is a training device obstetricians use to simulate delivering an impacted fetus.",
"Desperate Debra is a training device used to simulate cesarean deliveries.",
"Desperate Debra is a training device obstetricians use to simulate delivering a baby when the mother has preeclampsia."
],
[
"She was originally designed for autopsy simulations.",
"She was originally designed to test the Tyedeman tube.",
"She was originally designed as a crash test dummy.",
"She was originally designed for practicing CPR."
],
[
"Nearly one half",
"Nearly two thirds",
"Nearly one quarter",
"Nearly three quarters"
],
[
"Mothers who chose cesarian delivery may be shunned.",
"Doctors may refuse to do a cesarian for fear of being sued.",
"Medical staff may allow a difficult birth to continue for longer before resorting to surgery.",
"Doctors are warier about doing cesareans."
],
[
"An arm",
"A shoulder",
"The torso",
"A leg"
],
[
"5 percent of deliveries",
"10 percent of deliveries",
"15 percent of deliveries",
"20 percent of deliveries"
],
[
"The sound of a Wellington boot being pulled out of the mud.",
"The sound of the dentists' suction tube.",
"His own wife's emergency cesarian.",
"The sound of a Wellington boot being pulled out of quicksand."
],
[
"Ballistics gel over a plastic tube scaffolding",
"Silicone over a plastic tube scaffolding",
"Latex over a plastic tube scaffolding",
"A neoprene wetsuit over a plastic tube scaffolding"
],
[
"Sometime in the fourth century",
"Sometime in the eighteenth century",
"Sometime in the thirteenth century",
"Sometime in the first century"
]
] | [
1,
2,
2,
2,
3,
2,
4,
1,
4,
2
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | Obstetrics for beginners
It's my first go at delivering a baby by caesarean section – and the foetal head is impacted, jammed in its mother's pelvis. To be honest I'm struggling.
Incisions have been made in the lower part of the mother's abdomen and womb. I've pushed my gloved hand inside and managed to slide my fingers between the baby's head and the surrounding uterine tissue. But it's difficult. The baby is tightly wedged in. I've had to push hard to get my hand to the far side of its head, and even though I'm now cupping and grasping it in the approved manner, I can't seem to pull it out. Dare I grip its head more firmly? Dare I pull harder?
The baby's mother – she's called Debra – remains impassive throughout these agonised fumblings. Her face reveals nothing of what she may be feeling. But then Debra has no feelings. Indeed she has no face…
So you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out.
The clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market.
The inventor of the tube and of Desperate Debra is Dr Graham Tydeman, a consultant in obstetrics and gynaecology at Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy, Fife. Only after he'd built Debra did he realise that she might serve a purpose beyond his original intention. His is a decade-long tale of inspired insights, thwarted aims and shifting purposes; but with a good outcome. Although the Tydeman tube is still in gestation, Desperate Debra herself is now thriving.
To understand the desperation of Debra and how the Tydeman tube might help to relieve it requires a brief foray into basic obstetric knowhow. Evolution has endowed us with heads proportionally so large that even when labour runs according to plan, the delivery process involves a bit of a squeeze. For the baby's head to get stuck on the way out may not be usual, but it's by no means a rarity.
The standard response is to perform a caesarean section. Every year some 160,000 babies are born in the UK this way, with almost two thirds of them classified as emergencies. One audit has suggested that roughly 8,000 babies get stuck and have to be delivered by caesarean at a stage when their mothers are fully dilated. "Some of the babies will be so close to coming out by the normal route," says Tydeman, "that it's then difficult to get them back up and remove them through the hole in the woman's tummy." Which women are most at risk of this setback seems to be largely unpredictable. "We just observe that it happens… It's been discussed in the medical literature since the 1940s, but until 10 years ago, and throughout my training and most of my life as a consultant, it wasn't really talked about."
Considering the universality of childbirth, impaction and the best way of dealing with it are topics that seem to have gone remarkably unstudied. "There are strong opinions about why it happens and what to do, but very little research evidence," says Tydeman, adding that many of these opinions are contradictory.
In a protracted birth that's destined to end with a caesarean, the longer the labour is allowed to go on before the obstetrician decides to intervene, the greater the likelihood that the baby's head will become impacted. However, concern over the rising number of babies born by caesarean has made doctors more wary of doing them – one consequence of which is that medical staff may allow a difficult birth to continue for longer before they resort to surgery. This could be boosting the frequency of impaction. But, again, no one is certain.
When obstetricians doing planned caesareans slice open a mother's womb, what they usually see is the baby's head. By slipping a hand round and below it they can easily guide the baby out. "When you do a caesarean for an impacted baby," says Tydeman, "you make the incision in the same place, but what you might come across is a shoulder because the baby's so much further down [the birth canal]." As I'd discovered for myself, sliding a hand around the baby's head is then far more difficult. "It makes your fingers hurt," says Tydeman. "It makes your pulse rate go up to about 200, and you break out in a sweat because know you've only got about five or 10 minutes before there are serious consequences. The clock is ticking."
If a baby's head is jammed down in the mother's pelvic region, common sense suggests that it might help if a second person gives a gentle backward push on the area of its head visible through the mother's dilated cervix. "In our unit," says Tydeman, "when the woman is fully dilated and you'd expect the baby to come out normally [but it doesn't]… a registrar will be asking for a push-up about one in five times." Although registrars are doctors still in training, they're nonetheless experienced; which suggests requests for push-ups during unplanned caesareans are far from uncommon. The Tydeman tube is a gadget intended to make this manoeuvre safer and more effective.
Creativity and innovation have many unlikely sources. What seems to have inspired Tydeman to develop his device was the characteristic sound of a Wellington boot being pulled free of wet, muddy ground: a slurpy, sucking, gurgling noise. When an impacted foetal head is pulled free of the uterus it's often accompanied by a similar sucking noise, the result of air rushing in between the obstetrician's fingers to fill the space vacated. "What occurred to me years ago was that if the air can't get in, why not put a tube up into the vagina so that it can get in from below the baby's head." From time to time, if he felt he felt the baby might stick, Tydeman would slip a length of sterile silicone tubing through the woman's vagina and up into the womb next to the baby's head. Allowing air in by this route would release any suction forces tending to hold it where it was.
Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place.
The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised.
The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. "We were at the point of getting one made in silicone," says Tydeman, "when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator." No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself.
That Tydeman was able to do this comes as no great surprise once you've glanced at his website. His career may be rooted in medicine but his interests encompass sculpture, furniture making and much else. He works in wood, glass, metals and plastic. "I've got a big workshop with a lathe and a forge," he says. "I make stuff. I always have, ever since I was a child. My dad was a woodwork teacher, my mum was very creative with fabric."
Although tests carried out with the Debra prototype showed that the tube would work as intended, Tydeman and his colleagues then faced what he calls a kind of medical catch-22. "We had the tube finished about three years ago… but we were more interested in trying to save lives than selling a product. We thought that the right thing to do before commercialising it was to be sure we'd got the best design." They tried it on a dozen or so women in labour, and concluded that it did what it supposed to. But they held off trying to market it because they wanted to do more extensive, more rigorous clinical studies.
This presented a problem. "If you've applied for research money," says Tydeman, "but you've already got what seems to be a commercially viable design, potential funders are going to say that the company aiming to sell it should pay for the work." On the other hand, commercial interest is easier to drum up if you've already got evidence that a device is safe and effective.
That said, the team didn't want to leave the tube sitting on the shelf. So they eventually decided to go ahead and find a commercial partner willing to manufacture and market it. They have now identified one, and are fairly confident it will soon be in production. With sufficient users it should then be possible to compile factual – as opposed to anecdotal – evidence of benefit. Not ideal, Tydeman concedes, but the best they can do at present.
In the meantime, back to Desperate Debra: so named, Tydeman says, not after any particular person but because the appellation is memorably alliterative. He put together the original Debra in a weekend. The skin was made out of a neoprene wetsuit fixed to a scaffolding formed from plastic tubing he'd found 20 years ago in skip outside a Glasgow pub; the head was cast in silicone from a model he'd made in plasticine, and the rest comprised old springs and other bits of stuff lying around his workshop. "It wasn't actually that difficult," Tydeman says.
When originally conceived, remember, Debra was simply a means of testing the effectiveness of the tube. What she looked like was neither here nor there. It was only once Debra was reborn as a teaching aid that she needed sprucing up.
Tydeman can remember the exact moment when the idea of her having a greater role dawned on him. "I was on the sleeper train down from Scotland to London," he says. "Debra was with me because the first Tydeman tube had become available at St Thomas's… It was about midnight, I'd had my free whisky and I suddenly thought, 'Blow me! Even if the tube doesn't work, Debra could be useful as a teaching aid'."
The following morning, at St Thomas's, Tydeman asked a visiting professor of obstetrics to have a look at Debra and tell him what she thought. She put her hand into Debra's womb, grasped the foetal head and said it felt just like the real thing. "Terribly flattering," Tydeman laughs.
With a grant from the Guy's and St Thomas's Charity fund they made Debra more presentable. Tydeman showed the prototype to Adam Rouilly, an established company specialising in medical models and simulators. They were impressed. A year later, the first of Debra's smartened-up sisters was on the market.
In Debra as she is now, the precise extent and nature of her desperation can be fine-tuned according to need. The foetal head inside her uterus can be moved to mimic the various positions that an unborn baby may adopt. By tightening a spring inside Debra's body, it's also possible vary the degree of impaction from mild to so severe that the head is virtually impossible to extract. In this way she simulates the full range of difficulty that obstetricians are likely to encounter.
So how valuable in training medical staff is a simulator like this? Very, according to Annette Briley. Imagine it's the middle of the night and an unplanned emergency caesarean is required: "Some poor junior doctor might find himself trying to manage it on his own." To have practised the knack of extracting a firmly impacted baby from a simulator is lot better than first honing your skill on a real woman.
At St Thomas's, midwives in training also get an opportunity to practise on Debra. The chances that midwives will find themselves having to do the actual extraction of an infant are slim; but they're quite likely to be asked to help the obstetrician by pushing a stuck baby from below. Debra's anatomy allows them to practise this skill; and to learn where and how hard to push on the infant skull. "Any practice you've done in the cold light of day will help you stay calm and composed in an emergency, and that's what we're aiming for," says Briley.
It's still too soon to make a final judgement about Debra’s impact. "When we first brought Debra out," Briley recalls, "some of the really experienced professors said things like, 'We always managed without one. Why would you need this?' But ask them to have a go at using it and then they admit it's really good." Medicine as a whole has an oddly ambivalent relationship to innovation. Some new findings, techniques or equipment take years to penetrate the profession; others are seized upon immediately.
A proper study of the clinical effectiveness of the Tydeman tube will necessarily involve women giving birth. Assessing the value of Debra as a simulator didn't require human subjects; and the team has already conducted such a study. Thirty obstetricians, from three NHS maternity units and with varying levels of experience, took part. They all received a brief explanation of how Debra works, and were then asked to try a timed removal of the foetal head at three different levels of difficulty. Overall, 87 per cent reported that the simulator offered a realistic experience of dealing with an impacted head, and 93 per cent thought it would be valuable as a training device.
The use of simulators to teach technical skills is now common in medical schools. You can learn to sew up a knife wound, catheterise a bladder or intubate an airway. You can practise cardiopulmonary resuscitation or ear syringing or even go through the motions of a keyhole surgical procedure. The technology required to do these things may cost a few pounds, or tens of thousands. Either way, given that most of these devices were invented during the past three or four decades, it comes as something of a surprise to learn that simulation for medical purposes can be traced back as far as the Chinese Song dynasty of 960-1279 AD.
One of the treatments of choice in that era was, naturally, acupuncture. But how to teach tyro-acupuncturists where to place the needles? Simple. A life-size bronze statue dotted with small holes indicated the points of insertion. And how then to test the students' grasp of their subject? If the statute was hollow, filled with liquid and given an outer coating of wax to mask the holes, a correct needle insertion would be followed by a leak.
Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands.
As the material for a convincing simulation, glass clearly has its drawbacks. But another 18th-century contraption used a pink cloth-covered mannequin comprising a female torso complete with genitalia, a set of implantable foetuses of various ages, and even – a real
coup de théâtre
, this – a facility for exuding suitably coloured liquids at the appropriate moment.
Oddly, as medicine became more scientific, most of these devices fell by the wayside. As an academic review of these and other devices has pointed out, much of the 20th century was something of Dark Ages for simulation. Its value in professional training has had to be rediscovered: an endeavour in which inventive people like Graham Tydeman, sometimes with workshops rich in discarded junk, are still fruitfully engaged.
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99921 | [
"How does the photographer capture their subjects in a certain way?",
"How does the photographer feel about dark rooms?",
"How does the photographer contribute to free culture?",
"How does the photographer feel about Larry Lessing?",
"How does the photographer imagine photos with a CC license will be used?",
"When does Creative Commons get complicated?"
] | [
[
"They photograph subjects who are feeling very nervous. It makes the images more lively.",
"They photograph subjects who are unaware the photographer is in the room. It's the only way to get truly natural-looking photos.",
"They continually shoot photos while conversing with their subjects. This distracts the subjects from the camera and results in a subject looking very natural.",
"They photograph people when they are in high-pressure situations. The subjects look super focused in the photos."
],
[
"Darkrooms don't make sense anymore with today's technology.",
"They are a darkroom geek.",
"Darkrooms are not all that exciting.",
"Doing the wet work in the darkroom will always produce a superior picture."
],
[
"They share their photos through Creative Commons.",
"They are a board member of Creative Commons.",
"They share their personal image through Creative Commons.",
"They are the CEO of Creative Commons."
],
[
"Larry is a great guy. They are a huge fan.",
"Larry is a disarming guy. ",
"Larry is a frustrating guy.",
"Larry is a nervous guy."
],
[
"On billboards",
"In memes",
"In textbooks and mainstream media articles.",
"In TV commercials"
],
[
"Advertisement",
"Human images",
"Derivative creative works",
"Original creative works"
]
] | [
3,
1,
4,
1,
3,
2
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | Just another free soul
In his foreword to the book, Lessig writes that you understand your subjects “by learning to see them in a certain way.” What is that certain way?
I think I’m trying to get a mental image of a person, certain
expressions, or what I think that person is about. I’m trying to capture
what I think they look like, which is many times a minority of their
typical expressions, or their typical stance. So, if I’m taking pictures
of Larry [Lessig], I want to have his signature hand gestures, and not
just random ones.
I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see
what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way
the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so
they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more
egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical,
and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between.
It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the
pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is
not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point,
which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other
hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t
know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that
they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want
that person to appear. You know how sculptors often say that they’re
just freeing an image from a block? What I’m trying to do is free
someone’s soul from his or her image. There are a lot of things that
make this hard. A lot of people are uncomfortable in front of a camera,
or might make expressions that aren’t very natural for them. And if the
person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that
you’re trying to capture.
A lot of what I’m doing is, I just start shooting photos. After half an
hour of having their picture taken, people start to ignore you. Or I’ll
take pictures when I’m talking to people about what they’re doing, so
after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about
the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting
better.
I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through
conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation
with somebody you don’t know, or to make them laugh. Many times people
make a face for me that they wouldn’t make for a professional
photographer.
For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman:
that was during a very tense discussion. I’ve found that people are at
their most animated at these kinds of meetings, and look the most alive
when they are under a lot of pressure, and super- focused. But usually
if an outsider is in the room, they won’t get into that. I mean, it
would be difficult for a cameraman to be in a room where a board is
having a heated debate.
But those are the things that I’m trying to capture, because most people
don’t get to see that. At the Creative Commons board meeting, Larry
asked me to put the camera away after awhile [laughs] because it was
distracting. We were having a very heated discussion and I was taking
all of these pictures. But he credited me later because afterward those
pictures turned out the best.
In your mind, what is a ‘Freesoul’ ?
A freesoul is somewhat of a pun. On the one hand it means you are free,
liberated. You, as a human spirit, are open. And then, it also has the
meaning that you are unencumbered legally, that you are free, as in
‘free software.’
There’s a paradox: with many people’s Wikipedia
articles to which I’ve contributed, when it comes to the picture, many
of these people don’t have any free photos of themselves on the web, so
while they are “notable” on Wikipedia, their images aren’t free of the
copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the
photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article
can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community.
This means that a lot of people who have a Net presence have a legally
encumbered Net presence. People who are invited to conferences get asked
all the time, “By the way, do you have a photo that we can use?” But
they don’t. By making these pictures available under a Creative Commons
license, now they do. This is solving the issue of legal freedom.
The third part of the pun is that, since I’m asking for a model release
from the subjects, I’m asking everyone to be much more open and giving
about their image than most people typically are. I’m giving, you’re
giving, we’re all giving to participate and to try to create this
wonderful work, and allow others to create derivative works.
Of course people can abuse that, just like they can abuse anything. But
I want people to see the value in sharing over the fear in sharing. The
fact is, it’s much more likely that somebody is going to use these
pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The
benefits greatly outweigh the risks. I think we spend way too much of
our lives worrying about the risks, at the cost of a lot of the
benefits.
This is a celebration of all of the people who are willing to give. In a
way, giving up your image and allowing anyone to use it: it’s the
ultimate gift. In one way it’s kind of vain. [laughs] But in another
way it’s wonderful. A Wikipedia article on some person but with no
picture is sad.
Besides Wikipedia, how do you imagine these photos being used?
They can be used in textbooks and in mainstream media articles about the
person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least
from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing
this. More people should do the same, and make the photographs available
freely. For one, I feel that “free” CC licensed photos have a much
higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these
photos are going to be used, so in a sense I’m curious. For example,
recently I received the Harvard Berkman Center pamphlet. It was a report
of what they’re doing, and they also had a bunch of my pictures in
there. They all had attribution, and it made me feel really good. There
were pictures of different Berkman Center members that I had taken in
various places all over the world. I think that the subject is probably
happy with this, and I’m happy, and the Berkman Center’s happy because
they’re not all pictures of people sitting at desks in the Berkman
Center. There’s one more important thing: Creative Commons is great for
original creative works or derivative creative works, but when it
involves human images, it gets very complicated. We all know the Virgin
Mobile case, where Virgin used CC licensed images in an advertisement
without getting permission from the models, and got in trouble. What
we’re trying to do here is to expand beyond just copyright, to make it
more thorough from a legal perspective. It’s also an important
educational point, so people understand that, in addition to the
Creative Commons licenses, we need people to provide other rights in
cases where the law requires such rights to be cleared before reuse.
What have you learned about the people in these networks, just in the past year?
That’s a good question. I think that at least Creative Commons has
become much more mainstream. Creative Commons has moved from a fringy
academic discussion to a boardroom discussion. Yahoo announced that it
will be using Creative Commons for all of their basic infrastructure,
and integrating it all. Google has CC search in their advanced search.
Microsoft is working with CC as well and have a plug-in. Nine Inch Nails
released their album, Ghost, under a Creative Commons license. The list
goes on. Many people are asking: can you make money and share? The
answer is, yes. CC is becoming an important part of the business
discussion.
But one thing that happens when a movement like CC becomes a business
thing, is that a lot of the pioneers fade into the background, and it
becomes a part of industry. This happened to the Internet. And so while
you still have the core people who still remember and hold the torch for
the philosophical side, the Internet has become much more of a business.
Now, when you go to many Internet conferences, it’s mostly salesmen in
attendance.
I believe that the success of the Internet has two parts. The first part
is the market- driven business side, which has made the Internet
affordable and ubiquitous. The second part is the strong movement of
participants who fight to keep the Internet open and try to prevent the
business side from corrupting the fundamental elements that make the
Internet great. The Net Neutrality or Open Network discussion going on
right now is a good example of the importance of continuing to balance
these principles with business interests.
Similarly, I think that business interests can help make Creative
Commons ubiquitous and more easily accessible to everyone. However, I
think it’s important to remember to keep pushing to make content more
“free” and not allow businesses to use Creative Commons in exploitive or
destructive ways.
In addition to the business side, Creative Commons is being used by
educators to create open courseware around the world and in the area of
science and technology to promote sharing in research. And as of now, we
have the license ported to at least 44 jurisdictions, and the number of
countries with projects continues to grow. In many ways, the movement
outside of the United States has become much bigger than the movement in
the United States. Although the United States is still slightly farther
ahead in terms of commercialization, the size of the whole free culture
movement outside of the United States is huge now. The CC China Photo
exhibit was just amazing. There were some great
images, and a lot of the photographers were professionals. This is
beyond what anybody has done in the US. A lot of the progress that we’re
making is international.
What are your personal realizations or experiences?
Well, we’re all getting old, if you look at these pictures. But there’s
another thing, though, about this book: the number of
professional-quality amateurs has increased significantly due to the
importance of digital in both professional and high-end amateur
photography I hate to say it, a lot of people love the darkroom, but it
really feels like the death of the darkroom with this year.
With new 22 megapixel cameras coming in under $10,000, and Lightroom
and some of this software at a couple hundred dollars, it doesn’t really
make sense, except for particularly fussy artists, to do wet-work
anymore. If you’re a commercial photographer or a high-end amateur, you
can do anything you used to do in the darkroom. I think it has really
lowered the bar. I don’t know how that affects the industry directly,
but for me, it bridged a huge gap.
I used to be darkroom geek. I loved my darkroom, and even when I didn’t
have my darkroom anymore, I still was shooting 6x6 Hasselblad 120 film
and processing it in a special lab, and then digitizing it. For me, that
film was it. You could never get as good as medium-format film or
large-format film
At the time, the digital Hasselblad backs were too expensive, and were
still not as good as 8x10 film. So there was this whole period where the
darkroom was not all that exciting, but the digital wasn’t perfect. I
went through a limbo period. I had invested so much in my Hasselblad
system, and my Leica M6 set. I had bought the Leica R8, but I was
kicking myself because it was terrible. But then the Leica M8 came out,
and I bought one at the beginning of 2007. The M8 really got me to where
I could use my old gear, and it had enough megapixels to be as good as
some film.
Another way of saying it was that there was a gear breakthrough at the
beginning of last year. Okay, that’s pretty materialistic! So there was
a technology breakthrough, let’s call it that, that allowed me to switch
completely away from film, and I think this happened to a lot of
photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the
quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has
allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals.
Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more
photography books and photographs and are probably providing an
increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most
amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and
not trying to “compete” with them.
Despite the existence of social software, what is still important about meeting people face-to-face?
For me, the right way to use a lot of the new social software is by
making it easier to spend more physical time with the people you like
best. Dopplr is a great example. When
I visit a city, I will see all of the people who are in the city at the
same time. When I went to London awhile ago, there were 47 people I knew
in London, and a huge percentage of those people don’t live there. I
would bet that more than half of the photos in this book are pictures of
friends, and they’re not in their hometown.
That’s the really interesting thing that is happening right now: it’s
really increasing your ability to spend quality time with, actually, a
smaller number of people. It allows you to actively filter. Your
meetings don’t have to be random. If I look at the list of people in
this book, although there are some obvious people missing whom I didn’t
see last year, probably met more of my friends last year, my real
friends, than I’ve met in any other year. I know my travels were crazy,
but I think that the online world has allowed me to do that.
What’s great about photography is that it captures the moment that I was
sharing with that person. It’s not just a connection on a social network
online, which is really pretty binary. I can look at all these photos
and remember exactly what we were doing, what we were eating, what we
were drinking, what we were talking about, and to me that’s a much more
rich experience.
It’s the combination of social software and photography. For me, reality
is “the present” plus what you remember from the past. I think this
project is really sharing memories with people. Blog posts contribute as
well, but to me photography is a really good way of doing that. When I
look at the expressions, I remember the moment and get a sense of
presence.
I think the main problem for me is the environmental impact of flying
around. Just as I never believed that we would have a paperless office,
being able to connect with people through social software mostly
increases your travel, it doesn’t decrease it. It is great because you
get to meet all these people. But it is bad for the environment, and bad
for our jet lag.
How would you characterize your contributions to free culture?
I think it’s mostly incremental. I think there is very little we
actually do all by ourselves, and I hate saying, “I did this” or “I did
that.” I think that in most cases, focusing on individual contributions
or achievements undervalues the importance of everyone else involved.
Having said that, I think my main contribution is probably in supporting
Creative Commons as a fan, board member, chairman of the board and now
CEO. I think CC has a significant role, and helping to keep it on track
and growing is probably the single most important role that I have in
Free Culture.
Specifically, I think that trying to keep an international focus and a
balance between business and the non-business elements of the movement
is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance.
Also, CC needs to run smoothly as an organization and there is a lot of
operational work that we all need to do. My photography is a way for me
to participate in a small measure on the creative side of the Free
Culture movement, and helps me see things from that perspective as well.
However, I believe in emergent democracy and the importance of trying to
celebrate the community more than the heroes. Of course, I’m a huge fan
of Larry’s and I have great respect for the leaders of our movement. But
more than anything, I’m thankful for and respectful of all of the
participants who aren’t so well known and who are essential to moving
everything forward.
Personally, I don’t think it’s ultimately meaningful to talk about one
individual’s personal contribution to any movement. The real meaning is
in the whole movement. I’m just one participant. Just another free soul.
|
train | 99923 | [
"What is Sharism?",
"What is a neuron?",
"What do neurons do?",
"The less you share...",
"Bloggers...",
"When bloggers adjust their tone and privacy settings, they...",
"What will be the politics of the next global superpower?"
] | [
[
"Community respect",
"Future-oriented cultural initiatives",
"A mental practice",
"A social-psychological attitude"
],
[
"A part of the nervous system",
"A simple organic cell",
"A synapse",
"A very powerful, electrically excitable biological processor"
],
[
"Form vastly interconnected networks",
"Process information and learn",
"Change the strength of the synapses between cells",
"Share chemical signals with neighboring cells"
],
[
"...the more privacy you have.",
"...the more your intellectual property is protected.",
"...the less power you have.",
"...the less your cultural goods will be appropriated."
],
[
"...connect to each other with RSS.",
"...generate lively and timely information.",
"...are recording human history in a new way.",
"---fill discrete gaps in human experience."
],
[
"...are expanding the blogosphere.",
"...are self-censoring.",
"...are keeping the social context of their posts in mind.",
"...are smartly expressing themselves in a way to stay out of trouble."
],
[
"Sharism",
"Axiology",
"Epistemology",
"Socialism"
]
] | [
4,
4,
1,
3,
2,
4,
1
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | Sharism: A Mind Revolution
With the People of the World Wide Web communicating more fully and
freely in Social Media while rallying a Web 2.0 content boom, the inner
dynamics of such a creative explosion must be studied more closely. What
motivates those who join this movement and what future will they create?
A key fact is that a superabundance of community respect and social
capital are being accumulated by those who share. The key motivator of
Social Media and the core spirit of Web 2.0 is a mind switch called
Sharism. Sharism suggests a re-orientation of personal values. We see it
in User Generated Content. It is the pledge of Creative Commons. It is
in the plans of future-oriented cultural initiatives. Sharism is also a
mental practice that anyone can try, a social-psychological attitude to
transform a wide and isolated world into a super-smart Social Brain.
The Neuron Doctrine
Sharism is encoded in the Human Genome. Although eclipsed by the many
pragmatisms of daily life, the theory of Sharism finds basis in
neuroscience and its study of the working model of the human brain.
Although we can’t entirely say how the brain works as a whole, we do
have a model of the functional mechanism of the nervous system and its
neurons. A neuron is not a simple organic cell, but a very powerful,
electrically excitable biological processor. Groups of neurons form
vastly interconnected networks, which, by changing the strength of the
synapses between cells, can process information, and learn. A neuron, by
sharing chemical signals with its neighbors, can be integrated into more
meaningful patterns that keep the neuron active and alive. Moreover,
such a simple logic can be iterated and amplified, since all neurons
work on a similar principle of connecting and sharing. Originally, the
brain is quite open. A neural network exists to share activity and
information, and I believe this model of the brain should inspire ideas
and decisions about human networks.
Thus, our brain supports sharing in its very system-nature. This has
profound implications for the creative process. Whenever you have an
intention to create, you will find it easier to generate more creative
ideas if you keep the sharing process firmly in mind. The
idea-forming-process is not linear, but more like an avalanche of
amplifications along the thinking path. It moves with the momentum of a
creative snowball. If your internal cognitive system encourages sharing,
you can engineer a feedback loop of happiness, which will help you
generate even more ideas in return. It’s a kind of butterfly- effect, as
the small creative energy you spend will eventually return to make you,
and the world, more creative.
However, daily decisions for most adults are quite low in creative
productivity, if only because they’ve switched off their sharing paths.
People generally like to share what they create, but in a culture that
tells them to be protective of their ideas, people start to believe in
the danger of sharing. Then Sharism will be degraded in their mind and
not encouraged in their society. But if we can encourage someone to
share, her sharing paths will stay open. Sharism will be kept in her
mind as a memory and an instinct. If in the future she faces a creative
choice, her choice will be, “Share.”
These mind-switches are too subtle to be felt. But since the brain, and
society, is a connected system, the accumulation of these
micro-attitudes, from neuron to neuron and person to person, can result
in observable behavior. It is easy to tell if a person, a group, a
company, a nation is oriented toward Sharism or not. For those who are
not, what they defend as “cultural goods” and “intellectual property”
are just excuses for the status quo of keeping a community closed. Much
of their “culture” will be protected, but the net result is the direct
loss of many other precious ideas, and the subsequent loss of all the
potential gains of sharing. This lost knowledge is a black hole in our
life, which may start to swallow other values as well.
Non-sharing culture misleads us with its absolute separation of Private
and Public space. It makes creative action a binary choice between
public and private, open and closed. This creates a gap in the spectrum
of knowledge. Although this gap has the potential to become a valuable
creative space, concerns about privacy make this gap hard to fill. We
shouldn’t be surprised that, to be safe, most people keep their sharing
private and stay “closed.” They may fear the Internet creates a
potential for abuse that they can’t fight alone. However, the paradox
is: The less you share, the less power you have.
New Technologies and the Rise of Sharism
Let’s track back to 1999, when there were only a few hundred pioneer
bloggers around the world, and no more than ten times that many readers
following each blog. Human history is always so: something important was
happening, but the rest of the world hadn’t yet realized it. The shift
toward easy-to-use online publishing triggered a soft revolution in just
five years. People made a quick and easy transition from reading blogs,
to leaving comments and taking part in online conversations, and then to
the sudden realization that they should become bloggers themselves. More
bloggers created more readers, and more readers made more blogs. The
revolution was viral.
Bloggers generate lively and timely information on the Internet, and
connect to each other with RSS, hyperlinks, comments, trackbacks and
quotes. The small-scale granularity of the content can fill discrete
gaps in experience and thus record a new human history. Once you become
a blogger, once you have accumulated so much social capital in such a
small site, it’s hard to stop. We can’t explain this fact with a theory
of addiction. It’s an impulse to share. It’s the energy of the memes
that want to be passed from mouth to mouth and mind to mind. It’s more
than just E-mail. It’s Sharism.
Bloggers are always keen to keep the social context of their posts in
mind, by asking themselves, “Who is going to see this?” Bloggers are
agile in adjusting their tone−and privacy settings−to advance ideas and
stay out of trouble. It’s not self-censorship, but a sense of smart
expression. But once blogs reached the tipping point, they expanded into
the blogosphere. This required a more delicate social networking system
and content- sharing architecture. But people now understand that they
can have better control over a wide spectrum of relationships. Like how
Flickr allows people to share their photos widely, but safely. The
checkbox-based privacy of Flickr may seem unfamiliar to a new user, but
you can use it to toy with the mind-switches of Sharism. By checking a
box we can choose to share or not to share. From my observations, I have
seen photographers on Flickr become more open to sharing, while
retaining flexible choices.
The rapid emergence of Social Applications that can communicate and
cooperate, by allowing people to output content from one service to
another, is letting users pump their memes into a pipeline-like
ecosystem. This interconnectedness allows memes to travel along multiple
online social networks, and potentially reach a huge audience. As a
result, such a Micro-pipeline system is making Social Media a true
alternative to broadcast media. These new technologies are reviving
Sharism in our closed culture.
Local Practice, Global Gain
If you happened to lose your Sharism in a bad educational or cultural
setting, it’s hard to get it back. But it’s not impossible. A
persistence of practice can lead to a full recovery. You can think of
Sharism as a spiritual practice. But you must practice everyday.
Otherwise, you might lose the power of sharing. Permanently.
You might need something to spur you on, to keep you from quitting and
returning to a closed mindset. Here’s an idea: put a sticky note on your
desk that says, “What do you want to share today?” I’m not kidding.
Then, if anything interesting comes your way: Share It! The easiest way
to both start and keep sharing is by using different kinds of social
software applications. Your first meme you want to share may be small,
but you can amplify it with new technologies. Enlist some people from
your network and invite them into a new social application. At first it
might be hard to feel the gains of Sharism. The true test then is to see
if you can keep track of the feedback that you get from sharing. You
will realize that almost all sharing activities will generate positive
results. The happiness that this will obtain is only the most immediate
reward. But there are others.
The first type of reward that you will get comes in the form of
comments. Then you know you’ve provoked interest, appreciation,
excitement. The second reward is access to all the other stuff being
shared by friends in your network. Since you know and trust them, you
will be that much more interested in what they have to share. Already,
the return is a multiple of the small meme you first shared. But the
third type of return is more dramatic still. Anything you share can be
forwarded, circulated and republished via other people’s networks. This
cascade effect can spread your work to the networked masses.
Improvements in social software are making the speed of dissemination as
fast as a mouse-click. You should get to know the Sharism-You. You’re
about to become popular, and fast
This brings us to the fourth and final type of return. It has a meaning
not only for you, but for the whole of society. If you so choose, you
may allow others to create derivative works from what you share. This
one choice could easily snowball into more creations along the sharing
path, from people at key nodes in the network who are all as passionate
about creating and sharing as you are. After many iterative rounds of
development, a large creative work may spring from your choice to share.
Of course, you will get the credit that you asked for, and deserve. And
it’s okay to seek financial rewards. But you will in every case get
something just as substantial: Happiness.
The more people who create in the spirit of Sharism, the easier it will
be to attain well- balanced and equitable Social Media that is woven by
people themselves. Media won’t be controlled by any single person but
will rely on the even distribution of social networking. These “Shaeros”
(Sharing Heroes) will naturally become the opinion leaders in the first
wave of Social Media. However, these media rights will belong to
everyone. You yourself can be both producer and consumer in such a
system.
Sharism Safeguards Your Rights
Still, many questions will be raised about Sharism as an initiative in
new age. The main one is copyright. One concern is that any loss of
control over copyrighted content will lead to noticeable deficits in
personal wealth, or just loss of control. 5 years ago, I would have said
that this was a possibility. But things are changing today. The sharing
environment is more protected than you might think. Many new social
applications make it easy to set terms-of-use along your sharing path.
Any infringement of those terms will be challenged not just by the law,
but by your community. Your audience, who benefit form your sharing, can
also be the gatekeepers of your rights. Even if you are a traditional
copyright holder, this sounds ideal.
Furthermore, by realizing all the immediate and emergent rewards that
can be had by sharing, you may eventually find that copyright and “All
Rights Reserved” are far from your mind. You will enjoy sharing too much
to worry about who is keeping a copy. The new economic formula is, the
more people remix your works, the higher the return.
I want to point out that Sharism is not Communism, nor Socialism. As for
those die- hard Communists we know, they have often abused people’s
sharing nature and forced them to give up their rights, and their
property. Socialism, that tender Communism, in our experience also
lacked respect for these rights. Under these systems, the state owns all
property. Under Sharism, you can keep ownership, if you want. But I like
to share. And this is how I choose to spread ideas, and prosperity
Sharism is totally based on your own consensus. It’s not a very hard
concept to understand, especially since copyleft movements like the Free
Software Foundation and Creative Commons have been around for years.
These movements are redefining a more flexible spectrum of licenses for
both developers and end-users to tag their works. Because the new
licenses can be recognized by either humans or machines, it’s becoming
easier to re-share those works in new online ecosystems.
The Spirit of the Web, a Social Brain
Sharism is the Spirit of the Age of Web 2.0. It has the consistency of a
naturalized Epistemology and modernized Axiology, but also promises the
power of a new Internet philosophy. Sharism will transform the world
into an emergent Social Brain: a networked hybrid of people and
software. We are Networked Neurons connected by the synapses of Social
Software.
This is an evolutionary leap, a small step for us and a giant one for
human society. With new “hairy” emergent technologies sprouting all
around us, we can generate higher connectivities and increase the
throughput of our social links. The more open and strongly connected we
social neurons are, the better the sharing environment will be for all
people. The more collective our intelligence, the wiser our actions will
be. People have always found better solutions through conversations. Now
we can put it all online.
Sharism will be the politics of the next global superpower. It will not
be a country, but a new human network joined by Social Software. This
may remain a distant dream, and even a well-defined public sharing
policy might not be close at hand. But the ideas that I’m discussing can
improve governments today. We can integrate our current and emerging
democratic systems with new folksonomies (based on the collaborative,
social indexing of information) to enable people to make queries, share
data and remix information for public use. The collective intelligence
of a vast and equitable sharing environment can be the gatekeeper of our
rights, and a government watchdog. In the future, policymaking can be
made more nuanced with the micro-involvement of the sharing community.
This “Emergent Democracy” is more real-time than periodical
parliamentary sessions. It will also increase the spectrum of our
choices, beyond the binary options of “Yes” or “No” referenda.
Representative democracy will become more timely and diligent, because
we will represent ourselves within the system.
Sharism will result in better social justice. In a healthy sharing
environment, any evidence of injustice can get amplified to get the
public’s attention. Anyone who has been abused can get real and instant
support from her peers and her peers’ peers. Appeals to justice will
take the form of petitions through multiple, interconnected channels.
Using these tools, anyone can create a large social impact. With
multiple devices and many social applications, each of us can become
more sociable, and society more individual. We no longer have to act
alone.
Emergent democracy will only happen when Sharism becomes the literacy of
the majority. Since Sharism can improve communication, collaboration and
mutual understanding, I believe it has a place within the educational
system. Sharism can be applied to any cultural discourse, CoP (Community
of Practice) or problem-solving context. It is also an antidote to
social depression, since sharelessness is just dragging our society
down. In present or formerly totalitarian countries, this downward cycle
is even more apparent. The future world will be a hybrid of human and
machine that will generate better and faster decisions anytime,
anywhere. The flow of information between minds will become more
flexible and more productive. These vast networks of sharing will create
a new social order−A Mind Revolution!
|
train | 60713 | [
"What is a Nilly?",
"What happened to the passengers of the Weblor I?",
"How long will it take the Weblor II to make the round trip to the new colony and back?",
"When did the Nilly first strike?",
"What happened to Mrs. Failright?",
"What happened to Mr. Palugger?",
"How long did it take for the passengers to form a council?",
"How long did it take for the passengers to form a police force?",
"How many times has Critten been a Nilly?"
] | [
[
"A Nilly is a trained operative used by colony transport ships to keep the colonists focused on a common enemy. ",
"A Nilly is a person who works on the crew on an interstellar ship.",
"A Nilly is a black ops agent.",
"A Nilly is a person, who is able to come back from the dead, but like Lazarus, not like a zombie."
],
[
"No one knows what happened. The frequency of the Weblor I was lost several months after take off.",
"The passengers started warring with each other and the crew.",
"Space pirates boarded the ship and shoved the passengers out of the airlock.",
"The Nilly's killed them in their sleep and ate them."
],
[
"24 months",
"42 months",
"30 months",
"36 months"
],
[
"One month after leaving Earth",
"Two weeks after leaving Earth",
"Two months after leaving Earth",
"Seven weeks after leaving Earth"
],
[
"She was startled.",
"She was raped.",
"She was attacked.",
"She was robbed."
],
[
"He was pushed out of the airlock.",
"He was beaten to death.",
"The man in the red mask shot him.",
"He died of his illness."
],
[
"One month",
"Two weeks",
"Two months",
"Ten days"
],
[
"94 days",
"79 days",
"31 days",
"52 days"
],
[
"8",
"5",
"7",
"6"
]
] | [
1,
2,
1,
1,
1,
4,
3,
2,
3
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
0,
0
] | COUNTERWEIGHT
By JERRY SOHL
Every town has crime—but
especially a town that is
traveling from star to star!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sure I'm a Nilly, and I've died seven times, always in the blackness
of the outer reaches, and I'm not alone, although there aren't very
many of us, never were.
It made sense. Interstellar was new and they wanted him on the ship
because he was a trained observer. They wanted facts, not gibberish.
But to ask a man to give up two years of his life—well, that was
asking a lot. Two years in a sardine can. Still, it had an appeal Keith
Ellason knew he couldn't deny, a newsman's joy of the clean beat, a
planetary system far afield, a closeup view of the universe, history in
the making.
Interstellar Chief Rexroad knocked the dottle from his pipe in a tray,
saying, "Transworld Press is willing to let you have a leave of
abscence, if you're interested."
He knew Secretary Phipps from years of contacting, and now Phipps said,
"Personally, I don't want to see anybody else on the job. You've got a
fine record in this sort of thing."
Keith Ellason smiled, but just barely. "You should have called me for
the first trip."
Phipps nodded. "I wish we had had you on the
Weblor I
."
"Crewmen," Rexroad said, "make poor reporters."
The
Weblor I
had taken off on the first trip to Antheon five years
before with a thousand families, reached the planet with less than five
hundred surviving colonists. Upon the return to Earth a year later, the
crew's report of suffering and chaos during the year's outgoing voyage
was twisted, distorted and fragmentary. Ellason remembered it well. The
decision of Interstellar was that the colonists started a revolution
far out in space, that it was fanned by the ignorance of Captain
Sessions in dealing with such matters.
"Space affects men in a peculiar way," Phipps said. "We have conquered
the problem of small groups in space—witness the discovery of
Antheon, for example—but when there are large groups, control is more
difficult."
"Sessions," Rexroad said, "was a bully. The trouble started at about
the halfway point. It ended with passengers engaging in open warfare
with each other and the crew. Sessions was lucky to escape with his
life."
"As I recall," Ellason said, "there was something about stunners."
Phipps rubbed his chin. "No weapons were allowed on the ship, but you
must remember the colonists were selected for their intelligence and
resourcefulness. They utilized these attributes to set up weapon shops
to arm themselves."
"The second trip is history," Rexroad said. "And a puzzle."
Ellason nodded. "The ship disappeared."
"Yes. We gave control to the colonists."
"Assuming no accident in space," Phipps said, "it was a wrong decision.
They probably took over the ship."
"And now," Ellason said, "you're going to try again."
Rexroad said very gravely, "We've got the finest captain in
Interplanetary. Harvey Branson. No doubt you've heard of him. He's
spent his life in our own system, and he's handpicking his own crew. We
have also raised prerequisites for applicants. We don't think anything
is going to happen, but if it does, we want to get an impersonal,
unprejudiced view. That's where you come in. You do the observing, the
reporting. We'll evaluate it on your return."
"If I return," said Ellason.
"I suppose that's problematical," Phipps said, "but I think you will.
Captain Branson and his fifty crewmen want to return as badly as you
do." He grinned. "You can write that novel you're always talking about
on your return trip on the
Weblor II
."
Being a Nilly is important, probably as important as running the ship,
and I think it is this thought that keeps us satisfied, willing to be
what we are.
The
Weblor II
had been built in space, as had its predecessor, the
Weblor I
, at a tremendous cost. Basically, it was an instrument
which would open distant vistas to colonization, reducing the
shoulder-to-shoulder pressure of a crowded solar system. A gigantic,
hollow spike, the ship would never land anywhere, but would circle
Antheon as it circled Earth, shuttling its cargo and passengers to the
promised land, the new frontier. A space-borne metropolis, it would
be the home for three thousand persons outward bound, only the crew
on the return trip. It was equipped with every conceivable facility
and comfort—dining rooms, assembly hall, individual and family
compartments, recreation areas, swimming pool, library, theater.
Nothing had been overlooked.
The captain's briefing room was crowded, the air was heavy with the
breathing of so many men, and the ventilators could not quite clear the
air of tobacco smoke that drifted aimlessly here and there before it
was caught and whisked away.
In the tradition of newspaperman and observer, Keith Ellason tried
to be as inconspicuous as possible, pressing against a bulkhead, but
Captain Branson's eyes sought his several times as Branson listened
to final reports from his engineers, record keepers, fuel men,
computermen, and all the rest. He grunted his approval or disapproval,
made a suggestion here, a restriction there. There was no doubt that
Branson was in charge, yet there was a human quality about him that
Ellason liked. The captain's was a lean face, well tanned, and his eyes
were chunks of blue.
"Gentlemen," Branson said at last, as Ellason knew he would, "I want
to introduce Keith Ellason, whose presence Interstellar has impressed
upon us. On loan from Transworld, he will have an observer status." He
introduced him to the others. All of them seemed friendly; Ellason
thought it was a good staff.
Branson detained him after the others had gone. "One thing, Mr.
Ellason. To make it easier for you, I suggest you think of this journey
strictly from the observer viewpoint. There will be no story for
Transworld at the end."
Ellason was startled. While he had considered the possibility, he had
not dwelt on it. Now it loomed large in his mind. "I don't understand,
Captain Branson. It seems to me—"
"Let me put it differently. Let me say that you will not understand why
I say that until the journey ends." He smiled. "Perhaps I shouldn't
have mentioned it."
Ellason left the captain's quarters with an odd taste in his mouth. Now
why had Branson said that? Why hadn't Rexroad or Phipps said something,
if it was important?
He made himself comfortable in his seven-foot-by-seven-foot cubicle,
which is to say he dropped on his bed, found it more comfortable than
he thought it would be, put his arms behind his head, stared at the
ceiling. Metal walls, no windows, one floor vent, one ceiling vent,
and a solitary ceiling molding tube-light. This would be his home for
a year, just as there were homes like it for three thousand others,
except that the family rooms would be larger. His quarters were near
the front of the spike near the officers' quarters.
He felt rather than heard the dull rumble. It was a sound he knew would
be with him for two years—one year going and one year returning.
He looked at his watch, picked up his notebook and made an entry. The
ship right now would be slipping ever so slowly away from Earth. He got
up. He'd have to go forward to the observation dome to see that. Last
view of Earth for two years.
The penetration of space by large groups is the coming out from under
the traditions of thousands of years, and as these planet-orginated
rules fall away, the floundering group seeks a new control, for they
are humanity adrift, rudderless, for whom the stars are no longer
bearings but nonexistent things, and values are altered if they are not
shown the way.
The theft of Carver Janssen's attache case occurred on the thirty-first
day out. In Ellason's mind the incident, though insignificant from the
standpoint of the ship as a whole, could very well be the cause of
dissension later on. His notes covering it were therefore very thorough.
Janssen's case contained vegetable and flower seeds—thousands of
them, according to the Captain's Bulletin, the ship's daily newsletter
which went to all hands and passengers. In the Bulletin the captain
appealed to the thief to return the case to Mr. Janssen. He said it
was significant that all en route had passed stability tests, and that
it was to the ship's discredit that someone with criminal tendencies
should have been permitted aboard.
Ellason had to smile at that. What did Captain Branson think of those
colonists who killed each other on the
Weblor I
? They had passed
stability tests too. This, then, was what happened when you took three
thousand strangers and stuck them in a can for a year.
When Ellason saw Branson about it, the captain said, "Of course I
realize it takes only a little thing like this to set things off. I
know people get tired of seeing each other, playing the same tapes,
looking at the stars from the observation dome, walking down the same
corridors, reading the same books, eating the same meals, though God
knows we try to vary it as much as we can. Space creates rough edges.
But the point is, we know all this, and knowing it, we shouldn't let it
happen. We've got to find that thief."
"What would he want seeds for? Have you thought of that?"
"Of course. They'd have real value on Antheon."
Ellason sought out Carver Janssen. He was a middle-aged man with a
tired face and sad eyes. He said, "Now what am I going to Antheon
for? I could only take along so much baggage and I threw out some
comfort items to make room for the seeds. I'm a horticulturist, and
Interstellar asked me to go along. But what use am I now? Where am
I going to get seeds like those? Do you know how long it took me to
collect them? They're not ordinary seeds, Mr. Ellason."
There was an appeal from Janssen in the next day's newsletter
describing the seeds, telling of their value, and requesting their
return in the interests of the Antheon colony and of humanity.
On the thirty-fourth day a witness turned up who said he had seen a
man emerging from Janssen's compartment with the black case. "I didn't
think anything of it at the time," Jamieson Dievers said.
Branson asked him to describe the man.
"Oh, he was about six feet tall, stocky build, and he wore a red rubber
mask that covered his head completely."
"Didn't you think that was important?" Branson asked in an outraged
voice. "A man wearing a red mask?"
Dievers shrugged. "This is a spaceship. How would I know whether a red
mask—or a blue or green one—does or doesn't belong on a spaceship?"
Although Dievers' account appeared in the newsletter, it was largely
discounted.
"If it is true," Branson told Ellason, "the theft must be the work of
a psychotic. But I don't believe Jamieson Dievers. It may well be he's
the psychotic." He snorted. "Red rubber mask! I think I'll have Dievers
put through psychiatry."
Attendant to taking notes on this incident, Ellason noted a strange
thing. Janssen lived in that part of the ship known as the First
Quadrant, and those who lived in that quadrant—more than seven hundred
men, women and children—felt that the thief must surely live in
Quadrant Two or Four. Elias Cromley, who had the compartment next to
Janssen's, sounded the consensus when he said, "Surely a man wouldn't
steal from his own quadrant, now would he, Mr. Ellason?"
And so, Ellason observed in his notebook, are wars created.
Seen in space, stars are unmoving, silent, sterile bright eyes ever
watchful and accusing. To men unused to it, such a sight numbs,
compresses, stultifies. He introduces a countermeasure, proof he
exists, which is any overt act, sometimes violent.
On the forty-fifth day June Failright, the young wife of one of the
passenger meteorologists, ran screaming down one of the long corridors
of the Third Quadrant. She told the captain she had been attacked in
her compartment while her husband was in the ship's library. She was
taken to one of the ship's doctors, who confirmed it.
She said the culprit was a husky man wearing a red rubber mask, and
though her description of what he had done did not appear in the story
in the newsletter, it lost no time in penetrating every compartment of
the ship.
Ellason was present when a delegation from the Third Quadrant called on
Captain Branson, demanding action.
Branson remained seated behind his desk, unperturbed, saying, "I have
no crewmen to spare for police duty."
The delegation commenced speaking vehemently, to be quieted by
Branson's raised hand.
"I sympathize," Branson said, "but it is up to each quadrant to deal
with its problems, whatever they may be. My job is to get us to
Antheon."
The group left in a surly mood.
"You wonder at my reluctance, Mr. Ellason," Captain Branson said. "But
suppose I assign the crew to patrol duties, the culprit isn't caught,
and further incidents occur. What then? It soon becomes the crew's
fault. And soon the colonists will begin thinking these things might be
the crew's doing in the first place."
"Yes," Ellason said, "but what if the intruder is a crewman?"
"I know my men," Branson said flatly.
"You could have a shake-down for the mask and the seed case."
"Do you think it is a member of the crew?" Branson's eyes were bright.
"No, I trust my men. I won't violate that trust."
Ellason left, feeling uneasy. If he were Branson, he'd initiate an
investigation, if nothing else than to prove the crew guiltless. Why
couldn't Branson see the wisdom of setting an example for the colonists?
As a Nilly, I knew that space breeds hate. There is a seed of
malevolence in every man. It sometimes blossoms out among the stars. On
the
Weblor II
it was ready for ripening.
Raymond Palugger was killed in the ship's hospital on the sixty-first
day. Palugger, a Fourth Quadrant passenger, had complained of feeling
ill, had been hospitalized with a diagnosis of ileus. He had put his
money belt in the drawer of the small stand beside his bed. A man
in a red mask was seen hurrying from the hospital area, and a staff
investigation revealed that Palugger had died trying to prevent the
theft of the belt.
Captain Branson did not wait for the newsletter. Through the ship's
speaker system, he reported that Palugger had a fortune in credits
in the belt and had died of a severe beating. He said that since the
incident occurred in the staff section of the ship, his crew would be
forced to submit to a thorough inspection in an effort to find the
mask, the seed case, the money and the man.
"I will not countenance such an act by a crewman," Branson said. "If
and when he is found, he will be severely dealt with. But he might not
be a member of the crew. I am ordering an assembly of all passengers at
nine tomorrow morning in the auditorium. I will speak to you all then."
Faces were angry, tongues were sharp at the meeting, eyes suspicious
and tempers short. Above it all was the overpowering presence of
Captain Branson speaking to them.
"It is not my desire to interfere in passenger affairs," he said.
"Insofar as the ship is concerned, it is my duty to make certain no
crewman is guilty. This I am doing. But my crew is not and cannot be
a police force for you. It is up to you people to police and protect
yourselves."
"How can we protect ourselves without stunners?" one colonist called
out.
"Has Red Mask a gun?" Branson retorted. "It seems to me you have a
better weapon than any gun."
"What's that?"
"This ship is only so wide, so long and so deep. If every inch is
searched, you'll find your man. He has to be somewhere aboard."
The colonists quieted. Benjamin Simpson, one of the older men, was
elected president of the newly formed Quadrant Council. One man from
each of the quadrants was named to serve under him. Each of these men
in turn selected five others from his own group.
Those assembled waited in the hall while each team of six inspected
the compartments of the others. These compartments were then locked,
everyone returned to his compartment, and the larger search was
conducted. It took twenty hours.
No mask was found. No mask, no case, no money, no man.
The captain reported that his search had been equally fruitless.
At another assembly the following day it was decided to make the
inspection teams permanent, to await further moves on the part of Red
Mask. The Quadrant Council held periodic meetings to set up a method of
trial for him when he was caught. It was all recorded in the newsletter
and by Keith Ellason.
We Nillys know about hate and about violence. We know too that where
there is hate there is violence, and where there is violence there is
death.
During sleep time on the seventy-ninth day Barbara Stoneman, awakened
by a strange sound, sat up in the bed of her compartment to find a
man in a red mask in her room. Her cries brought neighbors into the
corridor. The flight of the man was witnessed by many, and several men
tried to stop him. But the intruder was light on his feet and fast. He
escaped.
The Quadrant Council confronted the captain, demanding weapons.
"Are you out of your minds?" Branson exclaimed.
Tom Tilbury, Fourth Quadrant leader, said, "We want to set up a police
force, Captain. We want stunners."
"There's no law against it," Branson said, "but it's a rule of mine
that no weapons are to be issued en route."
"If we had had a gun, we'd have got Red Mask," Tilbury said.
"And I might have a murder on my conscience."
Tilbury said, "We've also thought of that. Suppose you supply us with
half-power stunners? That way we can stun but not kill."
They got their guns. Now there were twenty-four policemen on duty in
the corridors—eight on at a time. Ellason observed that for the first
time the passengers seemed relaxed.
Let Red Mask move against armed men, they said.
Yeah, let him see what happens now.
Red Mask did.
On the 101st day he was seen in a corridor in Quadrant Four. Emil
Pierce, policeman on duty, managed to squeeze off several shots at his
retreating figure.
Red Mask was seen again on the 120th day, on the 135th day, and the
157th day. He was seen, shot at, but not hit. He was also unable to
commit any crime.
We've got him on the run, the colonists said.
He's afraid to do anything, now that we've got police protection, they
said smugly.
The Quadrant Council congratulated itself. The passengers were proud
of themselves. A special congratulatory message from Captain Branson
appeared one day in the Bulletin newsletter.
The colonists settled down to living out the rest of the voyage until
the landing on Antheon.
But on the 170th day calamity struck. Red Mask appropriated one of the
stunners, made his way down one whole corridor section in Quadrant Two,
put occupants to sleep as he went, taking many articles of value and
leaving disorder behind.
Ellason interviewed as many victims as he could, noted it all in
his book. The things taken were keepsakes, photographs and items of
personal value. It seemed to be the work of a madman. If Red Mask
wanted to make everyone furious, he certainly succeeded.
"What does he want that stuff for?" Casey Stromberg, a passenger
doctor, asked. "I can see him taking my narcotics, my doctor's kit—but
my dead wife's picture? That I don't understand."
It was the same with others. "The man's insane, Mr. Ellason. Positively
insane." Many people said it.
The council issued orders that all passengers from now on would be
required to lock their compartments at all times. More guns were
obtained from the captain. More policemen were appointed.
Ellason was busy noting it all in his book. It became filled with
jottings about innocent people being accidentally stunned when
trigger-happy policemen thought their movements suspicious, about one
man's suspicion of another and the ensuing search of compartments,
people who saw Red Mask here, saw him there. Hardly a day went by
without some new development.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Ellason, we're going to get him," said Tilbury, now chief
of police, cracking his knuckles, his eyes glowing at the thought.
"We're bound to get him. We've got things worked out to the finest
detail. He won't be able to get through our fingers now. Just let him
make so much as a move."
"And what will you do when you get him?"
"Kill him," Tilbury said, licking his lips, his eyes glowing more
fiercely than ever.
"Without a trial?"
"Oh, there'll be a trial, Mr. Ellason, but you don't think any jury'd
let him live after all the things he's done, do you?"
Red Mask was stunned in Quadrant Four in a corridor by a policeman
named Terryl Placer on the 201st day. The criminal was carried to the
assembly room surrounded by guards, for he surely would have been
mauled, if not killed, by angry colonists who crowded around. In the
assembly hall his mask was whipped off. The crowd gasped. Nobody knew
him.
Ellason's first thought was that he must be a stowaway, but then he
remembered the face, and Captain Branson, who came to have a look at
him, unhappily admitted the man was a member of the crew. His name was
Harrel Critten and he was a record keeper third class.
"Well, Critten," Branson roared at him, "what have you got to say for
yourself?"
"Go to hell," Critten said quietly. As if it were an afterthought, he
spat at the captain.
Branson looked as if he were going to kill the man himself right there
and then.
It was a long trial—from the 220th to the 241st day—and there didn't
seem to be much doubt about the outcome, for Critten didn't help his
own cause during any of it.
Lemuel Tarper, who was appointed prosecutor, asked him, "What did you
do with the loot, Critten?"
Critten looked him square in the eye and said, "I threw it out one of
the escape chutes. Does that answer your question?"
"Threw it away?" Tarper and the crowd were incredulous.
"Sure," Critten said. "You colonists got the easy life as passengers,
just sitting around. I had to work my head off keeping records for you
lazy bastards."
The verdict was, of course, death.
They executed Harrel Critten on the morning of the 270th day with
blasts from six stunners supplied with full power. It was witnessed
by a great crowd in the assembly hall. A detail from the ship's crew
disposed of his body through a chute.
It was all duly recorded in Keith Ellason's notebooks.
Dying is easy for a Nilly. Especially if it's arranged for beforehand,
which it always is.
The
Weblor II
was only one day out of orbit when Captain Branson sent
for Ellason and introduced him to the executed man.
"Hello," Critten said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I figured as much," Ellason said. "I've been doing a lot of thinking."
"You're perhaps a little too good as an observer," Branson said. "Or
maybe it was because you really weren't one of the colonists. But no
matter, Critten did a good job. He was trained by an old friend of mine
for this job, Gelthorpe Nill. Nill used to be in counter-espionage when
there were wars."
"You were excellent," Ellason said.
"Can't say I enjoyed the role," said Critten, "but I think it saved
lives."
"Let me get this straight. Interstellar thought that it was idleness
and boredom that caused the killings on the
Weblor I
, so they had you
trained to be a scapegoat. Is that right?"
Critten nodded. "When great numbers are being transported, they are apt
to magnify each little event because so little happens. It was my job
to see that they directed none of their venom against each other or the
crew, only toward me."
Branson smiled. "It made the time pass quickly and interestingly for
the passengers."
"To say nothing of me," Critten said.
"And you, Mr. Ellason, were along to observe it all," Captain Branson
put in. "Interstellar wanted an accurate picture of this. If it worked,
they told me they'd use it on other trips to Antheon."
Ellason nodded. "No time for brooding, for differences of opinion on
small matters. Just time to hate Mr. Critten. Unanimously."
"Probably," Critten said, "you are wondering about the execution."
"Naturally."
"We removed the charges before the guns were used."
"And Carver Janssen's case?"
"He'll get it back when he's shuttled to Antheon. And all the other
items will be returned. They're all tagged with their owner's names.
Captain Branson will say they were found somewhere on the ship. You
see, I was a liar."
"How about that assault on June Failright?"
Critten grinned again. "She played right into our hands. She ran out
into the hall claiming I'd attacked her, which I did not. She was
certainly amazed when the ship's physicians agreed with her. Of course
Captain Branson told them to do that."
"And the murder?"
"Raymond Palugger died in the hospital all right, but he died from
his illness on the operating table. We turned it into an advantage by
making it look suspicious."
Ellason brightened. "And by that time everybody was seeing Red Mask
everywhere and the colonists organized against him."
"Gave them something to do," Branson said.
"Every time things got dull, I livened them up. I got a stunner and
robbed along the corridor. That really stirred them. Lucky nobody got
hurt during any of it, including that Stoneman woman. I was trying to
rob her when she woke up."
Branson cleared his throat. "Ah, Ellason about that story. You
understand you can't write it, don't you?"
Ellason said regretfully that he did understand.
"The colonists will never know the truth," Branson went on. "There will
be other ships outward bound."
Critten sighed. "And I'll have to be caught again."
Yes, we're anonymous, nameless, we Nillys, for that's what we call
each other, and are a theme, with variations, in the endless stretches
of deep space, objects of hatred and contempt, professional heels,
dying once a trip when the time is ripe, antidote to boredom, and we'll
ply our trade, our little tragedies, on a thousand ships bringing
humanity to new worlds.
|
train | 60747 | [
"How old was the narrator when he discovered he had a special gift?",
"Why does the narrator reveal his secret ability to Julia?",
"Why does the narrator make a phone call before explaining the bomb to Julia?",
"Why didn't Julia pick up her suitcase with the other passengers?",
"Why doesn't the narrator use his powers to win at slot machines?",
"How did the bomb get in Julia's suitcase?",
"What happened to the man who stole the suitcases?",
"Why doesn't Julia tell the policeman about the bomb?"
] | [
[
"15",
"9",
"12",
"18"
],
[
"He loves Julia, and he doesn't want there to be any secrets between them.",
"If he doesn't explain his ability, she'll think he's a creeper for going in her luggage.",
"He needs to stay with the suitcase to keep the bomb from going off. He needs her cooperation.",
"He'll have a better chance of getting her to believe him than the airport policeman believing his story."
],
[
"The narrator needs to call airport security so that they can evacuate the area before he explains the situation to Julia.",
"The narrator needs to call the FBI and report the bomb before he explains the situation to Julia.",
"The narrator fakes making a phone call so that he can focus on stopping the bomb again.",
"The narrator needs to alert the bomb squad before he explains the situation to Julia."
],
[
"Julia was detained by customs before she could get to the baggage claim.",
"Julia went to call her sister before collecting her suitcase.",
"Julia was told that her suitcase didn't make the flight when they were mid-air. ",
"Julia didn't want to be near the suitcase when the bomb went off."
],
[
"He did use his powers to win at slot machines. He got himself banned from casinos.",
"He thought about using his powers to win at slot machines but then decided it was too risky. He was afraid of getting caught.",
"The mechanical workings of the slot machines are too difficult for him to control.",
"He did use his powers to win at slot machines for a while. Then he became addicted to gambling and had to join Gamblers Annonymous."
],
[
"Julia's sister slipped the bomb inside the suitcase before she left for the airport.",
"Julia put the bomb in her suitcase before she left home.",
"A terrorist at the airport grabbed Julia's bag at random and slipped the bomb inside.",
"Julia's husband put the bomb in her suitcase before she left the house."
],
[
"The man who stole the suitcases was arrested by the FBI after the bomb-sniffing dogs caught up with him.",
"The man who stole the suitcases was mauled by the bomb-sniffing dogs.",
"The man who stole the suitcases died when the bomb exploded.",
"The man who stole the suitcases was arrested by the airport police."
],
[
"This is her chance to disappear and start a new life. ",
"She doesn't think the police will believe her husband tried to kill her.",
"She does not want to be blamed for the thief's death.",
"She doesn't want the narrator to have to explain his gifts."
]
] | [
2,
3,
3,
2,
3,
4,
3,
3
] | [
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
1
] | Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no
satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and
now it had me fighting for my life in
...
THE LITTLE RED BAG
By JERRY SOHL
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I made
the discovery. I had finished reading the
Chronicle
, folded and put
it beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see the
San Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So I
returned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffed
gray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seats
before me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.
I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Now
she had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle and
calf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out a
window where there was nothing to see.
I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, a
togetherness-type-magazine reader.
Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing I
should be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angeles
for, and not wanting to.
So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhaps
that sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody ever
complained.
It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explore
the insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawers
and—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.
It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away from
electric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me
how
they hurt.
Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I always
knew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, and
therefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feel
the color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about the
same as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tell
if there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Just
the feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned to
become pretty good at guessing.
Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal object
in her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hard
object with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a small
book, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few bills
and coins. Not much else.
I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.
But I never say anything.
I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade when
Miss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eat
my sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with some
of the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.
Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'd
be gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard during
her absence, which I dutifully did.
Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk for
her favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, and
looking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it while
she was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, which
she always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.
"It's in your purse," I blurted out.
I was sent home with a stinging note.
Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was able
to sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many other
people are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.
I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, but
how? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of the
things I sense in probing really are.
But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. A
feather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light or
heat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler's
window. And I can stop clocks.
Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirty
because I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San Francisco
International Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, it
seems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapement
and balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The last
time I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between the
pawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and its
delicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exerting
influence to decrease the restoring torque.
The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quite
a bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. I
can't stand the alarm.
When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even went
to Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawls
and cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicate
about a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I dropped
quite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.
So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except that
it amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.
The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me out
the window. "Where are we?" she asked in a surprised voice. I told her
we were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, "Oh," glanced
at her wristwatch and sank back again.
Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so I
contented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think about
Amos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusement
chain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices were
maybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mind
wandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece of
luggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went through
slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a
ukulele.
I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.
The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,
flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was a
bomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,
quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held me
was that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must be
electrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock more
closely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hard
round cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of my
neck when I suddenly realized what it was.
The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up past
the train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my own
alarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.
It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.
My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look around
at the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. I
thought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it was
there. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.
We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angeles
soon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.
But of course that had been the plan!
My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mind
was numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'd
think I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would be
panic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.
"Sir." My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,
smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a small
paper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrapped
doughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and a
napkin.
I goggled at her, managed to croak, "No, thanks." She gave me an odd
look and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing at
the cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.
I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spent
a frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop that
balance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I tried
to close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, the
woman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock and
surrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;
when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it was
like trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't going
to be able to stop it.
Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could not
afford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my hold
until it came to a dead stop.
"Anything the matter?"
My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next to
me. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she was
still chewing.
"No," I said, letting out my breath. "I'm all right."
"You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head back
and forth."
"Must have been dreaming," I said as I rang for the stewardess. When
she came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,
just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammy
with sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.
All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead to
the landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel would
start again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.
I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybe
calling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.
Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before the
bomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life would
be changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a man
literally with gimlet eyes.
Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north of
the city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,
but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but it
was also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.
To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closing
my eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tugging
and pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.
A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.
"Your cup," my seat partner said, pointing.
I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then I
looked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She took
it without a word and went away.
"Were you really asleep that time?"
"Not really," I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject to
fits, but I didn't.
It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longest
minutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel when
the plane dipped and bumped to a landing.
Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk as
unconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walking
through the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. I
had my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.
So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane and
watch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfield
carts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.
It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag contained
the bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. The
assortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—was
packed in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate where
I was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining the
balance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down a
ramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloaded
and placed in a long rack. I went with it.
There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,
and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast to
determine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left was
the attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, and
a fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.
I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—a
clock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.
I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched toward
and grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. I
entered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it to
immobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.
The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment I
stared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presented
it to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and I
was ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags with
his eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed it
toward me.
"Thanks," I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward the
remaining bag. "One left over, eh?"
"Yeah." He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. But
he was eying me with a "well-why-don't-you-get-along?" look.
I said, "What happens if nobody claims it?"
"Take it inside. Why?"
He was getting too curious. "Oh, I just wondered, that's all."
I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entrance
and put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurrying
over.
"Cab?"
I shook my head. "Just waiting."
Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.
I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggage
claim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ran
through my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfied
me.
I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with a
man named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussing
something very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what could
I do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take the
bag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able to
live with myself.
No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—until
what?
A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out of
the entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on a
pair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I could
tell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain the
whole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my own
business.
But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and started
across the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,
"Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag." But
I didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claim
counter out of the side of my eye.
The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the ramp
to the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I went
inside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bag
on the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. The
clerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.
I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. How
many minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to the
counter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. I
had to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop the
clock again.
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.
"No. I'm waiting for someone."
I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against the
counter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach the
device, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheel
escaped my grasp.
"Do you have my suitcase?"
I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stood
there looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right hand
she had a green baggage claim check.
The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnight
case and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,
glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.
"Just a moment," I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurrying
after her.
At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, "Listen to me."
She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.
"It's a matter of life or death," I said. I wanted to wrest the bag
from her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but I
restrained myself.
She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpled
suitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,
"Please put the bag down. Over there." I indicated a spot beside a
telephone booth where it would be out of the way.
She didn't move. She just said, "Why?"
"For God's sake!" I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put her
bag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standing
there looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blue
and brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,
I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at me
or anything else right now if it had.
"I've got to talk to you. It's very important."
The girl said, "Why?" I was beginning to think it was the only word she
knew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to kill
someone so lovely.
"I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make a
telephone call." I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, "And
don't ask me why."
She gave me a speculative look.
I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, "All right,
but—"
I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,
pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was in
there, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At this
range it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.
Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.
"Now will you please tell me what this is all about?" she said stiffly.
"Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain."
She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followed
the short, fat man into the coffee shop.
Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensory
ability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, and
how I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.
During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grew
pale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tears
there when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.
"Joe did," she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more but
staring vacantly across the room. "Joe put it there." Behind her eyes
she was reliving some recent scene.
"Who is Joe?"
"My husband." I thought she was going to really bawl, but she got
control again. "This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit my
sister." Her smile was bleak. "I see now why he wanted to put in those
books. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd put
in some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when he
must have put the—put it in there."
I said gently, "Why would he want to do a thing like that?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "I just don't know." And she was
close to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, "I'm not sure I
want to know." I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.
"It's all right now?" she asked.
I nodded. "As long as we don't move it."
I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd been
thinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell the
airport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said her
name was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was a
bomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worried
because she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but it
would have to do.
"We've got to get it deactivated," I said, watching the fat man pay for
his coffee and leave. "The sooner the better."
I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.
I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the other
people had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busy
for a long while.
"She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.
She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab." She smiled
a little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was all
for me. "That's where I was going when you caught up with me."
It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it again
when we reached the lobby.
The two bags weren't there.
I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.
"See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old battered
suitcase?"
"Bag? Suitcase?" he mumbled. Then he became excited. "Why, a man just
stepped out of here—" He turned to look down the street. "That's him."
The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,
mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.
"Hey!" I shouted, starting toward him.
The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He came
abreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the door
and threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.
The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time I
reached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, then
walked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with the
redcap, who said, "That man steal them suitcases?"
"That he did," I said.
Just then the airport policeman started across the street from the
parking lot. Redcap said, "Better tell him about it."
The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, "We'd better get
over to the office."
But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distant
shattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.
"Jets," the redcap said, eying the sky.
"I don't know," the policeman said. "Didn't sound much like a jet to
me."
We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupe
in the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. That
was all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia was
thinking.
She said, "About those bags," and looked at me.
The officer said, "Yes, miss?"
"I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it."
"I feel the same way," I said. "Would it be all right if we didn't
bother to report it?"
"Well," the policeman said, "I can't
make
you report it."
"I'd rather not then," Julia said. She turned to me. "I'd like some
air. Can't we walk a little?"
"Sure," I said.
We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fill
with the distant sounds of sirens.
|
train | 27492 | [
"How did Crownwall get to Vega III so quickly?",
"Who is Ggarran?",
"Why did the Viceroy blockade the Earth if he wanted an Earthling to come and meet with him?",
"What was Earth's first Spaceship?",
"Why is the distorter drive so dangerous?",
"How many Viceroys are neither Vegan nor Sundan?",
"Why does the bowman shoot a soldier during the Viceroy's procession?",
"How does the Council feel about Crownwall's decision to go back in time to before the Vegans appeared?",
"How does Crownwall feel about the Vegans?",
"Why does the Viceroy want to overthrow the Sundans?"
] | [
[
"FTL (Faster than Light) drive",
"Transport Beam",
"Warp drive",
"Time travel"
],
[
"The Viceroy's advisor",
"The head of the palace guard",
"The leader of the Vegans",
"The leader of the Sundans"
],
[
"The blockade was a test to see if Earthlings were smart enough to help the Vegans defeat the Sundans.",
"The blockade is there to protect Earth from the Sundans.",
"The blockade is there to quarantine the Earth. Earthlings may have diseases that could infect the other races.",
"The blockade is there to keep people from leaving the Earth."
],
[
"Voyager",
"Alpha Centauri",
"Star Seeker",
"Enterprise"
],
[
"The distorter drive has a seventy-three percent chance of destroying everything around it for thousands of miles.",
"The distorter drive has not been thoroughly tested.",
"The distorter drive is powered by a nuclear reactor.",
"The distorter drive is radioactive."
],
[
"15",
"20",
"25",
"10"
],
[
"To demonstrate what would happen if someone who was not a guest of the Viceroy viewed the procession.",
"The soldier was attempting to stage a coup against the Viceroy.",
"The soldier tripped and made the procession look sloppy.",
"To demonstrate the Vegan's knowledge of antiquated weapons."
],
[
"They are scared. The Sundans will surely attack the Earth now.",
"They are horrified. They sent Crownwall to make a peace treaty not to commit genocide.",
"They are sad. They are all alone in the universe now.",
"They are ecstatic. All of their enemies are gone now."
],
[
"Crownwall thinks the Vegans are a kind and benevolent race.",
"Crownwall thinks the Vegans seem to be just as brutal and horrible as they make the Sundans out to be.",
"Crownwall thinks the Vegans are murderous and can't wait to get away from them.",
"Crownwall is disgusted by the sight of the slobbering, boneless, tentacled creatures."
],
[
"The Sundans do not understand polite society or etiquette. They really must be stopped.",
"The Sundans are waging war on the Vegans. ",
"The Sundans are a race of brutal warriors, oppressing everyone in the galaxy.",
"The Vegans were around before the Sundans, therefore the Vegans should be in charge of the galaxy."
]
] | [
4,
1,
1,
3,
1,
1,
1,
2,
2,
4
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0
] | UPSTARTS
By L. J. STECHER, JR.
Illustrated by DILLON
The
sight of an Earthman
on Vega III, where it was
impossible for an outlander
to be, brought angry crowds to surround
John Crownwall as he strode
toward the palace of Viceroy
Tronn Ffallk, ruler of Sector XII
of the Universal Holy Empire of
Sunda. He ignored the snarling, the
spitting, the waving of boneless
prehensile fingers, as he ignored the
heavy gravity and heavier air of
the unfamiliar planet.
John Crownwall, florid, red-headed
and bulky, considered himself
to be a bold man. But here,
surrounded by this writhing, slithering
mass of eight-foot creatures,
he felt distinctly unhappy. Crownwall
had heard about creatures that
slavered, but he had never before
seen it done. These humanoids had
large mouths and sharp teeth, and
they unquestionably slavered. He
wished he knew more about them.
If they carried out the threats of
their present attitude, Earth would
have to send Marshall to replace
him. And if Crownwall couldn't do
the job, thought Crownwall, then
it was a sure bet that Marshall
wouldn't have a chance.
He climbed the great ramp, with
its deeply carved Greek key design,
toward the mighty entrance
gate of the palace. His manner
demonstrated an elaborate air of
unconcern that he felt sure was entirely
wasted on these monsters.
The clashing teeth of the noisiest
of them were only inches from the
quivering flesh of his back as he
reached the upper level. Instantly,
and unexpectedly to Crownwall,
the threatening crowd dropped
back fearfully, so that he walked
the last fifty meters alone.
Crownwall all but sagged with
relief. A pair of guards, their purple
hides smoothly polished and gleaming
with oil, crossed their ceremonial
pikes in front of him as he
approached the entrance.
"And just what business do you
have here, stranger?" asked the
senior of the guards, his speaking
orifice framing with difficulty the
sibilances of Universal Galactic.
"What business
would
I have at
the Viceroy's Palace?" asked
Crownwall. "I want to see Ffallk."
"Mind your tongue," growled
the guard. "If you mean His Effulgence,
Right Hand of the Glorious
Emperor, Hereditary Ruler of the
Seventy Suns, Viceroy of the
Twelfth Sector of the Universal
Holy Empire"—Universal Galactic
had a full measure of ceremonial
words—"he sees only those whom
he summons. If you know what's
good for you, you'll get out of here
while you can still walk. And if you
run fast enough, maybe you can
even get away from that crowd out
there, but I doubt it."
"Just tell him that a man has
arrived from Earth to talk to him.
He'll summon me fast enough.
Meanwhile, my highly polished
friends, I'll just wait here, so why
don't you put those heavy pikes
down?"
Crownwall sat on the steps,
puffed alight a cigarette, and blew
expert smoke rings toward the
guards.
An elegant courtier, with elaborately
jeweled harness, bustled
from inside the palace, obviously
trying to present an air of strolling
nonchalance. He gestured fluidly
with a graceful tentacle. "You!" he
said to Crownwall. "Follow me. His
Effulgence commands you to appear
before him at once." The two
guards withdrew their pikes and
froze into immobility at the sides
of the entrance.
Crownwall stamped out his
smoke and ambled after the hurrying
courtier along tremendous corridors,
through elaborate waiting
rooms, under guarded doorways,
until he was finally bowed through
a small curtained arch.
At the far side of the comfortable,
unimpressive room, a plump
thing, hide faded to a dull violet,
reclined on a couch. Behind him
stood a heavy and pompous appearing
Vegan in lordly trappings.
They examined Crownwall with
great interest for a few moments.
"It's customary to genuflect
when you enter the Viceroy's presence,"
said the standing one at
last. "But then I'm told you're an
Earthling. I suppose we can expect
you to be ignorant of those niceties
customary among civilized peoples."
"It's all right, Ggaran," said the
Viceroy languidly. He twitched a
tentacle in a beckoning gesture.
"Come closer, Earthling. I bid you
welcome to my capital. I have been
looking forward to your arrival for
some time."
Crownwall
put his hands
in his pockets. "That's hardly
possible," he said. "It was only decided
yesterday, back on Earth,
that I would be the one to make
the trip here. Even if you could
spy through buildings on Earth
from space, which I doubt, your
communications system can't get
the word through that fast."
"Oh, I didn't mean
you
in particular,"
the Vegan said with a
negligent wave. "Who can tell one
Earthling from another? What I
meant was that I expected someone
from Earth to break through
our blockade and come here. Most
of my advisors—even Ggaran here—thought
it couldn't be done, but
I never doubted that you'd manage
it. Still, if you were on your
home planet only yesterday, that's
astonishing even to me. Tell me,
how did you manage to get here so
fast, and without even alerting my
detection web?"
"You're doing the talking," said
Crownwall. "If you wanted someone
from Earth to come here to see
you, why did you put the cordon
around Earth? And why did you
drop a planet-buster in the Pacific
Ocean, and tell us that it was triggered
to go off if we tried to use
the distorter drive? That's hardly
the action of somebody who expects
visitors."
Ffallk glanced up at Ggaran. "I
told you that Earthlings were unbelievably
bold." He turned back
to Crownwall. "If you couldn't
come to me in spite of the trifling
inconveniences I put in your way,
your presence here would be useless
to both of us. But you did
come, so I can tell you that although
I am the leader of one of
the mightiest peoples in the Galaxy,
whereas there are scarcely six
billions of you squatting on one
minor planet, we still need each
other. Together, there is nothing
we can't do."
"I'm listening," said Crownwall.
"We offer you partnership with
us to take over the rule of the
Galaxy from the Sunda—the so-called
Master Race."
"It would hardly be an equal
partnership, would it, considering
that there are so many more of you
than there are of us?"
His Effulgence twitched his ear
stalks in amusement. "I'm Viceroy
of one of the hundred Sectors of
the Empire. I rule over a total of
a hundred Satrapies; these average
about a hundred Provinces each.
Provinces consist, in general, of
about a hundred Clusters apiece,
and every Cluster has an average
of a hundred inhabited solar systems.
There are more inhabited
planets in the Galaxy than there
are people on your single world.
I, personally, rule three hundred
trillion people, half of them of my
own race. And yet I tell you that
it would be an equal partnership."
"I don't get it. Why?"
"Because you came to me."
Crownwall shrugged. "So?"
The
Vegan reached up and engulfed
the end of a drinking
tube with his eating orifice. "You
upstart Earthlings are a strange
and a frightening race," he said.
"Frightening to the Sunda, especially.
When you showed up in the
spaceways, it was decreed that you
had to be stopped at once. There
was even serious discussion of destroying
Earth out of hand, while
it is still possible.
"Your silly little planet was carefully
examined at long range in a
routine investigation just about fifty
thousand years ago. There were
at that time three different but
similar racial strains of pulpy bipeds,
numbering a total of perhaps
a hundred thousand individuals.
They showed many signs of an
ability to reason, but a complete
lack of civilization. While these
creatures could by no means be
classed among the intelligent races,
there was a general expectation,
which we reported to the Sunda,
that they would some day come to
be numbered among the Servants
of the Emperor. So we let you
alone, in order that you could develop
in your own way, until you
reached a high enough civilization
to be useful—if you were going to.
"Intelligence is very rare in the
Galaxy. In all, it has been found
only fifteen times. The other races
we have watched develop, and
some we have actively assisted to
develop. It took the quickest of
them just under a million years.
One such race we left uncontrolled
too long—but no matter.
"You Earthlings, in defiance of
all expectation and all reason, have
exploded into space. You have developed
in an incredibly short
space of time. But even that isn't
the most disconcerting item of your
development. As an Earthling, you
have heard of the details of the
first expedition of your people into
space, of course?"
"
Heard
about it?" exclaimed
Crownwall. "I was
on
it." He settled
down comfortably on a couch,
without requesting permission, and
thought back to that first tremendous
adventure; an adventure that
had taken place little more than
ten years before.
The
Star Seeker
had been built
in space, about forty thousand kilometers
above the Earth. It had
been manned by a dozen adventurous
people, captained by Crownwall,
and had headed out on its ion
drive until it was safely clear of
the warping influence of planetary
masses. Then, after several impatient
days of careful study and calculation,
the distorter drive had
been activated, for the first time
in Earth's history, and, for the
twelve, the stars had winked out.
The men of Earth had decided
that it should work in theory. They
had built the drive—a small machine,
as drives go—but they had
never dared to try it, close to a
planet. To do so, said their theory,
would usually—seven point three
four times out of 10—destroy the
ship, and everything in space for
thousands of miles around, in a
ravening burst of raw energy.
So the drive had been used for
the first time without ever having
been tested. And it had worked.
In less than a week's time, if
time has any meaning under such
circumstances, they had flickered
back into normal space, in the vicinity
of Alpha Centauri. They had
quickly located a dozen planets,
and one that looked enough like
Earth to be its twin sister. They
had headed for that planet confidently
and unsuspectingly, using
the ion drive.
Two weeks later, while they
were still several planetary diameters
from their destination, they
had been shocked to find more
than two score alien ships of space
closing in on them—ships that
were swifter and more maneuverable
than their own. These ships
had rapidly and competently englobed
the
Star Seeker
, and had
then tried to herd it away from the
planet it had been heading toward.
Although
caught by surprise,
the Earthmen had acted
swiftly. Crownwall recalled the discussion—the
council of war, they
had called it—and their unanimous
decision. Although far within the
dangerous influence of a planetary
mass, they had again activated the
distorter drive, and they had beaten
the odds. On the distorter drive,
they had returned to Earth as swiftly
as they had departed. Earth had
immediately prepared for war
against her unknown enemy.
"Your reaction was savage," said
Ggaran, his tentacles stiffening
with shock at the memory. "You
bloody-minded Earthlings must
have been aware of the terrible
danger."
Ffallk rippled in agreement.
"The action you took was too swift
and too foolhardy to be believed.
You knew that you could have destroyed
not only yourself, but also
all who live on that planet. You
could also have wrecked the planet
itself and the ships and those of
my own race who manned them.
We had tried to contact you, but
since you had not developed subspace
radio, we were of course not
successful. Our englobement was
just a routine quarantine. With
your total lack of information
about us, what you did was more
than the height of folly. It was madness."
"Could we have done anything
else that would have kept you from
landing on Earth and taking us
over?" asked Crownwall.
"Would that have been so bad?"
said Ggaran. "We can't tolerate
wild and warlike races running free
and uncontrolled in the Galaxy.
Once was enough for that."
"But what about my question?
Was there any other way for us to
stay free?"
"Well, no. But you didn't have
enough information to realize that
when you acted so precipitously. As
a matter of fact, we didn't expect
to have much trouble, even after
your surprising action. Of course,
it took us a little time to react. We
located your planet quickly enough,
and confirmed that you were a new
race. But by the time we could
try to set up communications and
send ambassadors, you had already
organized a not inconsiderable defense.
Your drones blew up our unmanned
ships as fast as we could
send them down to your planet.
And by the time we had organized
properly for war against you, it was
obvious that we could not conquer
you. We could only destroy you."
"That old fool on Sunda, the
Emperor, decided that we should
blow you up, but by that time I
had decided," said His Effulgence,
"that you might be useful to me—that
is, that we might be useful to
each other. I traveled halfway
across the Galaxy to meet him, to
convince him that it would be sufficient
just to quarantine you.
When we had used your radio system
to teach a few of you the Universal
Galactic tongue, and had
managed to get what you call the
'planet-buster' down into the
largest of your oceans, he figured
we had done our job.
"With his usual lack of imagination,
he felt sure that we were safe
from you—after all, there was no
way for you to get off the planet.
Even if you could get down to the
bottom of the ocean and tamper
with the bomb, you would only succeed
in setting it off, and that's
what the Sunda had been in favor
of in the first place.
"But I had different ideas. From
what you had already done, I suspected
it wouldn't be long before
one of you amazing Earthlings
would dream up some device or
other, head out into space, and
show up on our planet. So I've been
waiting for you, and here you are."
"It was the thinking of a genius,"
murmured Ggaran.
"All right, then, genius, here I
am," said Crownwall. "So what's
the pitch?"
"Ggaran, you explain it to the
Earthling," said His Effulgence.
Ggaran
bowed. "The crustaceans
on Sunda—the lobsterlike
creatures that rule the Galaxy—are
usurpers. They have no rights
to their position of power. Our race
is much older than theirs. We were
alone when we found the Sundans—a
primitive tribe, grubbing in the
mud at the edge of their shallow
seas, unable even to reason. In
those days we were desperately
lonely. We needed companionship
among the stars, and we helped
them develop to the point where,
in their inferior way, they were able
to reason, almost as well as we, The
People, can. And then they cheated
us of our rightful place.
"The Emperor at Sunda is one
of them. They provide sixty-eight
of the hundred Viceroys; we provide
only seventeen. It is a preposterous
and intolerable situation.
"For more than two million
years we have waited for the opportunity
for revenge. And now
that you have entered space, that
opportunity is at hand."
"If you haven't been able to help
yourselves for two million years,"
asked Crownwall, "how does the
sight of me give you so much gumption
all of a sudden?"
Ggaran's tentacles writhed, and
he slavered in fury, but the clashing
of his teeth subsided instantly
at a soothing wave from His Effulgence.
"War in space is almost an impossibility,"
said the aged ruler.
"We can destroy planets, of course,
but with few exceptions, we cannot
conquer them. I rule a total of
seven races in my Sector. I rule
them, but I don't let them intermingle.
Each race settles on the
planets that best suit it. Each of
those planets is quite capable of defending
itself from raids, or even
large-scale assaults that would result
in its capture and subjugation—just
as your little Earth can defend
itself.
"Naturally, each is vulnerable to
economic blockade—trade provides
a small but vital portion of the
goods each planet uses. All that a
world requires for a healthy and
comfortable life cannot be provided
from the resources of that
single world alone, and that gives
us a very considerable measure of
control.
"And it is true that we can always
exterminate any planet that
refuses to obey the just and legal
orders of its Viceroy. So we achieve
a working balance in our Empire.
We control it adequately, and we
live in peace.
"The Sundans, for example,
though they took the rule of the
Empire that was rightfully ours
away from us, through trickery,
were unable to take over the
Sectors we control. We are still
powerful. And soon we will be all-powerful.
In company with you
Earthlings, that is."
Crownwall nodded. "In other
words, you think that we Earthmen
can break up this two-million-year-old
stalemate. You've got the
idea that, with our help, you can
conquer planets without the necessity
of destroying them, and thereby
take over number one spot from
these Sunda friends of yours."
"Don't call those damn lobsters
friends," growled Ggaran. He subsided
at the Viceroy's gesture.
"Exactly," said His Effulgence
to Crownwall. "You broke our
blockade without any trouble. Our
instruments didn't even wiggle
when you landed here on my capital
world. You can do the same on
the worlds of the Sunda. Now, just
tell us how you did it, and we're
partners."
Crownwall
lifted one eyebrow
quizzically, but remained
silent. He didn't expect his facial
gesture to be interpreted correctly,
but he assumed that his silence
would be. He was correct.
"Of course," His Effulgence said,
"we will give you any assurances
that your people may desire in order
to feel safe, and we will guarantee
them an equal share in the
government of the Galaxy."
"Bunk," said Crownwall.
His Effulgence lifted a tentacle
swiftly, before Ggaran, lunging angrily
forward, could speak. "Then
what do you want of us?"
"It seems to me that we need
no wordy assurances from each
other," said Crownwall, and he
puffed a cigarette aglow. "We can
arrange something a little more
trustworthy, I believe. On your
side, you have the power to destroy
our only planet at any time. That
is certainly adequate security for
our own good behavior and sincerity.
"It is impossible for us of Earth
to destroy all of your planets. As
you have said, there are more planets
that belong to you than there
are human beings on Earth. But
there is a way for us to be reasonably
sure that you will behave
yourselves. You will transfer to us,
at once, a hundred of your planet-destroying
bombs. That will be a
sufficient supply to let us test some
of them, to see that they are in
good working order. Then, if you
try any kind of double-cross, we
will be able to use our own methods—which
you cannot prevent—to
send one of those bombs here to
destroy this planet.
"And if you try to move anywhere
else, by your clumsy distorter
drive, we can follow you, and
destroy any planet you choose to
land on. You would not get away
from us. We can track you without
any difficulty.
"We wouldn't use the bombs
lightly, to be sure, because of what
would happen to Earth. And don't
think that blowing up our planet
would save you, because we naturally
wouldn't keep the bombs on
Earth. How does that sound to
you?"
"Ridiculous," snorted Ggaran.
"Impossible."
After several minutes of silent
consideration, "It is an excellent
plan," said His Effulgence. "It is
worthy of the thinking of The People
ourselves. You Earthlings will
make very satisfactory allies. What
you request will be provided without
delay. Meanwhile, I see no reason
why we cannot proceed with
our discussions."
"Nor do I," consented Crownwall.
"But your stooge here doesn't
seem very happy about it all."
His Effulgence wiggled his tentacles.
"I'm afraid that Ggaran had
expected to take what you Earthlings
have to offer without giving
anything in return. I never had any
such ideas. I have not underestimated
you, you see."
"That's nice," said Crownwall
graciously.
"And now," Ggaran put in, "I
think it's time for you to tell us
something about how you get
across light-years of space in a few
hours, without leaving any traces
for us to detect." He raised a tentacle
to still Crownwall's immediate
exclamation of protest. "Oh,
nothing that would give us a chance
to duplicate it—just enough to
indicate
how we can make use of
it, along with you—enough to allow
us to
begin
to make intelligent
plans to beat the claws off the Master
Race."
After
due consideration,
Crownwall nodded. "I don't
see why not. Well, then, let me tell
you that we don't travel in space
at all. That's why I didn't show up
on any of your long-range detection
instruments. Instead, we travel
in time. Surely any race that has
progressed as far as your own must
know, at least theoretically, that
time travel is entirely possible. After
all, we knew it, and we haven't
been around nearly as long as you
have."
"We know about it," said Ffallk,
"but we've always considered it
useless—and very dangerous—knowledge."
"So have we, up until the time
you planted that bomb on us. Anyone
who tried to work any changes
in his own past would be almost
certain to end up finding himself
never having been born. So we
don't do any meddling. What we
have discovered is a way not only
of moving back into the past, but
also of making our own choice of
spatial references while we do it,
and of changing our spatial anchor
at will.
"For example, to reach this
planet, I went back far enough, using
Earth as the spatial referent,
to move with Earth a little more
than a third of the way around this
spiral nebula that is our Galaxy.
Then I shifted my frame of reference
to that of the group of galaxies
of which ours is such a distinguished
member.
"Then of course, as I continued
to move in time, the whole Galaxy
moved spatially with reference to
my own position. At the proper instant
I shifted again, to the reference
frame of this Galaxy itself.
Then I was stationary in the Galaxy,
and as I continued time traveling,
your own mighty sun moved
toward me as the Galaxy revolved.
I chose a point where there was a
time intersection of your planet's
position and my own. When you
got there, I just changed to the reference
plane of this planet I'm on
now, and then came on back with
it to the present. So here I am. It
was a long way around to cover a
net distance of 26 light-years, but
it was really very simple.
"And there's no danger of meeting
myself, or getting into any anachronistic
situation. As you probably
know, theory shows that these
are excluded times for me, as is the
future—I can't stop in them."
"Are you sure that you haven't
given us a little too much information
for your own safety?" asked
Ffallk softly.
"Not at all. We were enormously
lucky to have learned how to control
spatial reference frames ourselves.
I doubt if you could do it in
another two million years." Crownwall
rose to his feet. "And now,
Your Effulgence, I think it's about
time I went back to my ship and
drove it home to Earth to make my
report, so we can pick up those
bombs and start making arrangements."
"Excellent," said Ffallk. "I'd better
escort you; my people don't like
strangers much."
"I'd noticed that," Crownwall
commented drily.
"Since this is a very important
occasion, I think it best that we
make this a Procession of Full
Ceremony. It's a bother, but the
proprieties have to be observed."
Ggaran
stepped out into the
broad corridor and whistled a
shrill two-tone note, using both his
speaking and his eating orifices. A
cohort of troops, pikes at the ready
and bows strapped to their backs,
leaped forward and formed a
double line leading from His Effulgence's
sanctum to the main door.
Down this lane, carried by twenty
men, came a large sedan chair.
"Protocol takes a lot of time,"
said His Effulgence somewhat sadly,
"but it must be observed. At
least, as Ambassador, you can ride
with me in the sedan, instead of
walking behind it, like Ggaran."
"I'm glad of that," said Crownwall.
"Too bad Ggaran can't join
us." He climbed into the chair beside
Ffallk. The bearers trotted
along at seven or eight kilometers
an hour, carrying their contraption
with absolute smoothness. Blasts
from horns preceded them as they
went.
When they passed through the
huge entrance doors of the palace
and started down the ramp toward
the street, Crownwall was astonished
to see nobody on the previously
crowded streets, and mentioned
it to Ffallk.
"When the Viceroy of the Seventy
Suns," said the Viceroy of the
Seventy Suns, "travels in state, no
one but my own entourage is permitted
to watch. And my guests, of
course," he added, bowing slightly
to Crownwall.
"Of course," agreed Crownwall,
bowing back. "Kind of you, I'm
sure. But what happens if somebody
doesn't get the word, or
doesn't hear your trumpeters, or
something like that?"
Ggaran stepped forward, already
panting slightly. "A man with knots
in all of his ear stalks is in a very
uncomfortable position," he explained.
"Wait. Let me show you.
Let us just suppose that that runner
over there"—he gestured toward
a soldier with a tentacle—"is
a civilian who has been so unlucky
as to remain on the street
after His Effulgence's entourage arrived."
He turned to one of the
bowmen who ran beside the sedan
chair, now strung and at the ready.
"Show him!" he ordered peremptorily.
In one swift movement the bowman
notched an arrow, drew and
fired. The arrow hissed briefly, and
then sliced smoothly through the
soldier's throat.
"You see," said Ggaran complacently,
"we have very little trouble
with civilians who violate this particular
tradition."
His Effulgence beckoned to the
bowman to approach. "Your results
were satisfactory," he said, "but
your release was somewhat shaky.
The next time you show such sloppy
form, you will be given thirty
lashes."
He leaned back on the cushion
and spoke again to Crownwall.
"That's the trouble with these requirements
of civilization. The men
of my immediate guard must practice
with such things as pikes and
bows and arrows, which they seldom
get an opportunity to use. It
would never do for them to use
modern weapons on occasions of
ceremony, of course."
"Of course," said Crownwall,
then added, "It's too bad that you
can't provide them with live targets
a little more often." He stifled
a shudder of distaste. "Tell me,
Your Effulgence, does the Emperor's
race—the Master Race—also
enjoy the type of civilization
you have just had demonstrated
for me?"
"Oh, no. They are far too brutal,
too morally degraded, to know anything
of these finer points of etiquette
and propriety. They are
really an uncouth bunch. Why, do
you know, I am certain that they
would have had the bad taste to
use an energy weapon to dispose
of the victim in a case such as you
just witnessed! They are really
quite unfit to rule. They can scarcely
be called civilized at all. But we
will soon put a stop to all of that—your
race and mine, of course."
"I sincerely hope so," said
Crownwall.
Refreshments
were served
to His Effulgence and to
Crownwall during the trip, without
interrupting the smooth progress
of the sedan. The soldiers of
the cohort, the bearers and Ggaran
continued to run—without food,
drink or, except for Ggaran, evidence
of fatigue.
After several hours of travel, following
Crownwall's directions, the
procession arrived at the copse in
which he had concealed his small
transportation machine. The machine,
for spatial mobility, was
equipped with the heavy and grossly
inefficient anti-gravity field generator
developed by Kowalsky. It
occupied ten times the space of the
temporal translation and coordination
selection systems combined,
but it had the great advantage of
being almost undetectable in use. It
emitted no mass or radiation.
After elaborate and lengthy farewells,
Crownwall climbed into his
machine and fell gently up until he
was out of the atmosphere, before
starting his enormous journey
through time back to Earth. More
quickly than it had taken him to
reach his ship from the palace of
His Effulgence, he was in the Council
Chamber of the Confederation
Government of Earth, making a full
report on his trip to Vega.
When he had finished, the President
sighed deeply. "Well," he
said, "we gave you full plenipotentiary
powers, so I suppose we'll
have to stand behind your agreements—especially
in view of the
fact that we'll undoubtedly be
blown into atoms if we don't. But
from what you say, I'd rather be
in bed with a rattler than have a
treaty with a Vegan. They sound
ungodly murderous to me. There
are too many holes in that protection
plan of yours. It's only a question
of time before they'll find some
way around it, and then—poof—we'll
all be dust."
"Things may not be as bad as
they seem," answered Crownwall
complacently. "After I got back a
few million years, I'm afraid I got
a little careless and let my ship dip
down into Vega III's atmosphere
for a while. I was back so far that
the Vegans hadn't appeared yet.
Now, I didn't land—or
deliberately
kill anything—but I'd be mighty
surprised if we didn't find a change
or two. Before I came in here, I
asked Marshall to take the ship out
and check on things. He should be
back with his report before long.
Why don't we wait and see what
he has to say?"
Marshall
was excited when
he was escorted into the
Council Chamber. He bowed briefly
to the President and began to
speak rapidly.
"They're gone without trace—
all
of them
!" he cried. "I went clear
to Sunda and there's no sign of
intelligent life anywhere! We're all
alone now!"
"There, you see?" exclaimed
Crownwall. "Our enemies are all
gone!"
He looked around, glowing with
victory, at the others at the table,
then slowly quieted and sat down.
He turned his head away from
their accusing eyes.
"Alone," he said, and unconsciously
repeated Marshall's words:
"We're all alone now."
In silence, the others gathered
their papers together and left the
room, leaving Crownwall sitting at
the table by himself. He shivered
involuntarily, and then leaped to
his feet to follow after them.
Loneliness, he found, was something
that he couldn't face alone.
—L. J. STECHER, JR.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine
June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 51699 | [
"Approximately how long was Stinson on the planet before he decided it was home?",
"How old is the Sand God, mentally?",
"What happened to the Sand God's race?",
"Why are the webfoots chasing Stinson and Sybtl?",
"Why do the webfoots only wear skirts?",
"Why does the Sand God keep the webfoots around?",
"Where is Stinson from?",
"Why is the Sand God causing a terrible storm?"
] | [
[
"12 hours",
"24 hours",
"36 hours",
"48 hours"
],
[
"Six years",
"Fifteen years",
"Twelve years",
"Nine years"
],
[
"The Sand God's race moved to the sixth planet and left him behind.",
"The Sand God burned them all.",
"The webfoots killed the Sand God's race. He left his body to escape death.",
"The Sand God's race learned how to separate the mind from the body. They set a date to leave their bodies together. The Sand God found himself alone after the experience."
],
[
"The webfoots think Stinson took Syblt against her will.",
"Stinson accidentally killed one of the webfoots while disarming him.",
"Stinson murdered the leader of the webfoots.",
"The webfoots think Sybtl did not please the God."
],
[
"Skirts are traditionally worn by prisoners. The webfoots on this planet are all criminals or descendants of criminals.",
"The people from the sixth planet only sent skirts, when it was communicated that the Sand God had burned everything else.",
"The Sand God burned everything, except for the skirts.",
"Skirts are the traditional dress for the webfoots culture."
],
[
"It amuses the Sand God to watch the webfoots evolution.",
"It amuses the Sand God to play with the webfoots.",
"The webfoots worship him like a God even though he is not one.",
"The webfoots fear of the Sand God amuses him."
],
[
"Montana",
"Missouri",
"Mississippi",
"Michigan"
],
[
"He knows he can't control Stinson.",
"He is angry because Stinson figured out he is a child.",
"He is angry Stinson took Sybtl away from the webfoots.",
"He is angry because he doesn't understand Stinson."
]
] | [
2,
4,
4,
4,
3,
1,
2,
4
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | THE GOD NEXT DOOR
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by IVIE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sand-thing was powerful, lonely and
strange. No doubt it was a god—but who wasn't?
Stinson lay still in the sand where he fell, gloating over the success
of his arrival.
He touched the pencil-line scar behind his ear where the cylinder was
buried, marveling at the power stored there, power to fling him from
earth to this fourth planet of the Centaurian system in an instant.
It had happened so fast that he could almost feel the warm, humid
Missouri air, though he was light years from Missouri.
He got up. A gray, funnel-shaped cloud of dust stood off to his left.
This became disturbing, since there was scarcely enough wind to move
his hair. He watched it, trying to recall what he might know about
cyclones. But he knew little. Weather control made cyclones and other
climatic phenomena on earth practically non-existent. The cloud
did not move, though, except to spin on its axis rapidly, emitting
a high-pitched, scarcely audible whine, like a high speed motor. He
judged it harmless.
He stood on a wide valley floor between two mountain ranges. Dark
clouds capped one peak of the mountains on his left. The sky was deep
blue.
He tested the gravity by jumping up and down. Same as Earth gravity.
The sun—no, not
the
sun. Not Sol. What should he call it, Alpha or
Centaurus? Well, perhaps neither. He was here and Earth was somewhere
up there. This was
the
sun of this particular solar system. He was
right the first time.
The sun burned fiercely, although he would have said it was about four
o'clock in the afternoon, if this had been Earth. Not a tree, nor a
bush, nor even a wisp of dry grass was in sight. Everywhere was desert.
The funnel of sand had moved closer and while he watched it, it seemed
to drift in the wind—although there was no wind. Stinson backed away.
It stopped. It was about ten feet tall by three feet in diameter at the
base. Then Stinson backed away again. It was changing. Now it became a
blue rectangle, then a red cube, a violet sphere.
He wanted to run. He wished Benjamin were here. Ben might have an
explanation. "What am I afraid of?" he said aloud, "a few grains of
sand blowing in the wind? A wind devil?"
He turned his back and walked away. When he looked up the wind devil
was there before him. He looked back. Only one. It had moved. The sun
shone obliquely, throwing Stinson's shadow upon the sand. The wind
devil also had a shadow, although the sun shone through it and the
shadow was faint. But it moved when the funnel moved. This was no
illusion.
Again Stinson felt the urge to run, or to use the cylinder to project
himself somewhere else, but he said, "No!" very firmly to himself. He
was here to investigate, to determine if this planet was capable of
supporting life.
Life? Intelligence? He examined the wind devil as closely as he dared,
but it was composed only of grains of sand. There was no core, no
central place you could point to and say, here is the brain, or the
nervous system. But then, how could a group of loosely spaced grains of
sand possibly have a nervous system?
It was again going through its paces. Triangle, cube, rectangle,
sphere. He watched, and when it became a triangle again, he smoothed
a place in the sand and drew a triangle with his forefinger. When it
changed to a cube he drew a square, a circle for a sphere, and so on.
When the symbols were repeated he pointed to each in turn, excitement
mounting. He became so absorbed in doing this that he failed to notice
how the wind devil drew closer and closer, but when he inhaled the
first grains of sand, the realization of what was happening dawned with
a flash of fear. Instantly he projected himself a thousand miles away.
Now he was in an area of profuse vegetation. It was twilight. As he
stood beside a small creek, a chill wind blew from the northwest. He
wanted to cover himself with the long leaves he found, but they were
dry and brittle, for here autumn had turned the leaves. Night would be
cold.
He was not a woodsman. He doubted if he could build a fire without
matches. So he followed the creek to where it flowed between two great
hills. Steam vapors rose from a crevice. A cave was nearby and warm air
flowed from its mouth. He went inside.
At first he thought the cave was small, but found instead that he was
in a long narrow passageway. The current of warm air flowed toward him
and he followed it, cautiously, stepping carefully and slowly. Then it
was not quite so dark. Soon he stepped out of the narrow passageway
into a great cavern with a high-vaulted ceiling.
The light source was a mystery. He left no shadow on the floor. A
great crystal sphere hung from the ceiling, and he was curious about
its purpose, but a great pool of steaming water in the center of the
cavern drew his attention. He went close, to warm himself. A stone
wall surrounding the pool was inscribed with intricate art work and
indecipherable symbols.
Life. Intelligence. The planet was inhabited.
Should he give up and return to earth? Or was there room here for
his people? Warming his hands there over the great steaming pool he
thought of Benjamin, and Straus, and Jamieson—all those to whom he had
given cylinders, and who were now struggling for life against those who
desired them.
He decided it would not be just, to give up so easily.
The wide plaza between the pool and cavern wall was smooth as polished
glass. Statues lined the wall. He examined them.
The unknown artist had been clever. From one angle they were animals,
from another birds, from a third they were vaguely humanoid creatures,
glowering at him with primitive ferocity. The fourth view was so
shocking he had to turn away quickly. No definable form or sculptured
line was visible, yet he felt, or saw—he did not know which senses
told him—the immeasurable gulf of a million years of painful
evolution. Then nothing. It was not a curtain drawn to prevent him from
seeing more.
There was no more.
He stumbled toward the pool's wall and clutched for support, but
his knees buckled. His hand slid down the wall, over the ancient
inscriptions. He sank to the floor. Before he lost consciousness he
wondered, fleetingly, if a lethal instrument was in the statue.
He woke with a ringing in his ears, feeling drugged and sluggish.
Sounds came to him. He opened his eyes.
The cavern was crowded. These creatures were not only humanoid, but
definitely human, although more slight of build than earth people. The
only difference he could see at first sight was that they had webbed
feet. All were dressed from the waist down only, in a shimmering skirt
that sparkled as they moved. They walked with the grace of ballet
dancers, moving about the plaza, conversing in a musical language with
no meaning for Stinson. The men were dark-skinned, the women somewhat
lighter, with long flowing hair, wide lips and a beauty that was
utterly sensual.
He was in chains! They were small chains, light weight, of a metal that
looked like aluminum. But all his strength could not break them.
They saw him struggling. Two of the men came over and spoke to him in
the musical language.
"My name is Stinson," he said, pointing to himself. "I'm from the
planet Earth."
They looked at each other and jabbered some more.
"Look," he said, "Earth. E-A-R-T-H, Earth." He pointed upward,
described a large circle, then another smaller, and showed how Earth
revolved around the sun.
One of the men poked him with a stick, or tube of some kind. It did not
hurt, but angered him. He left the chains by his own method of travel,
and reappeared behind the two men. They stared at the place where he
had been. The chains tinkled musically. He grasped the shoulder of the
offender, spun him around and slapped his face.
A cry of consternation rose from the group, echoing in the high
ceilinged cavern. "SBTL!" it said, "ZBTL ... XBTL ... zbtl."
The men instantly prostrated themselves before him. The one who had
poked Stinson with the stick rose, and handed it to him. Still angered,
Stinson grasped it firmly, with half a notion to break it over his
head. As he did so, a flash of blue fire sprang from it. The man
disappeared. A small cloud of dust settled slowly to the floor.
Disintegrated!
Stinson's face drained pale, and suddenly, unaccountably, he was
ashamed because he had no clothes.
"I didn't mean to kill him!" he cried. "I was angry, and...."
Useless. They could not understand. For all he knew, they might think
he was threatening them. The object he had thought of as a stick was
in reality a long metal tube, precisely machined, with a small button
near one end.
This weapon was completely out of place in a culture such as this.
Or was it? What did he know of these people? Very little. They were
humanoid. They had exhibited human emotions of anger, fear and, that
most human of all characteristics, curiosity. But up to now the tube
and the chain was the only evidence of an advanced technology, unless
the ancient inscriptions in the stone wall of the pool, and the statues
lining the wall were evidences.
There was a stirring among the crowd. An object like a pallet was
brought, carried by four of the women. They laid it at his feet, and
gestured for him to sit. He touched it cautiously, then sat.
Instantly he sprang to his feet. There, at the cavern entrance, the
wind devil writhed and undulated in a brilliant harmony of colors. It
remained in one spot, though, and he relaxed somewhat.
One of the women came toward him, long golden hair flowing, firm
breasts dipping slightly at each step. Her eyes held a language all
their own, universal. She pressed her body against him and bore him to
the pallet, her kisses fire on his face.
Incongruously, he thought of Benjamin back on earth, and all the others
with cylinders, who might be fighting for their lives at this moment.
He pushed her roughly aside.
She spoke, and he understood! Her words were still the same gibberish,
but now he knew their meaning. Somehow he knew also that the wind devil
was responsible for his understanding.
"You do not want me?" she said sadly. "Then kill me."
"Why should I kill you?"
She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "It is the way of the Gods," she
said. "If you do not, then the others will."
He took the tube-weapon in his hands, careful not to touch the button.
"Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to kill the man. It was an accident. I
will protect you."
She shook her head. "One day they will find me alone, and they'll kill
me."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I have not pleased you."
"On the contrary, you have. There is a time and place for everything,
though."
Suddenly a great voice sounded in the cavern, a voice with no
direction. It came from the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the steaming
pool. It was in the language of the web-footed people; it was in his
own tongue. "No harm must come to this woman. The God with fingers on
his feet has decreed this."
Those in the cavern looked at the woman with fear and respect. She
kissed Stinson's feet. Two of the men came and gave her a brilliant
new skirt. She smiled at him, and he thought he had never seen a more
beautiful face.
The great, bodiless voice sounded again, but those in the cavern went
about their activities. They did not hear.
"Who are you?"
Stinson looked at the wind devil, since it could be no one else
speaking, and pointed to himself. "Me?"
"Yes."
"I am Stinson, of the planet Earth."
"Yes, I see it in your mind, now. You want to live here, on this
planet."
"Then you must know where I came from, and how."
"I do not understand how. You have a body, a physical body composed
of atoms. It is impossible to move a physical body from one place to
another by a mere thought and a tiny instrument, yet you have done so.
You deserted me out in the desert."
"I deserted you?" Stinson cried angrily, "You tried to kill me!"
"I was attempting communication. Why should I kill you?"
He was silent a moment, looking at the people in the cavern. "Perhaps
because you feared I would become the God of these people in your
place."
Stinson felt a mental shrug. "It is of no importance. When they arrived
on this planet I attempted to explain that I was not a God, but the
primitive is not deeply buried in them. They soon resorted to emotion
rather than reason. It is of no importance."
"I'd hardly call them primitive, with such weapons."
"The tube is not of their technology. That is, they did not make
it directly. These are the undesirables, the incorrigibles, the
nonconformists from the sixth planet. I permit them here because it
occupies my time, to watch them evolve."
"You should live so long."
"Live?" the wind devil said. "Oh, I see your meaning. I'd almost
forgotten. You are a strange entity. You travel by a means even I
cannot fully understand, yet you speak of time as if some event
were about to take place. I believe you think of death. I see your
physical body has deteriorated since yesterday. Your body will cease to
exist, almost as soon as those of the sixth planet peoples. I am most
interested in you. You will bring your people, and live here."
"I haven't decided. There are these web-footed people, who were hostile
until they thought I was a God. They have destructive weapons. Also, I
don't understand you. I see you as a cone of sand which keeps changing
color and configuration. Is it your body? Where do you come from? Is
this planet populated with your kind?"
The wind devil hesitated.
"Where do I originate? It seems I have always been. You see this
cavern, the heated pool, the statues, the inscriptions. Half a million
years ago my people were as you. That is, they lived in physical
bodies. Our technology surpassed any you have seen. The tube these
webfoots use is a toy by comparison. Our scientists found the ultimate
nature of physical law. They learned to separate the mind from the
body. Then my people set a date. Our entire race was determined to free
itself from the confines of the body. The date came."
"What happened?"
"I do not know. I alone exist. I have searched all the levels of time
and matter from the very beginning. My people are gone. Sometimes it
almost comes to me, why they are gone. And this is contrary to the
greatest law of all—that an entity, once in existence, can never cease
to exist."
Stinson was silent, thinking of the endless years of searching through
the great gulf of time. His eyes caught sight of the woman, reclining
now on the pallet. The men had left her and stood in groups, talking,
glancing at him, apparently free of their awe and fear already.
The woman looked at him, and she was not smiling. "Please ask the Sand
God," she said, "to speak to my people again. Their fear of him does
not last. When He is gone they will probably kill us."
"As for the webfoots," the wind devil, or Sand God, said, "I will
destroy them. You and your people will have the entire planet."
"Destroy them?" Stinson asked, incredulously, "all these people? They
have a right to live like any one else."
"Right? What is it—'right?' They are entities. They exist, therefore
they always will. My people are the only entities who ever died. To
kill the body is unimportant."
"No. You misunderstand. Listen, you spoke of the greatest law. Your law
is a scientific hypothesis. It has to do with what comes after physical
existence, not with existence itself. The greatest law is this, that an
entity, once existing, must not be harmed in any way. To do so changes
the most basic structure of nature."
The Sand God did not reply. The great bodiless, directionless voice was
silent, and Stinson felt as if he had been taken from some high place
and set down in a dark canyon. The cone of sand was the color of wood
ashes. It pulsed erratically, like a great heart missing a beat now and
then. The web-footed people milled about restlessly. The woman's eyes
pleaded.
When he looked back, the Sand God was gone.
Instantly a new note rose in the cavern. The murmur of unmistakable mob
fury ran over the webfoots. Several of the men approached the woman
with hatred in their voices. He could not understand the words now.
But he understood her. "They'll kill me!" she cried.
Stinson pointed the disintegrating weapon at them and yelled. They
dropped back. "We'll have to get outside," he told her. "This mob will
soon get out of hand. Then the tube won't stop them. They will rush in.
I can't kill them all at once, even if I wanted to. And I don't."
Together they edged toward the cavern entrance, ran quickly up the
inclined passageway, and came out into crisp, cold air. The morning sun
was reflected from a million tiny mirrors on the rocks, the trees and
grass. A silver thaw during the night had covered the whole area with
a coating of ice. Stinson shivered. The woman handed him a skirt she
had thoughtfully brought along from the cavern. He took it, and they
ran down the slippery path leading away from the entrance. From the
hiding place behind a large rock they watched, as several web-footed
men emerged into the sunlight. They blinked, covered their eyes, and
jabbered musically among themselves. One slipped and fell on the ice.
They re-entered the cave.
Stinson donned the shimmering skirt, smiling as he did so. The others
should see him now. Benjamin and Straus and Jamieson. They would
laugh. And Ben's wife, Lisa, she would give her little-girl laugh, and
probably help him fasten the skirt. It had a string, like a tobacco
pouch, which was tied around the waist. It helped keep him warm.
He turned to the woman. "I don't know what I'll do with you, but now
that we're in trouble together, we may as well introduce ourselves. My
name is Stinson."
"I am Sybtl," she said.
"Syb-tl." He tried to imitate her musical pronunciation. "A very nice
name."
She smiled, then pointed to the cavern. "When the ice is gone, they
will come out and follow us."
"We'd better make tracks."
"No," she said, "we must run, and make no tracks."
"Okay, Sis," he said.
"Sis?"
"That means, sister."
"I am not your sister. I am your wife."
"
What?
"
"Yes. When a man protects a woman from harm, it is a sign to all that
she is his chosen. Otherwise, why not let her die? You are a strange
God."
"Listen, Sybtl," he said desperately, "I am not a God and you are not
my wife. Let's get that straight."
"But...."
"No buts. Right now we'd better get out of here."
He took her hand and they ran, slid, fell, picked themselves up again,
and ran. He doubted the wisdom of keeping her with him. Alone, the
webfoots were no match for him. He could travel instantly to any spot
he chose. But with Sybtl it was another matter; he was no better than
any other man, perhaps not so good as some because he was forty, and
never had been an athlete.
How was he to decide if this planet was suitable for his people,
hampered by a woman, slinking through a frozen wilderness like an
Indian? But the woman's hand was soft. He felt strong knowing she
depended on him.
Anyway, he decided, pursuit was impossible. They left no tracks on the
ice. They were safe, unless the webfoots possessed talents unknown to
him.
So they followed the path leading down from the rocks, along the creek
with its tumbling water. Frozen, leafless willows clawed at their
bodies. The sun shone fiercely in a cloudless sky. Already water ran in
tiny rivulets over the ice. The woman steered him to the right, away
from the creek.
Stinson's bare feet were numb from walking on ice. Christ, he thought,
what am I doing here, anyway? He glanced down at Sybtl and remembered
the webfoots. He stopped, tempted to use his cylinder and move to a
warmer, less dangerous spot.
The woman pulled on his arm. "We must hurry!"
He clutched the tube-weapon. "How many shots in this thing?"
"Shots?"
"How often can I use it?"
"As often as you like. It is good for fifty years. Kaatr—he is the one
you destroyed—brought it from the ship when we came. Many times he has
used it unwisely."
"When did you come?"
"Ten years ago. I was a child."
"I thought only criminals were brought here."
She nodded. "Criminals, and their children."
"When will your people come again?"
She shook her head. "Never. They are no longer my people. They have
disowned us."
"And because of me even those in the cavern have disowned you."
Suddenly she stiffened beside him. There, directly in their path, stood
the Sand God. It was blood red now. It pulsed violently. The great
voice burst forth.
"Leave the woman!" it demanded angrily. "The webfoots are nearing your
position."
"I cannot leave her. She is helpless against them."
"What form of primitive stupidity are you practicing now? Leave, or
they will kill you."
Stinson shook his head.
The Sand God pulsed more violently than before. Ice melted in a wide
area around it. Brown, frozen grass burned to ashes.
"You will allow them to kill you, just to defend her life? What
business is it of yours if she lives or dies? My race discarded such
primitive logic long before it reached your level of development."
"Yes," Stinson said, "and your race no longer exists."
The Sand God became a sphere of blue flame. A wave of intense heat
drove them backward. "Earthman," the great voice said, "go back to your
Earth. Take your inconsistencies with you. Do not come here again to
infect my planet with your primitive ideas. The webfoots are not as
intelligent as you, but they are sane. If you bring your people here, I
shall destroy you all."
The sphere of blue fire screamed away across the frozen wilderness, and
the thunder of its passing shook the ground and echoed among the lonely
hills.
Sybtl shivered against his arm. "The Sand God is angry," she said. "My
people tell how he was angry once before, when we first came here. He
killed half of us and burned the ship that brought us. That is how
Kaatr got the tube-weapon. It was the only thing the Sand God didn't
burn, that and the skirts. Then, when he had burned the ship, the Sand
God went to the sixth planet and burned two of the largest cities, as a
warning that no more of us must come here."
Well, Stinson said to himself, that does it. We are better off on
Earth. We can't fight a monster like him.
Sybtl touched his arm. "Why did the Sand God come? He did not speak."
"He spoke to me."
"I did not hear."
"Yes, I know now. His voice sounds like thunder in the sky, but it is a
voice that speaks only in the mind. He said I must leave this planet."
She glanced at him with suddenly awakened eyes, as if thinking of it
for the first time. "Where is your ship?"
"I have no ship."
"Then he will kill you." She touched her fingers on his face. "I am
sorry. It was all for me."
"Don't worry. The Sand God travels without a ship, why shouldn't I?"
"Now?"
"As soon as you are safe. Come."
Steam rose from the burned area, charred like a rocket launching pit.
They stepped around it carefully. Stinson felt warm air, but there was
no time, now, to warm cold feet or dwell on the vagaries of Sand Gods.
Together they crossed the narrow valley. Sybtl led him toward a tall
mound of rock. Here they came to the creek again, which flowed into a
small canyon. They climbed the canyon wall. Far away, small figures
moved. The webfoots were on their trail.
She drew him into a small cave. It was heated, like the great cavern,
but held no walled pool nor mysterious lighting. But it was warm, and
the small entrance made an excellent vantage point for warding off
attack.
"They will not find us...."
A high-pitched keening burst suddenly around them. Stinson knew they
had heard, or felt the sound for some time, that now its frequency was
in an audible range.
"The Sand God," Sybtl said. "Sometimes he plays among the clouds. He
makes it rain in a dry summer, or sometimes warms the whole world
for days at a time in winter, so the snow melts and the grass begins
to green. Then he tires and lets winter come back again. He is the
loneliest God in the universe."
"What makes you think he's lonely?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I just know. But he's an angry God now.
See those clouds piling in the East? Soon they will hide the sun. Then
he will make them churn and boil, like river whirlpools in spring. At
least he does this when he plays. Who knows what he will do when he's
angry?"
"The Sand God isn't doing this," Stinson said. "It's only a storm."
She covered his lips with her fingers. "Don't say that. He may hear you
and be more angry."
"But it is, don't you see? You give him powers he does not possess."
Sybtl shook her head and stroked his face with her long, slim fingers.
"Poor little God-with-fingers-on-his-feet," she said. "You do not
understand. The Sand God is terrible, even when he plays. See the
lightning? It is blue. The lightning of a storm that comes by itself is
not blue. He is running around the world on feet like the rockets of
space ships, and when he strikes the clouds, blue fire shoots away."
The clouds continued to build on one another. Soon the blue flashes of
lightning extended across the sky from horizon to horizon. The earth
trembled. Sybtl moved closer, trembling also.
"He never did this before," she said. "He never made the earth shake
before."
Great boulders crashed down the canyon walls and dropped into the
creek. They dared not move from the cave, although death seemed certain
if they stayed.
"I'll leave for a moment," he said. "I'll be back soon."
"You're leaving?" There was panic in her voice.
"Only for a moment."
"And you won't come back. You will go to your world."
"No. I'll be back."
"Promise? No, don't promise. The promises of Gods often are forgotten
before the sounds die away."
"I'll be back."
He disappeared at once, giving her no chance to object again, and went
to the desert of sand, where he had first arrived on the planet. He
wanted to see if the storm were world-wide.
Stinson had never been in a sand storm before, even on Earth. He could
not breathe. He could not see. Bullets of sand stung his skin. Bullets
of sand shot into his eyes. Clouds of sand howled around him. He fell,
and the wind rolled him over and over in the sand like a tumbleweed.
The skirt flew up around his face. He could not get up again.
He returned to the cave.
Soon after, while they sat huddled together, watching the chaos of
tumbling rocks, lightning, and driving rain, the high-pitched keening
came again. A sphere of blue fire appeared in the east. Its brilliance
put the lightning to shame. It bore down on the cave swiftly,
purposefully. Stinson prepared himself to leave. In spite of his desire
to protect Sybtl, it was useless to get himself killed when he was
powerless to help her. But at the last moment it veered off.
"Fiend!" Stinson screamed the word, vaguely marvelling at his own fury.
The blue sphere turned and came back.
"Monster!"
Again.
"Murderer!"
"Adolescent!"
This time it kept going. The rain and wind ceased. Lightning stopped.
Thunder rumbled distantly. Clouds disappeared. Stinson and Sybtl
emerged from the cave.
There was no longer a question of attack from the webfoots, the storm
had taken care of that. The fierce sun began its work of drying rocks
and throwing shadows and coaxing life out into the open again. Down in
the canyon a bird sang, a lonely, cheerful twitter.
"The Sand God is tired," Sybtl said. "He is not angry now. I'm glad.
Perhaps he will let you stay."
"No. Even if he allowed it, I couldn't stay. My people could never live
here with a God who is half devil."
The cone of sand suddenly appeared. It stood in the canyon, its base
on a level with the cave. It was quiet. It was dull gray in color. It
exuded impressions of death, of hopeful words solemnly spoken over
lowered coffins, of cold earth and cold space, of dank, wet catacombs,
of creeping, crawling nether things.
The bird's twitter stopped abruptly.
"Earthman," the Sand God said, as if he were about to make a statement.
Stinson ignored him. He glanced down at Sybtl, who sensed that this was
a time for good-bys. He thought, perhaps I can stay here alone with
her. The webfoots might find us, or the Sand God might destroy us in
one of his fits, but it might be worth it.
"Don't go," she said. "Not yet."
"Earthman, hear me."
"I hear you."
"Why does your mind shrink backward?"
"I've decided not to bring my people here."
"
You
decided?"
"Certainly," Stinson said boldly. "Call it rationalization, if you
wish. You ordered us away; and I have several good reasons for not
coming here if the door was open."
"I've changed my mind. You will be welcomed."
"Listen to that, will you?" Stinson said angrily. "Just listen! You
set yourself up as a God for the webfoots. You get them eating out of
your hand. Then what do you do? You throw a fit. Yes, a fit! Like an
adolescent. Worse."
"Earthman, wait...."
"No!" Stinson shot back. "You've owned this planet for a million
years. You have brooded here alone since before my people discovered
fire, and in all those ages you never learned self-control. I can't
subject my people to the whims of an entity who throws a planetary fit
when it pleases him."
Stinson relaxed. He'd had his say. Sybtl trembled beside him. A small
mammal, round, furry, hopped by, sniffing inquisitively.
Sybtl said, "Is the Sand God happy?" She shook her head. "No, he is not
happy. He is old, old, old. I can feel it. My people say that when one
gets too old it is well to die. But Gods never die, do they? I would
not like to be a God."
"Stinson," the Sand God said. "You said I was adolescent. You are
correct. Do you remember I told you how my people, the entire race,
left their bodies at the same time? Do you imagine all of us were
adults?"
"I suppose not. Sounds reasonable. How old were you?"
"Chronologically, by our standards, I was nine years old."
"But you continued to develop after...."
"No."
Stinson tried to imagine it. At first there must have been a single
voice crying into a monstrous emptiness, "Mother, where are you?
MOTHER!
Where is
everyone
?" A frenzied searching of the planet,
the solar system, the galaxy. Then a returning to the planet. Empty....
Change. Buildings, roads, bridges weathering slowly. Such a race would
have built of durable metal. Durable? Centuries, eons passed. Buildings
crumbled to dust, dust blew away. Bridges eroded, fell, decomposed
into basic elements. The shape of constellations changed. All trace
of civilization passed except in the cavern of the heated pool.
Constellations disappeared, new patterns formed in the night sky. The
unutterably total void of time—FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS!
And a nine-year-old child brooding over an empty world.
"I don't understand why your development stopped," Stinson said.
"Nor do I. But perhaps ... well, I sense that I would continue, if you
brought your people here. You have already taught me the value of
life. There is a oneness, a bond that ties each living thing to every
other living thing. It is a lesson my people never knew. Select any
portion of this planet that suits you. Take the web-footed woman for
your wife. Have children. I promise never to harm you in any way."
"The webfoots?"
"You and they shall share the planet."
The Sand God disappeared. Sybtl said; "Is the Sand God angry again?"
"No, he is not angry."
"I'm glad. You will leave now?"
"No. This is my home."
She laughed softly. "You are a strange God."
"Listen," he said, "I am not a God. Get that through your head."
She drew him into the cave. Her lips were cool and sweet. The cave was
pleasantly warm.
|
train | 58733 | [
"Why didn't the Lieutenant know she was pregnant?",
"Why can't Lieutenant Britton go back to Earth?",
"Why did the Lieutenant go into labor early?",
"Why do they need an incubator?",
"Why can't they build an incubator?",
"What is White Sands?",
"Why is Alice so relaxed when she finds out there is no incubator aboard the space station?",
"How does Alice feel about delivering the baby on the space station?"
] | [
[
"She has an irregular cycle.",
"She had her tubes tied before going into space.",
"She wasn't keeping track of her cycle.",
"Women don't have periods in space."
],
[
"There are no ships available to go to Earth at this time.",
"There is no one else trained to replace her as Chief Radar Technician on the space station.",
"The replacement Radar Technician was killed in a car wreck on his way to White Sands. A new technician will have to be trained.",
"The G-forces the body is subjected to during space travel would affect the fetus."
],
[
"A slight depressurization in the space station shocked her body into labor.",
"Major Banes induced labor early because the baby was unusually large.",
"The stress of living in outer space caused her body to go into pre-term labor.",
"An asteroid crashed into the space station causing it to jerk unexpectedly. The Lieutenant fell and her water broke."
],
[
"The baby is one month early.",
"The baby is three months early.",
"The baby is two months early.",
"The baby is four months early."
],
[
"They don't have the right kind of lights aboard the space station.",
"It does not occur to them to build an incubator.",
"None of them no how to build an incubator and the asteroid knocked out communications.",
"There are no spare parts aboard the space station."
],
[
"A city in New Mexico.",
"A rocket base in New Mexico.",
"An obstetrics facility in New Mexico.",
"A mission control base in New Mexico."
],
[
"Alice knows any room in the space station can be made into a giant incubator with minor adjustments.",
"Alice is feeling delirious due to the pains of natural childbirth and is only concerned with getting the baby out, and getting the pain to stop at the moment.",
"Alice is feeling the effects of the morphine they gave her for the contractions and is not concerned with much of anything right now.",
"Alice is feeling the effects of the Demerol they gave her for the contractions and is not concerned with much of anything right now."
],
[
"She is confident in Major Barnes. She feels he's perfectly competent, though obstetrics is not his field.",
"She is excited. She's going to be famous. No one has ever had a baby in space before.",
"She is terrified. No one has ever had a baby in space before.",
"She is scared because the baby is so early and there is no incubator onboard the space station."
]
] | [
1,
4,
1,
3,
4,
2,
1,
1
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1
] | SPATIAL DELIVERY
BY RANDALL GARRETT
Women on space station assignments
shouldn't get pregnant. But there's a first
time for everything. Here's the story of
such a time——and an historic situation.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
One thousand seventy-five miles above the wrinkled surface of Earth, a
woman was in pain.
There, high in the emptiness of space, Space Station One swung in its
orbit. Once every two hours, the artificial satellite looped completely
around the planet, watching what went on below. Outside its bright
steel hull was the silence of the interplanetary vacuum; inside, in the
hospital ward, Lieutenant Alice Britton clutched at the sheets of her
bed in pain, then relaxed as it faded away.
Major Banes looked at her and smiled a little. "How do you feel,
Lieutenant?"
She smiled back; she knew the pain wouldn't return for a few minutes
yet. "Fine, doctor. It's no worse than I was expecting. How long will
it before we can contact White Sands?"
The major looked nervously at his wristwatch. "Nearly an hour. You'll
be all right."
"Certainly," she agreed, running a hand through her brown hair, "I'll
be okay. Just you be on tap when I call."
The major's grin broadened. "You don't think I'd miss a historical
event like this, do you? You take it easy. We're over Eastern Europe
now, but as soon as we get within radio range of New Mexico, I'll beam
a call in." He paused, then repeated, "You just take it easy. Call the
nurse if anything happens." Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Alice Britton closed her eyes. Major Banes was all smiles and cheer
now, but he hadn't been that way five months ago. She chuckled softly
to herself as she thought of his blistering speech.
"Lieutenant Britton, you're either careless or brainless; I don't
know which! Your husband may be the finest rocket jockey in the Space
Service, but that doesn't give him the right to come blasting up here
on a supply rocket just to get you pregnant!"
Alice had said: "I'm sure the thought never entered his mind, doctor. I
know it never entered mine."
"But that was two and a half months ago! Why didn't you come to
me before this? Of all the tom-fool—" His voice had died off in
suppressed anger.
"I didn't know," she had said stolidly. "You know my medical record."
"I know. I know." A puzzled frown had come over his face then, a frown
which almost hid the green eyes that contrasted so startlingly with the
flaming red of his hair. "The question is: what do we do next? We're
not equipped for obstetrics up here."
"Send me back down to Earth, of course."
And he had looked up at her scathingly. "Lieutenant Britton, it is
my personal opinion that you need your head examined, and not by a
general practitioner, either! Why, I wouldn't let you get into an
airplane, much less land on Earth in a rocket! If you think I'd permit
you to subject yourself to eight gravities of acceleration in a rocket
landing, you're daffy!"
She hadn't thought of it before, but the major was right. The terrible
pressure of a rocket landing would increase her effective body weight
to nearly half a ton; an adult human being couldn't take that sort of
punishment for long, much less the tiny life that was growing within
her.
So she had stayed on in the Space Station, doing her job as always.
As Chief Radar Technician, she was important in the operation of the
station. Her pregnancy had never made her uncomfortable; the slow
rotation of the wheel-shaped station about its axis gave an effective
gravity at the rim only half that of Earth's surface, and the closer to
the hub she went, the less her weight became.
According to the major, the baby was due sometime around the first of
September. "Two hundred and eighty days," he had said. "Luckily, we can
pinpoint it almost exactly. And at a maximum of half of Earth gravity,
you shouldn't weigh more than seventy pounds then. You're to report to
me at least once a week, Lieutenant."
As the words went through her mind, another spasm of pain hit her, and
she clenched her fists tightly on the sheets again. It went away, and
she took a deep breath.
Everything had been fine until today. And then, only half an hour ago,
a meteor had hit the radar room. It had been only a tiny bit of rock,
no bigger than a twenty-two bullet, and it hadn't been traveling more
than ten miles per second, but it had managed to punch its way through
the shielding of the station.
The self-sealing walls had closed the tiny hole quickly, but even in
that short time, a lot of air had gone whistling out into the vacuum of
space.
The depressurization hadn't hurt her too much, but the shock had been
enough to start labor. The baby was going to come two months early.
She relaxed a little more, waiting for the next pain. There was nothing
to worry about; she had absolute faith in the red-haired major.
The major himself was not so sure. He sat in his office, massaging his
fingertips and looking worriedly at the clock on the wall.
The Chief Nurse at a nearby desk took off her glasses and looked at him
speculatively. "Something wrong, doctor?"
"Incubator," he said, without taking his eyes off the clock.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Incubator. We can't deliver a seven-month preemie without an
incubator."
The nurse's eyes widened. "Good Lord! I never thought of that! What are
you going to do?"
"Right now, I can't do anything. I can't beam a radio message through
to the Earth. But as soon as we get within radio range of White Sands,
I'll ask them to send up an emergency rocket with an incubator. But—"
"But what?"
"Will we have time? The pains are coming pretty fast now. It will be at
least three hours before they can get a ship up here. If they miss us
on the next time around, it'll be five hours. She can't hold out that
long."
The Chief Nurse turned her eyes to the slowly moving second hand of the
wall clock. She could feel a lump in her throat.
Major Banes was in the Communications Center a full five minutes
before the coastline of California appeared on the curved horizon of
the globe beneath them. He had spent the hour typing out a complete
report of what had happened to Alice Britton and a list of what he
needed. He handed it to the teletype operator and paced the floor
impatiently as he waited for the answer.
When the receiver teletype began clacking softly, he leaned over the
page, waiting anxiously for every word.
WHITE SANDS ROCKET BASE 4 JULY 1984 0913 HRS URGENT TO: MAJ PETER
BANES (MC) 0-266118 SS-1 MEDICAL OFFICER FROM: GEN DAVID BARRETT
0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT NOW BEING COMPUTED FOR
RENDEZVOUS WITH SS-1 AS OF NEXT PASSAGE ABOVE USA. CAPT. JAMES
BRITTON PILOTING. MEDICS LOADING SHIP TWELVE WITH INCUBATOR AND OTHER
SUPPLIES. BASE OBSTETRICIAN LT COL GATES ALSO COMING TO ASSIST IN
DELIVERY. HANG ON. OVER.
Banes nodded and turned to the operator. "I want a direct open
telephone line to my office in case I have to get another message to
the base before we get out of range again."
He turned and left through the heavy door. Each room of the space
station was protected by airtight doors and individual heating units;
if some accident, such as a really large meteor hit, should release the
air from one room, nearby rooms would be safe.
Banes' next stop was the hospital ward.
Alice Britton was resting quietly, but there were lines of strain
around her eyes which hadn't been there an hour before.
"How's it coming, Lieutenant?"
She smiled, but another spasm hit her before she could answer. After a
time, she said: "I'm doing fine, but you look as if you'd been through
the mill. What's eating you?"
He forced a nervous smile. "Nothing but the responsibility. You're
going to be a very famous woman, you know. You'll be the mother of the
first child born in space. And it's my job to see to it that you're
both all right."
She grinned. "Another Dr. Dafoe?"
"Something on that order, I suppose. But it won't be all my glory.
Colonel Gates, the O.B. man, was supposed to come up for the delivery
in September, so when White Sands contacted us, they said he was coming
immediately." He paused, and a genuine smile crossed his face. "Your
husband is bringing him up."
"Jim! Coming up here? Wonderful! But I'm afraid the colonel will be too
late. This isn't going to last that long."
Banes had to fight hard to keep his face smiling when she said that,
but he managed an easy nod. "We'll see. Don't hurry it, though. Let
nature take its course. I'm not such a glory hog that I'd not let Gates
have part of it—or all of it, for that matter. Relax and take it easy."
He went on talking, trying to keep the conversation light, but his eyes
kept wandering to his wristwatch, timing Alice's pain intervals. They
were coming too close together to suit him.
There was a faint rap, and the heavy airtight door swung open to admit
the Chief Nurse. "There's a message for you in your office, doctor.
I'll send a nurse in to be with her."
He nodded, then turned back to Alice. "Stiff uppah lip, and all that
sort of rot," he said in a phony British accent.
"Oh, raw
ther
, old chap," she grinned.
Back in his office, Banes picked up the teletype flimsy.
WHITE SANDS ROCKET BASE 4 JULY 1984 0928 HRS URGENT TO: MAJ PETER
BANES (MC) 0-266118 SS-1 MEDICAL OFFICER FROM: GEN DAVID BARRETT
0-199515 COMMANDING WSRB ROCKET. ORBIT COMPUTED FOR RENDEZVOUS AT 1134
HRS MST. CAPT BRITTON SENDS PERSONAL TO LT BRITTON AS FOLLOWS: HOLD
THE FORT, BABY, THE WHOLE WORLD IS PRAYING FOR YOU. OUT.
Banes sat on the edge of his desk, pounding a fist into the palm of
his left hand. "Two hours. It isn't soon enough. She'll never hold out
that long. And we don't have an incubator." His voice was a clipped
monotone, timed with the rhythmic slamming of his fist.
The Chief Nurse said: "Can't we build something that will do until the
rocket gets here?"
Banes looked at her, his face expressionless. "What would we build it
out of? There's not a spare piece of equipment in the station. It costs
money to ship material up here, you know. Anything not essential is
left on the ground."
The phone rang. Banes picked it up and identified himself.
The voice at the other end said: "This is Communications, Major. I tape
recorded all the monitor pickups from the Earth radio stations, and it
looks as though the Space Service has released the information to the
public. Lieutenant Britton's husband was right when he said the whole
world's praying for her. Do you want to hear the tapes?"
"Not now, but thanks for the information." He hung up and looked into
the Chief Nurse's eyes. "They've released the news to the public."
She frowned. "That really puts you on the spot. If the baby dies,
they'll blame you."
Banes slammed his fist to the desk. "Do you think I give a tinker's dam
about that? I'm interested in saving a life, not in worrying about what
people may think!"
"Yes, sir. I just thought—"
"Well, think about something useful! Think about how we're going to
save that baby!" He paused as he saw her eyes. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant.
My nerves are all raw, I guess. But, dammit, my field is space
medicine. I can handle depressurization, space sickness, and things
like that, but I don't know anything about babies! I know what I read
in medical school, and I watched a delivery once, but that's all I
know. I don't even have any references up here; people aren't supposed
to go around having babies on a space station!"
"It's all right, doctor. Shall I prepare the delivery room?"
His laugh was hard and short. "Delivery room! I wish to Heaven we had
one! Prepare the ward room next to the one she's in now, I guess. It's
the best we have.
"So help me Hannah, I'm going to see some changes made in regulations!
A situation like this won't happen again!"
The nurse left quietly. She knew Banes wasn't really angry at the
Brittons; it was simply his way of letting off steam to ease the
tension within him.
The slow, monotonous rotation of the second hand on the wall clock
seemed to drag time grudgingly along with it. Banes wished he could
smoke to calm his raw nerves, but it was strictly against regulations.
Air was too precious to be used up by smoking. Every bit of air on
board had had to be carried up in rockets when the station was built
in space. The air purifiers in the hydroponics section could keep the
air fresh enough for breathing, but fire of any kind would overtax the
system, leaving too little oxygen in the atmosphere.
It was a few minutes of ten when he decided he'd better get back to
Alice Britton. She was trying to read a book between spasms, but she
wasn't getting much read. She dropped it to the floor when he came in.
"Am I glad to see you! It won't be long now." She looked at him
analytically. "Say! Just what
is
eating you? You look more haggard
than I do!"
Again he tried to force a smile, but it didn't come off too well.
"Nothing serious. I just want to make sure everything comes out all
right."
She smiled. "It will. You're all set. You ordered the instruments
months ago. Or did you forget something?"
That hit home, but he just grinned feebly. "I forgot to get somebody to
boil water."
"Whatever for?"
"Coffee, of course. Didn't you know that? Papa always heats up the
water; that keeps him out of the way, and the doctor has coffee
afterwards."
Alice's hands grasped the sheet again, and Banes glanced at his watch.
Ninety seconds! It was long and hard.
When the pain had ebbed away, he said: "We've got the delivery room all
ready. It won't be much longer now."
"I'll say it won't! How about the incubator?"
There was a long pause. Finally, he said softly: "There isn't any
incubator. I didn't take the possibility of a premature delivery into
account. It's my fault. I've done what I could, though; the ship is
bringing one up. I—I think we'll be able to keep the child alive
until—"
He stopped. Alice was bubbling up with laughter.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant Britton! Alice! This is no time to get
hysterical! Stop it!"
Her laughter slowed to a chuckle. "
Me
get hysterical! That's a good
one! What about you? You're so nervous you couldn't sip water out of a
bathtub without spilling it!"
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
Another pain came, and he had to wait until it was over before he got
her answer. "Doctor," she said, "I thought you would have figured it
out. Ask yourself just one question. Ask yourself, 'Why is a space
station like an incubator?'"
Space Ship Twelve docked at Space Station One at exactly eleven
thirty-four, and two men in spacesuits pushed a large, bulky package
through the airlock.
Major Peter Banes, haggard but smiling, met Captain Britton in the
corridor as he and the colonel entered the hospital ward.
Banes nodded to Colonel Gates, then turned to Britton. "I don't know
whether to congratulate you or take a poke at you, Captain, but I
suppose congratulations come first. Your son, James Edward Britton II,
is doing fine, thank you."
"You mean—
already
?"
The colonel said nothing, but he raised an eyebrow.
"Over an hour ago," said Banes.
"But—but—the incubator—"
Banes' grin widened. "We'll put the baby in it, now that we've got it,
but it really isn't necessary. Your wife figured that one out. A space
station is a kind of incubator itself, you see. It protects us poor,
weak humans from the terrible conditions of space. So all we had to do
was close up one of the airtight rooms, sterilize it, warm it up, and
put in extra oxygen from the emergency tanks. Young James is perfectly
comfortable."
"Excellent, Major!" said the colonel.
"Don't thank me. It was Captain Britton's wife who—"
But Captain Britton wasn't listening any more. He was headed toward his
wife's room at top speed.
|
train | 60291 | [
"What is the Farm?",
"Why will adult psi contact hurt the children?",
"Why doesn't Tommy want to go back to the Farm?",
"Where is the Hoffman Medical Center?",
"Where is the Farm?",
"Where is the conference next month?",
"Why are the grey helmets necessary?",
"Why is Melrose so opposed to Lessing publishing his book?",
"How did the children come to be at the Farm?",
"Why does the block tower fall down?"
] | [
[
"The Farm is Dr. Lessing's home in the country.",
"The Farm is a compound where they research the psionic abilities of children.",
"The Farm is where they train CIA agents with telekinetic abilities.",
"The Farm is where they do genetic testing on children to give them psychic abilities."
],
[
"Adult psi contact increases a child's psionic ability so much it can cause a psychotic break.",
"Adult psi contact overwhelms the children's brains. It gives them migraines.",
"Adult psi contact overwhelms the children's nervous systems. It gives them nose bleeds.",
"Adult psi contact dampens the children's natural psionic abilities. Eventually, adult psi contact will snuff out a child's abilities altogether."
],
[
"Tommy misses his family and he wants to go home.",
"Tommy is tired of being experimented on.",
"Tommy is slowly going insane at the farm. ",
"He doesn't feel good at the farm. "
],
[
"Newark",
"Westchester",
"Philadelphia",
"Trenton"
],
[
"New Jersey",
"Illinois",
"Pennsylvania",
"Connecticut"
],
[
"Illinois",
"New Jersey",
"Connecticut",
"Pennsylvania"
],
[
"The helmets block external psionic forces.",
"The helmets improve the reception of external psionic forces.",
"The helmets are for safety, as the children are heavily medicated and at high risk for falling.",
"The helmets amplify the childrens' psychic abilities."
],
[
"The field of psionics is new. If Lessing turns out to be wrong, the whole field of study could be discredited.",
"Lessing is Melrose's closest friend. He doesn't want to see Lessing embarrassed if his theory is proved wrong.",
"Melrose runs a task force against the publishing of junk science. ",
"Melrose is also studying psionics and wants to delay Lessing by any means so that he can publish first."
],
[
"Dr. Lessing bought them from their parents.",
"Some children are sent to the Farm by their parents for boarding school. Others are orphans and runaways.",
"The children come from migrant and refugee camps.",
"Dr. Lessing bought them from human traffickers."
],
[
"Lessing removed his helmet.",
"The children used their psi powers to influence Lessing into removing his helmet.",
"The children removed their helmets.",
"Unknown. It is too early in the field of psi research to accurately determine the answer."
]
] | [
2,
4,
4,
3,
4,
1,
1,
1,
2,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | BRAMBLE BUSH
BY ALAN E. NOURSE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes.
And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main
He jumped into another bush and scratched them in again.
MOTHER GOOSE
Dr. David Lessing found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office
when he arrived at the Hoffman Center that morning. Dorffman looked as
though he'd been running all night. There were dark pouches under his
eyes; his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing
glanced sharply at his Field Director and sank down behind his desk
with a sigh. "All right, Jack—what's wrong?"
"This kid is driving me nuts," said Dorffman through clenched teeth.
"He's gone completely hay-wire. Nobody's been able to get near him
for three weeks, and now at six o'clock this morning he decides he's
leaving the Farm. I talk to him, I sweat him down, I do everything but
tie him to the bed, and I waste my time. He's leaving the Farm. Period."
"So you bring him down here," said Lessing sourly. "The worst place he
could be, if something's really wrong." He looked across at the boy.
"Tommy? Come over and sit down."
There was nothing singular about the boy's appearance. He was thin,
with a pale freckled face and the guileless expression of any normal
eight-year-old as he blinked across the desk at Lessing. The awkward
grey monitor-helmet concealed a shock of sandy hair. He sat with a mute
appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and
blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape.
The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear.
Lessing sat back slowly. "Tell me about it, Tommy," he said gently.
"I don't want to go back to the Farm," said the boy.
"Why?"
"I just don't. I hate it there."
"Are you frightened?"
The boy bit his lip and nodded slowly.
"Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?"
"No. Oh, no!"
"Then what?"
Again the mute appeal in the boy's eyes. He groped for words, and none
came. Finally he said, "If I could only take this off—" He fingered
the grey plastic helmet.
"You think
that
would make you feel better?"
"It would, I know it would."
Lessing shook his head. "I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the
monitor is for, don't you?"
"It stops things from going out."
"That's right. And it stops things from going in. It's an insulator.
You need it badly. It would hurt you a great deal if you took it off,
away from the Farm."
The boy fought back tears. "But I don't want to go back there—" The
fear-pattern was alive again on the tape. "I don't feel good there. I
never want to go back."
"Well, we'll see. You can stay here for a while." Lessing nodded at
Dorffman and stepped into an adjoining room with him. "You say this has
been going on for
three weeks
?"
"I'm afraid so. We thought it was just a temporary pattern—we see so
much of that up there."
"I know, I know." Lessing chewed his lip. "I don't like it. We'd better
set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I'm afraid
you'll have to set it up. I've got that young Melrose from Chicago to
deal with this morning—the one who's threatening to upset the whole
Conference next month with some crazy theories he's been playing with.
I'll probably have to take him out to the Farm to shut him up." Lessing
ran a hand through sparse grey hair. "See what you can do for the boy
downstairs."
"Full psi precautions?" asked Dorffman.
"Certainly! And Jack—in this case, be
sure
of it. If Tommy's in the
trouble I think he's in, we don't dare risk a chance of Adult Contact
now. We could end up with a dead boy on our hands."
Two letters were waiting on Lessing's desk that morning. The first was
from Roberts Bros., announcing another shift of deadline on the book,
and demanding the galley proofs two weeks earlier than scheduled.
Lessing groaned. As director of psionic research at the Hoffman Medical
Center, he had long since learned how administrative detail could suck
up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm—yet he
hadn't even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And now, as the book
approached publication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really
get back to work again.
The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the
International Psionics Conference:
Dear Dr. Lessing:
In recognition of your position as an authority on human Psionic
behavior patterns, we would be gratified to schedule you as principle
speaker at the Conference in Chicago on October 12th. A few remarks in
discussion of your forthcoming book would be entirely in order—
They were waiting for it, then! He ran the galley proofs into the
scanner excitedly. They knew he had something up his sleeve. His
earlier papers had only hinted at the direction he was going—but the
book would clear away the fog. He scanned the title page proudly. "A
Theory of Psionic Influence on Infant and Child Development." A good
title—concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right.
And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a
guide to the men who were floundering in the jungle of a strange and
baffling new science.
For they were floundering. When they were finally forced to recognize
that this great and powerful force did indeed exist in human minds,
with unimaginable potential if it could only be unlocked, they had
plunged eagerly into the search, and found themselves in a maddening
bramble bush of contradictions and chaos. Nothing worked, and
everything worked too well. They were trying to study phenomena which
made no sense, observing things that defied logic. Natural laws came
crashing down about their ears as they stood sadly by and watched
things happen which natural law said could never happen. They had never
been in this jungle before, nor in any jungle remotely like it. The
old rules didn't work here, the old methods of study failed. And the
more they struggled, the thicker and more impenetrable the bramble bush
became—
But now David Lessing had discovered a pathway through that jungle, a
theory to work by—
At his elbow the intercom buzzed. "A gentleman to see you," the girl
said. "A Dr. Melrose. He's very impatient, sir."
He shut off the scanner and said, "Send him in, please."
Dr. Peter Melrose was tall and thin, with jet black hair and dark
mocking eyes. He wore a threadbare sport coat and a slouch. He offered
Lessing a bony hand, then flung himself into a chair as he stared about
the office in awe.
"I'm really overwhelmed," he said after a moment. "Within the
stronghold of psionic research at last. And face to face with the
Master in the trembling flesh!"
Lessing frowned. "Dr. Melrose, I don't quite understand—"
"Oh, it's just that I'm impressed," the young man said airily. "Of
course, I've seen old dried-up Authorities before—but never before
a brand spanking new one, just fresh out of the pupa, so to speak!"
He touched his forehead in a gesture of reverence. "I bow before the
Oracle. Speak, oh Motah, live forever! Cast a pearl at my feet!"
"If you've come here to be insulting," Lessing said coldly, "you're
just wasting time." He reached for the intercom switch.
"I think you'd better wait before you do that," Melrose said sharply,
"because I'm planning to take you apart at the Conference next month
unless I like everything I see and hear down here today. And if you
don't think I can do it, you're in for quite a dumping."
Lessing sat back slowly. "Tell me—just what, exactly, do you want?"
"I want to hear this fairy tale you're about to publish in the name of
'Theory'," Melrose said. "I want to see this famous Farm of yours up in
Connecticut and see for myself how much pressure these experimental
controls you keep talking about will actually bear. But mostly, I want
to see just what in psionic hell you're so busy making yourself an
Authority about." There was no laughter in the man's sharp brown eyes.
"You couldn't touch me with a ten foot pole at this conference,"
snapped Lessing.
The other man grinned. "Try me! We shook you up a little bit last year,
but you didn't seem to get the idea."
"Last year was different." Lessing scowled. "As for our 'fairy tale',
we happen to have a staggering body of evidence that says that it's
true."
"If the papers you've already published are a preview, we think it's
false as Satan."
"And our controls are above suspicion."
"So far, we haven't found any way to set up logical controls," said
Melrose. "We've done a lot of work on it, too."
"Oh, yes—I've heard about your work. Not bad, really. A little
misdirected, is all."
"According to your Theory, that is."
"Wildly unorthodox approach to psionics—but at least you're energetic
enough."
"We haven't been energetic enough to find an orthodox approach that got
us anywhere. We doubt if you have, either. But maybe we're all wrong."
Melrose grinned unpleasantly. "We're not unreasonable, your Majesty. We
just ask to be shown. If you dare, that is."
Lessing slammed his fist down on the desk angrily. "Have you got the
day to take a trip?"
"I've got 'til New Year."
Lessing shouted for his girl. "Get Dorffman up here. We're going to the
Farm this afternoon."
The girl nodded, then hesitated. "But what about your lunch?"
"Bother lunch." He gave Melrose a sidelong glare. "We've got a guest
here who's got a lot of words he's going to eat for us...."
Ten minutes later they rode the elevator down to the transit levels
and boarded the little shuttle car in the terminal below the
Hoffman Center. They sat in silence as the car dipped down into the
rapid-transit channels beneath the great city, swinging northward in
the express circuit through Philadelphia and Camden sectors, surfacing
briefly in Trenton sector, then dropping underground once again for the
long pull beneath Newark, Manhattan and Westchester sectors. In less
than twenty minutes the car surfaced on a Parkway channel and buzzed
north and east through the verdant Connecticut countryside.
"What about Tommy?" Lessing asked Dorffman as the car sped along
through the afternoon sun.
"I just finished the prelims. He's not cooperating."
Lessing ground his teeth. "I should be running him now instead of
beating the bushes with this—" He broke off to glare at young Melrose.
Melrose grinned. "I've heard you have quite a place up here."
"It's—unconventional, at any rate," Lessing snapped.
"Well, that depends on your standards. Sounds like a country day
school, from what I've heard. According to your papers, you've even
used conventional statistical analysis on your data from up here."
"Until we had to throw it out. We discovered that what we were trying
to measure didn't make sense in a statistical analysis."
"Of course, you're sure you were measuring
something
."
"Oh, yes. We certainly were."
"Yet you said that you didn't know what."
"That's right," said Lessing. "We don't."
"And you don't know
why
your instruments measure whatever they're
measuring." The Chicago man's face was thoughtful. "In fact, you can't
really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at
all. It's not inconceivable that the
children
might be measuring the
instruments
, eh?"
Lessing blinked. "It's conceivable."
"Mmmm," said Melrose. "Sounds like a real firm foundation to build a
theory on."
"Why not?" Lessing growled. "It wouldn't be the first time the tail
wagged the dog. The psychiatrists never would have gotten out of their
rut if somebody hadn't gotten smart and realized that one of their new
drugs worked better in combatting schizophrenia when the doctor took
the medicine instead of the patient. That was quite a wall to climb."
"Yes, wasn't it," mused Melrose, scratching his bony jaw. "Only took
them seventy years to climb it, thanks to a certain man's theories.
I wonder how long it'll take psionics to crawl out of the pit you're
digging for it?"
"We're not digging any pit," Lessing exploded angrily. "We're
exploring—nothing more. A phenomenon exists. We've known that, one way
or another, for centuries. The fact that it doesn't seem to be bound by
the same sort of natural law we've observed elsewhere doesn't mean that
it isn't governed by natural law. But how can we define the law? How
can we define the limits of the phenomenon, for that matter? We can't
work in the dark forever—we've
got
to have a working hypothesis to
guide us."
"So you dreamed up this 'tadpole' idea," said Melrose sourly.
"For a working hypothesis—yes. We've known for a long time that every
human being has extrasensory potential to one degree or another. Not
just a few here and there—every single one. It's a differentiating
quality of the human mind. Just as the ability to think logically in a
crisis instead of giving way to panic is a differentiating quality."
"Fine," said Melrose. "Great. We can't
prove
that, of course, but
I'll play along."
Lessing glared at him. "When we began studying this psi-potential, we
found out some curious things. For one thing, it seemed to be immensely
more powerful and active in infants and children than in adults.
Somewhere along the line as a child grows up, something happens. We
don't know what. We do know that the child's psi-potential gradually
withdraws deeper and deeper into his mind, burying itself farther and
farther out of reach, just the way a tadpole's tail is absorbed deeper
and deeper into the growing frog until there just isn't any tail any
more." Lessing paused, packing tobacco into his pipe. "That's why we
have the Farm—to try to discover why. What forces that potential
underground? What buries it so deeply that adult human beings can't get
at it any more?"
"And you think you have an answer," said Melrose.
"We think we might be near an answer. We have a theory that explains
the available data."
The shuttle car bounced sharply as it left the highway automatics.
Dorffman took the controls. In a few moments they were skimming through
the high white gates of the Farm, slowing down at the entrance to a
long, low building.
"All right, young man—come along," said Lessing. "I think we can show
you our answer."
In the main office building they donned the close-fitting psionic
monitors required of all personnel at the Farm. They were of a
hard grey plastic material, with a network of wiring buried in the
substance, connected to a simple pocket-sized power source.
"The major problem," Lessing said, "has been to shield the children
from any external psionic stimuli, except those we wished to expose
them to. Our goal is a perfectly controlled psi environment. The
monitors are quite effective—a simple Renwick scrambler screen."
"It blocks off all types of psi activity?" asked Melrose.
"As far as we can measure, yes."
"Which may not be very far."
Jack Dorffman burst in: "What Dr. Lessing is saying is that they seem
effective for our purposes."
"But you don't know why," added Melrose.
"All right, we don't know why. Nobody knows why a Renwick screen
works—why blame us?" They were walking down the main corridor and out
through an open areaway. Behind the buildings was a broad playground. A
baseball game was in progress in one corner; across the field a group
of swings, slides, ring bars and other playground paraphernalia was in
heavy use. The place was teeming with youngsters, all shouting in a
fury of busy activity. Occasionally a helmeted supervisor hurried by;
one waved to them as she rescued a four-year-old from the parallel bars.
They crossed into the next building, where classes were in progress.
"Some of our children are here only briefly," Lessing explained as
they walked along, "and some have been here for years. We maintain a
top-ranking curriculum—your idea of a 'country day school' wasn't
so far afield at that—with scholarships supported by Hoffman Center
funds. Other children come to us—foundlings, desertees, children from
broken homes, children of all ages from infancy on. Sometimes they
stay until they have reached college age, or go on to jobs. As far as
psionics research is concerned, we are not trying to be teachers. We
are strictly observers. We try to place the youngsters in positions
where they can develope what potential they have—
without
the
presence of external psionic influences they would normally be subject
to. The results have been remarkable."
He led them into a long, narrow room with chairs and ash trays, facing
a wide grey glass wall. The room fell into darkness, and through the
grey glass they could see three children, about four years old, playing
in a large room.
"They're perfectly insulated from us," said Lessing. "A variety of
recording instruments are working. And before you ask, Dr. Melrose,
they are all empirical instruments, and they would all defy any
engineer's attempts to determine what makes them go. We don't know what
makes them go, and we don't care—they go. That's all we need. Like
that one, for instance—"
In the corner a flat screen was flickering, emitting a pale green
fluorescent light. It hung from the wall by two plastic rods which
penetrated into the children's room. There was no sign of a switch,
nor a power source. As the children moved about, the screen flickered.
Below it, a recording-tape clicked along in little spurts and starts of
activity.
"What are they doing?" Melrose asked after watching the children a few
moments.
"Those three seem to work as a team, somehow. Each one, individually,
had a fairly constant recordable psi potential of about seventeen on
the arbitrary scale we find useful here. Any two of them scale in at
thirty-four to thirty-six. Put the three together and they operate
somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred on the same scale."
Lessing smiled. "This is an isolated phenomenon—it doesn't hold for
any other three children on the Farm. Nor did we make any effort to
place them together—they drew each other like magnets. One of our
workers spent two weeks trying to find out why the instruments weren't
right. It wasn't the instruments, of course."
Lessing nodded to an attendant, and peered around at Melrose. "Now, I
want you to watch this very closely."
He opened a door and walked into the room with the children. The
fluorescent screen continued to flicker as the children ran to Lessing.
He inspected the block tower they were building, and stooped down to
talk to them, his lips moving soundlessly behind the observation wall.
The children laughed and jabbered, apparently intrigued by the game he
was proposing. He walked to the table and tapped the bottom block in
the tower with his thumb.
The tower quivered, and the screen blazed out with green light, but the
tower stood. Carefully Lessing jogged all the foundation blocks out of
place until the tower hung in midair, clearly unsupported. The children
watched it closely, and the foundation blocks inched still further out
of place....
Then, quite casually, Lessing lifted off his monitor. The children
continued staring at the tower as the screen gave three or four violent
bursts of green fire and went dark.
The block tower fell with a crash.
Moments later Lessing was back in the observation room, leaving the
children busily putting the tower back together. There was a little
smile on his lips as he saw Melrose's face. "Perhaps you're beginning
to see what I'm driving at," he said slowly.
"Yes," said Melrose. "I think I'm beginning to see." He scratched his
jaw. "You think that it's adult psi-contact that drives the child's
potential underground—that somehow adult contact acts like a damper, a
sort of colossal candle-snuffer."
"That's what I think," said Lessing.
"How do you know those children didn't make you take off your monitor?"
Lessing blinked. "Why should they?"
"Maybe they enjoy the crash when the blocks fall down."
"But that wouldn't make any difference, would it? The blocks still fall
down."
Melrose paced down the narrow room. "This is very good," he said
suddenly, his voice earnest. "You have fine facilities here, good
workers. And in spite of my flippancy, Dr. Lessing, I have never
imagined for a moment that you were not an acute observer and a
careful, highly imaginative worker. But suppose I told you, in perfect
faith, that we have data that flatly contradicts everything you've told
me today. Reproducible data, utterly incompatable with yours. What
would you say to that?"
"I'd say you were wrong," said Lessing. "You couldn't have such data.
According to the things I am certain are true, what you're saying is
sheer nonsense."
"And you'd express that opinion in a professional meeting?"
"I would."
"And as an Authority on psionic behavior patterns," said Melrose
slowly, "you would kill us then and there. You would strangle us
professionally, discredit anything we did, cut us off cold." The
tall man turned on him fiercely. "Are you blind, man? Can't you see
what danger you're in? If you publish your book now, you will become
an Authority in a field where the most devastating thing that could
possibly happen would be—
the appearance of an Authority
."
Lessing and Dorffman rode back to the Hoffman Center in grim silence.
At first Lessing pretended to work; finally he snapped off the tape
recorder in disgust and stared out the shuttle-car window. Melrose had
gone on to Idlewild to catch a jet back to Chicago. It was a relief to
see him go, Lessing thought, and tried to force the thin, angry man
firmly out of his mind. But somehow Melrose wouldn't force.
"Stop worrying about it," Dorffman urged. "He's a crackpot. He's
crawled way out on a limb, and now he's afraid your theory is going to
cut it off under him. Well, that's his worry, not yours." Dorffman's
face was intense. "Scientifically, you're on unshakeable ground. Every
great researcher has people like Melrose sniping at him. You just have
to throw them off and keep going."
Lessing shook his head. "Maybe. But this field of work is different
from any other, Jack. It doesn't follow the rules. Maybe scientific
grounds aren't right at all, in this case."
Dorffman snorted. "Surely there's nothing wrong with theorizing—"
"He wasn't objecting to the theory. He's afraid of what happens after
the theory."
"So it seems. But why?"
"Have you ever considered what makes a man an Authority?"
"He knows more about his field than anybody else does."
"He
seems
to, you mean. And therefore, anything he says about it
carries more weight than what anybody else says. Other workers follow
his lead. He developes ideas, formulates theories—and then
defends
them for all he's worth
."
"But why shouldn't he?"
"Because a man can't fight for his life and reputation and still keep
his objectivity," said Lessing. "And what if he just happens to be
wrong? Once he's an Authority the question of what's right and what's
wrong gets lost in the shuffle. It's
what he says
that counts."
"But we
know
you're right," Dorffman protested.
"Do we?"
"Of course we do! Look at our work! Look at what we've seen on the
Farm."
"Yes, I know." Lessing's voice was weary. "But first I think we'd
better look at Tommy Gilman, and the quicker we look, the better—"
A nurse greeted them as they stepped off the elevator. "We called
you at the Farm, but you'd already left. The boy—" She broke off
helplessly. "He's sick, Doctor. He's sicker than we ever imagined."
"What happened?"
"Nothing exactly—happened. I don't quite know how to describe it."
She hurried them down the corridor and opened a door into a large
children's playroom. "See what you think."
The boy sat stolidly in the corner of the room. He looked up as they
came in, but there was no flicker of recognition or pleasure on his
pale face. The monitor helmet was still on his head. He just sat there,
gripping a toy fire engine tightly in his hands.
Lessing crossed the room swiftly. "Tommy," he said.
The boy didn't even look at him. He stared stupidly at the fire engine.
"Tommy!" Lessing reached out for the toy. The boy drew back in terror,
clutching it to his chest. "Go away," he choked. "Go away, go away—"
When Lessing persisted the boy bent over swiftly and bit him hard on
the hand.
Lessing sat down on the table. "Tommy, listen to me." His voice was
gentle. "I won't try to take it again. I promise."
"Go away."
"Do you know who I am?"
Tommy's eyes shifted haltingly to Lessing's face. He nodded. "Go away."
"Why are you afraid, Tommy?"
"I hurt. My head hurts. I hurt all over. Go away."
"Why do you hurt?"
"I—can't get it—off," the boy said.
The monitor
, Lessing thought suddenly. Something had suddenly gone
horribly wrong—could the boy really be sensing the source of the
trouble? Lessing felt a cold knot gather in the pit of his stomach. He
knew what happened when adult psi-contact struck a psi-high youngster's
mind. He had seen it a hundred times at the Farm. But even more—he
had felt it in his own mind, bursting from the child. Like a violent
physical blow, the hate and fear and suspicion and cruelty buried and
repressed in the adult mind, crushing suddenly into the raw receptors
of the child's mind like a smothering fog—it was a fearful thing. A
healthy youngster could survive it, even though the scar remained. But
this youngster was sick—
And yet
an animal instinctively seeks its own protection
. With
trembling fingers Lessing reached out and opened the baffle-snap on the
monitor. "Take it off, Tommy," he whispered.
The boy blinked in amazement, and pulled the grey helmet from his head.
Lessing felt the familiar prickly feeling run down his scalp as the
boy stared at him. He could feel deep in his own mind the cold chill
of terror radiating from the boy. Then, suddenly, it began to fade. A
sense of warmth—peace and security and comfort—swept in as the fear
faded from the boy's face.
The fire engine clattered to the floor.
They analyzed the tapes later, punching the data cards with greatest
care, filing them through the machines for the basic processing and
classification that all their data underwent. It was late that night
when they had the report back in their hands.
Dorffman stared at it angrily. "It's obviously wrong," he grated. "It
doesn't fit. Dave, it doesn't agree with
anything
we've observed
before. There must be an error."
"Of course," said Lessing. "According to the theory. The theory says
that adult psi-contact is deadly to the growing child. It smothers
their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely.
We've proved that, haven't we? Time after time. Everything goes
according to the theory—except Tommy. But Tommy's psi-potential was
drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the
balance of his mind. Then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he
bloomed." Lessing sank down to his desk wearily. "What are we going to
do, Jack? Formulate a separate theory for Tommy?"
"Of course not," said Dorffman. "The instruments were wrong. Somehow we
misread the data—"
"Didn't you see his
face
?" Lessing burst out. "Didn't you see how he
acted
? What do you want with an instrument reading?" He shook his
head. "It's no good, Jack. Something different happened here, something
we'd never counted on. It's something the theory just doesn't allow
for."
They sat silently for a while. Then Dorffman said: "What are you going
to do?"
"I don't know," said Lessing. "Maybe when we fell into this bramble
bush we blinded ourselves with the urge to classify—to line everything
up in neat rows like pins in a paper. Maybe we were so blind we missed
the path altogether."
"But the book is due! The Conference speech—"
"I think we'll make some changes in the book," Lessing said slowly.
"It'll be costly—but it might even be fun. It's a pretty dry, logical
presentation of ideas, as it stands. Very austere and authoritarian.
But a few revisions could change all that—" He rubbed his hands
together thoughtfully. "How about it, Jack? Do we have nerve enough to
be laughed at? Do you think we could stand a little discredit, making
silly asses of ourselves? Because when I finish this book, we'll be
laughed out of existence. There won't be any Authority in psionics for
a while—and maybe that way one of the lads who's
really
sniffing out
the trail will get somebody to listen to him!
"Get a pad, get a pencil! We've got work to do. And when we finish, I
think we'll send a carbon copy out Chicago way. Might even persuade
that puppy out there to come here and work for me—"
|
train | 29196 | [
"How is Lane able to hover over the buildings?",
"Why are the police willing to risk the life of Gerri to kill Lane?",
"How does Gerri feel about Earth?",
"Why is Lane so child-like?",
"What is a cybrain?",
"Why can't Lane read or write?",
"Why does Gerri kiss Lane?",
"Why do the police believe the analogue computer can defeat Lane?"
] | [
[
"He has anti-gravity boots.",
"He is in a helicopter.",
"He has a jet pack.",
"He has anti-gravity devices implanted in his body."
],
[
"Lane is too dangerous to be left alive. They can't risk him escaping just so they can rescue Gerri.",
"They think Lane may be infected with a biological weapon.",
"The police don't care if they kill Martians.",
"They don't believe that Gerri is in the room with Lane."
],
[
"Gerri does not like the Earth. The climate is terrible.",
"She does not like Earth. She thinks the people are uncivilized.",
"She loves Earth. She is going to move to Earth permanently.",
"Gerri likes the Earth, it's the Earthlings she's not sure about."
],
[
"All men are child-like.",
"Lane was never given a proper education, only fighting instruction.",
"Lane is controlled by the Cybrain. His own brain never had the chance to develop properly.",
"Lane has been a Trooper since he was seven years old."
],
[
"A cybrain is a cybernetic brain. The cybrain is in control of the Newyork Special Troops, like a hive mind.",
"A cybrain is a dispatch system that sends the Newyork Special Troops on their assignments.",
"A cybrain is a cybernetic brain. Cybrains are implanted in soldiers to make them the ultimate weapons.",
"A cybrain is an AI handler. Each of the Newyork Specail Troops has a cybrain which is their only contact to the command center."
],
[
"When the cybrain was installed, Lane's own brain was wiped clean.",
"Lane is dyslexic. He got frustrated trying to learn and gave up.",
"Teaching the soldiers how to read and write would only lead to rational thinking. The soldiers might start to question orders. Therefore, they are only taught fighting.",
"Lane has only been schooled in soldiering since he was seven. He was taught to fight, nothing else."
],
[
"She pities him.",
"She is terrified he'll kill her if she doesn't.",
"She likes Lane.",
"He is trying to save her life."
],
[
"The police are fooling themselves. The analogue computer cannot hope to compete with the cybrain.",
"The analogue computer is much larger and more powerful than the cybrain.",
"The cybrains are an extension of the analogue computer.",
"The cybrains do not have the advanced processor the analogue computer does."
]
] | [
4,
1,
2,
2,
3,
4,
1,
2
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | MUTINEER
By ROBERT J. SHEA
For every weapon there was a defense, but not against
the deadliest weapon—man himself!
Raging
, Trooper Lane
hovered three thousand
feet above Tammany Square.
The cool cybrain surgically
implanted in him was working
on the problem. But Lane
had no more patience. They'd
sweat, he thought, hating the
chill air-currents that threw
his hovering body this way
and that. He glared down at
the three towers bordering on
the Square. He spat, and
watched the little white speck
fall, fall.
Lock me up in barracks.
All I wanted was a
little time off. Did I fight in
Chi for them? Damn right I
did. Just a little time off, so
I shouldn't blow my top. Now
the lid's gone.
He was going over all their
heads. He'd bowled those city
cops over like paper dolls,
back at the Armory. The
black dog was on Lane's back.
Old Mayor himself was going
to hear about it.
Why not? Ain't old Mayor
the CinC of the Newyork
Troopers?
The humming paragrav-paks
embedded beneath his
shoulder blades held him
motionless above Newyork's
three administrative towers.
Tammany Hall. Mayor's Palace.
Court House. Lane cursed
his stupidity. He hadn't found
out which one was which
ahead of time.
They keep
Troopers in the Armory and
teach them how to fight. They
don't teach them about their
own city, that they'll be fighting
for. There's no time. From
seven years old up, Troopers
have too much to learn about
fighting.
The Mayor was behind one
of those thousands of windows.
Old cybrain, a gift from the
Trooper surgeons, compliments
of the city, would have
to figure out which one. Blood
churned in his veins, nerves
shrieked with impatience.
Lane waited for the electronic
brain to come up with the answer.
Then his head jerked up, to
a distant buzz. There were
cops coming. Two black paragrav-boats
whirred along the
translucent underside of Newyork's
anti-missile force-shield,
the Shell.
Old cybrain better be fast.
Damn fast!
The cybrain jolted an impulse
through his spine. Lane
somersaulted. Cybrain had
taken charge of his motor
nerves. Lane's own mind was
just along for the ride.
His
body snapped into a
stiff dive position. He began
to plummet down, picking
up speed. His mailed hands
glittered like arrowheads out
in front. They pointed to a
particular window in one of
the towers. A predatory excitement
rippled through him
as he sailed down through the
air. It was like going into
battle again. A little red-white-and-green
flag fluttered
on a staff below the window.
Whose flag? The city flag was
orange and blue. He shrugged
away the problem. Cybrain
knew what it was doing.
The little finger of his right
hand vibrated in its metal
sheath. A pale vibray leaped
from the lensed fingertip.
Breakthrough! The glasstic
pane dissolved. Lane streamed
through the window.
The paragrav-paks cut off.
Lane dropped lightly to the
floor, inside the room, in battle-crouch.
A 3V set was yammering.
A girl screamed. Lane's
hand shot out automatically.
A finger vibrated. Out of the
corner of his eye, Lane saw
the girl fold to the floor. There
was no one else in the room.
Lane, still in a crouch, chewed
his lip.
The Mayor?
His head swung around and
he peered at the 3V set. He
saw his own face.
"Lashing police with his
vibray," said the announcer,
"Lane broke through the cordon
surrounding Manhattan
Armory. Two policemen were
killed, four others seriously
injured. Tammany Hall has
warned that this man is extremely
dangerous. Citizens
are cautioned to keep clear of
him. Lane is an insane killer.
He is armed with the latest
military weapons. A built-in
electronic brain controls his
reflexes—"
"At ease with that jazz,"
said Lane, and a sheathed finger
snapped out. There was a
loud bang. The 3V screen dissolved
into a puddle of glasstic.
The Mayor.
Lane strode to the window.
The two police boats were
hovering above the towers.
Lane's mailed hand snapped
open a pouch at his belt. He
flipped a fist-sized cube to the
floor.
The force-bomb "exploded"—swelled
or inflated, really,
but with the speed of a blast.
Lane glanced out the window.
A section of the energy globe
bellied out from above. It
shaded the view from his window
and re-entered the tower
wall just below.
Now the girl.
He turned back to the room.
"Wake up, outa-towner." He
gave the blonde girl a light
dose of the vibray to slap her
awake.
"Who are you?" she said,
shakily.
Lane grinned. "Trooper
Lane, of the Newyork Special
Troops, is all." He threw her
a mock salute. "You from
outa-town, girlie. I ain't seen
a Newyork girl with yellow
hair in years. Orange or
green is the action. Whatcha
doing in the Mayor's room?"
The
girl pushed herself to
her feet. Built, Lane saw.
She was pretty and clean-looking,
very out-of-town. She
held herself straight and her
blue-violet eyes snapped at
him.
"What the devil do you
think you're doing, soldier? I
am a diplomat of the Grassroots
Republic of Mars. This
is an embassy, if you know
what that means."
"I don't," said Lane, unconcerned.
"Well, you should have had
brains enough to honor the
flag outside this window.
That's the Martian flag, soldier.
If you've never heard of
diplomatic immunity, you'll
suffer for your ignorance."
Her large, dark eyes narrowed.
"Who sent you?"
"My cybrain sent me."
She went openmouthed.
"You're
Lane
."
"I'm the guy they told you
about on the 3V. Where's the
Mayor? Ain't this his place?"
"No. No, you're in the
wrong room. The wrong building.
That's the Mayor's suite
over there." She pointed. "See
where the balcony is? This is
the Embassy suite. If you
want the Mayor you'll have to
go over there."
"Whaddaya know," said
Lane. "Cybrain didn't know,
no more than me."
The girl noticed the dark
swell of the force-globe.
"What's that out there?"
"Force-screen. Nothing gets
past, except maybe a full-size
blaster-beam. Keeps cops out.
Keeps you in. You anybody
important?"
"I told you, I'm an ambassador.
From Mars. I'm on a
diplomatic mission."
"Yeah? Mars a big city?"
She stared at him, violet
eyes wide. "The
planet
Mars."
"Planet? Oh,
that
Mars.
Sure, I've heard of it—you
gotta go by spaceship. What's
your name?"
"Gerri Kin. Look, Lane,
holding me is no good. It'll
just get you in worse trouble.
What are you trying to do?"
"I wanna see the Mayor. Me
and my buddies, we just come
back from fighting in Chi,
Gerri. We won. They got a
new Mayor out there in Chi.
He takes orders from Newyork."
Gerri Kin said, "That's
what the force-domes did. The
perfect defense. But also the
road to the return to city-states.
Anarchy."
Lane said, "Yeah? Well, we
done what they wanted us to
do. We did the fighting for
them. So we come back home
to Newyork and they lock us
up in the Armory. Won't pay
us. Won't let us go nowhere.
They had cops guarding us.
City cops." Lane sneered. "I
busted out. I wanna see the
Mayor and find out why we
can't have time off. I don't
play games, Gerri. I go right
to the top."
Lane broke off. There was
a hum outside the window. He
whirled and stared out. The
rounded black hulls of the two
police paragrav-boats were
nosing toward the force-screen.
Lane could read the
white numbers painted on
their bows.
A loudspeaker shouted into
the room: "Come out of there,
Lane, or we'll blast you out."
"You can't," Lane called.
"This girl from Mars is here."
"I repeat, Lane—come out
or we'll blast you out."
Lane turned to the girl. "I
thought you were important."
She
stood there with her
hands together, calmly
looking at him. "I am. But
you are too, to them. Mars is
millions of miles away, and
you're right across the Square
from the Mayor's suite."
"Yeah, but—" Lane shook
his head and turned back to
the window. "All right, look!
Move them boats away and
I'll let this girl out!"
"No deal, Lane. We're coming
in." The police boats
backed away slowly, then shot
straight up, out of the line of
vision.
Lane looked down at the
Square. Far below, the long,
gleaming barrel of a blaster
cannon caught the dim light
filtering down through Newyork's
Shell. The cannon trundled
into the Square on its
olive-drab, box-shaped caterpillar
mounting and took up a
position equidistant from the
bases of the three towers.
Now a rumble of many
voices rose from below. Lane
stared down to see a large
crowd gathering in Tammany
Square. Sound trucks were
rolling to a stop around the
edges of the crowd. The people
were all looking up.
Lane looked across the
Square. The windows of the
tower opposite, the ones he
could see clearly, were crowded
with faces. There were
white dot faces on the balcony
that Gerri Kin had pointed
out as the Mayor's suite.
The voice of a 3V newscaster
rolled up from the Square,
reechoing against the tower
walls.
"Lane is holding the Martian
Ambassador, Gerri Kin,
hostage. You can see the Martian
tricolor behind his force-globe.
Police are bringing up
blaster cannon. Lane's defense
is a globe of energy
similar to the one which protects
Newyork from aerial attack."
Lane grinned back at Gerri
Kin. "Whole town's down
there." Then his grin faded.
Nice-looking, nice-talking girl
like this probably cared a lot
more about dying than he did.
Why the hell didn't they give
him a chance to let her out?
Maybe he could do it now.
Cybrain said no. It said the
second he dropped his force-screen,
they'd blast this room
to hell. Poor girl from Mars,
she didn't have a chance.
Gerri Kin put her hand to
her forehead. "Why did you
have to pick my room? Why
did they send me to this crazy
city? Private soldiers. Twenty
million people living under
a Shell like worms in a corpse.
Earth is sick and it's going to
kill me. What's going to happen?"
Lane looked sadly at her.
Only two kinds of girls ever
went near a Trooper—the
crazy ones and the ones the
city paid. Why did he have to
be so near getting killed when
he met one he liked? Now that
she was showing a little less
fear and anger, she was talking
straight to him. She was
good, but she wasn't acting as
if she was too good for him.
"They'll start shooting pretty
quick," said Lane. "I'm
sorry about you."
"I wish I could write a letter
to my parents," she said.
"What?"
"Didn't you understand
what I said?"
"What's a letter?"
"You don't know where
Mars is. You don't know what
a letter is. You probably can't
even read and write!"
Lane
shrugged. He carried
on the conversation disinterestedly,
professionally relaxed
before battle. "What's
these things I can't do? They
important?"
"Yes. The more I see of this
city and its people, the more
important I realize they are.
You know how to fight, don't
you? I'll bet you're perfect
with those weapons."
"Listen. They been training
me to fight since I was a little
kid. Why shouldn't I be a
great little fighter?"
"Specialization," said the
girl from Mars.
"What?"
"Specialization. Everyone
I've met in this city is a specialist.
SocioSpecs run the
government. TechnoSpecs run
the machinery. Troopers fight
the wars. And ninety per cent
of the people don't work at all
because they're not trained to
do anything."
"The Fans," said Lane.
"They got it soft. That's them
down there, come to watch the
fight."
"You know why you were
kept in the Armory, Lane? I
heard them talking about it,
at the dinner I went to last
night."
"Why?"
"Because they're afraid of
the Troopers. You men did too
good a job out in Chi. You are
the deadliest weapon that has
ever been made. You. Single
airborne infantrymen!"
Lane said, "They told us in
Trooper Academy that it's the
men that win the wars."
"Yes, but people had forgotten
it until the SocioSpecs of
Newyork came up with the
Troopers. Before the Troopers,
governments concentrated
on the big weapons, the
missiles, the bombs. And the
cities, with the Shells, were
safe from bombs. They learned
to be self-sufficient under
the Shells. They were so safe,
so isolated, that national governments
collapsed. But you
Troopers wiped out that feeling
of security, when you infiltrated
Chi and conquered
it."
"We scared them, huh?"
Gerri said, "You scared
them so much that they were
afraid to let you have a furlough
in the city when you
came back. Afraid you Troopers
would realize that you
could easily take over the city
if you wanted to. You scared
them so much that they'll let
me be killed. They'll actually
risk trouble with Mars just to
kill you."
"I'm sorry about you. I
mean it, I like—"
At that moment a titanic,
ear-splitting explosion hurled
him to the carpet, deafened
and blinded him.
He recovered and saw Gerri
a few feet away, dazed, groping
on hands and knees.
Lane jumped to the window,
looked quickly, sprang
back. Cybrain pumped orders
to his nervous system.
"Blaster cannon," he said.
"But just one. Gotcha, cybrain.
I can beat that."
He picked up the black box
that generated his protective
screen. Snapping it open with
thumb-pressure, he turned a
small dial. Then he waited.
Again an enormous, brain-shattering
concussion.
Again Lane and Gerri were
thrown to the floor. But this
time there was a second explosion
and a blinding flash
from below.
Lane laughed boyishly and
ran to the window.
"Look!" he called to Gerri.
There
was a huge gap in
the crowd below. The
pavement was blackened and
shattered to rubble. In and
around the open space
sprawled dozens of tiny black
figures, not moving.
"Backfire," said Lane. "I set
the screen to throw their
blaster beam right back at
them."
"And they knew you might—and
yet they let a crowd
congregate!"
Gerri reeled away from the
window, sick.
Lane said, "I can do that a
couple times more, but it
burns out the force-globe.
Then I'm dead."
He heard the 3V newscaster's
amplified voice: "—approximately
fifty killed. But
Lane is through now. He has
been able to outthink police
with the help of his cybrain.
Now police are feeding the
problem to their giant analogue
computer in the sub-basement
of the Court House.
The police analogue computer
will be able to outthink Lane's
cybrain, will predict Lane's
moves in advance. Four more
blaster cannon are coming
down Broadway—"
"Why don't they clear those
people out of the Square?"
Gerri cried.
"What? Oh, the Fans—nobody
clears them out." He
paused. "I got one more
chance to try." He raised a
mailed glove to his mouth and
pressed a small stud in the
wrist. He said, "Trooper HQ,
this is Lane."
A voice spoke in his helmet.
"Lane, this is Trooper
HQ. We figured you'd call."
"Get me Colonel Klett."
Thirty seconds passed. Lane
could hear the clank of caterpillar
treads as the mobile
blaster cannon rolled into
Tammany Square.
The voice of the commanding
officer of the Troopers
rasped into Lane's ear:
"Meat-head! You broke out
against my orders!
Now
look
at you!"
"I knew you didn't mean
them orders, sir."
"If you get out of there
alive, I'll hang you for disobeying
them!"
"Yes, sir. Sir, there's a girl
here—somebody important—from
Mars. You know, the
planet. Sir, she told me we
could take over the city if we
got loose. That right, sir?"
There was a pause. "Your
girl from Mars is right, Lane.
But it's too late now. If we
had moved first, captured the
city government, we might
have done it. But they're
ready for us. They'd chop us
down with blaster cannon."
"Sir, I'm asking for help. I
know you're on my side."
"I am, Lane." The voice of
Colonel Klett was lower. "I'd
never admit it if you had a
chance of getting out of there
alive. You've had it, son. I'd
only lose more men trying to
rescue you. When they feed
the data into that analogue
computer, you're finished."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sorry, Lane."
"Yes, sir. Over and out."
Lane pressed the stud on
his gauntlet again. He turned
to Gerri.
"You're okay. I wish I
could let you out. Old cybrain
says I can't. Says if I drop the
force-globe for a second,
they'll fire into the room, and
then we'll both be dead."
Gerri
stood with folded
arms and looked at him.
"Do what you have to do. As
far as I can see, you're the
only person in this city that
has even a little bit of right
on his side."
Lane laughed. "Any of them
purple-haired broads I know
would be crazy scared. You're
different."
"When my grandparents
landed on Mars, they found
out that selfishness was a luxury.
Martians can't afford
it."
Lane frowned with the effort
of thinking. "You said I
had a little right on my side.
That's a good feeling. Nobody
ever told me to feel that way
about myself before. It'll be
better to die knowing that."
"I know," she said.
The amplified voice from
below said, "The police analogue
computer is now hooked
directly to the controls of the
blaster cannon battery. It will
outguess Lane's cybrain and
check his moves ahead of
time."
Lane looked at Gerri. "How
about giving me a kiss before
they get us? Be nice if I kissed
a girl like you just once in
my life."
She smiled and walked forward.
"You deserve it, Lane."
He kissed her and it filled
him with longings for things
he couldn't name. Then he
stepped back and shook his
head. "It ain't right you
should get killed. If I take a
dive out that window, they
shoot at me, not in here."
"And kill you all the sooner."
"Better than getting burned
up in this lousy little room.
You also got right on your
side. There's too many damn
Troopers and not enough good
persons like you. Old cybrain
says stay here, but I don't
guess I will. I'm gonna pay
you back for that kiss."
"But you're safe in here!"
"Worry about yourself, not
about me." Lane picked up the
force-bomb and handed it to
her. "When I say now, press
this. Then take your hand off,
real fast. It'll shut off the
screen for a second."
He stepped up on to the
window ledge. Automatically,
the cybrain cut in his paragrav-paks.
"So long, outa-towner.
Now!
"
He jumped. He was hurtling
across the Square when the
blaster cannons opened up.
They weren't aimed at the
window where the little red-white-and-green
tricolor was
flying. But they weren't aimed
at Lane, either. They were
shooting wild.
Which way now? Looks
like I got a chance. Old cybrain
says fly right for the
cannons.
He saw the Mayor's balcony
ahead.
Go to hell, old cybrain.
I'm doing all right by myself.
I come to see the Mayor, and
I'm gonna see him.
Lane plunged forward. He
heard the shouts of frightened
men.
He swooped over the balcony
railing. A man was
pointing a blaster pistol at
him. There were five men
on the balcony—emergency!
Years of training and cybrain
took over. Lane's hand shot
out, fingers vibrating. As he
dropped to the balcony floor in
battle-crouch, the men slumped
around him.
He had seen the man with
the blaster pistol before. It
was the Mayor of Newyork.
Lane stood for a moment in
the midst of the sprawled
men, the shrieks of the crowd
floating up to him. Then he
raised his glove to his lips. He
made contact with Manhattan
Armory.
"Colonel Klett, sir. You
said if we captured the city
government we might have a
chance. Well, I captured the
city government. What do we
do with it now?"
Lane
was uncomfortable in
his dress uniform. First
there had been a ceremony in
Tammany Square inaugurating
Newyork's new Military
Protectorate, and honoring
Trooper Lane. Now there was
a formal dinner. Colonel Klett
and Gerri Kin sat on either
side of Lane.
Klett said, "Call me an opportunist
if you like, Miss
Kin, my government will be
stable, and Mars can negotiate
with it." He was a lean, sharp-featured
man with deep
grooves in his face, and gray
hair.
Gerri shook her head. "Recognition
for a new government
takes time. I'm going
back to Mars, and I think
they'll send another ambassador
next time. Nothing personal—I
just don't like it
here."
Lane said, "I'm going to
Mars, too."
"Did she ask you to?" demanded
Klett.
Lane shook his head. "She's
got too much class for me. But
I like what she told me about
Mars. It's healthy, like."
Klett frowned. "If I thought
there was a gram of talent involved
in your capture of the
Mayor, Lane, I'd never release
you from duty. But I
know better. You beat that
analogue computer by sheer
stupidity—by disregarding
your cybrain."
Lane said, "It wasn't so stupid
if it worked."
"That's what bothers me. It
calls for a revision in our tactics.
We've got a way of beating
those big computers now,
should anyone use them
against us."
"I just didn't want her to
be hurt."
"Exactly. The computer
could outguess a machine, like
your cybrain. But you introduced
a totally unpredictable
factor—human emotion.
Which proves what I, as a
military man, have always
maintained—that the deadliest
weapon in man's arsenal
is still, and will always be, the
individual soldier."
"What you just said there,
sir," said Lane. "That's why
I'm leaving Newyork."
"What do you mean?" asked
Colonel Klett.
"I'm tired of being a weapon,
sir. I want to be a human
being."
END
Work is the elimination of the traces of work.
—Michelangelo
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
If
July 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 99920 | [
"What was the solution for increased complexity in the late 19th, early 20th century?",
"What state bureaucracy development saved Europe after WWII?",
"What does Google do for their employees to foster innovation?",
"How did Wikipedia eclipse all commercial encyclopedias except Britannica?",
"What typified Taylorism?",
"Why did AT&T originally retain ownership of the phones at the endpoints?",
"How did the Internet allow for a breathtaking rate of innovation?",
"What is a \"trusted computer\"?",
"What is something that gives us real proof that human-centric systems can thrive?"
] | [
[
"Assembly lines",
"The increased role of structure and improved design",
"Complex managed systems",
"Child labor laws"
],
[
"Frederick Taylor's Scientific Management",
"The New Deal",
"The Marshall Plan",
"The Tennessee Valley Authority"
],
[
"They use Segways on the Google campus and in the buildings.",
"They have a relaxed dress code.",
"One day a week, they can pursue whatever ideas they like.",
"They have a culture of play."
],
[
"They engaged the human and social.",
"They built an open and inviting system that lets people learn together.",
"They hired the smartest guys in the room.",
"They issued a large IPO."
],
[
"Identifying opportunities and challenges to action and acting upon them.",
"Location of authority and practical capacity to act at the edges of the system.",
"Loosely-coupled systems.",
"The ambition to measure and specify all human and material elements of the production system."
],
[
"To prohibit customers from connecting unlicensed phones at the endpoints.",
"To exclude competitors.",
"To ensure the proper functioning of the networking and monitoring of customer behavior.",
"To make the most profit."
],
[
"By re-engineering the entire network.",
"By building security into the technical system.",
"By being a fully managed system.",
"It was designed to be as general as possible."
],
[
"A computer system that implements the belief that machines are trustworthy, while human users are malevolent and or incompetent.",
"A computer system that is well-designed and tightly bound.",
"A computer that will not run a program without authorization from some other locus, such as a copyright owner.",
"A computer system where human beings are located and can make decisions about what is worthwhile."
],
[
"Taylorism",
"Google",
"Wikipedia",
"The New Deal"
]
] | [
2,
3,
3,
2,
4,
3,
4,
3,
3
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0
] | COMPLEXITY AND HUMANITY
We have all seen the images. Volunteers pitching in. People working day
and night; coming up with the most ingenious, improvised solutions to
everything from food and shelter to communications and security. Working
together; patching up the fabric that is rent. Disaster, natural or
otherwise, is a breakdown of systems. For a time, chaos reigns. For a
time, what will happen in the next five minutes, five hours, and five
days is unknown. All we have to rely on are our wits, fortitude, and
common humanity
Contemporary life is not chaotic, in the colloquial sense we apply to
disaster zones. It is, however, complex and rapidly changing; much more
so than life was in the past; even the very near past. Life, of course,
was never simple. But the fact that day-to-day behaviors in Shenzhen and
Bangalore have direct and immediate effects on people from Wichita to
Strasbourg, from Rio de Janeiro to Sydney, or that unscrupulous lenders
and careless borrowers in the United States can upend economic
expectations everywhere else in the world, no matter how carefully
others have planned, means that there are many more moving parts that
affect each other. And from this scale of practical effects, complexity
emerges. New things too were ever under the sun; but the systematic
application of knowledge to the creation of new knowledge, innovation to
innovation, and information to making more information has become
pervasive; and with it the knowledge that next year will be very
different than this. The Web, after all, is less than a generation old.
These two features−the global scale of interdependence of human action,
and the systematic acceleration of innovation, make contemporary life a
bit like a slow motion disaster, in one important respect. Its very
unpredictability makes it unwise to build systems that take too much
away from what human beings do best: look, think, innovate, adapt,
discuss, learn, and repeat. That is why we have seen many more systems
take on a loose, human centric model in the last decade and a half: from
the radical divergence of Toyota’s production system from the highly
structured model put in place by Henry Ford, to the Internet’s radical
departure from the AT&T system that preceded it, and on to the way
Wikipedia constructs human knowledge on the fly, incrementally, in ways
that would have been seen, until recently, as too chaotic ever to work
(and are still seen so be many). But it is time we acknowledge that
systems work best by making work human.
Modern Times
Modern times were hard enough. Trains and planes, telegraph and
telephone, all brought many people into the same causal space. The
solution to this increased complexity in the late 19th, early 20th
century was to increase the role of structure and improve its design.
During the first two-thirds of the twentieth century, this type of
rationalization took the form of ever-more complex managed systems, with
crisp specification of roles, lines of authority, communication and
control.
In business, this rationalization was typified by Fredrick Taylor’s
Scientific Management, later embodied in Henry Ford’s assembly line. The
ambition of these approaches was to specify everything that needed doing
in minute detail, to enforce it through monitoring and rewards, and
later to build it into the very technology of work−the assembly line.
The idea was to eliminate human error and variability in the face of
change by removing thinking to the system, and thus neutralizing the
variability of the human beings who worked it. Few images captured that
time, and what it did to humanity, more vividly than Charlie Chaplin’s
assembly line worker in Modern Times.
At the same time, government experienced the rise of bureaucratization
and the administrative state. Nowhere was this done more brutally than
in the totalitarian states of mid-century. But the impulse to build
fully-specified systems, designed by experts, monitored and controlled
so as to limit human greed and error and to manage uncertainty, was
basic and widespread. It underlay the development of the enormously
successful state bureaucracies that responded to the Great Depression
with the New Deal. It took shape in the Marshall Plan to pull Europe out
of the material abyss into which it had been plunged by World War II,
and shepherded Japan’s industrial regeneration from it. In technical
systems too, we saw in mid-century marvels like the AT&T telephone
system and the IBM mainframe. For a moment in history, these large scale
managed systems were achieving efficiencies that seemed to overwhelm
competing models: from the Tennessee Valley Authority to Sputnik, from
Watson’s IBM to General Motors. Yet, to list these paragons from today’s
perspective is already to presage the demise of the belief in their
inevitable victory.
The increasing recognition of the limits of command-and-control systems
led to a new approach; but it turned out to be a retrenchment, not an
abandonment, of the goal of perfect rationalization of systems design,
which assumed much of the human away. What replaced planning and control
in these systems was the myth of perfect markets. This was achieved
through a hyper-simplification of human nature, wedded to mathematical
modeling of what hyper-simplified selfish rational actors, looking only
to their own interests, would do under diverse conditions. This approach
was widespread and influential; it still is. And yet it led to such
unforgettable gems as trying to understand why people do, or do not, use
condoms by writing sentences like: “The expected utility (EU) of unsafe
sex for m and for f is equal to the benefits (B) of unsafe sex minus its
expected costs, and is given by EUm = B - C(1-Pm)(Pf) and EUf = B -
C(1-Pf)(Pm),” and believing that you will learn anything useful about
lust and desire, recklessness and helplessness, or how to slow down the
transmission of AIDS. Only by concocting such a thin model of
humanity−no more than the economists’ utility curve−and neglecting any
complexities of social interactions that could not be conveyed through
prices, could the appearance of rationalization be maintained. Like
bureaucratic rationalization, perfect-market rationalization also had
successes. But, like its predecessor, its limits as an approach to human
systems design are becoming cleare
Work, Trust and Play
Pricing perfectly requires perfect information. And perfect information,
while always an illusion, has become an ever receding dream in a world
of constant, rapid change and complex global interactions. What we are
seeing instead is the rise of human systems that increasingly shy away
from either control or perfect pricing. Not that there isn’t control.
Not that there aren’t markets. And not that either of these approaches
to coordinating human action will disappear. But these managed systems
are becoming increasingly interlaced with looser structures, which
invite and enable more engaged human action by drawing on intrinsic
motivations and social relations. Dress codes and a culture of play in
the workplace in Silicon Valley, like the one day per week that Google
employees can use to play at whatever ideas they like, do not exist to
make the most innovative region in the United States a Ludic paradise,
gratifying employees at the expense of productivity, but rather to
engage the human and social in the pursuit of what is, in the long term,
the only core business competency−innovation. Wikipedia has eclipsed all
the commercial encyclopedias except Britannica not by issuing a large
IPO and hiring the smartest guys in the room, but by building an open
and inviting system that lets people learn together and pursue their
passion for knowledge, and each other’s company.
The set of human systems necessary for action in this complex,
unpredictable set of conditions, combining rationalization with human
agency, learning and adaptation, is as different from managed systems
and perfect markets as the new Toyota is from the old General Motors, or
as the Internet now is from AT&T then. The hallmarks of these newer
systems are: (a) location of authority and practical capacity to act at
the edges of the system, where potentialities for sensing the
environment, identifying opportunities and challenges to action and
acting upon them, are located; (b) an emphasis on the human: on trust,
cooperation, judgment and insight; (c) communication over the lifetime
of the interaction; and (d) loosely-coupled systems: systems in which
the regularities and dependencies among objects and processes are less
strictly associated with each other; where actions and interactions can
occur through multiple systems simultaneously, have room to fail,
maneuver, and be reoriented to fit changing conditions and new learning,
or shift from one system to another to achieve a solution.
Consider first of all the triumph of Toyota over the programs of Taylor
and Ford. Taylorism was typified by the ambition to measure and specify
all human and material elements of the production system. The ambition
of scientific management was to offer a single, integrated system where
all human variance (the source of slothful shirking and inept error)
could be isolated and controlled. Fordism took that ambition and
embedded the managerial knowledge in the technological platform of the
assembly line, guided by a multitude of rigid task specifications and
routines. Toyota Production System, by comparison, has a substantially
smaller number of roles that are also more loosely defined, with a
reliance on small teams where each team member can perform all tasks,
and who are encouraged to experiment, improve, fail, adapt, but above
all communicate. The system is built on trust and a cooperative dynamic.
The enterprise functions through a managerial control system, but also
through social cooperation mechanisms built around teamwork and trust.
However, even Toyota might be bested in this respect by the even more
loosely coupled networks of innovation and supply represented by
Taiwanese original-design manufacturers.
But let us also consider the system in question that has made this work
possible, the Internet, and compare it to the design principles of the
AT&T network in its heyday. Unlike the Internet, AT&T’s network was
fully managed. Mid-century, the company even retained ownership of the
phones at the endpoints, arguing that it needed to prohibit customers
from connecting unlicensed phones to the system (ostensibly to ensure
proper functioning of the networking and monitoring of customer
behavior, although it didn’t hurt either that this policy effectively
excluded competitors). This generated profit, but any substantial
technical innovations required the approval of management and a
re-engineering of the entire network. The Internet, on the other hand,
was designed to be as general as possible. The network hardware merely
delivers packets of data using standardized addressing information. The
hard processing work−manipulating a humanly-meaningful communication (a
letter or a song, a video or a software package) and breaking it up into
a stream of packets−was to be done by its edge devices, in this case
computers owned by users. This system allowed the breathtaking rate of
innovation that we have seen, while also creating certain
vulnerabilities in online security.
These vulnerabilities have led some to argue that a new system to manage
the Internet is needed. We see first of all that doubts about trust and
security on the Internet arise precisely because the network was
originally designed for people who could more-or-less trust each other,
and offloaded security from the network to the edges. As the network
grew and users diversified, trust (the practical belief that other human
agents in the system were competent and benign, or at least sincere)
declined. This decline was met with arguments in favor of building
security into the technical system, both at its core, in the network
elements themselves, and at its periphery, through “trusted computing.”
A “trusted computer” will, for example, not run a program or document
that its owner wants to run, unless it has received authorization from
some other locus: be it the copyright owner, the virus protection
company, or the employer. This is thought to be the most completely
effective means of preventing copyright infringement or system failure,
and preserving corporate security (these are the main reasons offered
for implementing such systems). Trusted computing in this form is the
ultimate reversal of the human-centric, loosely-coupled design approach
of the Internet. Instead of locating authority and capacity to act at
the endpoints, where human beings are located and can make decisions
about what is worthwhile, it implements the belief that
machines−technical systems−are trustworthy, while their human users are
malevolent, incompetent, or both.
Reintroducing the Human
Taylorism, the Bell system and trusted computing are all efforts to
remove human agency from action and replace it with well-designed,
tightly-bound systems. That is, the specifications and regularities of
the system are such that they control or direct action and learning over
time. Human agency, learning, communication and adaptation are minimized
in managed systems, if not eliminated, and the knowledge in the system
comes from the outside, from the designer, in the initial design over
time, and through observation of the system’s performance by someone
standing outside its constraints−a manager or systems designer. By
contrast, loosely-coupled systems affirmatively eschew this level of
control, and build in room for human agency, experimentation, failure,
communication, learning and adaptation. Loose-coupling is central to the
new systems. It is a feature of system design that leaves room for human
agency over time, only imperfectly constraining and enabling any given
action by the system itself. By creating such domains of human agency,
system designers are accepting the limitations of design and foresight,
and building in the possibilities of learning over time through action
in the system, by agents acting within
To deal with the new complexity of contemporary life we need to
re-introduce the human into the design of systems. We must put the soul
back into the system. If years of work on artificial intelligence have
taught us anything, it is that what makes for human insight is extremely
difficult to replicate or systematize. At the center of these new
systems, then, sits a human being who has a capacity to make judgments,
experiment, learn and adapt. But enabling human agency also provides
scope of action for human frailty. Although this idea is most alien to
the mainstream of system design in the twentieth century, we must now
turn our attention to building systems that support human sociality−our
ability to think of others and their needs, and to choose for ourselves
goals consistent with a broader social concern than merely our own
self-interest. The challenge of the near future is to build systems that
will allow us to be largely free to inquire, experiment, learn and
communicate, that will encourage us to cooperate, and that will avoid
the worst of what human beings are capable of, and elicit what is best.
Free software, Wikipedia, Creative Commons and the thousands of emerging
human practices of productive social cooperation in the networked
information economy give us real existence proofs that human-centric
systems can not merely exist, but thrive, as can the human beings and
social relations that make them.
|
train | 99924 | [
"What is the access revolution?",
"How could selling their work actually harm some authors' interests?",
"What does removing price barriers mean for readers?",
"What does removing permission barriers mean for readers?",
"What is the open-access delivered by repositories called?",
"What is one limit all kinds of OA put on user freedom?",
"What is the main premise of OA?",
"In which chapter can we find more on OA policies?",
"In which section can we find more about peer review?",
"In which chapter can we find out more about OA economics?"
] | [
[
"Globally more homes than ever before have access to the internet.",
"Free global sharing.",
"Authors are giving away their work for free.",
"Authors can share their work with a worldwide audience at essentially no cost."
],
[
"It could steer them toward writing about popular topics rather than writing about their expertise.",
"Libraries may decide not to purchase the work because of the cost involved for multiple copies.",
"They may never reach a global audience.",
"The cost to read the work could result in a smaller audience."
],
[
"Readers are not limited by the budgets of libraries.",
"Readers can translate and redistribute work.",
"Readers can reuse literature for scholarly purposes.",
"Readers are not limited by their own ability to pay."
],
[
"Readers can reuse literature for scholarly purposes.",
"Readers can translate and redistribute work.",
"Readers are not limited by their own ability to pay.",
"Readers are not limited by the budgets of libraries."
],
[
"Green OA",
"Libre OA",
"Gold OA",
"Gratis OA"
],
[
"A constraint on library privileges.",
"A limit on text mining.",
"A constraint on reproduction and distribution.",
"There is an obligation to credit the work to the author."
],
[
"To make research literature available online without price barriers or without most permission barriers.",
"To allow researchers to reuse literature for scholarly purposes.",
"To allow reproduction and distribution by readers.",
"To allow readers to write derivative works."
],
[
"Chapter 4",
"Chapter 5",
"Chapter 9",
"Chapter 2"
],
[
"Section 5.1",
"Section 5.3",
"Section 5.7",
"Section 5.5"
],
[
"Chapter 7",
"Chapter 5",
"Chapter 9",
"Chapter 3"
]
] | [
4,
4,
4,
1,
1,
4,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | What Is Open Access?
Shifting from ink on paper to digital text suddenly allows us to make perfect copies of our work. Shifting from isolated computers to a globe-spanning network of connected computers suddenly allows us to share perfect copies of our work with a worldwide audience at essentially no cost. About thirty years ago this kind of free global sharing became something new under the sun. Before that, it would have sounded like a quixotic dream.
Digital technologies have created more than one revolution. Let’s call this one the access revolution.
Why don’t more authors take advantage of the access revolution to reach more readers? The answer is pretty clear. Authors who share their works in this way aren’t selling them, and even authors with purposes higher than money depend on sales to make a living. Or at least they appreciate sales.
Let’s sharpen the question, then, by putting to one side authors who want to sell their work. We can even acknowledge that we’re putting aside the vast majority of authors.
Imagine a tribe of authors who write serious and useful work, and who follow a centuries-old custom of giving it away without charge. I don’t mean a group of rich authors who don’t need money. I mean a group of authors defined by their topics, genres, purposes, incentives, and institutional circumstances, not by their wealth. In fact, very few are wealthy. For now, it doesn’t matter who these authors are, how rare they are, what they write, or why they follow this peculiar custom. It’s enough to know that their employers pay them salaries, freeing them to give away their work, that they write for impact rather than money, and that they score career points when they make the kind of impact they hoped to make. Suppose that selling their work would actually harm their interests by shrinking their audience, reducing their impact, and distorting their professional goals by steering them toward popular topics and away from the specialized questions on which they are experts.
If authors like that exist, at least they should take advantage of the access revolution. The dream of global free access can be a reality for them, even if most other authors hope to earn royalties and feel obliged to sit out this particular revolution.
These lucky authors are scholars, and the works they customarily write and publish without payment are peer-reviewed articles in scholarly journals.
Open access
is the name of the revolutionary kind of access these authors, unencumbered by a motive of financial gain, are free to provide to their readers.
Open access (OA) literature is digital, online, free of charge, and free of most copyright and licensing restrictions.
We could call it “barrier-free” access, but that would emphasize the negative rather than the positive. In any case, we can be more specific about which access barriers OA removes.
A price tag
is a significant access barrier. Most works with price tags are individually affordable. But when a scholar needs to read or consult hundreds of works for one research project, or when a library must provide access for thousands of faculty and students working on tens of thousands of topics, and when the volume of new work grows explosively every year, price barriers become insurmountable. The resulting access gaps harm authors by limiting their audience and impact, harm readers by limiting what they can retrieve and read, and thereby harm research from both directions. OA removes price barriers.
Copyright
can also be a significant access barrier. If you have access to a work for reading but want to translate it into another language, distribute copies to colleagues, copy the text for mining with sophisticated software, or reformat it for reading with new technology, then you generally need the permission of the copyright holder. That makes sense when the author wants to sell the work and when the use you have in mind could undermine sales. But for research articles we’re generally talking about authors from the special tribe who want to share their work as widely as possible. Even these authors, however, tend to transfer their copyrights to intermediaries—publishers—who want to sell their work. As a result, users may be hampered in their research by barriers erected to serve intermediaries rather than authors. In addition, replacing user freedom with permission-seeking harms research authors by limiting the usefulness of their work, harms research readers by limiting the uses they may make of works even when they have access, and thereby harms research from both directions. OA removes these permission barriers.
Removing price barriers means that readers are not limited by their own ability to pay, or by the budgets of the institutions where they may have library privileges. Removing permission barriers means that scholars are free to use or reuse literature for scholarly purposes. These purposes include reading and searching, but also redistributing, translating, text mining, migrating to new media, long-term archiving, and innumerable new forms of research, analysis, and processing we haven’t yet imagined. OA makes work more useful in both ways, by making it available to more people who can put it to use, and by freeing those people to use and reuse it.
Terminology
When we need to, we can be more specific about access vehicles and access barriers. In the jargon, OA delivered by journals is called
gold OA
, and OA delivered by repositories is called
green OA
. Work that is not open access, or that is available only for a price, is called
toll access
(TA). Over the years I’ve asked publishers for a neutral, nonpejorative and nonhonorific term for toll-access publishers, and
conventional publishers
is the suggestion I hear most often. While every kind of OA removes price barriers, there are many different permission barriers we could remove if we wanted to. If we remove price barriers alone, we provide
gratis OA
, and if we remove at least some permission barriers as well, we provide
libre OA
. (Also see section 3.1 on green/gold and section 3.3 on gratis/libre.)
OA was defined in three influential public statements: the Budapest Open Access Initiative (February 2002), the Bethesda Statement on Open Access Publishing (June 2003), and the Berlin Declaration on Open Access to Knowledge in the Sciences and Humanities (October 2003).
I sometimes refer to their overlap or common ground as the BBB definition of OA. My definition here is the BBB definition reduced to its essential elements and refined with some post-BBB terminology (green, gold, gratis, libre) for speaking precisely about subspecies of OA. Here’s how the Budapest statement defined OA:
There are many degrees and kinds of wider and easier access to [research] literature. By “open access” to this literature, we mean its free availability on the public internet, permitting any users to read, download, copy, distribute, print, search, or link to the full texts of these articles, crawl them for indexing, pass them as data to software, or use them for any other lawful purpose, without financial, legal, or technical barriers other than those inseparable from gaining access to the internet itself. The only constraint on reproduction and distribution, and the only role for copyright in this domain, should be to give authors control over the integrity of their work and the right to be properly acknowledged and cited.
Here’s how the Bethesda and Berlin statements put it: For a work to be OA, the copyright holder must consent in advance to let users “copy, use, distribute, transmit and display the work publicly and to make and distribute derivative works, in any digital medium for any responsible purpose, subject to proper attribution of authorship.”
Note that all three legs of the BBB definition go beyond removing price barriers to removing permission barriers, or beyond gratis OA to libre OA. But at the same time, all three allow at least one limit on user freedom: an obligation to attribute the work to the author. The purpose of OA is to remove barriers to all legitimate scholarly uses for scholarly literature, but there’s no legitimate scholarly purpose in suppressing attribution to the texts we use. (That’s why my shorthand definition says that OA literature is free of “most” rather than “all” copyright and licensing restrictions.)
The basic idea of OA is simple: Make research literature available online without price barriers and without most permission barriers. Even the implementation is simple enough that the volume of peer-reviewed OA literature and the number of institutions providing it have grown at an increasing rate for more than a decade. If there are complexities, they lie in the transition from where we are now to a world in which OA is the default for new research. This is complicated because the major obstacles are not technical, legal, or economic, but cultural. (More in
chapter 9
on the future.)
In principle, any kind of digital content can be OA, since any digital content can be put online without price or permission barriers. Moreover, any kind of content can be digital: texts, data, images, audio, video, multimedia, and executable code. We can have OA music and movies, news and novels, sitcoms and software—and to different degrees we already do. But the term “open access” was coined by researchers trying to remove access barriers to research. The next section explains why.
1.1 What Makes OA Possible?
OA is made possible by the internet and copyright-holder consent. But why would a copyright holder consent to OA?
Two background facts suggest the answer. First, authors are the copyright holders for their work until or unless they transfer rights to someone else, such as a publisher.
Second, scholarly journals generally don’t pay authors for their research articles, which frees this special tribe of authors to consent to OA without losing revenue. This fact distinguishes scholars decisively from musicians and moviemakers, and even from most other kinds of authors. This is why controversies about OA to music and movies don’t carry over to OA for research articles.
Both facts are critical, but the second is nearly unknown outside the academic world. It’s not a new fact of academic life, arising from a recent economic downturn in the publishing industry. Nor is it a case of corporate exploitation of unworldly academics. Scholarly journals haven’t paid authors for their articles since the first scholarly journals, the
Philosophical Transactions
of the Royal Society of London and the
Journal des sçavans
, launched in London and Paris in 1665.
The academic custom to write research articles for impact rather than money may be a lucky accident that could have been otherwise. Or it may be a wise adaptation that would eventually evolve in any culture with a serious research subculture. (The optimist in me wants to believe the latter, but the evolution of copyright law taunts that optimism.) This peculiar custom does more than insulate cutting-edge research from the market and free scholars to consent to OA without losing revenue. It also supports academic freedom and the kinds of serious inquiry that advance knowledge. It frees researchers to challenge conventional wisdom and defend unpopular ideas, which are essential to academic freedom. At the same time it frees them to microspecialize and defend ideas of immediate interest to just a handful people in the world, which are essential to pushing the frontiers of knowledge.
This custom doesn’t guarantee that truth-seeking won’t be derailed by profit-seeking, and it doesn’t guarantee that we’ll eventually fill the smallest gaps in our collaborative understanding of the world. It doesn’t even guarantee that scholars won’t sometimes play for the crowd and detour into fad thinking. But it removes a major distraction by allowing them, if they wish, to focus on what is likely to be true rather than what is likely to sell. It’s a payment structure we need for good research itself, not just for good access to research, and it’s the key to the legal and economic lock that would otherwise shackle steps toward OA.
Creative people who live by royalties, such as novelists, musicians, and moviemakers, may consider this scholarly tradition a burden and sacrifice for scholars. We might even agree, provided we don’t overlook a few facts. First, it’s a sacrifice that scholars have been making for nearly 350 years. OA to research articles doesn’t depend on asking royalty-earning authors to give up their royalties. Second, academics have salaries from universities, freeing them to dive deeply into their research topics and publish specialized articles without market appeal. Many musicians and moviemakers might envy that freedom to disregard sales and popular taste. Third, academics receive other, less tangible rewards from their institutions—like promotion and tenure—when their research is recognized by others, accepted, cited, applied, and built upon.
It’s no accident that faculty who advance knowledge in their fields also advance their careers. Academics are passionate about certain topics, ideas, questions, inquiries, or disciplines. They feel lucky to have jobs in which they may pursue these passions and even luckier to be rewarded for pursuing them. Some focus single-mindedly on carrying an honest pebble to the pile of knowledge (as John Lange put it), having an impact on their field, or scooping others working on the same questions. Others focus strategically on building the case for promotion and tenure. But the two paths converge, which is not a fortuitous fact of nature but an engineered fact of life in the academy. As incentives for productivity, these intangible career benefits may be stronger for the average researcher than royalties are for the average novelist or musician. (In both domains, bountiful royalties for superstars tell us nothing about effective payment models for the long tail of less stellar professionals.)
There’s no sense in which research would be more free, efficient, or effective if academics took a more “businesslike” position, behaved more like musicians and moviemakers, abandoned their insulation from the market, and tied their income to the popularity of their ideas. Nonacademics who urge academics to come to their senses and demand royalties even for journal articles may be more naive about nonprofit research than academics are about for-profit business.
We can take this a step further. Scholars can afford to ignore sales because they have salaries and research grants to take the place of royalties. But why do universities pay salaries and why do funding agencies award grants? They do it to advance research and the range of public interests served by research. They don’t do it to earn profits from the results. They are all nonprofit. They certainly don’t do it to make scholarly writings into gifts to enrich publishers, especially when conventional publishers erect access barriers at the expense of research. Universities and funding agencies pay researchers to make their research into gifts to the public in the widest sense.
Public and private funding agencies are essentially public and private charities, funding research they regard as useful or beneficial. Universities have a public purpose as well, even when they are private institutions. We support the public institutions with public funds, and we support the private ones with tax exemptions for their property and tax deductions for their donors.
We’d have less knowledge, less academic freedom, and less OA if researchers worked for royalties and made their research articles into commodities rather than gifts. It should be no surprise, then, that more and more funding agencies and universities are adopting strong OA policies. Their mission to advance research leads them directly to logic of OA: With a few exceptions, such as classified research, research that is worth funding or facilitating is worth sharing with everyone who can make use of it. (See
chapter 4
on OA policies.)
Newcomers to OA often assume that OA helps readers and hurts authors, and that the reader side of the scholarly soul must beg the author side to make the necessary sacrifice. But OA benefits authors as well as readers. Authors want access to readers at least as much as readers want access to authors. All authors want to cultivate a larger audience and greater impact. Authors who work for royalties have reason to compromise and settle for the smaller audience of paying customers. But authors who aren’t paid for their writing have no reason to compromise.
It takes nothing away from a disinterested desire to advance knowledge to recognize that scholarly publication is accompanied by a strong interest in impact and career building. The result is a mix of interested and disinterested motives. The reasons to make work OA are essentially the same as the reasons to publish. Authors who make their work OA are always serving others but not always acting from altruism. In fact, the idea that OA depends on author altruism slows down OA progress by hiding the role of author self-interest.
Another aspect of author self-interest emerges from the well-documented phenomenon that OA articles are cited more often than non-OA articles, even when they are published in the same issue of the same journal. There’s growing evidence that OA articles are downloaded more often as well, and that journals converting to OA see a rise in their submissions and citation impact.
There are many hypotheses to explain the correlation between OA and increased citations, but it’s likely that ongoing studies will show that much of the correlation is simply due to the larger audience and heightened visibility provided by OA itself. When you enlarge the audience for an article, you also enlarge the subset of the audience that will later cite it, including professionals in the same field at institutions unable to afford subscription access. OA enlarges the potential audience, including the potential professional audience, far beyond that for even the most prestigious and popular subscription journals.
In any case, these studies bring a welcome note of author self-interest to the case for OA. OA is not a sacrifice for authors who write for impact rather than money. It increases a work’s visibility, retrievability, audience, usage, and citations, which all convert to career building. For publishing scholars, it would be a bargain even if it were costly, difficult, and time-consuming. But as we’ll see, it’s not costly, not difficult, and not time-consuming.
My colleague Stevan Harnad frequently compares research articles to advertisements. They advertise the author’s research. Try telling advertisers that they’re making a needless sacrifice by allowing people to read their ads without having to pay for the privilege. Advertisers give away their ads and even pay to place them where they might be seen. They do this to benefit themselves, and scholars have the same interest in sharing their message as widely as possible.
Because any content can be digital, and any digital content can be OA, OA needn’t be limited to royalty-free literature like research articles. Research articles are just ripe examples of low-hanging fruit. OA could extend to royalty-producing work like monographs, textbooks, novels, news, music, and movies. But as soon as we cross the line into OA for royalty-producing work, authors will either lose revenue or fear that they will lose revenue. Either way, they’ll be harder to persuade. But instead of concluding that royalty-producing work is off limits to OA, we should merely conclude that it’s higher-hanging fruit. In many cases we can still persuade royalty-earning authors to consent to OA. (See section 5.3 on OA for books.)
Authors of scholarly research articles aren’t the only players who work without pay in the production of research literature. In general, scholarly journals don’t pay editors or referees either. In general, editors and referees are paid salaries by universities to free them, like authors, to donate their time and labor to ensure the quality of new work appearing in scholarly journals. An important consequence follows. All the key players in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. OA needn’t dispense with peer review or favor unrefereed manuscripts over refereed articles. We can aim for the prize of OA to peer-reviewed scholarship. (See section 5.1 on peer review.)
Of course, conventional publishers are not as free as authors, editors, and referees to forgo revenue. This is a central fact in the transition to OA, and it explains why the interests of scholars and conventional publishers diverge more in the digital age than they diverged earlier. But not all publishers are conventional, and not all conventional publishers will carry print-era business models into the digital age.
Academic publishers are not monolithic. Some new ones were born OA and some older ones have completely converted to OA. Many provide OA to some of their work but not all of it. Some are experimenting with OA, and some are watching the experiments of others. Most allow green OA (through repositories) and a growing number offer at least some kind of gold OA (through journals). Some are supportive, some undecided, some opposed. Among the opposed, some have merely decided not to provide OA themselves, while others lobby actively against policies to encourage or require OA. Some oppose gold but not green OA, while others oppose green but not gold OA.
OA gains nothing and loses potential allies by blurring these distinctions. This variety reminds us (to paraphrase Tim O’Reilly) that OA doesn’t threaten publishing; it only threatens existing publishers who do not adapt.
A growing number of journal publishers have chosen business models allowing them to dispense with subscription revenue and offer OA. They have expenses but they also have revenue to cover their expenses. In fact, some OA publishers are for-profit and profitable. (See chapter 7 on economics.)
Moreover, peer review is done by dedicated volunteers who don’t care how a journal pays its bills, or even whether the journal is in the red or the black. If all peer-reviewed journals converted to OA overnight, the authors, editors, and referees would have the same incentives to participate in peer review that they had the day before. They needn’t stop offering their services, needn’t lower their standards, and needn’t make sacrifices they weren’t already making. They volunteer their time not because of a journal’s choice of business model but because of its contribution to research. They could carry on with solvent or insolvent subscription publishers, with solvent or insolvent OA publishers, or even without publishers.
The Budapest Open Access Initiative said in February 2002: “An old tradition and a new technology have converged to make possible an unprecedented public good. The old tradition is the willingness of scientists and scholars to publish the fruits of their research in scholarly journals without payment. . . . The new technology is the internet.”
To see what this willingness looks like without the medium to give it effect, look at scholarship in the age of print. Author gifts turned into publisher commodities, and access gaps for readers were harmfully large and widespread. (Access gaps are still harmfully large and widespread, but only because OA is not yet the default for new research.) To see what the medium looks like without the willingness, look at music and movies in the age of the internet. The need for royalties keeps creators from reaching everyone who would enjoy their work.
A beautiful opportunity exists where the willingness and the medium overlap. A scholarly custom that evolved in the seventeenth century frees scholars to take advantage of the access revolution in the twentieth and twenty-first. Because scholars are nearly unique in following this custom, they are nearly unique in their freedom to take advantage of this revolution without financial risk. In this sense, the planets have aligned for scholars. Most other authors are constrained to fear rather than seize the opportunities created by the internet.
1.2 What OA Is Not
We can dispel a cloud of objections and misunderstandings simply by pointing out a few things that OA is not. (Many of these points will be elaborated in later chapters.)
OA isn’t an attempt to bypass peer review. OA is compatible with every kind of peer review, from the most conservative to the most innovative, and all the major public statements on OA insist on its importance. Because scholarly journals generally don’t pay peer-reviewing editors and referees, just as they don’t pay authors, all the participants in peer review can consent to OA without losing revenue. While OA to unrefereed preprints is useful and widespread, the OA movement isn’t limited to unrefereed preprints and, if anything, focuses on OA to peer-reviewed articles. (More in section 5.1 on peer review.)
OA isn’t an attempt to reform, violate, or abolish copyright. It’s compatible with copyright law as it is. OA would benefit from the right kinds of copyright reforms, and many dedicated people are working on them. But it needn’t wait for reforms and hasn’t waited. OA literature avoids copyright problems in exactly the same way that conventional toll-access literature does. For older works, it takes advantage of the public domain, and for newer works, it rests on copyright-holder consent. (More in chapter 4 on policies and chapter 6 on copyright.)
OA isn’t an attempt to deprive royalty-earning authors of income. The OA movement focuses on research articles precisely because they don’t pay royalties. In any case, inside and outside that focus, OA for copyrighted work depends on copyright-holder consent. Hence, royalty-earning authors have nothing to fear but persuasion that the benefits of OA might outweigh the risks to royalties. (More in section 5.3 on OA for books.)
OA isn’t an attempt to deny the reality of costs. No serious OA advocate has ever argued that OA literature is costless to produce, although many argue that it is less expensive to produce than conventionally published literature, even less expensive than born-digital toll-access literature. The question is not whether research literature can be made costless, but whether there are better ways to pay the bills than charging readers and creating access barriers. (More in chapter 7 on economics.)
Terminology
We could talk about vigilante OA, infringing OA, piratical OA, or OA without consent. That sort of OA could violate copyrights and deprive royalty-earning authors of royalties against their will. But we could also talk about vigilante publishing, infringing publishing, piratical publishing, or publishing without consent. Both happen. However, we generally reserve the term “publishing” for lawful publishing, and tack on special adjectives to describe unlawful variations on the theme. Likewise, I’ll reserve the term “open access” for lawful OA that carries the consent of the relevant rightsholder.
OA isn’t an attempt to reduce authors’ rights over their work. On the contrary, OA depends on author decisions and requires authors to exercise more rights or control over their work than they are allowed to exercise under traditional publishing contracts. One OA strategy is for authors to retain some of the rights they formerly gave publishers, including the right to authorize OA. Another OA strategy is for publishers to permit more uses than they formerly permitted, including permission for authors to make OA copies of their work. By contrast, traditional journal-publishing contracts demand that authors transfer all rights to publishers, and author rights or control cannot sink lower than that. (See chapters
4
on policies and
6
on copyright.)
OA isn’t an attempt to reduce academic freedom. Academic authors remain free to submit their work to the journals or publishers of their choice. Policies requiring OA do so conditionally, for example, for researchers who choose to apply for a certain kind of grant. In addition, these policies generally build in exceptions, waiver options, or both. Since 2008 most university OA policies have been adopted by faculty deeply concerned to preserve and even enhance their prerogatives. (See
chapter 4
on OA policies.)
OA isn’t an attempt to relax rules against plagiarism. All the public definitions of OA support author attribution, even construed as a “restriction” on users. All the major open licenses require author attribution. Moreover, plagiarism is typically punished by the plagiarist’s institution rather than by courts, that is, by social norms rather than by law. Hence, even when attribution is not legally required, plagiarism is still a punishable offense and no OA policy anywhere interferes with those punishments. In any case, if making literature digital and online makes plagiarism easier to commit, then OA makes plagiarism easier to detect. Not all plagiarists are smart, but the smart ones will not steal from OA sources indexed in every search engine. In this sense, OA deters plagiarism.
OA isn’t an attempt to punish or undermine conventional publishers. OA is an attempt to advance the interests of research, researchers, and research institutions. The goal is constructive, not destructive. If OA does eventually harm toll-access publishers, it will be in the way that personal computers harmed typewriter manufacturers. The harm was not the goal, but a side effect of developing something better. Moreover, OA doesn’t challenge publishers or publishing per se, just one business model for publishing, and it’s far easier for conventional publishers to adapt to OA than for typewriter manufacturers to adapt to computers. In fact, most toll-access publishers are already adapting, by allowing author-initiated OA, providing some OA themselves, or experimenting with OA. (See section 3.1 on green OA and chapter 8 on casualties.)
OA doesn’t require boycotting any kind of literature or publisher. It doesn’t require boycotting toll-access research any more than free online journalism requires boycotting priced online journalism. OA doesn’t require us to strike toll-access literature from our personal reading lists, course syllabi, or libraries. Some scholars who support OA decide to submit new work only to OA journals, or to donate their time as editors or referees only to OA journals, in effect boycotting toll-access journals as authors, editors, and referees. But this choice is not forced by the definition of OA, by a commitment to OA, or by any OA policy, and most scholars who support OA continue to work with toll-access journals. In any case, even those scholars who do boycott toll-access journals as authors, editors, or referees don’t boycott them as readers. (Here we needn’t get into the complexity that some toll-access journals effectively create involuntary reader boycotts by pricing their journals out of reach of readers who want access.)
OA isn’t primarily about bringing access to lay readers. If anything, the OA movement focuses on bringing access to professional researchers whose careers depend on access. But there’s no need to decide which users are primary and which are secondary. The publishing lobby sometimes argues that the primary beneficiaries of OA are lay readers, perhaps to avoid acknowledging how many professional researchers lack access, or perhaps to set up the patronizing counter-argument that lay people don’t care to read research literature and wouldn’t understand it if they tried. OA is about bringing access to everyone with an internet connection who wants access, regardless of their professions or purposes. There’s no doubt that if we put “professional researchers” and “everyone else” into separate categories, a higher percentage of researchers will want access to research literature, even after taking into account that many already have paid access through their institutions. But it’s far from clear why that would matter, especially when providing OA to all internet users is cheaper and simpler than providing OA to just a subset of worthy internet users.
If party-goers in New York and New Jersey can both enjoy the Fourth of July fireworks in New York Harbor, then the sponsors needn’t decide that one group is primary, even if a simple study could show which group is more numerous. If this analogy breaks down, it’s because New Jersey residents who can’t see the fireworks gain nothing from New Yorkers who can. But research does offer this double or indirect benefit. When OA research directly benefits many lay readers, so much the better. But when it doesn’t, it still benefits everyone indirectly by benefiting researchers directly. (Also see section 5.5.1 on access for lay readers.)
Finally, OA isn’t universal access. Even when we succeed at removing price and permission barriers, four other kinds of access barrier might remain in place:
Filtering and censorship barriers
Many schools, employers, ISPs, and governments want to limit what users can see.
Language barriers
Most online literature is in English, or another single language, and machine translation is still very weak.
Handicap access barriers
Most web sites are not yet as accessible to handicapped users as they should be.
Connectivity barriers
The digital divide keeps billions of people offline, including millions of scholars, and impedes millions of others with slow, flaky, or low-bandwidth internet connections.
Most us want to remove all four of these barriers. But there’s no reason to save the term
open access
until we succeed. In the long climb to universal access, removing price and permission barriers is a significant plateau worth recognizing with a special name.
|
train | 99910 | [
"What is a working example of a complementary currency?",
"Which complementary currency didn't work out?",
"What percent goes toward a Brixton Fund when a Brixton Pound is spent?",
"Who came up with the Stroud Pound?",
"Who is the CFO of the Bristol Pound",
"When did people start using the Bristol Pound?",
"What is a big obstacle for the Glasgow Pound?",
"Who is the CEO of the Bristol Pound?",
"Who would look great on a Glasgow Pound?"
] | [
[
"The Brixton Pound",
"The Eko Pound",
"The Liverpool Pound",
"The Glasgow Pound"
],
[
"The Stroud Pound",
"The Totnes Pound",
"The Liverpool Pound",
"The Brixton Pound"
],
[
"2.0 percent",
"0.5 percent",
"1.0 percent",
"1.5 percent"
],
[
"Ciaran Mundy",
"Duncan McCann",
"Stephen Clarke",
"Molly Scott Cato"
],
[
"Stephen Clarke",
"Molly Scott Cato",
"Duncan McCann",
"Ciaran Mundy"
],
[
"2012",
"2015",
"2016",
"2010"
],
[
"There is a ten-year life expectancy gap between different parts of the city.",
"More than a third of the families grow up in poverty. A local currency makes shopping a little more expensive.",
"They must be used at independent shops, instead of big supermarket chains.",
"In deprived areas, people cannot afford time and money to put into their communities."
],
[
"Ciaran Mundy",
"Stephen Clarke",
"Peter Ferry",
"Duncan McCann"
],
[
"Karen Gillian",
"Billy Connolly",
"Gerard Butler",
"Sean Connery"
]
] | [
1,
1,
4,
4,
1,
1,
2,
1,
2
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
1
] | New money: Do local currencies actually work?
It's lunchtime at Glasgow Chambers in late November, and Councillor George Redmond is getting worked up at the prospect a Glasgow Pound. "We would be Glasgow-centric about it," he says conspiratorially, as though there is any other way to be. "Can you imagine having the face of Billy Connolly on our local currency? Or Alex Ferguson, or Kenny Dalglish?"
Inventing an alternative to sterling might sound far-fetched, even illegal. But it's not that strange. In the UK we think of the pound like fish think about water, which is to say not at all. It might never have occurred to many of us that there are other types of exchange that can stand in for ragged bank notes tucked away in pockets, or other objects that can stand in for those notes.
Not every country is so lucky. In crisis-hit Greece, where the euro can be hard to come by, businesses and citizens have turned to bartering using a points system where goods like pianos, pot and pans can be exchanged for security services or loaned farming equipment. In India last year, desperate people burned sacks of illegal cash after the government withdrew two high-denomination notes as part of a crackdown on corruption. Hoarders woke up to discover the banknotes under their mattresses were suddenly worthless.
The pound has been trading at its lowest level since 1985 since the UK voted to leave the European Union and there are fears that it could dip further as Brexit ensues. Timebanks, local exchange trading systems (LETS) and digital inventions like bitcoin can provide alternative ways for people to pay for goods and services when mainstream currencies hit crises. But they will only work if Britons are ready to accept that they have the power to invent their own currency.
"At the moment, if the pound stops working for us, the whole economy grinds to a halt because there aren't alternatives," Duncan McCann, a researcher at the New Economics Foundation, tells those gathered in a gilded room at Glasgow Chambers to discuss the Glasgow Pound. McCann is a long-time advocate of alternative means of exchange. He is behind the ScotPound, a proposal for a new national currency for Scotland that emerged after the referendum on Scottish independence. It's an idea he no longer thinks will work, because the debate, since Brexit, has shifted from the currency issue back to ideas about Scottish independence.
Today, he's preaching to the converted. Alex Walker, the chairman of the 250-person Ekopia community in Northern Scotland, listens at the back. The Eko has been the main means of buying everything from beer to bananas in Ekopia since Walker founded it 20 years ago. On an adjacent table, Tracy Duff, a community learning and development worker from Clackmannanshire Council, digs out some papers. She runs the Clacks Youth Timebank, a scheme where 12- to 15-year-olds can earn credit for volunteering. Taking notes up front is Ailie Rutherford, one of the people who organised the meeting. Rutherford runs the People's Bank of Govanhill, a currency that changes value depending on the income of the user. "I don't see any reason why we shouldn't invent our own currency and play with it," she says.
Everyone has gathered to decide what a Glasgow Pound might look like at a time when many are asking if local currencies can work at all. Councillor Redmond says Glasgow has been closely watching existing alternative currencies like the Brixton Pound in London, which was introduced in 2011.
The founders of the Brixton Pound wanted to do something to stop 80p of every £1 spent locally from leaking out of the area into the pockets of corporations, at the expense of small local traders. So they printed a currency that would have the same value as the pound, but could only be traded in independent Brixton shops, where the shopkeeper would also have to spend it locally. This year the Brixton Pound got its own cashpoint, from where people can withdraw local banknotes bearing colourful images of local heroes, like David Bowie and secret Agent Violette Szabo, to spend in over 150 local shops. It can also be used by residents to pay council tax and by employers to pay wages.
No two local currencies are exactly the same. But the Brixton Pound and other recent schemes follow the example ten years ago of the Totnes Pound, a 'complementary currency': that is, one supplementing the national currency. As fears for financial stability took hold during the recession, complementary currencies grew in popularity. The Bank of England does not consider these forms of currency legal tender, but the notes hold value in the same way as a gift-card from a department store, with the same kind of restrictions about where they can be spent. Proponents say complementary currencies boost spending in smaller geographical areas, which can have environmental benefits as businesses cut transport distances to deal with local suppliers. Detractors say they have no real economic impact and work only as a game for the middle classes, who can afford to buy from independent shops rather than chains.
In Britain, there are now schemes in Totnes, Lewes, Brixton, Bristol and Exeter. Hull has its own local digital currency that can be earned from volunteering and used to pay council tax. Kingston, Birmingham and Liverpool have schemes underway. Glasgow could be next. But the working group has some serious questions to answer first, not least: do complementary currencies actually work?
"People don't understand money," Molly Scott Cato, Green MEP for the South West of England and Gibraltar, says over the phone.
Scott Cato says the fish-in-water problem – the idea that sterling is so ubiquitous, it is never questioned – is the biggest challenge for complementary currencies. She knows all about it as a founder of the Stroud Pound in 2010, a currency that has since gone out of circulation.
"[People] think they put money into a bank and someone else takes it out. What they don't understand is that banks have the power to create money. We've given the power to create money to private corporations and people don't understand that we can have it back," she says.
In Stroud, suspicion of the local currency among local businesses became a barrier to success. Scott-Cato said traders refused to join the scheme because they were "running a business", as though putting the community first and placing the needs of others as equivalent to their own was in itself bad business practice, or as though they were somehow being disloyal to sterling.
The Bristol Pound (£B) entered into circulation in September 2012. By June 2015, 1m £B had been issued, with £B700,000 of that still in circulation. In a population of some 450,000 people, that's the equivalent of each Bristolian carrying less than £B2 in change in their pocket.
"The small scale is a problem and a strength," says Stephen Clarke, chief financial officer of the Bristol Pound. "The benefit comes from the fact that local currencies are trusted organisations: we're a Community Interest Company limited by guarantee." That means assets owned by the the Bristol Pound have to be used for the good of the community, rather than purely for profit.
Without enough currency in circulation, it ceases to work. Scott-Cato says Stroud's size meant meant the Stroud Pound was never viable: "We couldn't get the velocity of circulation right, which contrasts with the Bristol Pound."
Clarke also says the small scale of local currencies means they are "always scrabbling around looking for money". One way founders of the Bristol Pound have addressed his is by setting up an umbrella organisation, the Guild of Independent Currencies, to share information between local currencies in the UK and help new organisations. "At the moment we're all reinventing the wheel every time," Clarke says.
Technology might also have a solution. Peter Ferry, a commercial director, travels to Glasgow to tell those working on the Glasgow Pound that that his company Wallet has come up with a way to use the blockchain, the technology behind bitcoin, to make it easier for people to use multiple types of currency. "There might be many currencies around the country that people want to use. We need to make it simple for them to do that and also to make it simple to earn these currencies in many ways," he says.
Size doesn't always matter. Sometimes, the smallest places – like Totnes and the Ekopia community – are best able to support complementary currencies because the people who live there are engaged with their local economy in a meaningful way.
"Bristol is seen as a quirky, individualistic kind of place," Clarke says. "When we first produced the Bristol Pound note, people were really proud of it. It got through to people not just sat around coffee shops. I'm not sure a London Pound would work, because people identify with their local area in London rather than the city as a whole."
Bristol Pound users don't have high incomes necessarily, but surveys show they are engaged with their local community and they have a higher educational attainment than average. In the years since the financial crisis, as local authority budgets have shrunk, some areas have relied heavily on engaged communities to fill in gaps in public services. By contrast, deprived areas where people cannot afford time and money to put into their community have become more deprived, making them even harder for local currencies to reach.
"It is difficult to get into more disadvantaged areas," Stephen Clarke says. "We have a ten-year life expectancy gap between different parts of the city. When you go to disadvantaged areas with the Bristol Pound hat on you realise there aren't independent shops there, there's an Aldi and Lidl and that's it."
More than a third of children grow up in poverty in Glasgow. A Glasgow Pound might struggle to get poorer families to buy into a local currency that ties them to shopping at more expensive, independent shops, rather than getting deals at big supermarket chains.
When Scott-Cato and her colleagues wrote about the experience of setting up the Stroud Pound, they said it was telling that complementary currencies have been accused of being a game for middle-class people, rather than a genuine economic solution.
Perhaps for that reason, experts like Duncan McCann have stopped thinking of complementary currencies as a one-size-fits-all solution. He said they can function as a kind of 'gateway drug' to introduce people to a new way of thinking about money. "That is especially for those who use it, but also for those who just become aware of it," he says.
Ciaran Mundy, CEO of the Bristol Pound, says it is important to think of the systemic impact rather than looking for targeted treatment of symptoms of economic deprivation. "Poverty has many causes," he says. "One of these is how the economy is structured in terms of how money flows out of poor areas due to high dependence on larger national and international companies paying lower wages and using offshore accounts to hide the money from the tax man."
Nothing is tying Glasgow to existing models for complementary currencies. But during the first meeting about setting up the Glasgow Pound, the workshop shows just how hard it would be to invent a new system that works for everyone.
Each table is handed a wad of Post-it notes and a piece of white paper. A table leader asks everyone to write on the Post-its what they want the Glasgow Pound to achieve. Elbowing teacups out the way, people get to work. They scrawl a dizzying number of proposals, from keeping more wealth in the local area to empowering people who feel cut out of the national economy, or to moving towards land reform and saving the environment. Team leaders try to assemble these ideas in themes to report back to the room.
On one table, Duncan McCann encourages people to urge businesses to do things they have never done before. "One of the goals should be to move businesses from where they are today into the future," he says.
After years of researc,h McCann believes the only way complementary currencies can create real value for local economies is if they make transactions happen that wouldn't otherwise have taken place.
"They need to create additional spending power. This is this what the local currencies, despite all their good points, fail to do," McCann says.
Every time a Brixton Pound transaction is made, 1.5 per cent goes into a Brixton Fund. This is used to give micro-grants of between a few hundred and £2000 to local projects and community groups. "We aim to target projects that aren't large enough to apply for more formal grant funding," says Lucy Çava, project manager at the Brixton Pound.
"We see this as part of community building – linking the Brixton Pound user with community groups, so both groups become more visible to each other through the currency and fund. This is particularly important in Brixton because of the gentrification debates which are very salient round there," Çava says.
Meanwhile, the people behind the Bristol Pound are readying a mutual credit network called Bristol Prospects. Through this network, businesses in Bristol can exchange credit in the form of loans that are neutralised within the network, helping one another to grow without relying on the high rates of commercial lenders.
Once operational, loans offered through the Prospects network will have negative interest, so that businesses are encouraged to pass credit on as quickly as possible. "That's the plan," says Clarke, "because it's rather like a hot potato: people will want to pass it on."
"We know from research that a number of small businesses in Bristol are struggling to get money on reasonable terms," says Clarke, "and that banks are not interested in smaller loans to businesses. So we think there is a strength in the Bristol Pound network to start something like this that is linked, but separate."
Duncan McCann, with all his experience, knows that challenge is worthwhile. "As people we have a right to make credit and loan money. We mustn't forget that. We mustn't leave that to corporations and the state," he says.
This article is part of a series on local economies Hazel is documenting at farnearer.org, with funding from the Friends Provident Foundation
Illustration by PureSolution/Shutterstock
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 51597 | [
"The Captain is characterized in all of the following ways EXCEPT:",
"What is the narrator's profession?",
"The Pequod, Nimitz, and Triton are all references to? ",
"According to the narrator, who is the most important figure onboard a spacecraft? ",
"All of the following is 'recycled' to create extra 'food' EXCEPT for:",
"How do the crewmen view the tension between Winkelmann and Bailey?",
"How does Winkelmann justify his critical stance towards Bailey's cooking?",
"What was Winkelmann's greatest insult to Bailey?",
"How did Bailey achieve the meal that tasted like barbeque?"
] | [
[
"melodramatic",
"sardonic",
"exasperating",
"acrimonious"
],
[
"astronaut",
"doctor",
"sailor",
"cook"
],
[
"crewmen aboard the Charles Partlow Sale",
"seafaring men or ships from literature",
"names of scientists who invented food recycling techniques",
"the most palatable strains of algae"
],
[
"the Captain",
"the chef",
"the waste manager",
"the 'doctor'"
],
[
"urine",
"hair",
"algae",
"bones"
],
[
"They are repulsed by the Captain's condescending remarks",
"They are thankful that the Captain's cruelty influences Bailey to create more palatable food",
"They are determined to stay out of the conflict, for fear of being punished by the Captain",
"They are concerned that Bailey will mutiny by refusing to fulfill his job responsibilities"
],
[
"It motivates Bailey to seek the approval of his shipmates",
"It prevents Bailey from becoming apathetic in the kitchen",
"It compels Bailey to be more creative with his resources",
"It builds Bailey's character and makes him more resilient"
],
[
"Slathering ketchup on Bailey's most proud concoction",
"Reducing his compensation",
"Refusing to eat the steaks that Bailey innovated",
"Remarking that the food in which he invested the least effort in making was the most delicious"
],
[
"He added the Captain's entrails",
"He allowed the chlorella to ferment longer",
"He used actual pork products",
"He added his own refuse"
]
] | [
4,
2,
2,
2,
4,
2,
3,
1,
1
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | GOURMET
By ALLEN KIM LANG
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This was the endless problem of all
spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men
tomorrow on what they had eaten today!
Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,
men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It's
true that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussion
can never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is a
challenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughts
that a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.
In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearing
seals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,
celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. The
Limey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed into
his diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated age
only as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmen
are called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the
Chlorella
and
Scenedesmus
algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open the
road to the larger Space without.
Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture in
history—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilis
to the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral with
cross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to the
hundred-and-first chapter of
Moby Dick
, a book spooled in the
amusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, that
no Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment more
than a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads of
Leyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for a
man condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.
The
Pequod's
crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men won
their war on canned pork and beans. The
Triton
made her underwater
periplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza and
concentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for the
skies, a decline set in.
The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decent
food. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezings
from aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to the
groundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.
Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black sky
through a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgusting
exordium of
Isaiah
36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast today
what was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.
The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turning
offal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard a
spacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.
Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.
Ajax
fiasco, for example, in which a
galleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship's
shielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued from
the
Ajax
in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We think
of the
Benjo Maru
incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowed
his algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing
Saccharomycodes
yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad at
Piano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got into
the stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequent
bite he ate to a superior grade of
sake
. And for a third footnote to
the ancient observation, "God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,"
Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the
Charles Partlow
Sale
.
The
Sale
blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, due
in at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were taking
the low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as the
human period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen fir
seedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be planted
in the
maria
to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We had
aboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship's
Surgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,
the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook was
Robert Bailey.
Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustrating
tensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,
dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility to
see that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds of
water, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.
This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's a
statement of the least fuel a man can run on.
Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargo
compartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the
C. P. Sale
no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae to
work over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tons
of metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano West
and back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,
protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And the
algae fed us.
All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubble
from our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en route
and back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich in
essential amino acids.
The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill the
smell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in a
hundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quite
wore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule of
oxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by the
end of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with the
glomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundling
politicians are right enough when they say that we spacers are a
breed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury of
squeamishness.
Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knife
in space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncher
extraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,
guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.
Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victim
is the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.
If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic duties
of his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmann
was the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best do
so alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would have
done splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heart
was a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planet
Earth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying as
Willy Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of a
Pullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major social
hemorrhoid.
The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.
It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, "Bailey,
Robert," on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunate
shipmate "Belly-Robber." It was Winkelmann who discussed
haut
cuisine
and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched our
algaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it was
Captain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by any
other name than The Kitchen Cabinet.
Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the taste
of synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized by
Chlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oregano
and thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,
textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted the
slabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.
For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste of
the carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.
"Belly-Robber," he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,
"you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a pun
in my home country:
Mensch ist was er isst.
It means, you are what
you eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this
Schweinerei
you are feeding me." Captain Winkelmann blotted his chin
with his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up the
ladder from the dining-cubby.
"Doc, do you like Winkelmann?" the Cook asked me.
"Not much," I said. "I suspect that the finest gift our Captain can
give his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've got
to live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship."
"I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook," Bailey said. "The fat swine!"
"His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey," I
said. "He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers in
my time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none."
Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. It
was green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. "This
is what I have to work with," he said. He tossed the stuff back into
its bin. "In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,
we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings."
"You'll never make Winkelmann happy," I said. "Even the simultaneous
death of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep up
the good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat."
Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of rye
from Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cook
waved my gift aside. "Not now, Doc," he said. "I'm thinking about
tomorrow's menu."
The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon the
next day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressed
with something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves of
burnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can only
guess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling and
drying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nine
heads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The
pièce de
résistance
was again a "hamburger steak;" but this time the algaeal
mass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was only
faintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets had
been sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. "It's
so tender," the radioman joked, "that I can hardly believe it's really
steak."
Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silently
imploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The big
man's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.
"Belly-Robber," Winkelmann said, "I had almost rather you served me
this pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions and
cycler-salt."
"You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain," I said. I
gazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.
"Yes, I eat it," the Captain said, taking and talking through another
bite. "But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms and
grasshoppers, to stay alive."
"Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me?" Bailey pleaded.
"Only good food," Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguised
algae. He tapped his head with a finger. "This—the brain that guides
the ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,
Belly-Robber?"
Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. "Yes, sir. But I really
don't know what I can do to please you."
"You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban
Hausfrau
with the
vapors," Winkelmann said. "I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrums
or weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that will
keep my belly content and my brain alive."
"Yes, sir," Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the British
term Dumb Insolence.
Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. I
followed him. "Captain," I said, "you're driving Bailey too hard.
You're asking him to make bricks without straw."
Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. "You think, Doctor,
that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-aged
man?"
"Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all," I said.
"You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,"
Winkelmann said. "Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if the
Pharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children of
Israel would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is the
mother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make him
uncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,
to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learn
somehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks."
"You're driving him too hard, Sir," I said. "He'll crack."
"Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when we
ground at Brady Station," Captain Winkelmann said. "So much money buys
many discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova."
"Crew morale on the ship...." I began.
"That will be all, Doctor Vilanova," Captain Winkelmann repeated.
Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the elliptical
path to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiate
the appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemned
by that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain at
mealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. "Convey my
compliments to the Chef, please," the Captain would instruct one of
the crew, "and ask him to step down here a moment." And the Cook would
cheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary genius
acidly called in question again.
I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to go
into Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark in
brilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an
ersatz
hot
turkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorella
turkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacy
a grainy and delicious "cornbread," and had extracted from his algae
a lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot "bread" with a
genuinely dairy smell. "Splendid, Bailey," I said.
"We are not amused," said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a second
helping of the pseudo-turkey. "You are improving, Belly-Robber, but
only arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to require
a geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mere
edibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you will
have learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economics
student. That will be all, Bailey."
The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding of
Bailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between their
Captain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embark
on an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their last
few days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and many
memories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men had
lost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,
seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,
and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to our
Captain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advice
that would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, when
Winkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.
Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effects
besides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. As
his rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double this
ration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds of
books, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to help
him while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for a
fact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case of
spices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,
and a dozen others.
Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cards
interested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability alien
to his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'd
exercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowance
to the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.
To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to come
aboard their ship mother-naked.
But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effects
baggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noon
mess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feet
on the mysterious box as he sat to eat.
"What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,
Belly-Robber?" he asked the Cook.
Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'd
had much practice. "I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,"
he said. "I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get the
texture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?"
"I understand," Winkelmann growled. "You intend that your latest mess
should feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?"
"Yes, Sir," Bailey said. "Well, I squeezed the
steak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of special
seasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaeal
oil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.
Voila!
I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuine
meat."
"Remarkable, Bailey," I said.
"It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about with
our food," the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression of
distaste. "It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but I
never cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoils
the meal."
Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center of
the table and tenderly lifted a small "steak" onto each of our plates.
"Try it," he urged the Captain.
Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. The
color was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smell
of fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. "Not
too bad, Belly-Robber," he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbed
his head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. A
kind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of a
more reasonable man. "But it still needs something ... something,"
Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.
"Aha! I have it!"
"Yes, Sir?" Bailey asked.
"This, Belly-Robber!" Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table and
ripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewed
the cap. "Ketchup," he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey's
masterpiece. "The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks."
Lifting a hunk of the "steak," streaming ketchup, to his mouth,
Winkelmann chewed. "Just the thing," he smiled.
"Damn you!" Bailey shouted.
Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.
"... Sir," Bailey added.
"That's better," Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He said
meditatively, "Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I have
sufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep a
bottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber."
"But, Sir...." Bailey began.
"You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threat
to the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealistic
slops for another hundred days, without the small consolation of
this sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be in
no condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do you
understand, Belly-Robber?" he demanded.
"I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,
slave-driving...."
"Watch your noun," Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. "Your adjectives are
insubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous."
"Captain, you've gone too far," I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, was
scarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.
"Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship's
Surgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain," Winkelmann said.
"Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you," I said. "The other officers
and the men have been more than satisfied with his work."
"That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds," Winkelmann said.
"Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber," he added.
Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered him
to my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on my
bunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metal
bulkhead. "You'll have that drink now," I said.
"No, dammit!" he shouted.
"Orders," I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. "This is
therapy, Bailey," I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throat
like water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.
After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. "Sorry, Doc," he said.
"You've taken more pressure than most men would," I said. "Nothing to
be ashamed of."
"He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzel
and sauerkraut and
Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art
out of an algae
tank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-out
molecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. And
he expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquet
of the Friends of Escoffier!"
"Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey," I said. "You've worked your
fingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're not
appreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A year
from now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start that
restaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman."
"I hate him," Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. He
reached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can be
an apt confederate of
vis medicatrix naturae
, the healing power of
nature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep it
off. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.
For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable in
horribleness, a pottage or boiled
Chlorella vulgaris
that looked
and tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,
red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann as
though daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of the
disgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, "Belly-Robber, you're
improving a little at last."
Bailey nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Sir," he said.
I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses were
now strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults of
irony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that was
a price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmann
theory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captain
had pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, I
thought.
Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tasted
of salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment were
vehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, for
the decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He served
the algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galley
oblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.
There being only three seats in the
Sale's
mess compartment, we ate
our meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder to
supper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smell
to make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,
of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hiss
of canned beer being church-keyed. "He's done it, Doc!" one of the
first-shift diners said. "It actually tastes of food!"
"Then he's beat the Captain at his game," I said.
"The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks," the crewman
said.
I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electric
warming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three of
us with the small "steaks." Each contained about a pound of dried
Chlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenched
in a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black iron
skillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cut
a bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there are
limits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in the
galley door. I gestured for him to join me. "You've done it, Bailey,"
I said. "Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This is
actually
good
."
"Thanks, Doc," Bailey said.
I smiled and took another bite. "You may not realize it, Bailey; but
this is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;
you couldn't have done it without him."
"You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?"
Bailey asked.
"He was driving you to do the impossible," I said; "and you did it. Our
Captain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximum
performance out of his Ship's Cook."
Bailey stood up. "Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor?" he asked.
I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.
He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the good
of the ship and his crew. "Do I like Captain Winkelmann?" I asked,
spearing another piece of my artificial steak. "Bailey, I'm afraid I'll
have to admit that I do."
Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto my
plate. "Then have another piece," he said.
|
train | 60995 | [
"What is the central theme of February Strawberries?",
"Why does Howell not want Linton to approach Snead in the restaurant?",
"Howell offers all of the following reasons why resurrection is problematic EXCEPT:",
"According to Howell, all of the following issues might arise from resurrecting people EXCEPT for?",
"Why did Linton spend time in an asylum?",
"Which of the following risks are explicitly associated with bringing someone back to life?",
"Why does Linton murder Greta after just resurrecting her?",
"What will likely happen after Mr. Linton killed Greta?",
"What is the most likely identity of the man Linton believes to be Mr. Snead?",
"Why does Linton initially believe that Greta attempted to murder him after he resurrected her?"
] | [
[
"Death, while tragic, should be permanent",
"Just because technology has the means to accomplish great feats does not mean it should cross certain lines",
"It is better to have all the details before making a life-changing and costly decision",
"The value of a human life cannot transfer once one is resurrected"
],
[
"Howell imagines that Snead has likely been resurrected and will try to go after Linton",
"Howell knows that Linton has been resurrected and does not want him to be embarrassed if Linton commits a social faux pas",
"Howell does not want Linton to learn about resurrection after what he did to become institutionalized",
"Howell knows that Linton attempted to murder Snead before he suffered from a nervous breakdown"
],
[
"It is illegal",
"It conflicts with many people's religious beliefs",
"It compromises the death industry",
"It is extremely costly"
],
[
"overpopulation",
"unskilled practitioners",
"insurance fraud",
"android takeover"
],
[
"he invested in bad stocks",
"he committed murder",
"suffers from delusions and hallucinations",
"his wife died from cancer"
],
[
"They may desire to seek revenge on the person who killed them",
"They may not recognize the person who resurrected them",
"The person who received their insurance settlement will have to return it",
"They may suffer from cell deterioration"
],
[
"Greta wants him to relieve her of her suffering",
"He desires the rest of her insurance money",
"He realized he resurrected the wrong person",
"Greta attempted to kill him"
],
[
"He will attempt to resurrect her again",
"He will be re-institutionalized",
"No one will ever find out what happened",
"He will lose all of his money"
],
[
"Snead's twin brother",
"A complete stranger",
"Snead (who never died)",
"A resurrected Snead"
],
[
"She wants the rest of his fortune",
"She had a brain malfunction",
"She is suffering from hallucinations",
"She is part of an android cult"
]
] | [
2,
3,
4,
4,
2,
1,
4,
2,
4,
2
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | FEBRUARY STRAWBERRIES
By JIM HARMON
How much is the impossible worth?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Linton lay down his steel fork beside the massively solid transparency
of the restaurant water glass.
"Isn't that Rogers Snead at that table?" he heard himself say stupidly.
Howell, the man across the table from him, looked embarrassed without
looking. "Not at all. Somebody who looks like him. Twin brother. You
know how it is. Snead's dead, don't you remember?"
Linton remembered. Howell had to know that he would remember. What
were they trying to pull on him? "The man who isn't Snead is leaving,"
Linton said, describing the scene over Howell's shoulder. "If that's
Snead's brother, I might catch him to pay my respects."
"No," Howell said, "I wouldn't do that."
"Snead came to Greta's funeral. It's the least I could do."
"I wouldn't. Probably no relation to Snead at all. Somebody who looks
like him."
"He's practically running," Linton said. "He almost ran out of the
restaurant."
"Who? Oh, the man who looked like Snead, you mean."
"Yes," Linton said.
A thick-bodied man at the next table leaned his groaning chair back
intimately against Linton's own chair.
"That fellow who just left looked like a friend of yours, huh?" the
thick man said.
"Couldn't have been him, though," Linton answered automatically. "My
friend's dead."
The thick man rocked forward and came down on all six feet. He threw
paper money on the table as if he were disgusted with it. He plodded
out of the place quickly.
Howell breathed in deeply and sucked back Linton's attention. "Now
you've probably got old Snead into trouble."
"Snead's dead," Linton said.
"Oh, well, 'dead,'" Howell replied.
"What do you say it like that for?" Linton demanded angrily. "The
man's dead. Plain dead. He's not Sherlock Holmes or the Frankenstein
Monster—there's no doubt or semantic leeway to the thing."
"You know how it is," Howell said.
Linton had thought he had known how death was. He had buried his wife,
or rather he had watched the two workmen scoop and shove dirt in on
the sawdust-fresh pine box that held the coffin. He had known what he
sincerely felt to be a genuine affection for Greta. Even after they had
let him out of the asylum as cured, he still secretly believed he had
known a genuine affection for her. But it didn't seem he knew about
death at all.
Linton felt that his silence was asking Howell by this time.
"I don't know, mind you," Howell said, puffing out tobacco smoke, "but
I suppose he might have been resurrected."
"Who by?" Linton asked, thinking:
God?
"The Mafia, I guess. Who knows who runs it?"
"You mean, somebody has invented a way to bring dead people back to
life?" Linton said.
He knew, of course, that Howell did not mean that. Howell meant that
some people had a system of making it appear that a person had died
in order to gain some illegal advantage. But by saying something so
patently ridiculous, Linton hoped to bring the contradicting truth to
the surface immediately.
"An invention? I guess that's how it is," Howell agreed. "I don't know
much about people like that. I'm an honest businessman."
"But it's wonderful," Linton said, thinking his immediate thoughts.
"Wonderful! Why should a thing like that be illegal? Why don't I know
about it?"
"Sh-h," Howell said uneasily. "This is a public place."
"I don't understand," Linton said helplessly.
"Look, Frank, you can't legalize a thing like resurrection," Howell
said with feigned patience. "There are strong religious convictions to
consider. The undertakers have a lobby. I've heard they got spies right
in the White House, ready to assassinate if they have to. Death is
their whole life. You got to realize that."
"That's not enough. Not nearly enough."
"Think of all the problems it would cause. Insurance, for one thing.
Overpopulation. Birth control is a touchy subject. They'd have to take
it up if everybody got resurrected when they died, wouldn't they?"
"But what do they do about it? Against it?"
"There are a lot of fakes and quacks in the resurrection business. When
the cops find out about a place, they break in, smash all the equipment
and arrest everybody in sight. That's about all they can do. The
charges, if any, come under general vice classification."
"I don't understand," Linton complained. "Why haven't I heard about it?"
"They didn't talk much about white slavery in Victorian England. I read
an article in
Time
the other day that said 'death' was our dirty
word, not sex. You want to shock somebody, you tell him, 'You're going
to be dead someday,' not anything sexual. You know how it is. The
opposite of 'live' these days is 'video-taped.'"
"I see," Linton said.
He tried to assimilate it. Of course he had, he reminded himself, been
out of touch for some time. It might be true. Then again, they might be
trying to trick him. They used to do that to see if he was really well.
But the temptation was too strong.
"Tell me, Howell, where could I find a resurrectionist?"
Howell looked away. "Frank, I don't have anything to do with that kind
of people and if you're smart, you'll not either."
Linton's fingers imprinted the linen. "Damn you, Howell, you tell me!"
Howell climbed to his feet hurriedly. "I take you out to dinner to
console you over the loss of your wife a half a year ago, and to make
you feel welcome back to the society of your fellows after being in the
hospital for a nervous breakdown. I do all that, and for thanks, you
yell at me and curse me. You kooks are all alike!"
Howell threw money on the table with the same kind of disinterest as
the thick-set man and stalked out.
I've got to hurry too, Linton thought. It's Resurrection Day!
The doctor fluttered his hands and chirped about the office. "Well,
well, Mr. Linton, we understand you've been causing disturbances."
"Not really," Linton said modestly.
"Come, come," the doctor chided. "You started riots in two places,
attempted to bribe an officer. That's disturbing, Mr. Linton, very
disturbing."
"I was only trying to find out something," Linton maintained. "They
could have told me. Everybody seems to know but me."
The doctor clucked his tongue. "Let's not think any such thing. People
don't know more than you do."
Linton rubbed his shoulder. "That cop knew more about Judo holds than I
did."
"A few specific people know a few specific things you don't. But let me
ask you, Mr. Linton, could Einstein bake a pie?"
"I don't know. Who the hell ever wasted Einstein's time asking him a
thing like that?"
"People who want to know the answers to questions have to ask them. You
can find out anything by asking the right questions of the right person
at the right time."
Linton stared suspiciously. "Do you know where I can find a
resurrectionist?"
"I am a resurrectionist."
"But the policeman brought me to you!"
"Well, that's what you paid him to do, wasn't it? Did you think a
policeman would just steal your money? Cynics—all you young people are
cynics."
Linton scooted forward on the insultingly cold metal chair and really
looked at the doctor for the first time.
"Doctor, can you
really
resurrect the dead?"
"Will you stop being cynical? Of course I can!"
"Doctor, I'm beginning to believe in you," Linton said, "but tell me,
can you resurrect the
long
dead?"
"Size has nothing to do with it."
"No, my wife has been dead a long time. Months."
"Months?" The doctor snapped those weeks away with his fingers. "It
could be years. Centuries. It's all mathematics, my boy. I need only
one fragment of the body and my computers can compute what the rest
of it was like and recreate it. It's infallible. Naturally there is a
degree of risk involved."
"Infallible risk, yes," Linton murmured. "Could you go to work right
away?"
"First, I must follow an ancient medical practice. I must bleed you."
Linton grasped the situation immediately. "You mean you want money. You
realize I've just got out of an institution...."
"I've often been in institutions myself, for alcoholism, narcotics
addiction and more."
"What a wonderful professional career," Linton said, when he couldn't
care less.
"Oh, yes—yes, indeed. But I didn't come out broke."
"Neither did I," Linton said hastily. "I invested in shifty stocks,
faltering bonds, and while I was away they sank to rock bottom."
"Then—"
"When they hit rock bottom, they bounced up. If I hadn't found you, I
would have been secure for the rest of my lonely, miserable life."
"All that's ended now," the doctor assured him. "Now we must go dig up
the corpse. The female corpse, eh?"
Resurrection Day!
"Doctor," Linton whispered, "my mind is singing with battalions of
choirs. I hope that doesn't sound irreverent to you."
The doctor stroked his oily palms together. "Oh, but it does.
Beautifully."
The certificate to allow reburial in Virginia hadn't been impossible
to obtain. The doctor had taken the body and Linton's fortune and fed
them both into the maw of his calculators, and by means of the secret,
smuggled formulae, Greta would be cybernetically reborn.
Linton shook his head. It seemed impossible. But Greta opened the
olive-drab slab of metal of the door to the doctor's inner-inner
sanctum and walked out into the medicinal cold fluorescent lighting.
It wasn't fair at all, Linton thought. He should have had some time to
prepare himself.
Greta lifted her arms, stretching the white smock over the lines of her
body. "Darling!" she said.
"Greta!" he said, feeling a slight revulsion but repressing it. No
doubt he would be able to adjust to her once having been dead the same
way he had learned to accept the, to him, distasteful duty of kissing
her ears the way she enjoyed.
Greta swirled across the room and folded her arms across his shoulders.
She kissed his cheek. "It's so wonderful to be back. This calls for a
celebration. We must see Nancy, Oscar, Johnny, all our old friends."
"Yes," he said, his heart lurching for her sad ignorance. "But tell
me—how was it being
away
?"
The curves and angles of her flesh changed their positions against his
Ivy dacron. Her attitude altered.
"I can't remember," she said. "I can't really remember anything. Not
really. My memories are ghosts...."
"Now, now," Linton said, "we mustn't get excited. You've been through a
trial."
She accepted the verdict. She pulled away and touched at her hair. It
was the same hair, black as evil, contrasting with her inner purity. Of
course it would be; it hadn't changed even in the grave. He remembered
the snaky tendrils of it growing out of the water-logged casket.
"I must see all our old friends," Greta persisted. "Helen and
Johnny...."
"My darling," he said gently, "about Johnny—"
Her fine black brows made Gothic arches. "Yes? What about Johnny?"
"It was a terrible accident right after—that is, about five months
ago. He was killed."
"Killed?" Greta repeated blankly. "Johnny Gorman was killed?"
"Traffic accident. Killed instantly."
"But Johnny was your friend, your best friend. Why didn't you have him
resurrected the same way you did me?"
"Darling, resurrection is a risky business and an expensive one. You
have to pay premium prices for strawberries in February. I no longer
have the money to pay for a resurrection of Johnny."
Greta turned her back to him. "It's just as well. You shouldn't bring
back Johnny to this dream of life, give him a ghost of mind and the
photograph of a soul. It's monstrous. No one should do that. No one.
But you're
sure
you haven't the money to do it?"
"No," Linton said. "I'm sold out. I've borrowed on my insurance to the
hilt. It won't pay any more until I'm buried, and then, of course, you
can resurrect me."
"Of course," Greta said. She sighed. "Poor Johnny. He was such a good
friend of yours. You must miss him. I'm so sorry for you."
"I have you," he said with great simplicity.
"Frank," she said, "you should see that place in there. There are
foaming acid baths, great whale-toothed disposals, barrels of chemicals
to quench death and smother decay. It's
perfect
."
"It sounds carnal," he said uneasily.
"No, dear, it's perfect for some things that have to be done."
Her eyes flashed around the doctor's office and settled somewhere, on
something.
Linton followed the direction of Greta's gaze and found only an ashtray
stand, looking vaguely like a fanatic's idol to a heathen religion on a
pedestal.
Greta pounced on the stand, hefted it at the base and ran toward him
with it over her head.
Linton leaped aside and Greta hit the edge of the desk instead of him.
Brain damage, he concluded nervously. Cell deterioration.
Greta raised it again and he caught her wrists high over her head. She
writhed against him provocatively. "Frank, I'm sorry, dear, but I have
to have that insurance money. It's hell!"
Linton understood immediately. He felt foolish, humiliated. All that
money! He had resurrected a gold ring that had turned his knuckles
green. No one must ever know.
Linton twisted the stand away from his wife and watched her face
in some appalled form of satisfaction as it registered horror and
acceptance of the crumpled metal disk falling toward it.
He split her head open and watched her float to the floor.
Linton was surprised at the fine wire mesh just below the skin and
those shiny little tabs that looked like pictures of transistors in
institutional advertising.
He knelt beside the body and poked into the bleeding, smoldering
wreckage.
Yes, it seemed they had to automate and modify the bodies somewhat
in resurrection. They couldn't chemically revive the old corpse like
pouring water on a wilted geranium.
Or—
Did they use the old bodies at all? What were all those acid baths for
if the bodies were used? Didn't the resurrectionists just destroy the
old corpses and make androids, synthetic creatures, to take their place?
But it didn't matter. Not a bit.
She had thought she was his wife, sharing her viewpoint down to the
finest detail, and he had thought she was his wife.
It was what you thought was real that made it so, not the other way
around.
"I've killed my wife!" Linton called, rising from his knees, stretching
his hands out to something.
The pain stung him to sleep—a pain in his neck like a needle that left
a hole big enough for a camel to pass through and big enough for him to
follow the camel in his turn.
He opened his eyes to the doctor's spotless, well-ordered office. The
doctor looked down at him consolingly. "You'll have to go back, Mr.
Linton. But they'll cure you. You'll be cured of ever thinking your
wife was brought back to life and that you killed her all over again."
"Do you
really
think so, Doctor?" Linton asked hopefully.
|
train | 25627 | [
"Val and Ron's geiger is programmed to identify:",
"Why have Val and Ron joined a mission on Mars?",
"According to Ron, what motivated him and Val to join the Geigs?",
"Which term best describes Mars' population?",
"How will finding uranium on Mars aid the problem on Earth?",
"What is Ledman's relation to UranCo?",
"What is ironic about Ledman's quick departure to Mars?",
"Why did Val become so tired during her trek across the desert?"
] | [
[
"The Sandcat",
"The Dome",
"Uranium",
"humans"
],
[
"to locate a new source of fuel",
"to restore Earth's depleted fuel reserves",
"to determine if the planet can be colonized",
"to identify the source of recent astronaut murders"
],
[
"desire to maintain their present way of life",
"monetary compensation",
"opportunity for a new life on Mars",
"heroic reputational status upon returning to Earth"
],
[
"congested",
"meager",
"sustainable",
"uninhabited"
],
[
"In combination with the underwater project, it will give Earth at least 300 more years of fuel",
"It will cause more problems, because neighboring countries will fight over the small amount of fuel",
"It will render the underwater project unnecessary",
"It can hopefully sustain Earth's industries until the underwater project yields results"
],
[
"He was a civilian injured by them in the Sadlerville blast",
"He was their CEO prior to the Sadlerville blast",
"He was the CEO of a competing company, Ledman Atomics",
"He was a member of the Board"
],
[
"Victims of the Sadlerville blast received a large settlement and were culturally recognized as heroes",
"Inventors discovered a way to create prosthetics using atomic power",
"In hunting Geigs, Ledman is killing the only people with the power to help him walk again",
"He needs uranium in order to survive and went to a place where there is scant uranium"
],
[
"She did not have the technology that enabled Ron to persist",
"She became consumed with resentment for having traveled to Mars",
"She had trouble adjusting to the Martian climate and terrain",
"Uranium was seeping through her space suit"
]
] | [
3,
2,
1,
2,
4,
2,
2,
1
] | [
0,
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | THE
HUNTED
HEROES
By ROBERT SILVERBERG
The planet itself was tough enough—barren, desolate,
forbidding; enough to stop the most adventurous and
dedicated. But they had to run head-on against a mad
genius who had a motto:
Death to all Terrans!
"Let's
keep moving," I told
Val. "The surest way to
die out here on Mars is to
give up." I reached over and
turned up the pressure on her
oxymask to make things a
little easier for her. Through
the glassite of the mask, I
could see her face contorted
in an agony of fatigue.
And she probably thought
the failure of the sandcat was
all my fault, too. Val's usually
about the best wife a guy
could ask for, but when she
wants to be she can be a real
flying bother.
It was beyond her to see
that some grease monkey back
at the Dome was at fault—whoever
it was who had failed
to fasten down the engine
hood. Nothing but what had
stopped us
could
stop a sandcat:
sand in the delicate
mechanism of the atomic engine.
But no; she blamed it all on
me somehow: So we were out
walking on the spongy sand
of the Martian desert. We'd
been walking a good eight
hours.
"Can't we turn back now,
Ron?" Val pleaded. "Maybe
there isn't any uranium in
this sector at all. I think
we're crazy to keep on searching
out here!"
I started to tell her that the
UranCo chief had assured me
we'd hit something out this
way, but changed my mind.
When Val's tired and overwrought
there's no sense in
arguing with her.
I stared ahead at the bleak,
desolate wastes of the Martian
landscape. Behind us
somewhere was the comfort
of the Dome, ahead nothing
but the mazes and gullies of
this dead world.
He was a cripple in a wheelchair—helpless as a rattlesnake.
"Try to keep going, Val."
My gloved hand reached out
and clumsily enfolded hers.
"Come on, kid. Remember—we're
doing this for Earth.
We're heroes."
She glared at me. "Heroes,
hell!" she muttered. "That's
the way it looked back home,
but, out there it doesn't seem
so glorious. And UranCo's
pay is stinking."
"We didn't come out here
for the pay, Val."
"I know, I know, but just
the same—"
It must have been hell for
her. We had wandered fruitlessly
over the red sands all
day, both of us listening for
the clicks of the counter. And
the geigers had been obstinately
hushed all day, except
for their constant undercurrent
of meaningless noises.
Even though the Martian
gravity was only a fraction of
Earth's, I was starting to
tire, and I knew it must have
been really rough on Val with
her lovely but unrugged legs.
"Heroes," she said bitterly.
"We're not heroes—we're
suckers! Why did I ever let
you volunteer for the Geig
Corps and drag me along?"
Which wasn't anywhere
close to the truth. Now I
knew she was at the breaking
point, because Val didn't lie
unless she was so exhausted
she didn't know what she was
doing. She had been just as
much inflamed by the idea of
coming to Mars to help in the
search for uranium as I was.
We knew the pay was poor,
but we had felt it a sort of
obligation, something we
could do as individuals to
keep the industries of radioactives-starved
Earth going.
And we'd always had a roving
foot, both of us.
No, we had decided together
to come to Mars—the
way we decided together on
everything. Now she was
turning against me.
I tried to jolly her. "Buck
up, kid," I said. I didn't dare
turn up her oxy pressure any
higher, but it was obvious she
couldn't keep going. She was
almost sleep-walking now.
We pressed on over the
barren terrain. The geiger
kept up a fairly steady click-pattern,
but never broke into
that sudden explosive tumult
that meant we had found pay-dirt.
I started to feel tired
myself, terribly tired. I longed
to lie down on the soft,
spongy Martian sand and
bury myself.
I looked at Val. She was
dragging along with her eyes
half-shut. I felt almost guilty
for having dragged her out to
Mars, until I recalled that I
hadn't. In fact, she had come
up with the idea before I did.
I wished there was some way
of turning the weary, bedraggled
girl at my side back into
the Val who had so enthusiastically
suggested we join
the Geigs.
Twelve steps later, I decided
this was about as far as
we could go.
I stopped, slipped out of
the geiger harness, and lowered
myself ponderously to
the ground. "What'samatter,
Ron?" Val asked sleepily.
"Something wrong?"
"No, baby," I said, putting
out a hand and taking hers.
"I think we ought to rest a
little before we go any further.
It's been a long, hard
day."
It didn't take much to persuade
her. She slid down beside
me, curled up, and in a
moment she was fast asleep,
sprawled out on the sands.
Poor kid
, I thought. Maybe
we shouldn't have come to
Mars after all. But, I reminded
myself,
someone
had to do
the job.
A second thought appeared,
but I squelched it:
Why the hell me?
I looked down at Valerie's
sleeping form, and thought of
our warm, comfortable little
home on Earth. It wasn't
much, but people in love don't
need very fancy surroundings.
I watched her, sleeping
peacefully, a wayward lock of
her soft blonde hair trailing
down over one eyebrow, and
it seemed hard to believe that
we'd exchanged Earth and all
it held for us for the raw, untamed
struggle that was Mars.
But I knew I'd do it again, if
I had the chance. It's because
we wanted to keep what we
had. Heroes? Hell, no. We
just liked our comforts, and
wanted to keep them. Which
took a little work.
Time to get moving.
But
then Val stirred and rolled
over in her sleep, and I didn't
have the heart to wake her. I
sat there, holding her, staring
out over the desert, watching
the wind whip the sand up
into weird shapes.
The Geig Corps preferred
married couples, working in
teams. That's what had finally
decided it for us—we were a
good team. We had no ties on
Earth that couldn't be broken
without much difficulty. So
we volunteered.
And here we are.
Heroes.
The wind blasted a mass of
sand into my face, and I felt
it tinkle against the oxymask.
I glanced at the suit-chronometer.
Getting late. I decided
once again to wake Val.
But she was tired. And I was
tired too, tired from our
wearying journey across the
empty desert.
I started to shake Val. But
I never finished. It would be
so
nice just to lean back and
nuzzle up to her, down in the
sand. So nice. I yawned, and
stretched back.
I awoke with a sudden startled
shiver, and realized angrily
I had let myself doze off.
"Come on, Val," I said savagely,
and started to rise to
my feet.
I couldn't.
I looked down. I was neatly
bound in thin, tough, plastic
tangle-cord, swathed from
chin to boot-bottoms, my
arms imprisoned, my feet
caught. And tangle-cord is
about as easy to get out of as
a spider's web is for a trapped
fly.
It wasn't Martians that
had done it. There weren't
any Martians, hadn't been for
a million years. It was some
Earthman who had bound us.
I rolled my eyes toward
Val, and saw that she was
similarly trussed in the sticky
stuff. The tangle-cord was still
fresh, giving off a faint, repugnant
odor like that of drying
fish. It had been spun on
us only a short time ago, I
realized.
"Ron—"
"Don't try to move, baby.
This stuff can break your
neck if you twist it wrong."
She continued for a moment
to struggle futilely, and I had
to snap, "Lie still, Val!"
"A very wise statement,"
said a brittle, harsh voice
from above me. I looked up
and saw a helmeted figure
above us. He wasn't wearing
the customary skin-tight pliable
oxysuits we had. He
wore an outmoded, bulky
spacesuit and a fishbowl helmet,
all but the face area
opaque. The oxygen cannisters
weren't attached to his
back as expected, though.
They were strapped to the
back of the wheelchair in
which he sat.
Through the fishbowl I
could see hard little eyes, a
yellowed, parchment-like face,
a grim-set jaw. I didn't recognize
him, and this struck me
odd. I thought I knew everyone
on sparsely-settled Mars.
Somehow I'd missed him.
What shocked me most was
that he had no legs. The
spacesuit ended neatly at the
thighs.
He was holding in his left
hand the tanglegun with
which he had entrapped us,
and a very efficient-looking
blaster was in his right.
"I didn't want to disturb
your sleep," he said coldly.
"So I've been waiting here
for you to wake up."
I could just see it. He might
have been sitting there for
hours, complacently waiting
to see how we'd wake up.
That was when I realized he
must be totally insane. I could
feel my stomach-muscles
tighten, my throat constrict
painfully.
Then anger ripped through
me, washing away the terror.
"What's going on?" I demanded,
staring at the half
of a man who confronted us
from the wheelchair. "Who
are you?"
"You'll find out soon
enough," he said. "Suppose
now you come with me." He
reached for the tanglegun,
flipped the little switch on its
side to MELT, and shot a
stream of watery fluid over
our legs, keeping the blaster
trained on us all the while.
Our legs were free.
"You may get up now," he
said. "Slowly, without trying
to make trouble." Val and I
helped each other to our feet
as best we could, considering
our arms were still tightly
bound against the sides of our
oxysuits.
"Walk," the stranger said,
waving the tanglegun to indicate
the direction. "I'll be
right behind you." He holstered
the tanglegun.
I glimpsed the bulk of an
outboard atomic rigging behind
him, strapped to the
back of the wheelchair. He
fingered a knob on the arm of
the chair and the two exhaust
ducts behind the wheel-housings
flamed for a moment,
and the chair began to roll.
Obediently, we started
walking. You don't argue
with a blaster, even if the
man pointing it is in a wheelchair.
"What's going on, Ron?"
Val asked in a low voice as we
walked. Behind us the wheelchair
hissed steadily.
"I don't quite know, Val.
I've never seen this guy before,
and I thought I knew
everyone at the Dome."
"Quiet up there!" our captor
called, and we stopped
talking. We trudged along together,
with him following
behind; I could hear the
crunch-crunch
of the wheelchair
as its wheels chewed
into the sand. I wondered
where we were going, and
why. I wondered why we had
ever left Earth.
The answer to that came to
me quick enough: we had to.
Earth needed radioactives,
and the only way to get them
was to get out and look. The
great atomic wars of the late
20th Century had used up
much of the supply, but the
amount used to blow up half
the great cities of the world
hardly compared with the
amount we needed to put
them back together again.
In three centuries the shattered
world had been completely
rebuilt. The wreckage
of New York and Shanghai
and London and all the other
ruined cities had been hidden
by a shining new world of
gleaming towers and flying
roadways. We had profited by
our grandparents' mistakes.
They had used their atomics
to make bombs. We used ours
for fuel.
It was an atomic world.
Everything: power drills,
printing presses, typewriters,
can openers, ocean liners,
powered by the inexhaustible
energy of the dividing atom.
But though the energy is
inexhaustible, the supply of
nuclei isn't. After three centuries
of heavy consumption,
the supply failed. The mighty
machine that was Earth's industry
had started to slow
down.
And that started the chain
of events that led Val and me
to end up as a madman's prisoners,
on Mars. With every
source of uranium mined dry
on Earth, we had tried other
possibilities. All sorts of
schemes came forth. Project
Sea-Dredge was trying to get
uranium from the oceans. In
forty or fifty years, they'd
get some results, we hoped.
But there wasn't forty or
fifty years' worth of raw stuff
to tide us over until then. In a
decade or so, our power would
be just about gone. I could
picture the sort of dog-eat-dog
world we'd revert back
to. Millions of starving, freezing
humans tooth-and-clawing
in it in the useless shell of
a great atomic civilization.
So, Mars. There's not much
uranium on Mars, and it's not
easy to find or any cinch to
mine. But what little is there,
helps. It's a stopgap effort,
just to keep things moving
until Project Sea-Dredge
starts functioning.
Enter the Geig Corps: volunteers
out on the face of
Mars, combing for its uranium
deposits.
And here we are, I thought.
After we walked on a
while, a Dome became visible
up ahead. It slid up over the
crest of a hill, set back between
two hummocks on the
desert. Just out of the way
enough to escape observation.
For a puzzled moment I
thought it was our Dome, the
settlement where all of UranCo's
Geig Corps were located,
but another look told me that
this was actually quite near
us and fairly small. A one-man
Dome, of all things!
"Welcome to my home," he
said. "The name is Gregory
Ledman." He herded us off to
one side of the airlock, uttered
a few words keyed to his
voice, and motioned us inside
when the door slid up. When
we were inside he reached up,
clumsily holding the blaster,
and unscrewed the ancient
spacesuit fishbowl.
His face was a bitter,
dried-up mask. He was a man
who hated.
The place was spartanly
furnished. No chairs, no tape-player,
no decoration of any
sort. Hard bulkhead walls,
rivet-studded, glared back
at us. He had an automatic
chef, a bed, and a writing-desk,
and no other furniture.
Suddenly he drew the tanglegun
and sprayed our legs
again. We toppled heavily to
the floor. I looked up angrily.
"I imagine you want to
know the whole story," he
said. "The others did, too."
Valerie looked at me anxiously.
Her pretty face was a
dead white behind her oxymask.
"What others?"
"I never bothered to find
out their names," Ledman
said casually. "They were
other Geigs I caught unawares,
like you, out on the
desert. That's the only sport I
have left—Geig-hunting. Look
out there."
He gestured through the
translucent skin of the Dome,
and I felt sick. There was a
little heap of bones lying
there, looking oddly bright
against the redness of the
sands. They were the dried,
parched skeletons of Earthmen.
Bits of cloth and plastic,
once oxymasks and suits, still
clung to them.
Suddenly I remembered.
There had been a pattern
there all the time. We didn't
much talk about it; we chalked
it off as occupational hazards.
There had been a pattern
of disappearances on the desert.
I could think of six, eight
names now. None of them
had been particularly close
friends. You don't get time to
make close friends out here.
But we'd vowed it wouldn't
happen to us.
It had.
"You've been hunting
Geigs?" I asked. "
Why?
What've they ever done to
you?"
He smiled, as calmly as if
I'd just praised his house-keeping.
"Because I hate
you," he said blandly. "I intend
to wipe every last one of
you out, one by one."
I stared at him. I'd never
seen a man like this before; I
thought all his kind had died
at the time of the atomic
wars.
I heard Val sob, "He's a
madman!"
"No," Ledman said evenly.
"I'm quite sane, believe me.
But I'm determined to drive
the Geigs—and UranCo—off
Mars. Eventually I'll scare
you all away."
"Just pick us off in the desert?"
"Exactly," replied Ledman.
"And I have no fears of an
armed attack. This place is
well fortified. I've devoted
years to building it. And I'm
back against those hills. They
couldn't pry me out." He let
his pale hand run up into his
gnarled hair. "I've devoted
years to this. Ever since—ever
since I landed here on
Mars."
"What are you going to do
with us?" Val finally asked,
after a long silence.
He didn't smile this time.
"Kill you," he told her. "Not
your husband. I want him as
an envoy, to go back and tell
the others to clear off." He
rocked back and forth in his
wheelchair, toying with the
gleaming, deadly blaster in
his hand.
We stared in horror. It was
a nightmare—sitting there,
placidly rocking back and
forth, a nightmare.
I found myself fervently
wishing I was back out there
on the infinitely safer desert.
"Do I shock you?" he asked.
"I shouldn't—not when
you see my motives."
"We don't see them," I
snapped.
"Well, let me show you.
You're on Mars hunting uranium,
right? To mine and
ship the radioactives back to
Earth to keep the atomic engines
going. Right?"
I nodded over at our geiger
counters.
"We volunteered to come to
Mars," Val said irrelevantly.
"Ah—two young heroes,"
Ledman said acidly. "How
sad. I could almost feel sorry
for you. Almost."
"Just what is it you're
after?" I said, stalling, stalling.
"Atomics cost me my legs,"
he said. "You remember the
Sadlerville Blast?" he asked.
"Of course." And I did, too.
I'd never forget it. No one
would. How could I forget
that great accident—killing
hundreds, injuring thousands
more, sterilizing forty miles
of Mississippi land—when
the Sadlerville pile went up?
"I was there on business at
the time," Ledman said. "I
represented Ledman Atomics.
I was there to sign a new
contract for my company.
You know who I am, now?"
I nodded.
"I was fairly well shielded
when it happened. I never got
the contract, but I got a good
dose of radiation instead. Not
enough to kill me," he said.
"Just enough to necessitate
the removal of—" he indicated
the empty space at his
thighs. "So I got off lightly."
He gestured at the wheelchair
blanket.
I still didn't understand.
"But why kill us Geigs?
We
had nothing to do with it."
"You're just in this by accident,"
he said. "You see, after
the explosion and the amputation,
my fellow-members on
the board of Ledman Atomics
decided that a semi-basket
case like myself was a poor
risk as Head of the Board,
and they took my company
away. All quite legal, I assure
you. They left me almost a
pauper!" Then he snapped
the punchline at me.
"They renamed Ledman
Atomics. Who did you say you
worked for?"
I began, "Uran—"
"Don't bother. A more inventive
title than Ledman
Atomics, but not quite as
much heart, wouldn't you
say?" He grinned. "I saved
for years; then I came to
Mars, lost myself, built this
Dome, and swore to get even.
There's not a great deal of
uranium on this planet, but
enough to keep me in a style
to which, unfortunately, I'm
no longer accustomed."
He consulted his wrist
watch. "Time for my injection."
He pulled out the tanglegun
and sprayed us again,
just to make doubly certain.
"That's another little souvenir
of Sadlerville. I'm short
on red blood corpuscles."
He rolled over to a wall
table and fumbled in a container
among a pile of hypodermics.
"There are other injections,
too. Adrenalin, insulin.
Others. The Blast turned
me into a walking pin-cushion.
But I'll pay it all
back," he said. He plunged
the needle into his arm.
My eyes widened. It was
too nightmarish to be real. I
wasn't seriously worried
about his threat to wipe out
the entire Geig Corps, since
it was unlikely that one man
in a wheelchair could pick us
all off. No, it wasn't the
threat that disturbed me, so
much as the whole concept, so
strange to me, that the human
mind could be as warped
and twisted as Ledman's.
I saw the horror on Val's
face, and I knew she felt the
same way I did.
"Do you really think you
can succeed?" I taunted him.
"Really think you can kill
every Earthman on Mars? Of
all the insane, cockeyed—"
Val's quick, worried head-shake
cut me off. But Ledman
had felt my words, all right.
"Yes! I'll get even with
every one of you for taking
away my legs! If we hadn't
meddled with the atom in the
first place, I'd be as tall and
powerful as you, today—instead
of a useless cripple in a
wheelchair."
"You're sick, Gregory Ledman,"
Val said quietly.
"You've conceived an impossible
scheme of revenge and
now you're taking it out on
innocent people who've done
nothing, nothing at all to you.
That's not sane!"
His eyes blazed. "Who are
you to talk of sanity?"
Uneasily I caught Val's
glance from a corner of my
eye. Sweat was rolling down
her smooth forehead faster
than the auto-wiper could
swab it away.
"Why don't you do something?
What are you waiting
for, Ron?"
"Easy, baby," I said. I
knew what our ace in the hole
was. But I had to get Ledman
within reach of me first.
"Enough," he said. "I'm going
to turn you loose outside,
right after—"
"
Get sick!
" I hissed to Val,
low. She began immediately
to cough violently, emitting
harsh, choking sobs. "Can't
breathe!" She began to yell,
writhing in her bonds.
That did it. Ledman hadn't
much humanity left in him,
but there was a little. He lowered
the blaster a bit and
wheeled one-hand over to see
what was wrong with Val.
She continued to retch and
moan most horribly. It almost
convinced me. I saw Val's
pale, frightened face turn to
me.
He approached and peered
down at her. He opened his
mouth to say something, and
at that moment I snapped my
leg up hard, tearing the tangle-cord
with a snicking rasp,
and kicked his wheelchair
over.
The blaster went off, burning
a hole through the Dome
roof. The automatic sealers
glued-in instantly. Ledman
went sprawling helplessly out
into the middle of the floor,
the wheelchair upended next
to him, its wheels slowly revolving
in the air. The blaster
flew from his hands at the
impact of landing and spun
out near me. In one quick motion
I rolled over and covered
it with my body.
Ledman clawed his way to
me with tremendous effort
and tried wildly to pry the
blaster out from under me,
but without success. I twisted
a bit, reached out with my
free leg, and booted him
across the floor. He fetched
up against the wall of the
Dome and lay there.
Val rolled over to me.
"Now if I could get free of
this stuff," I said, "I could get
him covered before he comes
to. But how?"
"Teamwork," Val said. She
swivelled around on the floor
until her head was near my
boot. "Push my oxymask off
with your foot, if you can."
I searched for the clamp
and tried to flip it. No luck,
with my heavy, clumsy boot.
I tried again, and this time it
snapped open. I got the tip
of my boot in and pried upward.
The oxymask came off,
slowly, scraping a jagged red
scratch up the side of Val's
neck as it came.
"There," she breathed.
"That's that."
I looked uneasily at Ledman.
He was groaning and
beginning to stir.
Val rolled on the floor and
her face lay near my right
arm. I saw what she had in
mind. She began to nibble the
vile-tasting tangle-cord, running
her teeth up and down
it until it started to give. She
continued unfailingly.
Finally one strand snapped.
Then another. At last I
had enough use of my hand
to reach out and grasp the
blaster. Then I pulled myself
across the floor to Ledman,
removed the tanglegun, and
melted the remaining tangle-cord
off.
My muscles were stiff and
bunched, and rising made me
wince. I turned and freed Val.
Then I turned and faced Ledman.
"I suppose you'll kill me
now," he said.
"No. That's the difference
between sane people and insane,"
I told him. "I'm not
going to kill you at all. I'm
going to see to it that you're
sent back to Earth."
"
No!
" he shouted. "No!
Anything but back there. I
don't want to face them again—not
after what they did to
me—"
"Not so loud," I broke in.
"They'll help you on Earth.
They'll take all the hatred and
sickness out of you, and turn
you into a useful member of
society again."
"I hate Earthmen," he spat
out. "I hate all of them."
"I know," I said sarcastically.
"You're just all full of
hate. You hated us so much
that you couldn't bear to hang
around on Earth for as much
as a year after the Sadlerville
Blast. You had to take right
off for Mars without a moment's
delay, didn't you? You
hated Earth so much you
had
to leave."
"Why are you telling all
this to me?"
"Because if you'd stayed
long enough, you'd have used
some of your pension money
to buy yourself a pair of prosthetic
legs, and then you
wouldn't need this wheelchair."
Ledman scowled, and then
his face went belligerent
again. "They told me I was
paralyzed below the waist.
That I'd never walk again,
even with prosthetic legs, because
I had no muscles to fit
them to."
"You left Earth too quickly,"
Val said.
"It was the only way," he
protested. "I had to get off—"
"She's right," I told him.
"The atom can take away, but
it can give as well. Soon after
you left they developed
atomic-powered
prosthetics—amazing
things, virtually robot
legs. All the survivors of
the Sadlerville Blast were
given the necessary replacement
limbs free of charge. All
except you. You were so sick
you had to get away from the
world you despised and come
here."
"You're lying," he said.
"It's not true!"
"Oh, but it is," Val smiled.
I saw him wilt visibly, and
for a moment I almost felt
sorry for him, a pathetic legless
figure propped up against
the wall of the Dome at
blaster-point. But then I remembered
he'd killed twelve
Geigs—or more—and would
have added Val to the number
had he had the chance.
"You're a very sick man,
Ledman," I said. "All this
time you could have been
happy, useful on Earth, instead
of being holed up here
nursing your hatred. You
might have been useful, on
Earth. But you decided to
channel everything out as revenge."
"I still don't believe it—those
legs. I might have walked
again. No—no, it's all a lie.
They told me I'd never walk,"
he said, weakly but stubbornly
still.
I could see his whole structure
of hate starting to topple,
and I decided to give it
the final push.
"Haven't you wondered
how I managed to break the
tangle-cord when I kicked you
over?"
"Yes—human legs aren't
strong enough to break tangle-cord
that way."
"Of course not," I said. I
gave Val the blaster and slipped
out of my oxysuit.
"Look," I said. I pointed to
my smooth, gleaming metal
legs. The almost soundless
purr of their motors was the
only noise in the room. "I was
in the Sadlerville Blast, too,"
I said. "But I didn't go crazy
with hate when I lost
my
legs."
Ledman was sobbing.
"Okay, Ledman," I said.
Val got him into his suit, and
brought him the fishbowl helmet.
"Get your helmet on and
let's go. Between the psychs
and the prosthetics men,
you'll be a new man inside of
a year."
"But I'm a murderer!"
"That's right. And you'll be
sentenced to psych adjustment.
When they're finished,
Gregory Ledman the killer
will be as dead as if they'd
electrocuted you, but there'll
be a new—and sane—Gregory
Ledman." I turned to Val.
"Got the geigers, honey?"
For the first time since
Ledman had caught us, I remembered
how tired Val had
been out on the desert. I realized
now that I had been driving
her mercilessly—me, with
my chromium legs and atomic-powered
muscles. No wonder
she was ready to fold!
And I'd been too dense to see
how unfair I had been.
She lifted the geiger harnesses,
and I put Ledman
back in his wheelchair.
Val slipped her oxymask
back on and fastened it shut.
"Let's get back to the Dome
in a hurry," I said. "We'll
turn Ledman over to the authorities.
Then we can catch
the next ship for Earth."
"Go back?
Go back?
If you
think I'm backing down now
and quitting you can find
yourself another wife! After
we dump this guy I'm sacking
in for twenty hours, and then
we're going back out there to
finish that search-pattern.
Earth needs uranium, honey,
and I know you'd never be
happy quitting in the middle
like that." She smiled. "I
can't wait to get out there
and start listening for those
tell-tale clicks."
I gave a joyful whoop and
swung her around. When I
put her down, she squeezed
my hand, hard.
"Let's get moving, fellow
hero," she said.
I pressed the stud for the
airlock, smiling.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories
September 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 60283 | [
"What is ironic about Sias' view of those who 'cling tenaciously, and ignorantly to the old religion'?",
"What is the significance of the Maternite?",
"Since humans stopped reproducing among themselves, what has been the greatest impact on human biology?",
"All of the following terms describe the people's reaction to the destruction of the Maternite EXCEPT for:",
"Which sentence describes the central theme of this story?",
"The overall reaction to Rocsates' suggestions is symbolic of:",
"In describing the Conclave's reaction to the Maternite emergency, the author is making a comparison to: ",
"What is ironic about keeping their books stored away in an airtight compartment?",
"Why does Sias believe that the ancients declared 70 as the minimum age for a member of the Conclave? "
] | [
[
"Sias' reactions to Rocsates' ideas suggest that he is ignorant in a similar way",
"Sias' refusal to adhere to any set of principles will get him imprisoned",
"Sias subscribes to an iteration of the same religion many of the elders do",
"Sias does not realize that the Conclave is ruled by that same religion"
],
[
"It determines how many children will be born in the span of a year",
"It reduces the prevalence of female biological sex organs ",
"It produces enough breastmilk to sustain newborn infants ",
"It decides which of the elders will be sacrificed to the gods"
],
[
"significant reduction of the appearance and function of sex organs",
"more predictable measures for increasing the global population",
"gradual decrease in the overall intellectual quotient of a society",
"a lower prevalence of birth defects and learning disabilities"
],
[
"perplexed",
"panicked ",
"obtuse",
"accusatory"
],
[
"History is doomed to repeat itself because humans fail to learn from their mistakes.",
"A society that does not include younger generations in its governing bodies will fail to evolve.",
"The death of curiosity, combined with overreliance on technology, will lead to an ignorant society.",
"Too much emphasis on masculine ways of thinking and innovating will ruin a society."
],
[
"Inefficiency of government",
"Resistance to intellectualism",
"Potential of innovation",
"Overzealousness for power"
],
[
"how authoritarian governments, though less humane, are often more effective in executing policies",
"how modern leaders revert to ceremony and argument instead of problem-solving",
"how the filibuster prevents governments from making real progress for its people",
"how young members and elder members of governments typically reach an impasse"
],
[
"There is nothing in the books that can help Melopolis repair the Maternite or save its population",
"The books were already designed with technology that would keep them intact forever",
"There is little use in preserving something if the meaning is lost upon those preserving it",
"The books contain antiquated knowledge that will only set Melopolis back further"
],
[
"They are the ones who remember things from previous generations that get lost to time",
"They do not have the energy to riot amongst themselves\n",
"They are closest in lineage to the predecessors that generated the machines",
"They have had sufficient life experience at that point"
]
] | [
1,
1,
1,
4,
3,
2,
2,
3,
2
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0
] | The Birds and the Bees
BY DAVE E. FISHER
Which goes to prove that, in some
instances, being heroic is easy!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I was wandering among the tall grass of the slopes, listening to the
soft whistling of the wind; allowing the grass to caress my toga and
thighs. It was a day soft and clear; a day accepted by the young,
cherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the
magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of
course, believe in the gods per se; still there is a grandeur in the
very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder
to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion.
Cling to the gods of old, who drew man upward from wherever he began.
In whose names Man killed and plundered, while struggling up. In whose
names Man finally left this earth, to seek his cousins among the stars.
But of course there were no cousins. There was nothing. And Man
returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content
to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the
ancient evils, wars, emergencies.
"Sias! Sias—" And they were upon me.
That is, Xeon was upon me. But I knew that where Xeon is, Melia must
soon appear. And indeed it was but a moment before Melia slipped
through the high grass to stand at his side. Their youthful voices were
babbling in excitement.
Melia was a She, with the swelling breasts that were, so tradition
states, quite prevalent among members of the race long ago, and are
seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of
many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not
been for the friendship of Xeon.
"Sias," they were saying, "the Maternite's gone."
I stared in amazement.
"Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been—"
"Oh my gods!" Xeon shouted. "I tell you it's gone! Will you—"
Melia interrupted him quietly. "Xeon, will you lose all respect for
the Elder?" Then turned to me, and said calmly, "The watcher at the
Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the
warning, continued to rise, and then—poof. Everything has evaporated
in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone."
"All of it?" I asked.
"There is nothing left," Melia insisted. "Can more be made? And if not,
what will happen with no more children?"
"That is for the priests to say, not I," I replied. In moments of
emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I
have never before been in a real emergency.
A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs
nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I
often wonder why—but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city.
They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young
men do.
As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and
consternation. And can the simple people be blamed? They were aware
that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an
emergency. For a machine had failed!
Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They
were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them
to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far
as I know, has one failed. Small wonder that the watcher had been
negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity.
Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who
knows the mysterious workings of the machines?
I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting
for me to bring them to order. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the
steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accompanied me past
the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated
themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table.
Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel
impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers
and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to
sacrifice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the
pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard.
He rambled through the customary opening remarks and then, continually
smoothing his white beard—of which he is excessively proud—approached
the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had
assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave
had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for
those left were the most earnest and intelligent.
"I would not bore you," he said, "with details of which only the gods
are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is
an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus
assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be
born by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact
number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods
claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial."
A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered
around the Hall.
"But now," he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with
even a stutter here and there, "an unprecedented situation has arisen.
Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Maternite Machine has
actually failed."
Cries of "Treason" sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for
the priest had I not been able to insure order.
"That is not the worst," he cried, as if in defiance. "All the Prelife
has been dried up. It will not function. There is no more. And there
will be no more children!"
At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times
that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy
years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave. They shouted and
began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years
roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked,
"Is there no way, then, to produce more Prelife in order that the
machines may produce more children for us?
"As I have said," he replied, "give the machines but a bit of Prelife
and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are
helpless."
Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the
Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to
think.
Rocsates leaned forward and asked, "Must there not—must there not have
been a beginning to Prelife? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it;
and yet it came from somewhere."
"Riddles are not called for," I answered severely.
"Are not riddles often the beginning of knowledge?" he asked, in that
irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. "Must there not, long ago,
have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not
even now—should we discover it—be available to us? I am reminded of
the story of the animals of old—"
"I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates," I was forced to interrupt.
"I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to
do—" The heads of the Conclave were turning to me, quizzically. I
hastened to explain the legend of the animals. "It is said that many
thousands of years ago, time without reckoning, there existed on the
earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said
they had four legs or more, and no arms, were covered with hair, and
although not mute, they could not speak."
Rocsates' voice made itself heard. "It is true. Such creatures did
indeed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films."
"If it be so," I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, "and I would
not doubt your word, Rocsates, for all know you are the wisest of
men—if it were so, then, what of it?"
"May it not be," Rocsates put in, "that these animals had no machines
to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines
to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Machines, why then
we would yet have these animals among us."
"And how, then, did these animals reproduce?" I asked.
"How, indeed? And is there not a legend—admitted only a legend—that
says there was a time before the machines, and before the Maternite
Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced
from within their own bodies?"
At this two members of the Conclave fell immediately into a faint, and
I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon
and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most
attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of "Heresy" and "Treason",
went on:
"I should like to ask the Conclave for permission to search the ancient
records, in the hope of finding some such knowledge that would prove or
disprove my words."
"You wish to search the films—" I began.
"Not the films, Sias, but the books."
Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient,
and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb; lest,
being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost.
Therefore, they have not been read in the known history of our race.
And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse—
"Sias," he went on, "if there exists such knowledge as I seek, is it
not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the
only place where it may be found?"
Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows
the answer beforehand. And so I acquiesced, and agreed, and granted
permission. And with much misgiving and foreboding of evil, the
Conclave adjourned.
Several weeks elapsed before Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet.
I called the meeting at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon
when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak.
"Some of those among you are She's," he began. "And you know you are
different from the rest of us. To the advantage, your skin is fairer
and your features more often handsomer than ours. To the disadvantage,
your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you
may say, why should this not be so? There is, indeed, no reason why we
should all be identical. Perforce you have the advantage, perforce we
do. Yet there is one other distinction.
"Some among you She's have the swelling of the breasts. And does there
exist no reason for this? Was there not, perhaps in ancient times, a
cause for this? Do you not wonder, She's, whence you come and for what
reason?"
"Rocsates," I interrupted. "All this is fascinating, of course. But if
you could be quick—"
"Of course," he replied. "In the course of my reading I have read
many books, and while they are all vague on the subject, this I have
discovered:
"That there was indeed a time before the machines, in fact the books
were created in that time, for not one of them mentions the machines.
Then reproduction was carried on by individuals, without help of the
then nonexistent machines. The She's are not wanderers from another
land, but they have lived with us for all time; they are not another
race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of reproduction is
somehow intimately related to the physical distinctions of the She's!"
These last sentences were shouted to be heard above the roar of the
crowd. Yet when Rocsates stopped, so also did the noise, so shocked and
amazed at his words were they. And I confess, myself also.
"In fact," Rocsates added, sitting down, "this process of reproduction
seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of
over-population."
Order was lost among the Conclave as each man turned to speak to his
neighbor, and for some time I could not restore order. I realized that
something had to be done to save Rocsates before the outrage of the
assembled overwhelmed him.
"It seems," I shouted, "that there is a flaw in your logic." For if
such there was, I was hopeful of dismissing the entire affair with
no harm done. "For if people reproduced too often, why then this
reproduction must have been a pleasant thing to do; otherwise they
would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do,
where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?"
Rocsates seemed perplexed by this problem, whereupon Xeon, who together
with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, "Perhaps
the process of reproduction was of
such
a pleasure that the Conclave
ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the machines were necessary!"
At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond
power to restrain them from placing Xeon under arrest. Privately,
however, I had to admit that his supposition was a possibility, and
thus I authorized Rocsates to continue his search.
Now indeed I was sorely worried concerning Xeon, for he must languish
in the dungeon until the Conclave is satisfied to release him, and this
they cannot do until they meet again.
I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave,
whereupon I might argue for the lad. When I heard that Rocsates again
desired audience, I immediately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave
to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well.
The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when
Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder
a thin, rectangular object, but that is not what impressed me. His
appearance—he looked as if he had not slept of late, nor eaten either.
His eyes were sunken, and his features had doubled in age. He was bent
and tired. But it was his eyes. There was a horror in them.
I was shocked, and could not help staring at him. And then the
formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was
on his feet and I gave way.
"I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction," he began. "After
many searchings, I came upon this—" and he held forth the object he
had carried in. "It is a book. It is entitled, 'Living a Normal Sex
Life.' It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet." He
dropped the book on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
There was something in the man's behavior that commanded everyone's
attention. He went on, speaking low. "The word 'Sex' is not defined,
but it seems to mean...." His words trailed off. He was obviously
unsure of how to continue. "I had better start at the beginning, I
suppose," he said. "You see, once upon a time there were birds and
bees...."
When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words,
with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of
'Heresy'. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea.
It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear
to move. I cleared my throat.
"Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With
no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved
into nothingness?"
"I do not think so," Rocsates replied after a while. "What to us is
an eon, to evolution is but an instant. And then the swelling of the
breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in
some, at least, of the She's."
We sat shaking our heads, bowed under terrible reality.
"Then we must experiment," I said. "But whom could we ask to submit to
such horror?"
"I have already taken the liberty of asking for volunteers," Rocsates
replied. "The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the
breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from
dungeon. Are there any objections?"
There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would
undergo such an ordeal for the City?
"And who will be the partner?" I asked.
"In all honor, could Xeon allow Melia to surpass him in courage? It
shall be he," Rocsates said. And with his word the two entered the Hall
and stood, noble and naked.
Rocsates gestured to the table, and Melia started to climb upon it,
but Xeon stepped forward.
"My lords," he said, "would not better results be obtained were we to
conduct the experiment in the fields before the Oracle of Delni, that
the gods may help us?"
His glance reached into my soul, and I was proud of Xeon. A true
friend, he thought even now of the comfort of Melia. The marble table
was indeed hard, and from Rocsates' description it seemed that Melia's
position would be as uncomfortable as it would be undignified. The soft
fields might be some slight help.
I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields.
It was nearly dark when we walked home, Rocsates and I, arm in arm. It
had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries—
We tarried before my home, leaned on the stone, stared at the first
stars.
"They seemed finally to accomplish all the book described," I muttered.
"They may indeed have succeeded," Rocsates replied. "There is mentioned
a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not appear immediately."
"It doesn't matter," I said disconsolately. "Who could ask them to go
through such an ordeal again?"
And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing before me.
Melia cast her eyes down, and would not raise them. Xeon held his arm
about her shoulders, as if to protect her, but I know not from whom.
"Sias," he said. Then stopped, embarrassed.
I waited, and Rocsates was silent, and he continued.
"Sias, we come to tell.... We will...." He raised his eyes to mine and
said manfully, "We shall try again."
I am afraid that tears came to my eyes. Such sacrifice—
"We beg one favor," Xeon went on. "We are agreed that—Well, we should
like to be left alone, in private, to try."
"Of course," I replied. Anything they might want they could have. My
relief and gratitude must have showed, for Xeon took a deep breath and
spoke again.
"We do not deserve praise, Sias," he said. "The truth is, we ... we
sort of enjoy it."
I watched them turn and wander off together under the stars.
My heart has a warmth in it, and I no longer fear for the future of our
race when our young people can show such nobility and sacrifice.
|
train | 32836 | [
"Var and Neena most likely belong to which group:",
"What power does Var possess?",
"What message for humanity does the author wish to communicate, regarding the fate of the Ryzgas?",
"Which lingering effect of the Ryzgas' downfall makes life challenging for people like Var and Neena?",
"What is the Watcher's purpose in spinning the vision of when the Ryzgas fell?",
"What is ironic about the conclusion of the story?",
"What causes the shaking of the mountain?",
"Why were the Ryzgas not afraid that someone might enter their mountain?",
"How is the Ryzga different from Var and Neena?"
] | [
[
"A mutated strain between the slaves and masters of the Ryzgas",
"Descendants of the slaves of the Ryzgas",
"Members of an alien group that destroyed the Ryzgas",
"Descendants of the Ryzga masters"
],
[
"the ability to change his appearance",
"the ability to travel through air",
"the ability to communicate telepathically",
"the ability to change the form of physical objects"
],
[
"While social stratification may benefit one group temporarily, eventually it will shatter social institutions",
"Humans are doomed to repeat history until they wipe out their entire race",
"We should be grateful for natural gifts bestowed by the Earth, and not try to seek more beyond life's simple pleasures",
"Actions and decisions made in the name of love can breed destructive hatred"
],
[
"The Ryzgas littered the planet with wreckage of their old creations, which renders it inhabitable",
"The Ryzgas destroyed or used up all of their materials, so Var and Neena's people can only construct things with their dreams",
"The Ryzgas manipulate the entire planet through their Control Center, so all outcomes are predestined",
"The Ryzgas toxified the environment, which has caused a genetic mutation among their descendants"
],
[
"To tell a story of human selfishness and evil in order to arm Var and Neena against the Ryzgas",
"To instill a sensible amount of fear in Var and Neena before they sacrifice the world for their romance",
"To persuade Var and Neena not to go further in their journey without understanding the potential consequences",
"To convey a neutral account of history in order to inform Var and Neena of what they're up against"
],
[
"The slave masters of the Ryzgas were ultimately eradicated by their own slaves",
"Humans seem to feel they have no other alternative than to kill and cause suffering before they can establish peace",
"Var will likely be killed or imprisoned for life, and Neena will bear the mark of shame for eternity",
"Despite the Watcher's message, Var continued his journey to the mountain in pursuit of personal gain"
],
[
"The awakening of the Ryzgas",
"Machines",
"Earthquakes and tremors",
"Dreams spun by the Ryzgas"
],
[
"They did not believe that anyone would want to return to a terrifying society that the Ryzgas left behind",
"They commissioned the Watcher to spin dreadful dreams about what might happen if people attempted to do so",
"They thought that their descendants would eventually die out without access to raw materials",
"They were convinced that no one would be able to penetrate the mountain without advanced technology"
],
[
"He ages backwards",
"He cannot spin dreams",
"He is immortal",
"He is a zombie"
]
] | [
2,
3,
3,
2,
3,
1,
2,
4,
2
] | [
0,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0
] | WHEN THE MOUNTAIN SHOOK
By Robert Abernathy
Illustrated by Kelly Freas
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dark was the Ryzga mountain and forbidding; steep were its
cliffs and sheer its crevasses. But its outward perils could not compare
with the Ryzgas themselves, who slept within, ready to wake and
conquer....
At sunset they were in sight of the Ryzga mountain. Strangely it towered
among the cliffs and snow-slopes of the surrounding ranges: an immense
and repellently geometric cone, black, its sides blood-tinted by the
dying sun.
Neena shivered, even though the surrounding cold could not reach her.
The ice-wind blew from the glacier, but Var's love was round her as a
warming cloak, a cloak that glowed softly golden in the deepening
twilight, even as her love was about him.
Var said, "The Watcher's cave should be three miles beyond this pass."
He stood rigid, trying to catch an echo of the Watcher's thoughts, but
there was nothing. Perhaps the old man was resting. From the other
direction, the long way that they two had come, it was not difficult to
sense the thought of Groz. That thought was powerful, and heavy with
vengeance.
"Hurry," said Neena. "They're closer than they were an hour ago."
She was beautiful and defiant, facing the red sunset and the black
mountain. Var sensed her fear, and the love that had conquered it. He
felt a wave of tenderness and bitterness. For him she had come to this.
For the flame that had sprung between them at the Truce of New Grass,
she had challenged the feud of their peoples and had left her home, to
follow him. Now, if her father and his kinsmen overtook them, it would
be death for Var, and for Neena living shame. Which of the two was worse
was no longer a simple problem to Var, who had grown much older in the
last days.
"Wait," he commanded. While she waited he spun a dream, attaching it to
the crags that loomed over the pass, and to the frozen ground underfoot.
It was black night, as it would really be when Groz and his henchmen
reached this place; lurid fire spewed from the Ryzga mountain, and
strange lights dipped above it; and for good measure there was an
avalanche in the dream, and hideous beasts rushed snapping and ravening
from the crevices of the rock.
"Oh!" cried Neena in involuntary alarm.
Var sighed, shaking his head. "It won't hold them for long, but it's the
best I can do now. Come on."
There was no path. Now they were descending the steeper face of the
sierra, and the way led over bottomless crevasses, sheer drops and sheer
ascents, sheets of traitorous glare ice. Place after place had to be
crossed on the air, and both grew weary with the effort such crossings
cost. They hoarded their strength, helping one another; one alone might
never have won through.
It was starry night already when they saw the light from the Watcher's
cave. The light shone watery and dim from beneath the hoary back of the
glacier, and as they came nearer they saw why: the cave entrance was
sealed by a sheet of ice, a frozen waterfall that fell motionless from
the rocks above. They heard no sound.
The two young people stared for a long minute, intrigued and fearful.
Both had heard of this place, and the ancient who lived there to keep
watch on the Ryzga mountain, as a part of the oldest legends of their
childhood; but neither had been here before.
But this was no time for shyness. Var eyed the ice-curtain closely to
make sure that it was real, not dream-stuff; then he struck it boldly
with his fist. It shattered and fell in a rain of splinters, sparkling
in the light that poured from within.
They felt the Watcher rouse, heard his footsteps, and finally saw him—a
shrunken old man, white-haired, with a lined beardless face. The sight
of him, more marred by age than anyone they had ever seen before, was
disappointing. They had expected something more—an ancient giant, a
tower of wisdom and strength. The Watcher was four hundred years old;
beside him even Groz, who had always seemed so ancient, was like a boy.
The Watcher peered at them in turn. "Welcome," he said in a cracked
voice. He did not speak again; the rest of his conversation was in
thought only. "Welcome indeed. I am too much alone here."
"You were asleep!" said Var. Shock made his thought accusing, though he
had not meant to be.
The old man grinned toothlessly. "Never fear. Asleep or awake, I watch.
Come in! You're letting in the wind."
Inside the cave it was warm as summer. Var saw with some surprise that
all the walls were sheathed in ice—warm to the touch, bound fast
against melting by the Watcher's will. Light blazed in reflections from
the ice walls, till there was no shadow in the place. Behind them began
a tinkling of falling water, thawed from the glacial ridges above to
descend sheet-wise over the cave mouth, freezing as it fell into
lengthening icicles. The old man gazed at his work for a moment, then
turned questioningly to the young pair.
"We need a little rest out of the cold," said Var. "And food, if you can
spare it. We're pursued."
"Yes, yes. You shall have what I can give you. Make yourselves
comfortable, and in one minute.... Pursued, eh? A pity. I see the world
is as bad as it was when I was last in it."
Hot food and drink were before them almost at once. The Watcher regarded
them with compassion as their eyes brightened and some of the shadow of
weariness lifted from them. "You have stolen your enemy's daughter, no
doubt, young man? Such things happened when I was young."
Warming to the old man now, Var sketched his and Neena's history
briefly. "We should have been safe among my people by now. And before
very long, I'm sure, I would have performed some deed which Groz would
recognize as a worthy exploit, and would thus have healed the feud
between our families. But our flight was found out too soon. They cut us
off and forced us into the mountains, and now they are only a few hours
behind us."
"A pity, indeed. I would like to help you—but, you understand, I am the
Mountain Watcher. I must be above feuds and families."
Var nodded somberly, thinking that an old recluse would in any case be
able to do little for them against Groz and his violent kinsfolk.
"And what will you do now?"
Var grinned mirthlessly. "We haven't much choice, since they're
overtaking us. I have only one idea left: we can go where Groz may fear
to follow us."
"To the mountain, you mean."
"And into it, if need be."
The Watcher was broodingly silent; his eyes shifted to Neena, where she
nestled by Var's side. He asked, "And you—are you willing to follow
your lover in this?"
Neena returned his gaze without flinching; then she looked sidelong at
Var, and her lips curled with a proud and tender mockery. "Follow? Why,
I will lead, if his courage should fail him."
The old man said, "It is no part of my duty to dissuade you from this
thing. You are free persons. But I must be sure that you know what you
are doing. That is the second part of the law the First Watcher made: to
guard lest the unwary and the ignorant should bring harm on themselves
and on all men."
"We know the stories," Var said brusquely. "In the hollow heart of their
mountain the Ryzgas sleep, as they chose to do when their world
crumbled. But if they are wakened, the mountain will tremble, and the
Ryzgas will come forth."
"Do you believe that?"
"As one believes stories."
"It is true," said the Watcher heavily. "In my youth I penetrated
farther into the mountain than anyone before, farther even than did the
First Watcher. I did not see the sleepers, nor will any man until they
come again, but I met their sentries, the sentinel machines that guard
them now as they have for two thousand years. When I had gone that far,
the mountain began to shake, the force that is in the Earth rumbled
below, and I returned in time." Now for the first time Var sensed the
power in the old man's look, the power of four hundred years' wisdom.
Var stared down at his hands.
"The Ryzgas also were men," said the Watcher. "But they were such a race
as the world has not seen before or since. There were tyrannies before
the Ryzgas, there was lust for power, and atrocious cruelty; but such
tyranny, power, and cruelty as theirs, had never been known. They ruled
the Earth for four generations, and the Earth was too little for them.
They laid the world waste, stripped it of metals and fuels and bored to
its heart for energy, poisoned its seas and its air with the fume of
their works, wrung its peoples dry for their labor ... and in each of
those four generations they launched a ship of space. They were great
and evil as no other people has been, because they wanted the stars.
"Because of them we must build with dreams instead of iron, and our only
fire is that of the Sun, and even now, two thousand years later, the
Earth is still slowly recovering from the pangs and poison of that age.
If you turn up the sod in the plain where the wild herds graze, you will
find numberless fragments of rusted or corroded metal, bits of glass and
strange plastic substances, debris of artifacts still showing the marks
of their shaping—the scattered wreckage of the things they made. And
we—we too are a remnant, the descendants of the few out of all humanity
that survived when the Ryzgas' world went down in flame and thunder.
"In the last generation of their power the Ryzgas knew by their science
that the race of man would endure them no longer. They made ready their
weapons, they mined the cities and the factories for destruction, making
sure that their works and their knowledge would perish with them.
Meanwhile they redoubled the yoke and the punishments, hastening the
completion of the last of the starships.
"From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the
memories of dead men that still echo in the air, I have gathered a
picture of that world's end. I will show it to you...."
Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old
man wove a dream around them, and the bright ice-cave faded from their
vision, and they saw—
Black starless night, a sky of rolling smoke above the greatest city
that was ever built. Only the angry light of fires relieved the city's
darkness—that, and the blue-white lightning flashes that silhouetted
the naked skeletons of buildings and were followed by thunder and a
shaking of the earth.
Along lightless streets, half choked with rubble and with the dead,
poured a mad, hating horde. The recurrent flashes lit scarred faces,
naked bodies blackened and maimed from the hell of the workshops where
the Ryzgas' might had been forged, eyes that stared white and half
sightless from the glare of the furnaces, gnarled hands that now at long
last clutched the weapons of the last rebellion—a rebellion without
hope of new life on a world gutted and smoldering from the fulfilment of
the Ryzgas' dream, without slogans other than a cry for blood.
Before them death waited around the citadel where the masters still
fought. All round, from the lowest and most poisonous levels of the
shattered city, the slaves swarmed up in their millions. And the
lightning blazed, and the city howled and screamed and burned.
Then, unbelievably, the thunder fell silent, and the silence swept
outward like a wave, from ruined street to street. The mouths that had
shouted their wrath were speechless, and the rage-blinded eyes were
lifted in sudden awe. From the center, over the citadel, an immense
white globe soared upward, rising swiftly without sound.
They had never seen its like, but they knew. It was the last starship,
and it was leaving.
It poised motionless. For an instant the burning city lay mute; then the
millions found voice. Some roared ferocious threats and curses; others
cried desolately—
wait!
Then the whole city, the dark tumuli of its buildings and its leaping
fires and tormented faces, and the black sky over it, seemed to twist
and swim, like a scene under water when a great fish sweeps past, and
the ship was gone.
The stunned paralysis fell apart in fury. Flame towered over the
citadel. The hordes ran and shrieked again toward the central inferno,
and the city burned and burned....
Var blinked dazedly in the shadowless glow of the ice-cave. His arm
tightened about Neena till she gasped. He was momentarily uncertain that
he and she were real and here, such had been the force of the dream, a
vision of such scope and reality as Var had never seen—no, lived
through—before. With deep respect now he gazed upon the bent old man
who was the Mountain Watcher.
"Some of the Ryzgas took flight to the stars, and some perished on
Earth. But there was a group of them who believed that their time to
rule would come again. These raised a black mountain from the Earth's
heart, and in hollows within it cast themselves into deathless sleep,
their deathless and lifeless sentinels round them, to wait till someone
dare arouse them, or until their chosen time—no one knows surely.
"I have told you the story you know, and have shown you a glimpse of the
old time, because I must make sure that you do not approach the mountain
in ignorance. Our world is unwise and sometimes evil, full of arrogance,
folly, and passion that are in the nature of man. Yet it is a happy
world, compared to that the Ryzgas made and will make again."
The Watcher eyed them speculatively. "Before all," he said finally,
"this is a world where you are free to risk wakening the old tyrants, if
in your own judgment your great need renders the chance worth taking."
Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes. In her
mind as it groped for his there was a confusion of horror and pity. Var
looked grimly at the Watcher, and would have spoken; but the Watcher
seemed suddenly a very long way off, and Var could no longer feel his
own limbs, his face was a numb mask. Dully he heard the old man say,
"You are tired. Best sleep until morning."
Var strove to cry out that there was no time, that Groz was near and
that sleep was for infants and the aged, but his intention sank and
drowned under wave upon wave of unconquerable languor. The bright cave
swam and dissolved; his eyelids closed.
Var woke. Daylight glimmered through the ice of the cave mouth. He had
been unconscious, helpless, for hours! At the thought of that, panic
gripped him. He had not slept since childhood, and he had forgotten how
it was.
He came to his feet in one quick movement, realizing in that action that
sleep had refreshed his mind and body—realizing also that a footstep
had wakened him. Across the cave he faced a young man who watched him
coolly with dark piercing eyes that were familiar though he did not know
the face.
Neena sat up and stifled a cry of fright. Var growled, "Who are you?
Where's the Watcher?"
The other flashed white teeth in a smile. "I'm the Watcher," he
answered. "Often I become a youth at morning, and relax into age as the
day passes. A foolish amusement, no doubt, but amusements are few here."
"You made us fall asleep. Groz will be on us—"
"Groz and his people could not detect your thoughts as you slept. They
were all night chasing elusive dreams on the high ridges, miles away."
Var passed a hand across bewildered eyes. Neena said softly, "Thank you,
Watcher."
"Don't thank me. I take no sides in your valley feuds. But now you are
rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga
mountain?"
Not looking at the Watcher, Var muttered unsteadily, "We have no
alternative."
There was a liquid tinkling as the ice-curtain collapsed; the fresh
breeze of morning swept into the cave. The youth beckoned to them, and
they followed him outside.
The glacial slope on which the cavern opened faced toward the mountain.
It rose black and forbidding in the dawn as it had by sunset. To right
and left of it, the grand cliffs, ocher and red, were lit splendidly by
the morning sun, but the mountain of the Ryzgas drank in the light and
gave nothing back.
Below their feet the slope fell away into an opaque sea of fog, filling
a mile-wide gorge. There was a sound of turbulent water, of a river
dashed from rock to rock in its struggle toward the plain, but the
curling fog hid everything.
"You have an alternative," said the Watcher crisply. The two took their
eyes from the black mountain and gazed at him in sudden hope, but his
face was unsmiling. "It is this. You, Var, can flee up the canyon to the
north, by a way I will show you, disguising your thoughts and masking
your presence as well as you are able, while the girl goes in the other
direction, southward, without seeking to conceal herself. Your pursuers
will be deceived and follow her, and by the time they catch her it will
be too late for them to overtake Var."
That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked
at one another. Then by common consent they blended their minds into
one.
They thought, in the warm intimacy of unreserved understanding: "
It
would work: I-you would make the sacrifice of shame and mockery—yet
these can be borne—that I-you might be saved from death—which is alone
irreparable.... But to become
I
and
you
again—that cannot be
borne.
"
They said in unison, "No. Not that."
The Watcher's face did not change. He said gravely, "Very well. I will
give you what knowledge I have that may help you when you enter the
Ryzga mountain."
Quickly, he impressed on them what he had learned of the structure of
the mountain and of its guardian machines. Var closed his eyes, a little
dizzied by the rapid flood of detail.
"You are ready to go," said the Watcher. He spoke aloud, and his voice
was cracked and harsh. Var opened his eyes in surprise, and saw that the
Watcher had become again the hoary ancient of last night.
Var felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion; only by its echo in Neena's
mind did he recognize it as a sense of guilt. He said stiffly, "You
don't blame us?"
"You have taken life in your own hands," rasped the Watcher. "Who does
that needs no blessing and feels no curse. Go!"
They groped through the fog above blank abysses that hid the snarling
river, crept hand in hand, sharing their strength, across unstable dream
bridges from crag to crag. Groz and his pack, in their numbers, would
cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at
last on the cindery slope of the great volcanic cone, they sensed that
the pursuit already halved their lead.
They stood high on the side of the Ryzga mountain, and gazed at the
doorway. It was an opaque yet penetrable well of darkness, opening into
the face of a lava cliff, closed only by an intangible curtain—so
little had the Ryzgas feared those who might assail them in their sleep.
Var sent his thoughts probing beyond the curtain, listened intently,
head thrown back, to their echoes that returned. The tunnel beyond
slanted steeply downward. Var's hands moved, molding a radiant globe
from the feeble sunshine that straggled through the fog-bank. With an
abrupt motion he hurled it. The sun-globe vanished, as if the darkness
had drunk it up, but though sight did not serve they both sensed that it
had passed through to light up the depths beyond. For within the
mountain something snapped suddenly alert—something alive yet not
living, seeing yet blind. They felt light-sensitive cells tingle in
response, felt electric currents sting along buried, long-idle
circuits....
The two stood shivering together.
The morning wind stirred, freshening, the fog lifted a little, and they
heard a great voice crying, "There they are!"
Var and Neena turned. Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that
they could not see, stood Groz. He shook the staff he carried. It was
too far to discern the rage that must contort his features, but the
thought he hurled at them was a soundless bellow: "Young fools! I've
caught you now!"
Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows.
Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: "Go
back! Or you'll drive us to enter the mountain!"
Groz seemed to hesitate. Then he swung his staff up like a weapon, and
for the two on the mountainside the world turned upside down, the
mountain's black shoulder hung inverted above them and the dizzy gulf of
sky was beneath. Var fought for footing with his balance gone, feeling
Neena reel against him until, summoning all his strength, he broke the
grip of the illusion and the world seemed to right itself. The mist
billowed again and Groz was out of sight, but they could hear him
exhorting his men to haste.
Neena's face was deadly pale and her lips trembled, but her urgent
whisper said, "Come on!"
Together they plunged into the curtain of darkness.
At Var's thought command Neena froze instantly. "Feel that!" he
muttered, and she, listening, sensed it too: the infinitesimal trickle
of currents behind what appeared to be a blank tunnel wall, a rising
potential that seemed to whisper
Ready ... ready....
The sun-globe floated behind them, casting light before them down the
featureless tunnel that sloped always toward the mountain's heart. Var
summoned it, and it drifted ahead, a dozen feet, a little more—
Between wall and wall a blinding spindle of flame sprang into being,
pulsed briefly with radiant energy that pained the eyes, and went out.
The immaterial globe of light danced on before them.
"Forward, before the charge builds up again!" said Var. A few feet
further on, they stumbled over a pile of charred bones. Someone else had
made it only this far. It was farther than the Watcher had gone into
these uncharted regions, and only the utmost alertness of mind and sense
had saved them from death in traps like this. But as yet the way was not
blocked....
Then they felt the mountain begin to tremble. A very faint and remote
vibration at first, then an increasingly potent shuddering of the floor
under their feet and the walls around them. Somewhere far below immense
energies were stirring for the first time in centuries. The power that
was in the Earth was rising; great wheels commenced to turn, the
mechanical servitors of the Ryzgas woke one by one and began to make
ready, while their masters yet slept, for the moment of rebirth that
might be near at hand.
From behind, up the tunnel, came a clear involuntary thought of dismay,
then a directed thought, echoing and ghostly in the confinement of the
dark burrow:
"
Stop!
—before you go too far!"
Var faced that way and thought coldly: "Only if you return and let us go
free."
In the black reaches of the shaft his will groped for and locked with
that of Groz, like the grip of two strong wrestlers. In that grip each
knew with finality that the other's stubbornness matched his own—that
neither would yield, though the mountain above them and the world
outside should crumble to ruin around them.
"Follow us, then!"
They plunged deeper into the mountain. And the shaking of the mountain
increased with every step, its vibrations became sound, and its sound
was like that of the terrible city which they had seen in the dream.
Through the slow-rolling thunder of the hidden machines seemed to echo
the death-cries of a billion slaves, the despair of all flesh and blood
before their monstrous and inhuman power.
Without warning, lights went on. Blinking in their glare, Var and Neena
saw that fifty paces before them the way opened out into a great rounded
room that was likewise ablaze with light. Cautiously they crept forward
to the threshold of that chamber at the mountain's heart.
Its roof was vaulted; its circular walls were lined with panels studded
with gleaming control buttons, levers, colored lights. As they watched
light flicked on and off in changing patterns, registering the
progressive changes in the vast complex of mechanisms for which this
must be the central control station. Behind those boards circuits opened
and closed in bewildering confusion; the two invaders felt the rapid
shifting of magnetic fields, the fury of electrons boiling in vacuum....
For long moments they forgot the pursuit, forgot everything in wonder at
this place whose remotest like they had never seen in the simplicity of
their machineless culture. In all the brilliant space there was no life.
They looked at one another, the same thought coming to both at once:
perhaps, after two thousand years, the masters were dead after all, and
only the machines remained? As if irresistibly drawn, they stepped over
the threshold.
There was a clang of metal like a signal. Halfway up the wall opposite,
above a narrow ramp that descended between the instrument panels, a
massive doorway swung wide, and in its opening a figure stood.
Var and Neena huddled frozenly, half expecting each instant to be their
last. And the Ryzga too stood motionless, looking down at them.
He was a man of middle height and stocky build, clad in a garment of
changing colors, of fabric delicate as dream-stuff. In his right hand,
with the care one uses with a weapon, he grasped a gleaming metal tube;
his other hand rested as for support against the frame of the doorway.
That, and his movements when he came slowly down the ramp toward them,
conveyed a queer suggestion of weariness or weakness, as if he were yet
not wholly roused from his two millenia of slumber. But the Ryzga's
manner and his mind radiated a consciousness of power, a pride and
assurance of self that smote them like a numbing blow.
With a new shock, Var realized that the Ryzga's thoughts were quite
open. They had a terse, disconnected quality that was strange and
unsettling, and in part they were couched in alien and unintelligible
symbols. But there was no block. Apparently the Ryzga felt no need to
close his mind in the presence of inferior creatures....
He paused with his back to the central control panel, and studied the
interlopers with the dispassionate gaze of a scientist examining a new,
but not novel, species of insect. His thoughts seemed to click, like
metal parts of a mechanism falling into places prepared for them. The
image occurred oddly to Var, to whom such a comparison would ordinarily
have been totally strange.
"Culture: late barbarism. Handwork of high quality—good. Physically
excellent stock...." There was a complicated and incomprehensible
schemata of numbers and abstract forms. "The time: two thousand
years—more progress might have been expected, if any survivors at all
initially postulated; but this will do. The pessimists were mistaken. We
can begin again." Then, startlingly super-imposed on the cool
progression of logical thought, came a wave of raw emotion, devastating
in its force. It was a lustful image of a world once more obedient,
crawling, laboring to do the Ryzgas' will—
toward the stars, the
stars!
The icy calculation resumed: "Immobilize these and the ones
indicated in the passage above. Then wake the rest...."
Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face. It was a face formed
by the custom of unquestioned command; yet it was lined by a deeply
ingrained weariness, the signs of premature age—denied, overridden by
the driving will they had sensed a moment earlier. It was a sick man's
face.
The Ryzga's final thought clicked into place:
Decision!
He turned
toward the switchboard behind him, reaching with practised certainty for
one spot upon it.
Neena screamed.
Between the Ryzga and the control panel a nightmare shape reared up
seven feet tall, flapping black amorphous limbs and flashing red eyes
and white fangs. The Ryzga recoiled, and the weapon in his hand came up.
There was an instantaneous glare like heat lightning, and the monster
crumpled in on itself, twitched briefly and vanished.
But in that moment a light of inspiration had flashed upon Var, and it
remained. As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The
Ryzga froze, teetering off balance and almost falling, as a numbing grip
closed down on all his motor nerves.
Holding that grip, Var strode across the floor and looked straight into
the Ryzga's frantic eyes. They glared back at him with such hatred and
such evil that for an instant he almost faltered. But the Ryzga's
efforts, as he strove to free himself from the neural hold, were as
misdirected and unavailing as those of a child who has not learned to
wrestle with the mind.
Var had guessed right. When Neena in her terror had flung a dream
monster into the Ryzga's way—a mere child's bogey out of a fairy
tale—the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a
real being. Var laughed aloud, and with great care, as one communicates
with an infant, he projected his thoughts into the other's mind. "There
will be no new beginning for you in
our
world, Ryzga! In two thousand
years, we've learned some new things. Now at last I understand why you
built so many machines, such complicated arrangements of matter and
energy to do simple tasks—it was because you knew no other way."
Behind the hate-filled eyes the cold brain tried to reason still.
"Barbarians...? Our party was wrong after all. After us the machine
civilization could never rise again, because it was a fire that consumed
its fuel. After us
man
could not survive on the Earth, because the
conditions that made him great were gone. The survivors must be
something else—capacities undeveloped by our science—after us the end
of man, the beginning.... But those of us who chose to die were right."
The tide of hate and sick desire rose up to drown all coherence. The
Ryzga made a savage, wholly futile effort to lift the weapon in his
paralyzed hand. Then his eyes rolled upward, and abruptly he went limp
and fell in a heap, like a mechanical doll whose motive power has
failed.
Var felt Neena beside him, and drew her close. As she sobbed her relief,
he continued to look down absently at the dead man. When at last he
raised his head, he saw that the drama's end had had a further audience.
In the outer doorway, backed by his clansmen, stood Groz, gazing first
in stupefaction at the fallen Ryzga, then with something like awe at
Var.
Var eyed him for a long moment; then he smiled, and asked, "Well, Groz?
Is our feud finished, or does your ambition for a worthy son-in-law go
beyond the conqueror of the Ryzgas?"
|
train | 31355 | [
"The four men are ranked according to:",
"What fuels Russell's loathing of Dunbar?",
"What do the four men seek/value most in a star? That no one had ever heard of it before",
"What does Dunbar mean in calling the other stars 'Jezebels' of stars? ",
"What is ironic about Russell's decision to kill Dunbar?",
"Why does Dunbar continue to tell stories of an enchanting paradise?",
"What is Russell's greatest fear?"
] | [
[
"experience",
"strength",
"health",
"age "
],
[
"Dunbar's optimism",
"Dunbar's age",
"Dunbar's delusions",
"Dunbar's laugh"
],
[
"obscurity of location",
"population of women",
"geographical features",
"prevalence of riches"
],
[
"They are uncomely on the exterior, but thriving within",
"They are designed to lure men to their deaths",
"They are meant to distract travelers from their main focus",
"They are seductive, but ultimately, unworthy of pursuit"
],
[
"After killing Dunbar, Russell became just as delusional as Dunbar",
"If Russell had not killed Dunbar, the three men would have never reached their ultimate paradise",
"The four men were all going to die anyway, but they could have died together.",
"If the four men had followed Dunbar, they all would have survived."
],
[
"To motivate them to keep persisting until they arrive",
"To convince himself that he is choosing the correct star",
"To assuage his crewmen's minds before they inevitably die",
"To lure the Johnson, Alvar, and Russell into a trap"
],
[
"Being disappointed",
"Losing his mind",
"Being lost and alone",
"Living forever"
]
] | [
4,
1,
1,
4,
4,
1,
3
] | [
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
TO EACH HIS STAR
by
BRYCE WALTON
"Nothing around those other suns but ashes and dried
blood," old Dunbar told the space-wrecked, desperate men.
"Only one way to go, where we can float down through the
clouds to Paradise. That's straight ahead to the sun with
the red rim around it."
But Dunbar's eyes were old and uncertain. How could they
believe in his choice when every star in this forsaken
section of space was surrounded by a beckoning red rim?
There was just blackness, frosty glimmering terrible blackness, going
out and out forever in all directions. Russell didn't think they could
remain sane in all this blackness much longer. Bitterly he thought of
how they would die—not knowing within maybe thousands of light years
where they were, or where they were going.
After the wreck, the four of them had floated a while, floated and
drifted together, four men in bulbous pressure suits like small
individual rockets, held together by an awful pressing need for each
other and by the "gravity-rope" beam.
Dunbar, the oldest of the four, an old space-buster with a face
wrinkled like a dried prune, burned by cosmic rays and the suns of
worlds so far away they were scarcely credible, had taken command.
Suddenly, Old Dunbar had known where they were. Suddenly, Dunbar knew
where they were going.
They could talk to one another through the etheric transmitters inside
their helmets. They could live ... if this was living ... a long time,
if only a man's brain would hold up, Russell thought. The suits were
complete units. 700 pounds each, all enclosing shelters, with
atmosphere pressure, temperature control, mobility in space, and
electric power. Each suit had its own power-plant, reprocessing
continuously the precious air breathed by the occupants, putting it
back into circulation again after enriching it. Packed with food
concentrates. Each suit a rocket, each human being part of a rocket,
and the special "life-gun" that went with each suit each blast of
which sent a man a few hundred thousand miles further on toward
wherever he was going.
Four men, thought Russell, held together by an invisible string of
gravity, plunging through a lost pocket of hell's dark where there had
never been any sound or life, with old Dunbar the first in line,
taking the lead because he was older and knew where he was and where
he was going. Maybe Johnson, second in line, and Alvar who was third,
knew too, but were afraid to admit it.
But Russell knew it and he'd admitted it from the first—that old
Dunbar was as crazy as a Jovian juke-bird.
A lot of time had rushed past into darkness. Russell had no idea now
how long the four of them had been plunging toward the red-rimmed sun
that never seemed to get any nearer. When the ultra-drive had gone
crazy the four of them had blanked out and nobody could say now how
long an interim that had been. Nobody knew what happened to a man who
suffered a space-time warping like that. When they had regained
consciousness, the ship was pretty banged up, and the meteor-repeller
shields cracked. A meteor ripped the ship down the center like an old
breakfast cannister.
How long ago that had been, Russell didn't know. All Russell knew was
that they were millions of light years from any place he had ever
heard about, where the galactic space lanterns had absolutely no
recognizable pattern. But Dunbar knew. And Russell was looking at
Dunbar's suit up ahead, watching it more and more intently, thinking
about how Dunbar looked inside that suit—and hating Dunbar more and
more for claiming he knew when he didn't, for his drooling
optimism—because he was taking them on into deeper darkness and
calling their destination Paradise.
Russell wanted to laugh, but the last time he'd given way to this
impulse, the results inside his helmet had been too unpleasant to
repeat.
Sometimes Russell thought of other things besides his growing hatred
of the old man. Sometimes he thought about the ship, lost back there
in the void, and he wondered if wrecked space ships were ever found.
Compared with the universe in which one of them drifted, a wrecked
ship was a lot smaller than a grain of sand on a nice warm beach back
on Earth, or one of those specks of silver dust that floated like
strange seeds down the night winds of Venus.
And a human was smaller still, thought Russell when he was not hating
Dunbar. Out here, a human being is the smallest thing of all. He
thought then of what Dunbar would say to such a thought, how Dunbar
would laugh that high piping squawking laugh of his and say that the
human being was bigger than the Universe itself.
Dunbar had a big answer for every little thing.
When the four of them had escaped from that prison colony on a
sizzling hot asteroid rock in the Ronlwhyn system, that wasn't enough
for Dunbar. Hell no—Dunbar had to start talking about a place they
could go where they'd never be apprehended, in a system no one else
had ever heard of, where they could live like gods on a green soft
world like the Earth had been a long time back.
And Dunbar had spouted endlessly about a world of treasure they would
find, if they would just follow old Dunbar. That's what all four of
them had been trying to find all their lives in the big cold grabbag
of eternity—a rich star, a rich far fertile star where no one else
had ever been, loaded with treasure that had no name, that no one had
ever heard of before. And was, because of that, the richest treasure
of all.
We all look alike out here in these big rocket pressure suits, Russell
thought. No one for God only knew how many of millions of light years
away could see or care. Still—we might have a chance to live, even
now, Russell thought—if it weren't for old crazy Dunbar.
They might have a chance if Alvar and Johnson weren't so damn lacking
in self-confidence as to put all their trust in that crazed old
rum-dum. Russell had known now for some time that they were going in
the wrong direction. No reason for knowing. Just a hunch. And Russell
was sure his hunch was right.
Russell said. "Look—look to your left and to your right and behind
us. Four suns. You guys see those other three suns all around you,
don't you?"
"Sure," someone said.
"Well, if you'll notice," Russell said, "the one on the left also now
has a red rim around it. Can't you guys see that?"
"Yeah, I see it," Alvar said.
"So now," Johnson said, "there's two suns with red rims around them."
"We're about in the middle of those four suns aren't we, Dunbar?"
Russell said.
"That's right, boys!" yelled old Dunbar in that sickeningly optimistic
voice. Like a hysterical old woman's. "Just about in the sweet dark
old middle."
"You're still sure it's the sun up ahead ... that's the only one with
life on it, Dunbar ... the only one we can live on?" Russell asked.
"That's right! That's right," Dunbar yelled. "That's the only one—and
it's a paradise. Not just a place to live, boys—but a place you'll
have trouble believing in because it's like a dream!"
"And none of these other three suns have worlds we could live on,
Dunbar?" Russell asked. Keep the old duck talking like this and maybe
Alvar and Johnson would see that he was cracked.
"Yeah," said Alvar. "You still say that, Dunbar?"
"No life, boys, nothing," Dunbar laughed. "Nothing on these other
worlds but ashes ... just ashes and iron and dried blood, dried a
million years or more."
"When in hell were you ever here?" Johnson said. "You say you were
here before. You never said when, or why or anything!"
"It was a long time back boys. Don't remember too well, but it was
when we had an old ship called the DOG STAR that I was here. A pirate
ship and I was second in command, and we came through this sector.
That was—hell, it musta' been fifty years ago. I been too many places
nobody's ever bothered to name or chart, to remember where it is, but
I been here. I remember those four suns all spotted to form a perfect
circle from this point, with us squarely in the middle. We explored
all these suns and the worlds that go round 'em. Trust me, boys, and
we'll reach the right one. And that one's just like Paradise."
"Paradise is it," Russell whispered hoarsely.
"Paradise and there we'll be like gods, like Mercuries with wings
flying on nights of sweet song. These other suns, don't let them
bother you. They're Jezebels of stars. All painted up in the darkness
and pretty and waiting and calling and lying! They make you think of
nice green worlds all running waters and dews and forests thick as
fleas on a wet dog. But it ain't there, boys. I know this place. I
been here, long time back."
Russell said tightly. "It'll take us a long time won't it? If it's got
air we can breath, and water we can drink and shade we can rest
in—that'll be paradise enough for us. But it'll take a long time
won't it? And what if it isn't there—what if after all the time we
spend hoping and getting there—there won't be nothing but ashes and
cracked clay?"
"I know we're going right," Dunbar said cheerfully. "I can tell. Like
I said—you can tell it because of the red rim around it."
"But the sun on our left, you can see—it's got a red rim too now,"
Russell said.
"Yeah, that's right," said Alvar. "Sometimes I see a red rim around
the one we're going for, sometimes a red rim around that one on the
left. Now, sometimes I'm not sure either of them's got a red rim. You
said that one had a red rim, Dunbar, and I wanted to believe it. So
now maybe we're all seeing a red rim that was never there."
Old Dunbar laughed. The sound brought blood hotly to Russell's face.
"We're heading to the right one, boys. Don't doubt me ... I been here.
We explored all these sun systems. And I remember it all. The second
planet from that red-rimmed sun. You come down through a soft
atmosphere, floating like in a dream. You see the green lakes coming
up through the clouds and the women dancing and the music playing. I
remember seeing a ship there that brought those women there, a long
long time before ever I got there. A land like heaven and women like
angels singing and dancing and laughing with red lips and arms white
as milk, and soft silky hair floating in the winds."
Russell was very sick of the old man's voice. He was at least glad he
didn't have to look at the old man now. His bald head, his skinny
bobbing neck, his simpering watery blue eyes. But he still had to
suffer that immutable babbling, that idiotic cheerfulness ... and
knowing all the time the old man was crazy, that he was leading them
wrong.
I'd break away, go it alone to the right sun, Russell thought—but I'd
never make it alone. A little while out here alone and I'd be nuttier
than old Dunbar will ever be, even if he keeps on getting nuttier all
the time.
Somewhere, sometime then ... Russell got the idea that the only way
was to get rid of Dunbar.
You mean to tell us there are people living by that red-rimmed sun,"
Russell said.
"Lost people ... lost ... who knows how long," Dunbar said, as the
four of them hurtled along. "You never know where you'll find people
on a world somewhere nobody's ever named or knows about. Places where
a lost ship's landed and never got up again, or wrecked itself so far
off the lanes they'll never be found except by accident for millions
of years. That's what this world is, boys. Must have been a ship load
of beautiful people, maybe actresses and people like that being hauled
to some outpost to entertain. They're like angels now, living in a
land all free from care. Every place you see green forests and fields
and blue lakes, and at nights there's three moons that come around the
sky in a thousand different colors. And it never gets cold ... it's
always spring, always spring, boys, and the music plays all night,
every night of a long long year...."
Russell suddenly shouted. "Keep quiet, Dunbar. Shut up will you?"
Johnson said. "Dunbar—how long'll it take us?"
"Six months to a year, I'd say," Dunbar yelled happily. "That is—of
our hereditary time."
"What?" croaked Alvar.
Johnson didn't say anything at all.
Russell screamed at Dunbar, then quieted down. He whispered. "Six
months to a year—out here—cooped up in these damn suits. You're
crazy as hell, Dunbar. Crazy ... crazy! Nobody could stand it. We'll
all be crazier than you are—"
"We'll make it, boys. Trust ole' Dunbar. What's a year when we know
we're getting to Paradise at the end of it? What's a year out here ...
it's paradise ain't it, compared with that prison hole we were rotting
in? We can make it. We have the food concentrates, and all the rest.
All we need's the will, boys, and we got that. The whole damn Universe
isn't big enough to kill the will of a human being, boys. I been over
a whole lot of it, and I know. In the old days—"
"The hell with the old days," screamed Russell.
"Now quiet down, Russ," Dunbar said in a kind of dreadful crooning
whisper. "You calm down now. You younger fellows—you don't look at
things the way we used to. Thing is, we got to go straight. People
trapped like this liable to start meandering. Liable to start losing
the old will-power."
He chuckled.
"Yeah," said Alvar. "Someone says maybe we ought to go left, and
someone says to go right, and someone else says to go in another
direction. And then someone says maybe they'd better go back the old
way. An' pretty soon something breaks, or the food runs out, and
you're a million million miles from someplace you don't care about any
more because you're dead. All frozen up in space ... preserved like a
piece of meat in a cold storage locker. And then maybe in a million
years or so some lousy insect man from Jupiter comes along and finds
you and takes you away to a museum...."
"Shut up!" Johnson yelled.
Dunbar laughed. "Boys, boys, don't get panicky. Keep your heads. Just
stick to old Dunbar and he'll see you through. I'm always lucky. Only
one way to go ... an' that's straight ahead to the sun with the
red-rim around it ... and then we tune in the gravity repellers, and
coast down, floating and singing down through the clouds to
paradise."
After that they traveled on for what seemed months to Russell, but it
couldn't have been over a day or two of the kind of time-sense he had
inherited from Earth.
Then he saw how the other two stars also were beginning to develop red
rims. He yelled this fact out to the others. And Alvar said. "Russ's
right. That sun to the right, and the one behind us ... now they ALL
have red rims around them. Dunbar—" A pause and no awareness of
motion.
Dunbar laughed. "Sure, they all maybe have a touch of red, but it
isn't the same, boys. I can tell the difference. Trust me—"
Russell half choked on his words. "You old goat! With those old eyes
of yours, you couldn't see your way into a fire!"
"Don't get panicky now. Keep your heads. In another year, we'll be
there—"
"God, you gotta' be sure," Alvar said. "I don't mind dyin' out here.
But after a year of this, and then to get to a world that was only
ashes, and not able to go any further—"
"I always come through, boys. I'm lucky. Angel women will take us to
their houses on the edges of cool lakes, little houses that sit there
in the sun like fancy jewels. And we'll walk under colored fountains,
pretty colored fountains just splashing and splashing like pretty rain
on our hungry hides. That's worth waiting for."
Russell did it before he hardly realized he was killing the old man.
It was something he had had to do for a long time and that made it
easy. There was a flash of burning oxygen from inside the suit of
Dunbar. If he'd aimed right, Russell knew the fire-bullet should have
pierced Dunbar's back. Now the fire was gone, extinguished
automatically by units inside the suit. The suit was still inflated,
self-sealing. Nothing appeared to have changed. The four of them
hurtling on together, but inside that first suit up there on the front
of the gravity rope, Dunbar was dead.
He was dead and his mouth was shut for good.
Dunbar's last faint cry from inside his suit still rang in Russell's
ears, and he knew Alvar and Johnson had heard it too. Alvar and
Johnson both called Dunbar's name a few times. There was no answer.
"Russ—you shouldn't have done that," Johnson whispered. "You
shouldn't have done that to the old man!"
"No," Alvar said, so low he could barely be heard. "You shouldn't have
done it."
"I did it for the three of us," Russell said. "It was either him or us.
Lies ... lies that was all he had left in his crazy head. Paradise ...
don't tell me you guys don't see the red rims around all four suns, all
four suns all around us. Don't tell me you guys didn't know he was batty,
that you really believed all that stuff he was spouting all the time!"
"Maybe he was lying, maybe not," Johnson said. "Now he's dead anyway."
"Maybe he was wrong, crazy, full of lies," Alvar said. "But now he's
dead."
"How could he see any difference in those four stars?" Russell said,
louder.
"He thought he was right," Alvar said. "He wanted to take us to
paradise. He was happy, nothing could stop the old man—but he's dead
now."
He sighed.
"He was taking us wrong ... wrong!" Russell screamed. "Angels—music
all night—houses like jewels—and women like angels—"
"
Shhhh
," said Alvar. It was quiet. How could it be so quiet, Russell
thought? And up ahead the old man's pressure suit with a corpse inside
went on ahead, leading the other three at the front of the
gravity-rope.
"Maybe he was wrong," Alvar said. "But now do we know which way is
right?"
Sometime later, Johnson said, "We got to decide now. Let's forget the
old man. Let's forget him and all that's gone and let's start now and
decide what to do."
And Alvar said, "Guess he was crazy all right, and I guess we trusted
him because we didn't have the strength to make up our own minds. Why
does a crazy man's laugh sound so good when you're desperate and don't
know what to do?"
"I always had a feeling we were going wrong," Johnson said. "Anyway,
it's forgotten, Russ. It's swallowed up in the darkness all around.
It's never been."
Russell said, "I've had a hunch all along that maybe the old man was
here before, and that he was right about there being a star here with
a world we can live on. But I've known we was heading wrong. I've had
a hunch all along that the right star was the one to the left."
"I don't know," Johnson sighed. "I been feeling partial toward that
one on the right. What about you, Alvar?"
"I always thought we were going straight in the opposite direction
from what we should, I guess. I always wanted to turn around and go
back. It won't make over maybe a month's difference. And what does a
month matter anyway out here—hell there never was any time out here
until we came along. We make our own time here, and a month don't
matter to me."
Sweat ran down Russell's face. His voice trembled. "No—that's wrong.
You're both wrong." He could see himself going it alone. Going crazy
because he was alone. He'd have broken away, gone his own direction,
long ago but for that fear.
"How can we tell which of us is right?" Alvar said. "It's like
everything was changing all the time out here. Sometimes I'd swear
none of those suns had red rims, and at other times—like the old man
said, they're all pretty and lying and saying nothing, just changing
all the time. Jezebel stars, the old man said."
"I know I'm right," Russell pleaded. "My hunches always been right.
My hunch got us out of that prison didn't it? Listen—I tell you it's
that star to the left—"
"The one to the right," said Johnson.
"We been going away from the right one all the time," said Alvar.
"We got to stay together," said Russell. "Nobody could spend a year
out here ... alone...."
"Ah ... in another month or so we'd be lousy company anyway," Alvar
said. "Maybe a guy could get to the point where he'd sleep most of the
time ... just wake up enough times to give himself another boost with
the old life-gun."
"We got to face it," Johnson said finally. "We three don't go on
together any more."
"That's it," said Alvar. "There's three suns that look like they might
be right seeing as how we all agree the old man was wrong. But we
believe there is one we can live by, because we all seem to agree that
the old man might have been right about that. If we stick together,
the chance is three to one against us. But if each of us makes for one
star, one of us has a chance to live. Maybe not in paradise like the
old man said, but a place where we can live. And maybe there'll be
intelligent life, maybe even a ship, and whoever gets the right star
can come and help the other two...."
"No ... God no...." Russell whispered over and over. "None of us can
ever make it alone...."
Alvar said, "We each take the star he likes best. I'll go back the
other way. Russ, you take the left. And you, Johnson, go to the
right."
Johnson started to laugh. Russell was yelling wildly at them, and
above his own yelling he could hear Johnson's rising laughter. "Every
guy's got a star of his own," Johnson said when he stopped laughing.
"And we got ours. A nice red-rimmed sun for each of us to call his
very own."
"Okay," Alvar said. "We cut off the gravity rope, and each to his own
sun."
Now Russell wasn't saying anything.
"And the old man," Alvar said, "can keep right on going toward what he
thought was right. And he'll keep on going. Course he won't be able to
give himself another boost with the life-gun, but he'll keep going.
Someday he'll get to that red-rimmed star of his. Out here in space,
once you're going, you never stop ... and I guess there isn't any
other body to pull him off his course. And what will time matter to
old Dunbar? Even less than to us, I guess. He's dead and he won't
care."
"Ready," Johnson said. "I'll cut off the gravity rope."
"I'm ready," Alvar said. "To go back toward whatever it was I started
from."
"Ready, Russ?"
Russell couldn't say anything. He stared at the endless void which now
he would share with no one. Not even crazy old Dunbar.
"All right," Johnson said. "Good-bye."
Russell felt the release, felt the sudden inexplicable isolation and
aloneness even before Alvar and Johnson used their life-guns and shot
out of sight, Johnson toward the left and Alvar back toward that other
red-rimmed sun behind them.
And old Dunbar shooting right on ahead. And all three of them
dwindling and dwindling and blinking out like little lights.
Fading, he could hear their voices. "Each to his own star," Johnson
said. "On a bee line."
"On a bee line," Alvar said.
Russell used his own life-gun and in a little while he didn't hear
Alvar or Johnson's voices, nor could he see them. They were thousands
of miles away, and going further all the time.
Russell's head fell forward against the front of his helmet, and he
closed his eyes. "Maybe," he thought, "I shouldn't have killed the old
man. Maybe one sun's as good as another...."
Then he raised his body and looked out into the year of blackness that
waited for him, stretching away to the red-rimmed sun. Even if he were
right—he was sure now he'd never make it alone.
The body inside the pressure suit drifted into a low-level orbit
around the second planet from the sun of its choice, and drifted there
a long time. A strato-cruiser detected it by chance because of the
strong concentration of radio-activity that came from it.
They took the body down to one of the small, quiet towns on the edge
of one of the many blue lakes where the domed houses were like bright
joyful jewels. They got the leathery, well-preserved body from the
pressure suit.
"An old man," one of them mused. "A very old man. From one of the lost
sectors. I wonder how and why he came so very far from his home?"
"Wrecked a ship out there, probably," one of the others said. "But he
managed to get this far. It looks as though a small meteor fragment
pierced his body. Here. You see?"
"Yes," another of them said. "But what amazes me is that this old man
picked this planet out of all the others. The only one in this entire
sector that would sustain life."
"Maybe he was just a very lucky old man. Yes ... a man who attains
such an age was usually lucky. Or at least that is what they say about
the lost sectors."
"Maybe he knew the way here. Maybe he was here before—sometime."
The other shook his head. "I don't think so. They say some humans from
that far sector did land here—but that's probably only a myth. And if
they did, it was well over a thousand years ago."
Another said. "He has a fine face, this old man. A noble face. Whoever
he is ... wherever he came from, he died bravely and he knew the way,
though he never reached this haven of the lost alive."
"Nor is it irony that he reached here dead," said the Lake Chieftain.
He had been listening and he stepped forward and raised his arm. "He
was old. It is obvious that he fought bravely, that he had great
courage, and that he knew the way. He will be given a burial suitable
to his stature, and he will rest here among the brave.
"Let the women dance and the music play for this old man. Let the
trumpets speak, and the rockets fly up. And let flowers be strewn over
the path above which the women will carry him to rest."
|
train | 29168 | [
"Which terms best describe the narrator's tone? ",
"Why didn't the narrator provide the leprechauns with the correct equation?",
"What is the narrator's ethnicity?",
"Why do the leprechauns prefer poets to scientists?",
"What motivated the leprechauns to build a spaceship?",
"Why is the narrator unafraid to work openly in the park among the leprechauns? Others aren't believers",
"What helps Houlihan to focus more intently on his own problem?"
] | [
[
"authoritative and oblivious",
"manipulative and meticulous",
"congenial and self-aware",
"hostile and condescending"
],
[
"He knows that the leprechauns are preventing humans from destroying the Earth",
"He wants to take credit for the equation and is concerned they will try to get credit first",
"In swearing their allegiance to him, they are bound to him for eternity",
"He believes humans need to believe in things like leprechauns in order to sustain their own race"
],
[
"Irish",
"American",
"Leprechaun",
"Japanese"
],
[
"Poets are more likely than scientists to collaborate with leprechauns without expecting compensation",
"Poets are less likely than scientists to want to capture and experiment with the leprechauns",
"Poets are less likely than scientists to understand the leprechauns' mission",
"Poets are more likely than scientists to show compassion to non-human species"
],
[
"They desire to seek and add more riches to their already expansive collection",
"They believe that humans' obsession with technology will make the world inhabitable",
"They fear that their race will soon become extinct due to population decline",
"They wish to transport their riches to another location where humans will never steal it"
],
[
"He feels that he and the leprechauns can protect themselves through cunning ways and physical strength",
"He doubts that his colleagues at the Center would ever venture outdoors to the park area",
"He knows that it is rare to find believers among his colleagues and fellow humans",
"He believes strongly in the importance of his collaboration with the leprechauns and is willing to take the risk of being discovered"
],
[
"collaborating with the leprechauns, who speak his same language",
"imagining the pot of gold that awaits him if he is able to solve the equation",
"being outdoors, where his creativity is stimulated",
"venturing outside of the Center, where he is not worried about competition among colleagues"
]
] | [
3,
4,
1,
2,
2,
3,
1
] | [
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | Every writer must seek his own Flowery Kingdom in imagination's wide
demesne, and if that search can begin and end on Earth his problem has
been greatly simplified. In post-war Japan Walt Sheldon has found not only
serenity, but complete freedom to write undisturbed about the things he
treasures most. A one-time Air Force officer, he has turned to fantasy in
his lighter moments, to bring us such brightly sparkling little gems as this.
houlihan's
equation
by ... Walt Sheldon
The tiny spaceship had been built for a journey to a star. But its
small, mischievous pilots had a rendezvous with destiny—on Earth.
I must
admit that at first I
wasn't sure I was hearing those
noises. It was in a park near the
nuclear propulsion center—a cool,
green spot, with the leaves all telling
each other to hush, be quiet,
and the soft breeze stirring them up
again. I had known precisely such
a secluded little green sanctuary just
over the hill from Mr. Riordan's
farm when I was a boy.
Now it was a place I came to
when I had a problem to thrash out.
That morning I had been trying to
work out an equation to give the
coefficient of discharge for the matter
in combustion. You may call it
gas, if you wish, for we treated it
like gas at the center for convenience—as
it came from the rocket
tubes in our engine.
Without this coefficient to give
us control, we would have lacked a
workable equation when we set
about putting the first moon rocket
around those extraordinary engines
of ours, which were still in the undeveloped
blueprint stage.
I see I shall have to explain this,
although I had hoped to get right
along with my story. When you
start from scratch, matter discharged
from any orifice has a velocity directly
proportional to the square
root of the pressure-head driving it.
But when you actually put things
together, contractions or expansions
in the gas, surface roughness
and other factors make the velocity
a bit smaller.
At the terrible discharge speed
of nuclear explosion—which is
what the drive amounts to despite
the fact that it is simply water in
which nuclear salts have been previously
dissolved—this small factor
makes quite a difference. I had
to figure everything into it—diameter
of the nozzle, sharpness of the
edge, the velocity of approach to the
point of discharge, atomic weight
and structure— Oh, there is so
much of this that if you're not a
nuclear engineer yourself it's certain
to weary you.
Perhaps you had better take my
word for it that without this equation—correctly
stated, mind you—mankind
would be well advised not
to make a first trip to the moon.
And all this talk of coefficients and
equations sits strangely, you might
say, upon the tongue of a man
named Kevin Francis Houlihan.
But I am, after all, a scientist. If I
had not been a specialist in my field
I would hardly have found myself
engaged in vital research at the
center.
Anyway, I heard these little
noises in the park. They sounded
like small working sounds, blending
in eerily mysterious fashion with a
chorus of small voices. I thought at
first it might be children at play,
but then at the time I was a bit
absent-minded. I tiptoed to the edge
of the trees, not wanting to deprive
any small scalawags of their pleasure,
and peered out between the
branches. And what do you suppose
I saw? Not children, but a
group of little people, hard at work.
There was a leader, an older one
with a crank face. He was beating
the air with his arms and piping:
"Over here, now! All right, bring
those electrical connections over
here—and see you're not slow as
treacle about it!"
There were perhaps fifty of the
little people. I was more than startled
by it, too. I had not seen little
people in—oh, close to thirty years.
I had seen them first as a boy of
eight, and then, very briefly again,
on my tenth birthday. And I had
become convinced they could
never
be seen here in America. I had
never seen them so busy, either.
They were building something in
the middle of the glade. It was long
and shiny and upright and a little
over five feet in height.
"Come along now, people!" said
this crotchety one, looking straight
at me. "Stop starin' and get to
work! You'll not be needin' to
mind that man standin' there! You
know he can't see nor hear us!"
Oh, it was good to hear the rich
old tongue again. I smiled, and the
foreman of the leprechauns—if
that's what he was—saw me smile
and became stiff and alert for a moment,
as though suspecting that perhaps
I actually could see him. Then
he shrugged and turned away, clearly
deeming such a thing impossible.
I said, "Just a minute, friend,
and I'll beg your pardon. It so happens
I
can
see you."
He whirled to face me again,
staring open-mouthed. Then he
said, "What? What's that, now?"
"I can see you," I said.
"Ohhh!" he said and put his
palms to his cheekbones. "Saints be
with us! He's a believer! Run everybody—run
for your lives!"
And they all began running, in
as many directions as there were
little souls. They began to scurry
behind the trees and bushes, and a
sloping embankment nearby.
"No, wait!" I said. "Don't go
away! I'll not be hurting you!"
They continued to scurry.
I knew what it was they feared.
"I don't intend catching one of
you!" I said. "Come back, you daft
little creatures!"
But the glade was silent, and they
had all disappeared. They thought I
wanted their crock of gold, of
course. I'd be entitled to it if I could
catch one and keep him. Or so the
legends affirmed, though I've wondered
often about the truth of them.
But I was after no gold. I only wanted
to hear the music of an Irish
tongue. I was lonely here in America,
even if I had latched on to a fine
job of work for almost shamefully
generous pay. You see, in a place as
full of science as the nuclear propulsion
center there is not much
time for the old things. I very much
wanted to talk to the little people.
I walked over to the center of
the glade where the curious shiny
object was standing. It was as
smooth as glass and shaped like a
huge cigar. There were a pair of
triangular fins down at the bottom,
and stubby wings amidships. Of
course it was a spaceship, or a
miniature replica of one. I looked
at it more closely. Everything seemed
almost miraculously complete
and workable.
I shook my head in wonder, then
stepped back from the spaceship
and looked about the glade. I knew
they were all hiding nearby, watching
me apprehensively. I lifted my
head to them.
"Listen to me now, little people!"
I called out. "My name's
Houlihan of the Roscommon Houlihans.
I am descended from King
Niall himself—or so at least my
father used to say! Come on out
now, and pass the time o' day!"
Then I waited, but they didn't
answer. The little people always
had been shy. Yet without reaching
a decision in so many words I knew
suddenly that I
had
to talk to them.
I'd come to the glen to work out a
knotty problem, and I was up
against a blank wall. Simply because
I was so lonely that my mind had
become clogged.
I knew that if I could just once
hear the old tongue again, and talk
about the old things, I might be able
to think the problem through to a
satisfactory conclusion.
So I stepped back to the tiny
spaceship, and this time I struck it
a resounding blow with my fist.
"Hear me now, little people! If you
don't show yourselves and come out
and talk to me, I'll wreck this spaceship
from stem to stern!"
I heard only the leaves rustling
softly.
"Do you understand? I'll give
you until I count three to make an
appearance! One!"
The glade remained deathly silent.
"Two!"
I thought I heard a stirring somewhere,
as if a small, brittle twig had
snapped in the underbrush.
"
Three!
"
And with that the little people
suddenly appeared.
The leader—he seemed more
wizened and bent than before—approached
me slowly and warily as I
stood there. The others all followed
at a safe distance. I smiled to reassure
them and then waved my arm
in a friendly gesture of greeting.
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning," the foreman
said with some caution. "My name
is Keech."
"And mine's Houlihan, as I've
told you. Are you convinced now
that I have no intention of doing
you any injury?"
"Mr. Houlihan," said Keech,
drawing a kind of peppered dignity
up about himself, "in such matters
I am never fully convinced. After
living for many centuries I am all
too acutely aware of the perversity
of human nature."
"Yes," I said. "Well, as you will
quickly see, all I want to do is
talk." I nodded as I spoke, and sat
down cross-legged upon the grass.
"Any Irishman wants to talk, Mr.
Houlihan."
"And often that's
all
he wants,"
I said. "Sit down with me now, and
stop staring as if I were a snake
returned to the Island."
He shook his head and remained
standing. "Have your say, Mr.
Houlihan. And afterward we'll appreciate
it if you'll go away and
leave us to our work."
"Well, now, your work," I said,
and glanced at the spaceship.
"That's exactly what's got me curious."
The others had edged in a bit
now and were standing in a circle,
intently staring at me. I took out my
pipe. "Why," I asked, "would a
group of little people be building a
spaceship here in America—out in
this lonely place?"
Keech stared back without much
expression, and said, "I've been
wondering how you guessed it was
a spaceship. I was surprised enough
when you told me you could see us
but not overwhelmingly so. I've run
into believers before who could see
the little people. It happens every
so often, though not as frequently
as it did a century ago. But knowing
a spaceship at first glance! Well, I
must confess that
does
astonish
me."
"And why wouldn't I know a
spaceship when I see one?" I said.
"It just so happens I'm a doctor of
science."
"A doctor of science, now," said
Keech.
"Invited by the American government
to work on the first moon
rocket here at the nuclear propulsion
center. Since it's no secret I
can advise you of it."
"A scientist, is it," said Keech.
"Well, now, that's very interesting."
"I'll make no apologies for it," I
said.
"Oh, there's no need for apology,"
said Keech. "Though in truth
we prefer poets to scientists. But it
has just now crossed my mind, Mr.
Houlihan that you, being a scientist,
might be of help to us."
"How?" I asked.
"Well, I might try starting at the
beginning," he replied.
"You might," I said. "A man
usually does."
Keech took out his own pipe—a
clay dudeen—and looked hopeful.
I gave him a pinch of tobacco from
my pouch. "Well, now," he said,
"first of all you're no doubt surprised
to find us here in America."
"I am surprised from time to
time to find myself here," I said.
"But continue."
"We had to come here," said
Keech, "to learn how to make a
spaceship."
"A spaceship, now," I said, unconsciously
adopting some of the
old manner.
"Leprechauns are not really mechanically
inclined," said Keech.
"Their major passions are music
and laughter and mischief, as anyone
knows."
"Myself included," I agreed.
"Then why do you need a spaceship?"
"Well, if I may use an old expression,
we've had a feelin' lately
that we're not long for this world.
Or let me put it this way. We feel
the world isn't long for itself."
I scratched my cheek. "How
would a man unravel a statement
such as that?"
"It's very simple. With all the
super weapons you mortals have
developed, there's the distinct possibility
you might be blowin' us all
up in the process of destroying
yourselves."
"There
is
that possibility," I said.
"Well, then, as I say," said
Keech, "the little people have decided
to leave the planet in a spaceship.
Which we're buildin' here and
now. We've spied upon you and
learned how to do it. Well—almost
how to do it. We haven't learned
yet how to control the power—"
"Hold on, now," I said. "Leaving
the planet, you say. And where
would you be going?"
"There's another committee
working on that. 'Tis not our concern.
I was inclined to suggest the
constellation Orion, which sounds
as though it has a good Irish name,
but I was hooted down. Be that as it
may, my own job was to go into
your nuclear center, learn how to
make the ship, and proceed with its
construction. Naturally, we didn't
understand all of your high-flyin'
science, but some of our people are
pretty clever at gettin' up replicas
of things."
"You mean you've been spying
on us at the center all this time? Do
you know, we often had the feeling
we were being watched, but we
thought it was by the Russians.
There's one thing which puzzles
me, though. If you've been constantly
around us—and I'm still
able to see the little people—why
did I never see you before?"
"It may be we never crossed your
path. It may be you can only see us
when you're thinkin' of us, and of
course truly believin' in us. I don't
know—'tis a thing of the mind, and
not important at the moment.
What's important is for us to get
our first ship to workin' properly
and then we'll be on our way."
"You're determined to go."
"Truly we are, Mr. Houlihan.
Now—to business. Just during
these last few minutes a certain matter
has crossed my mind. That's
why I'm wastin' all this time with
you, sir. You say you are a scientist."
"A nuclear engineer."
"Well, then, it may be that you
can help us—now that you know
we're here."
"Help you?"
"The power control, Mr. Houlihan.
As I understand it, 'tis necessary
to know at any instant exactly
how much thrust is bein' delivered
through the little holes in back.
And on paper it looks simple
enough—the square of somethin' or
other. I've got the figures jotted in
a book when I need 'em. But when
you get to doin' it it doesn't come
out exactly as it does on paper."
"You're referring to the necessity
for a coefficient of discharge."
"Whatever it might be named,"
said Keech, shrugging. "'Tis the
one thing we lack. I suppose eventually
you people will be gettin'
around to it. But meanwhile we
need it right now, if we're to make
our ship move."
"And you want me to help you
with this?"
"That is exactly what crossed my
mind."
I nodded and looked grave and
kneaded my chin for a moment softly.
"Well, now, Keech," I said
finally, "why should I help you?"
"Ha!" said Keech, grinning, but
not with humor, "the avarice of
humans! I knew it! Well, Mr. Houlihan,
I'll give you reason enough.
The pot o' gold, Mr. Houlihan!"
"The one at the end of the rainbow?"
"It's not at the end of the rainbow.
That's a grandmother's tale.
Nor is it actually in an earthen
crock. But there's gold, all right,
enough to make you rich for the
rest of your life. And I'll make you
a proposition."
"Go ahead."
"We'll not be needin' gold where
we're goin'. It's yours if you show
us how to make our ship work."
"Well, now, that's quite an
offer," I said. Keech had the goodness
to be quiet while I sat and
thought for a while. My pipe had
gone out and I lit it again. I finally
said, "Let's have a look at your
ship's drive and see what we can
see."
"You accept the proposition
then?"
"Let's have a look," I said, and
that was all.
Well, we had a look, and then
several looks, and before the morning
was out we had half the spaceship
apart, and were deep in argument
about the whole project.
It was a most fascinating session.
I had often wished for a true working
model at the center, but no allowance
had been inserted in the
budget for it. Keech brought me
paper and pencil and I talked with
the aid of diagrams, as engineers
are wont to do. Although the pencils
were small and I had to hold
them between thumb and forefinger,
as you would a needle, I was
able to make many sensible observations
and even a few innovations.
I came back again the next day—and
every day for the following
two weeks. It rained several times,
but Keech and his people made a
canopy of boughs and leaves and I
was comfortable enough. Every once
in a while someone from the town
or the center itself would pass by,
and stop to watch me. But of course
they wouldn't see the leprechauns
or anything the leprechauns had
made, not being believers.
I would halt work, pass the time
of day, and then, in subtle fashion,
send the intruder on his way. Keech
and the little people just stood by
and grinned all the while.
At the end of sixteen days I had
the entire problem all but whipped.
It is not difficult to understand why.
The working model and the fact
that the small people with their
quick eyes and clever fingers could
spot all sorts of minute shortcomings
was a great help. And I was
hearing the old tongue and talking
of the old things every day, and
truly that went far to take the clutter
out of my mind. I was no longer
so lonely that I couldn't think properly.
On the sixteenth day I covered a
piece of paper with tiny mathematical
symbols and handed it to Keech.
"Here is your equation," I said. "It
will enable you to know your thrust
at any given moment, under any
circumstances, in or out of gravity,
and under all conditions of friction
and combustion."
"Thank you, Mr. Houlihan," said
Keech. All his people had gathered
in a loose circle, as though attending
a rite. They were all looking at
me quietly.
"Mr. Houlihan," said Keech,
"you will not be forgotten by the
leprechauns. If we ever meet again,
upon another world perchance,
you'll find our friendship always
eager and ready."
"Thank you," I said.
"And now, Mr. Houlihan," said
Keech, "I'll see that a quantity of
gold is delivered to your rooms tonight,
and so keep my part of the
bargain."
"I'll not be needing the gold," I
said.
Keech's eyebrows popped upward.
"What's this now?"
"I'll not be needing it," I repeated.
"I don't feel it would be
right to take it for a service of this
sort."
"Well," said Keech in surprise,
and in some awe, too, "well, now,
musha Lord help us! 'Tis the first
time I ever heard such a speech
from a mortal." He turned to his
people. "We'll have three cheers
now, do you hear, for Mr. Houlihan—friend
of the little people as
long as he shall live!"
And they cheered. And little tears
crept into the corners of some of
their turned-up eyes.
We shook hands, all of us, and I
left.
I walked through the park, and
back to the nuclear propulsion center.
It was another cool, green morning
with the leaves making only
soft noises as the breezes came
along. It smelled exactly like a
wood I had known in Roscommon.
And I lit my pipe and smoked it
slowly and chuckled to myself at
how I had gotten the best of the
little people. Surely it was not every
mortal who could accomplish that. I
had given them the wrong equation,
of course. They would never get
their spaceship to work now, and
later, if they tried to spy out the
right information I would take special
measures to prevent it, for I had
the advantage of being able to see
them.
As for our own rocket ship, it
should be well on its way by next
St. Patrick's Day. For I had indeed
determined the true coefficient of
discharge, which I never could have
done so quickly without those sessions
in the glade with Keech and
his working model.
It would go down in scientific
literature now, I suppose, as Houlihan's
Equation, and that was honor
and glory enough for me. I could
do without Keech's pot of gold,
though it would have been pleasant
to be truly rich for a change.
There was no sense in cheating
him out of the gold to boot, for
leprechauns are most clever in matters
of this sort and he would have
had it back soon enough—or else
made it a burden in some way.
Indeed, I had done a piece of
work greatly to my advantage, and
also to the advantage of humankind,
and when a man can do the first and
include the second as a fortunate byproduct
it is a most happy accident.
For if I had shown the little people
how to make a spaceship they
would have left our world. And
this world, as long as it lasts—what
would it be in that event? I ask you
now, wouldn't we be even
more
likely to blow ourselves to Kingdom
Come without the little people here
for us to believe in every now and
then?
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe
September 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 99903 | [
"What is the purpose of the article?",
"What terms best describes the author's attitude toward hunches of perceived criminality based on one's physical appearance?",
"Historical figures have proposed all of the following theories regarding physiognomy EXCEPT for the idea that:",
"What is one halo effect of physiognomy?",
"According to the author, what drives our decisions to publish certain content on social media platforms?",
"What is the danger of using certain pictures to represent people in court?",
"Which type of person is likely to receive the most brutal treatment in the legal system, compared to the other response options?",
"According to the author, what are people actually judging when they believe they're detecting a proclivity for delinquent behavior?"
] | [
[
"To explain how physiognomy has evolved over time and affected society in harmful ways",
"To provide an impartial historical account of physiognomy, a once popular branch of science",
"To predict how physiognomy could be manipulated to worsen current social inequities",
"To convince an audience of the benefits of physiognomy as a criminal justice tool"
],
[
"skeptical and dismissive",
"neutral and hypothetical",
"incredulous and antagonistic",
"curious and imaginative"
],
[
"humans share similar characteristics to animals based on their facial features and mannerisms",
"humans can use physiognomy to select which employees, slaves, and mates may be most compatible with them",
"humans are constantly influenced by physiognomy on a daily basis",
"humans will never be able to eliminate the effects of physiognomy from their decision-making"
],
[
"It has morphed to become something more credible than its original version",
"It has morphed to become something less credible than its original version",
"It has created a trend that imprisons innocent people",
"It has created a bias that favors more attractive people"
],
[
"awareness of being judged",
"potential for monetization",
"rejection of conformity",
"fear of not fitting in"
],
[
"The pictures can cause further emotional distress for families who have been affected by a perpetrator.",
"The pictures can elicit negative or guilty connotations, which can influence a jury or the public before a trial.",
"The pictures may have been edited in order to make the defendant look more guilty of criminal behavior.",
"The pictures may not represent what the person look like during the time they were accused of committing the crime."
],
[
"masculine faces",
"sharp-featured faces",
"overfamiliar faces",
"suspicious faces"
],
[
"media filtering",
"prejudice",
"intelligence",
"demographics"
]
] | [
1,
1,
4,
4,
1,
2,
4,
4
] | [
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | Face value
When the BBC broadcast the recent documentary by Louis Theroux that looked back at the time he spent in the company of Jimmy Savile, there was disbelief across social media that no one had stepped in to stop Savile from committing his crimes. Some blamed the BBC, some blamed those in Savile's immediate circle, but others blamed a simple error of human judgment.
"He literally couldn't look more like a paedophile," read one post – one of many to state a supposedly incontrovertible truth: that Savile's criminal tendencies could have been detected from the shape of his features, his eyes, his hair. Moreover, this has nothing to do with the benefit of hindsight and should have been picked up at the time. His looks, they suggested, were a moral indicator, with a wealth of compelling visual evidence to support the claim.
We know that paedophiles, murderers and other violent criminals come in many shapes and sizes. If we knew nothing about their criminal history, some of their photos might even appear attractive. But the idea that someone's features betray their character is something rooted deep within us; it's the reason why certain photos perform well on dating apps, or why trustworthy-looking politicians might rack up votes. But how wrong are our hunches of perceived criminality?
A recent paper, published by Xiaolin Wu and Xi Zhang of Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, claims to be the first to use machine learning and neural networks to attempt a fully automated inference of criminality from facial images, removing prejudice from the equation and testing the validity of our gut feelings. "What facial features influence the average Joe's impulsive and yet consensual judgments on social attributes?" they ask. Through a study of 1,856 images ("controlled for race, gender, age and facial expression") they claim to have established the validity of "automated, face-induced inference on criminality, despite the historical controversy surrounding this line of enquiry."
In other words, they believe that they've found a relationship between looking like a criminal and actually being one.
It's a claim that's been made many times over the years. Physiognomy, the 'science' of judging people by their appearance, was first theorised by the ancient Greeks in around the 5th century BC. Aristotle's pronouncement that "it is possible to infer character from features" led to a number of works relating to 'Physiognomica', a word derived from
physis
(nature),
nomos
(law) and (or)
gnomon
(judge or interpreter).
All of Greek society, it was claimed, could benefit from this skill: it could assist with choosing an employee, a slave or a spouse, while its inherent vagueness made it intriguing to philosophers and useful for scientists who bent the theories to support their own beliefs. It became a recognised science in the Islamic world, and was used and taught in Europe throughout late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, despite nagging doubts among thinkers and physicians of the day. In the early 16th century, Leonardo da Vinci claimed not to "concern myself with false physiognomy, because these chimeras have no scientific foundation."
Theories of physiognomy, however, would persist beyond the Renaissance. In 1586, Italian scholar Giambattista della Porta published a book, De humana physiognomonia libri IIII, which established him as the 'father of Physiognomy'. Della Porta's thinking was based on the 'doctrine of signatures'; the idea that the appearance of plants and animals offers clues to their nature. For example, as one writer of the time suggested, walnuts are good for curing headaches because they're shaped a bit like a human head. The theories in della Porta's book were supported by dozens of detailed illustrations which, by comparing human faces to those of animals, suggested that they must surely share similar character traits.
In the 17th century, Swiss poet Johann Caspar Lavater took della Porta's methodology and ran with it, commissioning artists to illustrate his popular Essays On Physiognomy – which, to the chagrin of his contemporary, the writer Hannah More, sold for "fifteen guineas a set… while in vain we boast that philosophy [has] broken down all the strongholds of prejudice, ignorance, and superstition."
Lavater's work was criticised for being ridden with bias (black faces rarely emerged well from his analyses) but he was right in one respect: "Whether they are or are not sensible of it," he wrote, "all men are daily influenced by physiognomy."
Many studies have been done into our psychological response to faces, and it's clear that a so-called halo effect will inevitably work its magic. "Attractive people are regarded as better at everything," says Professor Peter Hancock, lecturer in Psychology at Stirling University. "And we can't shake that off because there's some truth to it. Good genes produce intelligent people, attractive faces, fit bodies, and we imagine that they're going to be good at everything else, too. We don't have good insight into our own behaviour. We tend to think we understand what we're doing, but we don't."
Hancock describes attending a conference where one speaker showed a series of black faces and white faces to students (who were mostly white) and asked them what they thought the experiment was about. "They knew that he was trying to assess whether they would rate the black ones as more criminal," says Hancock. "But then they did!"
We attribute social characteristics based on opinions we already hold about certain kinds of faces: whether they look unusual in some way, whether they resemble a partner, a family member or even ourselves, or perhaps have some other cultural association. Physiognomy ultimately stems from what Alexander Todorov, professor of psychology at Princeton University, calls an 'overgeneralisation hypothesis'. "People," he wrote, "use easily accessible facial information (eg an expression such as a smile, cues to gender and ethnic group) to make social attributions congruent with this information (eg a nice person)."
In a social media age, the pictures we choose to represent ourselves online are a form of self-presentation driven by those social attributions and the knowledge that our pictures are being judged.
Experiments at Princeton found that we take less than one tenth of a second to form an opinion of strangers from their pictures, and those opinions tend to stand firm even if we're exposed to those pictures for a longer period of time. That tendency to judge instantly gives rise to a number of selfie tropes that are deemed to elicit positive responses, particularly when it comes to photos on dating profiles: certain angles, particular expressions, minute adjustments of eyebrows and lips that might appear to be about narcissism and vanity, but are more about a fear of being incorrectly assessed. After all, false suppositions based on people's faces are hugely influential within society, and in extreme cases they can have a huge impact on people's lives.
When retired teacher Christopher Jefferies was held by police in connection with the murder of Joanna Yeates in Bristol back in 2010, more than half a dozen newspapers gave his unusual appearance particular scrutiny and made assumptions accordingly, which in turn influenced public opinion. This culminated in substantial damages for defamation, two convictions for contempt of court and a painful ordeal for Jefferies, who was entirely innocent.
This kind of deep-seated bias looms large throughout physiognomic works of the 19th and 20th centuries, from absurdities such as Vaught's Practical Character Reader of 1902 (handy if you want to find out what a "deceitful chin" looks like) to more inherently troubling volumes such as Cesare Lombroso's Criminal Man.
After performing a number of autopsies on criminals, the Italian physician claimed to have discovered a number of common characteristics, and it's worth listing them if only to establish the supposed criminality of pretty much everyone you know:
Unusually short or tall height; small head, but large face; fleshy lips, but thin upper lip; protuberances on head and around ear; wrinkles on forehead and face; large sinus cavities or bumpy face; tattoos; receding hairline; large incisors; bushy eyebrows, tending to meet across nose; large eye sockets but deep-set eyes; beaked or flat nose; strong jaw line; small and sloping forehead; small or weak chin; thin neck; sloping shoulders but large chest; large, protruding ears; long arms; high cheek bones; pointy or snubbed fingers or toes.
In a woeful misreading of Darwinian theory, Lombroso unwittingly founded the field of anthropological criminology, and more specifically the idea of the born criminal: a hereditary quality that posed a danger to society and must be rooted out. His theories became discredited during the 20th century, but the kind of bias displayed by Lombroso can still be found in legal systems across the world; studies show that people with stereotypically 'untrustworthy' faces tend to receive harsher treatment than those who don't. There's evidently some consensus over people's attitudes toward certain faces, but it doesn't follow that the consensus is correct.
The only attributes that we're reasonably good at detecting, according to research done at the University of Michigan in the 1960s and later tested at the University of Stirling in 2007, are extroversion and conscientiousness. For other traits there's insufficient evidence that our hunches are correct, with anomalies explained by our evolved aversion to 'ugliness', established links between broader faces and powerful physiques, or cultural associations with certain demographics which are reinforced with nagging regularity by newspapers, books, television and film.
Data-driven studies, based upon huge quantities of facial data, would seem to offer the final word on this. Since 2005, computational models have used various techniques to test for links between social attributes and facial features, resulting in suggestions that our faces can betray, for example, political leanings, sexual orientation and criminality. One BBC Future article from 2015 even describes the 'discipline' of physiognomy as 'gaining credibility'. But Todorov details many problems with these studies, pointing out the challenging nature of doing such experiments with sufficient rigour – not least because different images of the same people can prompt wildly differing results.
The aforementioned study at Shanghai's Jiao Tong University, with its enthusiastic, data-driven analyses of such questions as "What features of a human face betray its owner's propensity for crimes?" prompted a wave of press coverage.
The vision outlined in these articles is of an unethical dystopia where neural networks can assess our faces and establish a likely score for criminality – but Todorov is scathing about this paper, too. "The main problem is the sampling of the images," he says. "There is not enough information about the [nature of] the images of the people who were convicted. Second, clearly, there are huge differences between the two samples [of convicts and non-convicts] [in terms of] education and socio-economic status."
In other words, your appearance is affected by the kind of life you've led, so the classifiers within the computer program are simply distinguishing between different demographics rather than detecting a propensity for criminal behaviour.
Todorov is also wary of these classifiers misidentifying more 'innocent' people than identifying actual criminals, and accuracy is a concern shared by Peter Hancock. "Networks don't assess faces in the same way that we do," he says. "One of our systems, which is a deep network, has a recognition engine which generates an ordered list of how similar various faces are. And sometimes you get good matches – but other times you look at them and say, well, it's the wrong race! To humans they look completely different. And that underlines the fact that the networks are working in a different sort of way, and actually you don't really know how they're working. They're the ultimate black box."
This isn't to say that the use of big data, and particularly the use of composite imagery (digitally blending together certain types of faces) doesn't give us useful information and fascinating correlations. "You can, for example, take a given face and use computer software to make it look more or less trustworthy," says Hancock. "I remember a colleague playing with this and he made a less trustworthy version of George W Bush – and how shifty did he look! I'm surprised that they're not using these techniques in political advertising, because you couldn't tell that anything had been done [to the picture], but when you look at it you think 'I wouldn't trust him'."
The revitalisation of the theory of physiognomy by the Shanghai students is, according to Todorov, deeply problematic on a theoretical level. "Are we back to Lombroso's theory," he asks, "that criminals were anomalous creatures, evolutionary degenerates? How does one become criminal, and what role do various life forces play into this? There are people making claims that you just need to look at the face to predict personality and behaviour, but many of these people have not given much thought to their underlying assumptions."
While it's true that we judge books by their covers, covers are more than just faces; we piece together all kinds of cues from people to form our impressions of them. Jimmy Savile's appearance was unusual by any standards, but we absorbed a great deal of information about him over the years that will have influenced our opinions – not least from the original Louis Theroux programme from 2000 that was reexamined in that recent BBC documentary. Savile's vague resemblance to the Child Catcher from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is convenient but ultimately misleading, and the way it reinforces the idea of what a paedophile might 'look like' is unfortunate; not least because it helps to sustain a low-level belief in the 'science' of physiognomy, despite its tendency to crumble under the slightest cross examination.
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99901 | [
"Which statement best describes the purpose of this text?",
"Which term best describes the approach Cave supports with regard to AI development?",
"According to Cave, what must happen before different disciplines converge to guide AI development?",
"According to Cave, what issue does AI development share with climate change threats?",
"Cave acknowledges all of the potential concerns regarding AI EXCEPT:",
"Cave suggests all of the following ways for preventing a loss of control over AI EXCEPT: ",
"What does the author view as the purpose of AI",
"To what does Cave attribute general human skepticism of AI?",
"GP most likely stands for?"
] | [
[
"To propose potential pathways that AI could take to eliminate social and environmental problems in the near future",
"To explain how industries are approaching collaboration and making decisions in AI with regard to social responses",
"To demonstrate how humans are taking advantages of AI-related opportunities while dodging the risks",
"To make an argument in support of more checks and balances within the institution of AI development"
],
[
"multifaceted",
"reductionist",
"isolationist",
"divergent"
],
[
"government support",
"signing a treatise",
"creating shared policies",
"establishing dialogue"
],
[
"Western industries rely too much on certain materials and technology to abandon use of AI and things like fossil fuels",
"Those in charge of climate change threats and AI don't experience societal costs sustained from negative outcomes",
"They inevitably contribute to a widening income disparity among the wealthy and those living in poverty",
"At a certain point, AI and responses to climate change will eradicate job positions that many humans currently fill"
],
[
"contribution to a more apathetic society",
"mass casualties from AI-related accidents",
"tendency for use toward escapism",
"public reaction toward human job losses"
],
[
"developing an automatic shutdown option for AI that goes awry",
"maintaining a system of accountable design ",
"engaging in interdisciplinary conversations",
"anticipating problems that may arise from technology"
],
[
"To eliminate natural selection",
"To achieve ultimate convenience",
"To amplify social improvement",
"To mitigate climate threats"
],
[
"fear of domestication",
"evolutionary biases",
"media portrayals",
"loss of autonomy"
],
[
"generic pharmaceutical",
"ghost publisher",
"geriatric patient",
"general practitioner"
]
] | [
2,
1,
4,
2,
2,
1,
3,
2,
4
] | [
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | AI: what's the worst that could happen?
The Centre for the Future of Intelligence is seeking to investigate the implications of artificial intelligence for humanity, and make sure humans take advantage of the opportunities while dodging the risks. It launched at the University of Cambridge last October, and is a collaboration between four universities and colleges – Cambridge, Oxford, Imperial and Berkeley – backed with a 10-year, £10m grant from the Leverhulme Trust.
Because no single discipline is ideally suited to this task, the centre emphasises the importance of interdisciplinary knowledge-sharing and collaboration. It is bringing together a diverse community of some of the world's best researchers, philosophers, psychologists, lawyers and computer scientists.
Executive director of the centre is Stephen Cave, a writer, philosopher and former diplomat. Harry Armstrong, head of futures at Nesta, which publishes The Long + Short, spoke with Cave about the impact of AI.
Their conversation has been edited.
Harry Armstrong: Do you see the interdisciplinary nature of the centre as one of its key values and one of the key impacts you hope it will have on the field?
Stephen Cave: Thinking about the impact of AI is not something that any one discipline owns or does in any very systematic way. So if academia is going to rise to the challenge and provide thought leadership on this hugely important issue, then we’re going to need to do it by breaking down current disciplinary boundaries and bringing people with very different expertise together.
That means bringing together the technologists and the experts at developing these algorithms together with social scientists, philosophers, legal scholars and so forth.
I think there are many areas of science where more interdisciplinary engagement would be valuable. Biotech’s another example. In that sense AI isn’t unique, but I think because thinking about AI is still in very early stages, we have an opportunity to shape the way in which we think about it, and build that community.
We want to create a space where many different disciplines can come together and develop a shared language, learn from each other’s approaches, and hopefully very quickly move to be able to actually develop new ideas, new conclusions, together. But the first step is learning how to talk to each other.
At a recent talk, Naomi Klein said that addressing the challenge of climate change could not have come at a worse time. The current dominant political and economic ideologies, along with growing isolationist sentiment, runs contrary to the bipartisan, collaborative approaches needed to solve global issues like climate change. Do you see the same issues hampering a global effort to respond to the challenges AI raises?
Climate change suffers from the problem that the costs are not incurred in any direct way by the industrialists who own the technology and are profiting from it. With AI, that has been the case so far; although not on the same scale. There has been disruption but so far, compared to industrialisation, the impact has been fairly small. That will probably change.
AI companies, and in particular the big tech companies, are very concerned that this won't go like climate change, but rather it will go like GMOs: that people will have a gut reaction to this technology as soon as the first great swathe of job losses take hold. People speculate that 50m jobs could be lost in the US if trucking is automated, which is conceivable within 10 years. You could imagine a populist US government therefore simply banning driverless cars.
So I think there is anxiety in the tech industry that there could be a serious reaction against this technology at any point. And so my impression is that there is a feeling within these companies that these ethical and social implications need to be taken very seriously, now. And that a broad buy-in by society into some kind of vision of the future in which this technology plays a role is required, if a dangerous – or to them dangerous – counteraction is to be avoided.
My personal experience working with these tech companies is that they are concerned for their businesses and genuinely want to do the right thing. Of course there are intellectual challenges and there is money to be made, but equally they are people who don't think when they get up in the morning that they're going to put people out of jobs or bring about the downfall of humanity. As the industry matures it's developing a sense of responsibility.
So I think we've got a real opportunity, despite the general climate, and in some ways because of it. There's a great opportunity to bring industry on board to make sure the technology is developed in the right way.
One of the dominant narratives around not only AI but technology and automation more generally is that we, as humans, are at the mercy of technological progress. If you try and push against this idea you can be labelled as being anti-progress and stuck in the past. But we do have a lot more control than we give ourselves credit for. For example, routineness and susceptibility to automation are not inevitable features of occupations, job design is hugely important. How do we design jobs? How do we create jobs that allow people to do the kind of work they want to do? There can be a bit of a conflict between being impacted by what's happening and having some sort of control over what we want to happen.
Certainly, we encounter technological determinism a lot. And it's understandable. For us as individuals, of course it does feel like it always is happening and we just have to cope. No one individual can do much about it, other than adapt.
But that's different when we consider ourselves at a level of a society, as a polis [city state], or as an international community. I think we can shape the way in which technology develops. We have various tools. In any given country, we have regulations. There's a possibility of international regulation.
Technology is emerging from a certain legal, political, normative, cultural, and social framework. It's coming from a certain place. And it is shaped by all of those things.
And I think the more we understand a technology's relationship with those things, and the more we then consciously try to shape those things, the more we are going to influence the technology. So, for example, developing a culture of responsible innovation. For example, a kind of Hippocratic oath for AI developers. These things are within the realms of what is feasible, and I think will help to shape the future.
One of the problems with intervention, generally, is that we cannot control the course of events. We can attempt to, but we don't know how things are going to evolve. The reality is, societies are much too complex for us to be able to shape them in any very specific way, as plenty of ideologies and political movements have found to their cost. There are often unforeseen consequences that can derail a project.
I think, nonetheless, there are things we can do. We can try to imagine how things might go very badly wrong, and then work hard to develop systems that will stop that from happening. We can also try collectively to imagine how things could go very right. The kind of society that we actually want to live in that uses this technology. And I'm sure that will be skewed in all sorts of ways, and we might imagine things that seem wonderful and actually have terrible by-products.
This conversation cannot be in the hands of any one group. It oughtn't be in the hands of Silicon Valley billionaires alone. They've got their role to play, but this is a conversation we need to be having as widely as possible.
The centre is developing some really interesting projects but perhaps one of the most interesting is the discussion of what intelligence might be. Could you go into a bit more detail about the kinds of questions you are trying to explore in this area?
You mean kinds of intelligence?
Yeah.
I think this is very important because historically, we've had an overwhelming tendency to anthropomorphise. We define what intelligence is, historically, as being human-like. And then within that, being like certain humans.
And it's taken a very long time for the academic community to accept that there could be such a thing as non-human intelligence at all. We know that crows, for example, who have had a completely different evolutionary history, or octopuses, who have an even more different evolutionary history, might have a kind of intelligence that's very different to ours. That in some ways rivals our own, and so forth.
But luckily, we have got to that point in recent years of accepting that we are not the only form of intelligence. But now, AI is challenging that from a different direction. Just as we are accepting that the natural world offers this enormous range of different intelligences, we are at the same time inventing new intelligences that are radically different to humans.
And I think, still, this anthropomorphic picture of the kind of humanoid android, the robot, dominates our idea of what AI is too much. And too many people, and the industry as well, talk about human-level artificial intelligence as a goal, or general AI, which basically means like a human. But actually what we're building is nothing like a human.
When the first pocket calculator was made, it didn't do maths like a human. It was vastly better. It didn't make the occasional mistake. When we set about creating these artificial agents to solve these problems, because they have a completely different evolutionary history to humans, they solve problems in very different ways.
And until now, people have been fairly shy about describing them as intelligent. Or rather, in the history of AIs, we think solving a particular problem would require intelligence. Then we solve it. And then that's no longer intelligence, because we've solved it. Chess is a good example.
But the reality is, we are creating a whole new world of different artificial agents. And we need to understand that world. We need to understand all the different ways of being clever, if you like. How you can be extremely sophisticated at some particular rational process, and yet extremely bad at another one in a way that bears no relation to the way humans are on these axes.
And this is important, partly because we need to expand our sense of what is intelligent, like we have done with the natural world. Because lots of things follow from saying something is intelligent. Historically, we have a long tradition in Western philosophy of saying those who are intelligent should rule. So if intelligence equates to power, then obviously we need to think about what we mean by intelligence. Who has it and who doesn't. Or how it equates to rights and responsibilities.
It certainly is a very ambitious project to create the atlas of intelligence.
There was a point I read in something you wrote on our ideas of intelligence that I thought was very interesting. We actually tend to think of intelligence at the societal level when we think about human ability, rather than at the individual level but in the end conflate the two. I think that's a very good point, when we think about our capabilities, we think about what we can achieve as a whole, not individually. But when we talk about AI, we tend to think about that individual piece of technology, or that individual system. So for example if we think about the internet of things and AI, we should discuss intelligence as something encompassed by the whole.
Yeah, absolutely. Yes, right now, perhaps it is a product of our anthropomorphising bias. But there is a tendency to see a narrative of AI versus humanity, as if it's one or the other. And yet, obviously, there are risks in this technology long before it acquires any kind of manipulative agency.
Robotic technology is dangerous. Or potentially dangerous. But at the same time, most of what we're using technology for is to enhance ourselves, to increase our capacities. And a lot of what AI is going to be doing is augmenting us – we're going to be working as teams, AI-human teams.
Where do you think this AI-human conflict, or concept of a conflict, comes from? Do you think that's just a reflection of historical conversations we've had about automation, or do you think it is a deeper fear?
I do think it comes both from some biases that might well be innate, such as anthropomorphism, or our human tendency to ascribe agency to other objects, particularly moving ones, is well-established and probably has sound evolutionary roots. If it moves, it's probably wise to start asking yourself questions like, "What is it? What might it want? Where might it be going? Might it be hungry? Do I look like food to it?" I think it makes sense, it's natural for us to think in terms of agency. And when we do, it's natural for us to project our own ways of being and acting. And we, as primates, are profoundly co-operative.
But at the same time, we're competitive and murderous. We have a strong sense of in-group versus out-group, which is responsible for both a great deal of cooperation, within the in-group, but also terrible crimes. Murder, rape, pillage, genocide; and they're pointed at the out-group.
And so I think it's very natural for us to see AIs in terms of agents. We anthropomorphise them as these kind of android robots. And then we think about, well, you know, are they part of our in-group, or are they some other group? If they're some other group, it's us against them. Who's going to win? Well, let's see. So I think that's very natural, I think that's very human.
There is this long tradition, in Western culture in particular, with associating intelligence and dominance and power. It's interesting to speculate about how, and I wish I knew more about it, and I'd like to see more research on this, about how different cultures perceive AI. It's well known that Japan is very accepting of technology and robots, for example.
You can think, well, we in the West have long been justifying power relations of a certain kind on the basis that we're 'cleverer'. That's why men get to vote and women don't, or whatever. In a culture where power is not based on intelligence but, say, on a caste system, which is purely hereditary, we’d build an AI, and it would just tune in, drop out, attain enlightenment, just sit in the corner. Or we beg it to come back and help us find enlightenment. It might be that we find a completely different narrative to the one that's dominant in the West.
One of the projects the centre is running is looking into what kind of AI breakthroughs may come, when and what the social consequences could be. What do you think the future holds? What are your fears – what do you think could go right and wrong in the short, medium and long term?
That's a big question. Certainly I don't lie awake at night worried that robots are going to knock the door down and come in with a machine gun. If the robots take over the world, it won't be by knocking the door down. At the moment, I think it's certainly as big a risk that we have a GMO moment, and there's a powerful reaction against the technology which prevents us from reaping the benefits, which are enormous. I think that's as big a risk as the risks from the technologies themselves.
I think one worry that we haven't talked about is that we've become extremely dependent upon this technology. And that we essentially become deskilled. There's an extent to which the history of civilisation is the history of the domestication of the human species sort of by ourselves, and also by our technology, to some extent. And AI certainly allows for that to reach a whole new level.
Just think about GPs with diagnostic tools. Even now, my GP consults the computer fairly regularly. But as diagnostic tools get better, what are they going to be doing other than just typing something into the computer and reading out what comes back? At which point, you might as well do away with the GP. But then, who does know about medicine?
And so we do need to worry about deskilling and about becoming dependent. And it is entirely possible that you can imagine a society in which we're all sort of prosperous, in a sense. Our basic bodily needs are provided for, perhaps, in a way, to an extent that we've never before even dreamed of. Unprecedented in human history.
And yet, we're stripped of any kind of meaningful work. We have no purpose. We're escaping to virtual reality. And then you could imagine all sorts of worrying countercultures or Luddite movements or what have you. I guess that's the kind of scenario that – I haven't sketched it terribly well – but that's the kind of thing that worries me more than missile-toting giant robots.
As to utopian, yes, that's interesting. I certainly mentioned a couple of things. One thing that I hope is that this new technological revolution enables us to undo some of the damage of the last one. That's a very utopian thought and not terribly realistic, but we use fossil fuels so incredibly efficiently. The idea that driverless cars that are shared, basically a kind of shared service located off a Brownfield site does away with 95 per cent of all cars, freeing up a huge amount of space in the city to be greener, many fewer cars need to be produced, they would be on the road much less, there'd be fewer traffic jams.
It's just one example, but the idea that we can live much more resource-efficiently, because we are living more intelligently through using these tools. And therefore can undo some of the damage of the last Industrial Revolution. That's my main utopian hope, I guess.
Vintage toy robot image by josefkubes/Shutterstock
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99902 | [
"Which term best describes Sara's relationship with her parents?",
"Why have Sara and her father not spoken in over a year?",
"At what point did Sara's relationship with her father sharply transition?",
"Describe Sara's attitude toward Fox:",
"What is ironic about Sara's father's justification for the ads on his page?",
"To what commonality are Sara and her father oblivious?",
"In Sara's version of the Chevrolet ad, what is implied as the thing that makes America great?",
"Which statement best represents the central theme of the text? "
] | [
[
"inflammatory",
"tenuous",
"strained",
"obligatory"
],
[
"Sara attended college in New York and stayed there after graduating.",
"They have intense disagreements on most political issues.",
"Sara and her father voted for different presidential candidates.",
"Sara's father was an authoritative presence during her high school years."
],
[
"When she remained in New York after graduating from NYU",
"When she pierced her nose",
"When she began high school",
"When she moved to New York"
],
[
"disgusted",
"irked",
"confused",
"ambivalent"
],
[
"He claims to value entities that create jobs, and ignores the potential for solar energy to do the same.",
"He accuses Sara of hating advertising, when her job involves advertising.",
"He accuses Sara of hating America, when most of his ads are from other countries.",
"He dislikes modern ads for companies like Lyft, but supports them if they benefit him personally."
],
[
"Their realities both stem from limited, biased media spheres.\n",
"They both take Sara's mother for granted.",
"They both claim to support job generation, but invest in companies and entities that eliminate jobs.",
"The advertisements they watch are driving them apart, versus bringing them together."
],
[
"freedom of speech",
"freedom of religion",
"diverse inhabitants",
"affordable vehicles"
],
[
"The media is ultimately responsible for the breakdown of the American family.",
"People will be happy as long as the status quo is maintained.",
"Humans have much more in common than they have in difference.",
"While social media purports to bring us together, it more often drives us apart."
]
] | [
3,
2,
3,
1,
1,
1,
3,
4
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
0,
0
] | Divided we stand
Sara lets the Lyft park itself in the drive, lets out a sigh, and tweets
wish me luck
plus some emojis before slipping her phone into a hoody pocket. Curtains twitch, and before she can get her bag out of the back Mom is there, right there next to her, their hands touching on the handle as they compete for control.
"It's OK Mom, I got it."
"You should have let us come pick you up."
"It's fine, there was no need. I didn't want to put any-"
"But you shouldn't be wasting money, not with how much rent you pay and-"
Jesus. Not this already. "Mom. I can afford a cab ride. I'm not
that
much of a failure."
Mom sighs, shoulders falling, looks at Sara directly. "I'm sorry honey." She looks old, Sara thinks, watching a resigned tiredness flicker across her face in a way she'd not noticed before. Like she's exhausted by conflict, surrendered to it. "Now, don't I get a hug?"
Sara smiles. They hold each other for a few long seconds, rubbing and squeezing each other as the Lyft silently backs itself out of the driveway. When they part it's Mom's hand that's on the bag's handle.
Inside she unwraps herself from scarves and layers, the heat in the house almost a shock after the cold air. Michigan in February. Mom is already halfway up the stairs, bag in tow, headed for her room.
"Mom, just leave that and I'll…"
"Your father's in the front room," she says, just before she disappears from view. "Go say hi."
For a few seconds Sara is alone in the hallway, the smell of cooking meat coming from one doorway, the sound of rolling news from another. She shakes her head, kicks off shoes, tucks hair behind her ears. Braces herself.
He's sat in the living room, reclining in the Lazy Boy. He doesn't hear her enter - her socked feet silent on the pile carpet floor, his attention lost in the screen that fills most of the wall. Fox News. She braces herself again.
"Hey Dad."
His head jerks to look at her. "Hey! When did you get here?" He starts to push himself up.
"Don't get up Dad, it's fine. Really." She takes a seat on the couch. "I just got here, like two minutes ago."
"Good flight?"
"Yeah. Fine. Y'know. Same as always."
He smiles back at her, nods knowingly.
Their first words in nearly a year. Fine. So far. She relaxes. Of course it is. How bad could it be?
"I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?"
"Ah, no. I got a cab. I didn't want to bother you."
"Bother me? You think I'm too old and infirm to pick my own daughter up from the airport?"
"No Dad, of course not."
The war spills out of Fox News, casualty figures scrolling across monochrome drone footage, attack helicopters circling over Caracas apartment blocks, pundits with bronzed skin and immaculate blond hair smiling from four-way split screens.
"So you just got a cab?"
"Yeah."
"How much did that cost?"
"Not much. Really. I can afford-"
"Cabs are expensive. You shouldn't be wasting your money."
"It wasn't expensive. It wasn't a cab, it was a Lyft."
"One of those driverless things?"
"Yeah."
Ad break. An elderly couple ride a tandem bicycle through a park, laughing and smiling in Instagram-perfect sunshine, as a calm, relaxing voice lists the potentially lethal side effects of a diabetes drug.
Dad shakes his head. "I don't know how you can use those things. I don't trust them."
"Dad, they're perfectly safe."
"That's not what I mean. They're stealing people's jobs."
There's a brief second, a fleeting moment, where Sara can bite her lip, let it go. She misses it. "But I thought it was immigrants that are stealing people's jobs?"
"You might think it's funny little lady, but let me tell you - you remember Kyle and Max, Bill Cooper's boys? Live up off Lafayette, past the Checkers?"
"Nope."
"Well let me tell you," He shifts in the recliner, with some obvious pain and effort, to face her. "Both of 'em lost their jobs just this last year. Both of 'em were truckers. Both of 'em been driving trucks since high school. Now the damn trucks are driving themselves and they're both out of work. And they got families to support. Kids."
"Well I'm sure they'll be fine." She regrets the sarcasm as soon as she hears it in her own voice, but she still can't stop herself, like it's expected, like it's part of the routine. Part of their schtick. "They just got to get themselves out there, huh Dad? Pull themselves up by their bootstraps. That's the American way, right?"
"I'm glad you think this is funny, I really do. But what you New York types need to realise is-"
"Ed!" Mom had appeared in the doorway. "Please! Both of you. No fighting today, please."
"Sheryl-"
"No. I don't want to hear you two as much as disagreeing about anything today, unless it's about the game. And even then you'd better keep it civil. Otherwise you can both go hungry. Understand?"
Awkward pause.
"Fine."
"Sorry Mom."
Sara turns back to the TV, to watching the war, to trying to work out which one it is.
It had always been this way, ever since she was about thirteen. Up until then it just seemed like constant warmth, as though she didn't have any childhood concept of Dad apart from him getting home from work, then her sitting on his knee, eating cookies and watching football highlights until Mom came in and scolded them both for ruining their appetites before dinner.
And then everything changed. Suddenly there was rap music and nose rings, sneaking out of the house to see her friends and not wanting to go to church. Suddenly he was no longer this lovable bear-man that ruffled her hair and gave her candy and explained defensive plays to her, but this huge obelisk of injustice that just wanted to crush her high school life into dust. It was constant warfare; every opinion she had became a battle, every decision she made a conflict. Getting away to college gave her escape, but bred resentment too; he hated that she went to New York, even though NYU was a good school, and her decision to stay there after she finished made things even worse. And then politics got all crazy, weirder then ever, and it became impossible for them to talk without it erupting into fights almost instantly. It was bad enough when the smart, young guy she liked was president and Dad constantly spewed his hate for him at her, but somehow it got even worse when the old, racist, women hating war-starter he liked won. Twice.
So they didn't talk much now, barely online, never on the phone. Since her second year of school he'd never been to NYC to visit her. She came back when she could face it; sometimes for birthdays, sometimes for Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas. But somehow always, like now, for the Super Bowl. Like football was the one thing they still had, that one thing they could still sit in the same room together for. Shouting at players, screaming at the ref, laughing at the ads.
Dad is in the bathroom, and Sara has had enough of Fox and whichever war this is. She reaches over and grabs the remote from the arm of his chair, and tries to find something else to watch. The government had scrapped all the rules about how the internet worked, and for most people like her parents it had suddenly gotten a lot cheaper to get their TV through Facebook, so all she can find is
Fox, Breitbart News, Family Values TV, Info Wars, The Rebel, Glenn Beck, The Voice of America, America First, The Bible Today
and lots of hunting and sports channels she doesn't even recognise. It's signed in to her Dad's FB account, and the last thing she wants is to try and log in on hers before he gets back from the john. Yeah. There was no way that would end up with them keeping it civil.
In her pocket her phone vibrates, purrs against her skin, reminding her it's there, making sure she's not forgotten where her real friends are, that there's a world outside, beyond Dad and his TV. She takes it out and cradles it in her hands, the dark screen fleetingly reflecting back her face before it jumps awake at her very touch, opening up to bathe her in blue light, in comfort and warmth and the familiar. For the first time since she got home she feels herself relax.
Dinner is Mom's meatloaf, with gravy and mashed potatoes. Cornbread and broccoli. Every mouthful tastes like nostalgia, and Sara can feel herself being encompassed by a bubble, this barrier of warm air and long forgotten simplicity enveloping her body, protecting her from the confusion of the world outside.
"How's work, honey?" Mom asks.
"Yeah, going OK." Sara works for a non-profit in Brooklyn that helps big organisations to transition to renewable energy. The pay is lousy but it feels important. "We just got the last few schools in the city to agree to put solar panels on their roofs. Big deal for us. I've been working on them for the last two years."
Mom says nothing, just looks down at her plate.
Dad finishes chewing his mouthful, swallows, wipes his beard with a napkin. Sighs, barely controlled anger simmering behind his face. "Solar panels cause cancer."
Sara laughs, covering her mouth as she nearly chokes on chewed food. "What? No they don't Dad."
"They do. The material they use to coat them reacts to sunlight, and produces an airborne carcinogen. It's based on a particular kind of rare earth. It's a bit like teflon. The Chinese have known about this for decades but have kept it covered up, because they-"
"Dad, no. Just no. Trust me."
"-because they are the world's largest manufacturers of solar panels. But the research has been done. The scientific evidence is out there. Look it up."
"Look it up?" Sara shakes her head, not knowing where to even start. "Dad, who is telling you this stuff?"
"No one is telling me it, Sara. I read it. It's in the news. I mean, really, I'm surprised you've not seen it. It was all over Facebook."
"Maybe on yours, but it's not all over my Facebook." She doesn't have the heart to tell him she muted him six months ago.
"Well, I don't read the news and I don't know any science," says Mom, "But I do know this: after they opened that solar farm up near Mary, within just a few years her and two of her neighbours had cancer. I mean I don't know anything for sure honey, but given the risk are you sure it's safe to be putting these panels on top of schools?"
"There's no risk, Mom. None at all. Dad, I wish you'd stop believing everything you see on Facebook."
"Well, maybe you should read things yourself before passing judgement on them." He pushes himself up from his seat, steps away from the table. Sara sighs, thinking she's upset him that much that he's actually abandoning his dinner, but he stops to grab something off a nearby shelf. His iPad. He heads back and takes his seat again.
Oh, here we fucking go
she thinks to herself.
He stabs at the screen, looks for a while, stabs again. Flips it over and hands it to her. "Here. Read."
Reluctantly, she takes it. His Facebook feed. Somewhere in the middle of it is the article, a very to the point CHINESE SOLAR PANELS CAUSE CANCER headline. But she can't even focus on it, because the rest of the screen is filled with distractions, looping videos and animated gifs, all adverts, and all for guns. Or security systems. Panic rooms. Back up power generators. Emergency rations. More guns.
"Jesus Christ Dad, these ads!"
"No blasphemy at the dinner table, please honey" says Mom.
"What about them?"
"Just… just look at them. They're terrifying. They're like… like adverts for the end of the world! You know they show you this stuff just to make you scared, right? Just to keep you paranoid."
"They show me this stuff because they've got products to sell. That's how the economy works. That's how we create jobs. Godammit Sara, are you telling me you hate
advertising
now? Do you just hate everything about America?"
Sara looks over to Mom, who looks like she's on the brink of tears. Suddenly she finds she's also lost the will to fight. Gently she closes the iPad and puts it down on the table, next to her plate.
"No, of course not Dad. Maybe I'll read this later, after the game."
After dinner she helps Mom clean-up, the two of them loading the dishwasher in near silence. She's leaning against the counter, scrolling through Twitter on her phone, when Mom finally speaks.
"You should go easy on your father, you know. He's worried about a lot of things."
"What things? Solar panel cancer?"
"Don't joke Sara, I'm serious. There's a lot that bothers him. The state of the world. The future. All these damn wars."
"We're all worried about all that, Mom."
"He's worried about his health.
I'm
worried about his health. Probably more than he is."
Sara looks up from her phone, genuine concern. "Is he OK?"
"I don't know. He won't go to the doctor. Hasn't been in months. He's worried about his insurance."
"I had no idea-"
"Yeah, well you know your father. Doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to burden other people with his problems. Hates pity." She pauses, looks out the window into the yard. When she turns back to Sara her eyes are damp. "This is why I was so excited about you coming back. Why he was so excited! I thought it'd take his mind of all this. He was so excited to see you. You know he loves watching the game with you, Sara."
"I know. I'm sorry I-"
"And the ads! The Super Bowl ads! You know how much he loves watching the new ads with you. It's a stupid thing, sure, but he loves it. Talks about it all the time. It's like a tradition to him. That's why he got so upset over dinner when you got angry at his ads. It's something special he has with you, he doesn't want to lose it."
Sara slips her phone into her pocket, genuine guilt. Feels like a spoiled kid. "I didn't realise. I'm sorry."
Mom smiles, walks over and kisses her on the forehead. "It's OK honey. Don't feel bad. Just go. Just go sit in there with him and watch some TV. Please."
It's the second down on the Falcon's 60 yard line with 30 yards to cover, and the Lions need one touchdown to equalise. Sara and her Dad are sat in the front room, working their way through a family sized pack of Oreos, when the ad break starts.
Dawn. Red skies over the desert. A Chevrolet truck pulls up next to a large, trailer. Low shot next to the front tire, as a cowboy booted foot drops down from the door, disturbing dust.
Cut to: internal shot of the trailer, darkness split by morning light through the opening door. The figure enters, flicks on lights. The room is full of equipment, computers. The figure takes a seat, puts on a headset, thumbs on screens. Rests their hands on two large joysticks on the desk.
Cut to: airfield, the desert. The distinctive silhouette of a Predator drone taxis across the screen, rising heat shimmering the air around it.
Cut to: interior of the trailer. The faceless figure works controls, the joysticks, touch screens.
Voiceover: They say you need to get up pretty early to get past America's finest. But the truth is we never sleep.
Cut to: a uniformed guard on top of the border wall. He looks up and gives a salute to the drone as it soars above him, out and across the desert.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
"Fuck this," says Sara, getting up from her seat.
"Sara!" says Mom.
"No I'm sorry, I can't. I can't sit here and watch this… this bullshit. This propaganda." She storms out of the room.
"Sara!" Mom makes to get up.
"No, just leave her," says Dad, gently, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Just let her go."
Out in the kitchen Sara sits at the table and wants to scream. She's angry, mainly with herself. She should never have fucking come here. She should have known better. There was never any fucking way anything good was going to come from this. As much as Mom wants to romanticise things, to make them sound cute and adorable, the truth is shit with Dad has never been right since she was a teenager. Too much resentment, too much bad blood, too much control and rebellion. They hadn't agreed on anything - they hadn't managed to have a simple conversation that didn't descend into fighting - in 15 goddamn years, and no amount of eating cookies and watching fucking Super Bowl ads on the TV was going to fix that.
She sighs, wipes a tear from her cheek. On autopilot she takes her phone from her pocket, feels its reassuring warmth in her hand, and swipes open Twitter.
Everybody seems to be talking about the same thing.
omg im crying
holy shit that chevrolet ad /fire emoji
that was sooooo beautiful
who knew chevrolet were so woke
i can't believe they did that, so amazing
Hang on, are they taking about the same ad?
Hastily she opens her FB TV app, pulls up the game. The ad is just finishing. She hits the 10-second rewind icon a couple of times, then leans the phone on its side against a ketchup bottle.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
Cut to: on the ground, in the desert. The group of figures are revealed to be a Mexican family, maybe two. Men, women, children. They look tired, hungry. They stop to rest, sipping the little water they have left from tattered plastic bottles.
A little way away from the main group sits a small child, a girl. Maybe 8 years old. She is drawing shapes in the dust with a stick. She's drawn quite a bit it looks like, but from our angle we can't see what.
Cut to: drone footage. The pilot is watching the group. As he tracks away from the main party to where the girl is sat, the camera reveals what she has drawn.
A large, child's rendition of the American flag.
Underneath it, it childlike handwriting, some words. 'I have a dream'
Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. ALL PATROLS: STAND DOWN
Cut to: the drone, banking and turning, flying away.
Cut to: exterior shot of the trailer. The still anonymous pilot exits, walks back towards his jeep.
Voiceover: Keeping America safe means never sleeping, but keeping America great means never forgetting who we are, and how we got here.
The jeep starts up, pulls away from the camera in a cloud of dust.
Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black.
'We know what really makes America great'
Sara finds herself in the front room, sobbing.
"Honey?"
Dad pauses the TV, looks up at her. It looks like he's been crying too. "Sara?"
"Did you - did you watch it?"
"The Chevrolet ad?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, we did." Embarrassed, he wipes a tear from his cheek. "It was… it was very moving."
She falls on him, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "I'm sorry Dad. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be so mean-"
"It's OK, honey. It really is."
"No, no it's not. We always fight. And I know that's mainly my fault-"
'Well, now, c'mon-"
"No, it is. It's my fault. I got myself into thinking we can never agree on anything, that we can never see eye to eye. That we've got nothing in common anymore." She lifts her head to look up at him. "But I know that's wrong. That I shouldn't assume things about you. That there's still things that can bring us together."
He grins back at her. "Like Super Bowl ads?"
She laughs. "I guess. But you know what I mean, really."
"I know honey. And I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said earlier. I know you don't really hate this country." He gestures to the couch next to him. "Why don't you sit down, huh? We can watch the rest of the game together."
She straightens herself up, wipes her eyes. Suddenly feels a little self conscious. "Sure. Let me just go freshen up first."
"Of course honey."
Mom and Dad watch Sara leave the room, and then look at each other.
"Well."
"Well indeed."
"What did I tell you? You two just needed to spend some time together. Some quality time."
"I guess so. What did I ever do to deserve a woman as hot and as smart as you, huh Sheryl?"
Mom stands up and makes to leave the room, leaning down to kiss him as she passes. "I ask myself that question every day."
Alone, seen only by the TV, Dad smiles to himself. He picks up the remote, but instead of hitting play, he finds himself hitting rewind.
Cut to: drone footage. Grainy, monochrome. A group of figures move slowly through the desert. The camera tracks them. Zooms in. The pilot punches buttons. The figures become highlighted by a computer overlay, text appears next to them. ILLEGAL ENTRY ATTEMPT SUSPECTED. GROUND PATROLS ALERTED.
Cut to: on the ground, in the desert. The group of figures are all men. Dirty, scruffy, furtive. Like they mean business.They carry guns, pistols, and assault riffles. Bad hombres. One of them pulls open a bag, looks inside.
Cut to: close up of the inside of the bag. Inside are packets of white powder.
Suddenly, one of the party looks up, shouts something in Spanish. They all go to grab their guns.
But it's too late.
From three different directions, three different Chevrolet jeeps appear, screeching to a halt, kicking up dust. From them jump Border Patrol agents and Minutemen militia, guns drawn and ready.
The gang of men don't even put up a fight. They know they're surrounded, they drop their weapons and pathetically raise their hands.
All except one. The guy with the bag full of drugs. He's got nothing to lose. He reaches for his rifle.
Cut to: Border Patrol agents, opening fire.
Text flashes across the screen. ALERT CANCELLED. THREAT NEUTRALISED.
Cut to: the drone, banking and turning, flying away.
Cut to: exterior shot of the trailer. The still anonymous pilot exits, walks back towards his jeep.
Voiceover: Keeping America safe means never sleeping, but keeping America great means never forgetting who we are, and what keeps us strong.
The jeep starts up, pulls away from the camera in a cloud of dust.
Fade to black. Chevrolet logo. White text against black.
'We know what really makes America great'
Dad wipes another team from his eye. "I think we're going to be OK," he says to himself. "I think we're going to be just fine."
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 31357 | [
"Why did Nancy allow the man claiming to be her brother to take her child?",
"Why are Arvid 6 and Tendal 13 attempting to steal Reggie?",
"Why didn't the man posing as Dr. Tompkins die?",
"Who murdered Nancy and Reggie?",
"Why did the driver who killed Nancy and Reggie Laughton pretend to be drunk?",
"Where will Arvid 6 and Tendal 13 go after the end of the text?",
"Which term best describes the relationship between Arvid 6 and Tendal 13?",
"What is the purpose of the Ultroom?",
"Which term best describes Tendal 13's perception of Arvid 6's work ethic?",
"Arvid 6 and Tendal 13 can perform all of the following abilities EXCEPT:"
] | [
[
"She believes that she can trust her brother with Reggie.",
"She knows that Reggie is actually Kanad, and feels no attachment toward him.",
"She is hypnotized by Arvid 6, who is posing as her nonexistent brother.",
"She is being bribed by Tendal 13 and Arvid 6 to give Reggie away."
],
[
"Kanad was accidentally sent transformed to Reggie's body by mistake in the Ultroom.",
"They need infants for experiments they are conducting in the Ultroom.",
"They are competing to become the next heads of the galactic system.",
"There is a bounty for Reggie, who is actually a warlord in a future world.\n"
],
[
"He was able to escape and heal back in his time period",
"He was wearing a bulletproof vest",
"There was never a man named Dr. Tompkins",
"The bullet in his leg caused a non-life-threatening injury"
],
[
"Tendal 13",
"Kanad",
"Martin Laughton",
"Arvid 6"
],
[
"The driver did not have enough time to make up a more convincing story",
"To confuse the authorities so it would take longer for them to figure out his identity",
"To get a manslaughter charge instead of a murder charge",
"The driver was not pretending -- he was actually intoxicated"
],
[
"To go back 6,000 years to re-attempt a Kanad recovery mission",
"To return to the Laughton's home in order to alter the crime scene",
"To travel to the Ultroom for Arvid 6 to face his consequences",
"To steal Phullam from his parents and get closer to recovering Kanad."
],
[
"compulsory",
"symbiotic",
"complicated",
"predatory"
],
[
"It can alter someone's DNA to give them more desirable attributes",
"It can change someone's original birth date",
"It can relocate someone to a different body",
"It can disrupt catastrophic events before they occur"
],
[
"reckless",
"audacious",
"uninspiring",
"meritorious"
],
[
"hypnosis",
"dematerialization",
"time travel",
"mind-reading"
]
] | [
3,
1,
1,
4,
1,
4,
1,
3,
1,
4
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
THE ULTROOM ERROR
by
JERRY SOHL
Smith admitted he had made an error involving a few
murders—and a few thousand years. He was entitled to a
sense of humor, though, even in the Ultroom!
HB73782. Ultroom error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer
out of 1609 complete, intact, but too near limit of 1,000
days. Next Kanad transfer ready. 1951. Reginald, son of Mr.
and Mrs. Martin Laughton, 3495 Orland Drive, Marionville,
Illinois, U. S. A. Arrive his 378th day. TB73782.
Nancy Laughton sat on the blanket she had spread on the lawn in her
front yard, knitting a pair of booties for the PTA bazaar.
Occasionally she glanced at her son in the play pen, who was getting
his daily dose of sunshine. He was gurgling happily, examining a ball,
a cheese grater and a linen baby book, all with perfunctory interest.
When she looked up again she noticed a man walking by—except he
turned up the walk and crossed the lawn to her.
He was a little taller than her husband, had piercing blue eyes and a
rather amused set to his lips.
"Hello, Nancy," he said.
"Hello, Joe," she answered. It was her brother who lived in Kankakee.
"I'm going to take the baby for a while," he said.
"All right, Joe."
He reached into the pen, picked up the baby. As he did so the baby's
knees hit the side of the play pen and young Laughton let out a
scream—half from hurt and half from sudden lack of confidence in his
new handler. But this did not deter Joe. He started off with the
child.
Around the corner and after the man came a snarling mongrel dog, eyes
bright, teeth glinting in the sunlight. The man did not turn as the
dog threw himself at him, burying his teeth in his leg. Surprised, the
man dropped the screaming child on the lawn and turned to the dog. Joe
seemed off balance and he backed up confusedly in the face of the
snapping jaws. Then he suddenly turned and walked away, the dog at his
heels.
"I tell you, the man said he was my brother and he made me think he
was," Nancy told her husband for the tenth time. "I don't even have a
brother."
Martin Laughton sighed. "I can't understand why you believed him. It's
just—just plain nuts, Nancy!"
"Don't you think I know it?" Nancy said tearfully. "I feel like I'm
going crazy. I can't say I dreamt it because there was Reggie with his
bleeding knees, squalling for all he was worth on the grass—Oh, I
don't even want to think about it."
"We haven't lost Reggie, Nancy, remember that. Now why don't you try
to get some rest?"
"You—you don't believe me at all, do you, Martin?"
When her husband did not answer, her head sank to her arms on the
table and she sobbed.
"Nancy, for heaven's sake, of course I believe you. I'm trying to
think it out, that's all. We should have called the police."
Nancy shook her head in her arms. "They'd—never—believe me either,"
she moaned.
"I'd better go and make sure Reggie's all right." Martin got up out of
his chair and went to the stairs.
"I'm going with you," Nancy said, hurriedly rising and coming over to
him.
"We'll go up and look at him together."
They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib in his room upstairs.
They checked the windows and tucked in the blankets. They paused in
the room for a moment and then Martin stole his arm around his wife
and led her to the door.
"As I've said, sergeant, this fellow hypnotized my wife. He made her
think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he
tried to get away with the baby." Martin leaned down and patted the
dog. "It was Tiger here who scared him off."
The police sergeant looked at the father, at Nancy and then at the
dog. He scribbled notes in his book.
"Are you a rich man, Mr. Laughton?" he asked.
"Not at all. The bank still owns most of the house. I have a few
hundred dollars, that's all."
"What do you do?"
"Office work, mostly. I'm a junior executive in an insurance company."
"Any enemies?"
"No ... Oh, I suppose I have a few people I don't get along with, like
anybody else. Nobody who'd do anything like this, though."
The sergeant flipped his notebook closed. "You'd better keep your dog
inside and around the kid as much as possible. Keep your doors and
windows locked. I'll see that the prowl car keeps an eye on the house.
Call us if anything seems unusual or out of the way."
Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished
cleaning the .30-.30 rifle he used for deer hunting. He put it by the
stairs, ready for use, fully loaded, leaning it against the wall next
to the telephone stand.
The front door bell rang. He answered it. It was Dr. Stuart and
another man.
"I came as soon as I could, Martin," the young doctor said, stepping
inside with the other man. "This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins."
Martin and Tompkins shook hands.
"The baby—?" Dr. Stuart asked.
"Upstairs," Martin said.
"You'd better get him, Dr. Tompkins, if we're to take him to the
hospital. I'll stay here with Mr. Laughton. How've you been, Martin?"
"Fine."
"How's everything at the office?"
"Fine."
"And your wife?"
"She's fine, too."
"Glad to hear it, Martin. Mighty glad. Say, by the way, there's that
bill you owe me. I think it's $32, isn't that right?"
"Yes, I'd almost forgotten about it."
"Why don't you be a good fellow and write a check for it? It's been
over a year, you know."
"That's right. I'll get right at it." Martin went over to his desk,
opened it and started looking for his checkbook. Dr. Stuart stood by
him, making idle comment until Dr. Tompkins came down the stairs with
the sleeping baby cuddled against his shoulder.
"Never mind the check, now, Martin. I see we're ready to go." He went
over to his assistant and took the baby. Together they walked out the
front door.
"Good-bye," Martin said, going to the door.
Then he was nearly bowled over by the discharge of the .30-.30. Dr.
Stuart crumpled to the ground, the baby falling to the lawn. Dr.
Tompkins whirled and there was a second shot. Dr. Tompkins pitched
forward on his face.
The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieved the now squalling
infant and ran back into the house. Once inside, Nancy slammed the
door, gave the baby to the stunned Martin and headed for the
telephone.
"One of them was the same man!" she cried.
Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. "I believed them,"
he said slowly and uncomprehendingly. "They made me believe them!"
"Those bodies," the sergeant said. "Would you mind pointing them out
to me, please?"
"Aren't they—aren't they on the walk?" Mrs. Laughton asked.
"There is nothing on the walk, Mrs. Laughton."
"But there
must
be! I tell you I shot these men who posed as
doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to take the baby this
afternoon. They hypnotized my husband—"
"Yes, I know, Mrs. Laughton. We've been through that." The sergeant
went to the door and opened it. "Say, Homer, take another look around
the walk and the bushes. There's supposed to be two of them. Shot with
a .30-.30."
He turned and picked up the gun and examined it again. "Ever shoot a
gun before, Mrs. Laughton?"
"Many times. Martin and I used to go hunting together before we had
Reggie."
The sergeant nodded. "You were taking an awful chance, shooting at a
guy carrying your baby, don't you think?"
"I shot him in the legs. The other—the other turned and I shot him in
the chest. I could even see his eyes when he turned around. If I
hadn't pulled the trigger then ... I don't want to remember it."
The patrolman pushed the door open. "There's no bodies out here but
there's some blood. Quite a lot of blood. A little to one side of the
walk."
The policemen went out.
"Thank God you woke up, Nancy," Martin said. "I'd have let them have
the baby." He reached over and smoothed the sleeping Reggie's hair.
Nancy, who was rocking the boy, narrowed her eyes.
"I wonder why they want our baby? He's just like any other baby. We
don't have any money. We couldn't pay a ransom."
"Reggie's pretty cute, though," Martin said. "You will have to admit
that."
Nancy smiled. Then she suddenly stopped rocking.
"Martin!"
He sat up quickly.
"Where's Tiger?"
Together they rose and walked around the room. They found him in a
corner, eyes open, tongue protruding. He was dead.
If we keep Reggie in the house much longer he'll turn out to be a
hermit," Martin said at breakfast a month later. "He needs fresh air
and sunshine."
"I'm not going to sit on the lawn alone with him, Martin. I just
can't, that's all. I'd be able to think of nothing but that day."
"Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if
they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this
time." Martin finished his coffee and rose to kiss her good-bye. "But
for safety's sake I guess you'd better keep that gun handy."
The morning turned into a brilliant, sunshiny day. Puffs of clouds
moved slowly across the summer sky and a warm breeze rustled the
trees. It would be a crime to keep Reggie inside on a day like this,
Nancy thought.
So she called Mrs. MacDougal, the next door neighbor. Mrs. MacDougal
was familiar with what had happened to the Laughtons and she agreed to
keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first
sign of trouble.
With a fearful but determined heart Nancy moved the play pen and set
it up in the front yard. She spread a blanket for herself and put
Reggie in the pen. Her heart pounded all the while and she watched the
street for any strangers, ready to flee inside if need be. Reggie just
gurgled with delight at the change in environment.
This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men
were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway,
tires screaming, bounced over the curb and sidewalk, straight toward
the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up
to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms
against her cheeks and shrieked.
The car came on, crunched over the play pen, killing the child. The
mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her
spine and tossing her against the house. The car plunged on into a
tree, hitting it a terrible blow, crumbling the car's forward end so
it looked like an accordion. The men were thrown from the machine.
"We'll never be able to prosecute in this case," the states attorney
said. "At least not on a drunken driving basis."
"I can't get over it," the chief of police said. "I've got at least
six men who will swear the man was drunk. He staggered, reeled and
gave the usual drunk talk. He reeked of whiskey."
The prosecutor handed the report over the desk. "Here's the analysis.
Not a trace of alcohol. He couldn't have even had a smell of near
beer. Here's another report. This is his physical exam made not long
afterwards. The man was in perfect health. Only variations are he had
a scar on his leg where something, probably a dog, bit him once. And
then a scar on his chest. It looked like an old gunshot wound, they
said. Must have happened years ago."
"That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Laughton in the afternoon was
bitten by their dog. Later that night she said she shot the same man
in the chest. Since the scars are healed it obviously couldn't be the
same man. But there's a real coincidence for you. And speaking of the
dogbite, the Laughton dog died that night. His menu evidently didn't
agree with him. Never did figure what killed him, actually."
"Any record of treatment on the man she shot?"
"The
men
. You'll remember, there were two. No, we never found a
trace of either. No doctor ever made a report of a gunshot wound that
night. No hospital had a case either—at least not within several
hundred miles—that night or several nights afterwards. Ever been shot
with .30-.30?"
The state attorney shook his head. "I wouldn't be here if I had."
"I'll say you wouldn't. The pair must have crawled away to die God
knows where."
"Getting back to the man who ran over the child and killed Mrs.
Laughton. Why did he pretend to be drunk?"
It was the chief's turn to shake his head. "Your guess is as good as
mine. There are a lot of angles to this case none of us understand. It
looks deliberate, but where's the motive?"
"What does the man have to say?"
"I was afraid you'd get to him," the chief said, his neck reddening.
"It's all been rather embarrassing to the department." He coughed
self-consciously. "He's proved a strange one, all right. He says his
name is John Smith and he's got cards to prove it, too—for example, a
social security card. It looks authentic, yet there's no such number
on file in Washington, so we've discovered. We've had him in jail for
a week and we've all taken turns questioning him. He laughs and admits
his guilt—in fact, he seems amused by most everything. Sometimes all
alone in his cell he'll start laughing for no apparent reason. It
gives you the creeps."
The states attorney leaned back in his chair. "Maybe it's a case for
an alienist."
"One jump ahead of you. Dr. Stone thinks he's normal, but won't put
down any I.Q. Actually, he can't figure him out himself. Smith seems
to take delight in answering questions—sort of anticipates them and
has the answer ready before you're half through asking."
"Well, if Dr. Stone says he's normal, that's enough for me." The
prosecutor was silent for a moment. Then, "How about the husband?"
"Laughton? We're afraid to let him see him. All broken up. No telling
what kind of a rumpus he'd start—especially if Smith started his
funny business."
"Guess you're right. Well, Mr. Smith won't think it's so funny when we
hang criminal negligence or manslaughter on him. By the way, you've
checked possible family connections?"
"Nobody ever saw John Smith before. Even at the address on his
driver's license. And there's no duplicate of that in Springfield, in
case you're interested."
The man who had laughingly told police his name was John Smith lay on
his cot in the county jail, his eyes closed, his arms folded across
his chest. This gave him the appearance of being alert despite
reclining. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile.
Arvid 6—for John Smith
was
Arvid 6—had lain in that position for
more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and
appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his
face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly.
Arvid 6 knew Tendal 13 had materialized and was somewhere in the
building.
Eventually there were some sounds from beyond the steel cell and
doorway. There was a clang when the outer doorway was opened and Arvid
6 rose from his cot.
"Your lawyer's here to see you," the jailer said, indicating the man
with the brief case. "Ring the buzzer when you're through." The jailer
let the man in, locked the cell door and walked away.
The man threw the brief case on the jail cot and stood glaring.
"Your damned foolishness has gone far enough. I'm sick and tired of
it," he declared. "If you carry on any more we'll never get back to
the Ultroom!"
"I'm sorry, Tendal," the man on the cot said. "I didn't think—"
"You're absolutely right. You didn't think. Crashing that car into
that tree and killing that woman—that was the last straw. You don't
even deserve to get back to our era. You ought to be made to rot
here."
"I'm
really
sorry about that," Arvid 6 said.
You know the instructions. Just because you work in the Ultroom don't
get to thinking human life doesn't have any value. We wouldn't be here
if it hadn't. But to unnecessarily kill—" The older man shook his
head. "You could have killed yourself as well and we'd never get the
job done. As it is, you almost totally obliterated me." Tendal 13
paced the length of the cell and back again, gesturing as he talked.
"It was only with the greatest effort I pulled myself back together
again. I doubt that you could have done it. And then all the while
you've been sitting here, probably enjoying yourself with your special
brand of humor I have grown to despise."
"You didn't have to come along at all, you know," Arvid 6 said.
"How well I know! How sorry I am that I ever did! It was only because
I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than
you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that! I volunteered! Tendal 13
reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid 6 go back
6,000 years to bring Kanad back, to correct a mistake Arvid 6 made!"
He snorted. "I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only
prove it when I pinch myself and here I am.
"Oh, you've been a joy to be with! First it was that hunt in ancient
Mycenae when you let the lion escape the hunters' quaint spears and we
were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain, although you dazzled the
hunters, deflecting their spears. And then your zest for drink when we
were with Octavian in Alexandria that led to everybody's amusement but
ours when we were ambushed by Anthony's men. And worst of all, that
English barmaid you became engrossed with at our last stop in 1609,
when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart
piece by piece—"
"All right, all right," Arvid 6 said. "I'll admit I've made some
mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all."
"Shut up! For once you're going to listen to me. Our instructions
specifically stated we were to have as little as possible to do with
these people. But at every turn you've got us more and more enmeshed
with them. If that's adventure, you can have it." Tendal 13 sat down
wearily and sank his head in his hands. "It was you who conceived the
idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pen. 'Watch me take that
child right out from under its mother's nose' were your exact words.
And before I could stop you, you did. Only you forgot an important
factor in the equation—the dog, Tiger. And you nursed a dogbite most
of the afternoon before it healed. And then you took your spite out on
the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night.
"And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the
talking. But no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Laughton's
attention. 'I came as soon as I could, Martin,' you said. And suddenly
I played a very minor role. 'This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins,'
you said. And then what happened? I get shot in the legs and you get a
hole in your back. We were both nearly obliterated that time and we
didn't even come close to getting the child.
"Still you wanted to run the whole show. 'I'm younger than you,' you
said. 'I'll take the wheel.' And the next thing I know I'm floating in
space halfway to nowhere with two broken legs, a spinal injury,
concussion and some of the finest bruises you ever saw."
These twentieth century machines aren't what they ought to be," Arvid
6 said.
"You never run out of excuses, do you, Arvid? Remember what you said
in the Ultroom when you pushed the lever clear over and transferred
Kanad back 6,000 years? 'My hand slipped.' As simple as that. 'My hand
slipped.' It was so simple everyone believed you. You were given no
real punishment. In a way it was a reward—at least to you—getting to
go back and rescue the life germ of Kanad out of each era he'd be born
in."
Tendal 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Arvid 6. "Do you
know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as
far as it would go
just to see what would happen
. That's how simple
I think it was."
Arvid 6 flushed, turned away and looked at the floor.
"What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone?" Tendal
13 asked.
Arvid 6 sighed. "After what you just said I guess it wouldn't amuse
you, although it has me. They got to me right after the accident
before I had a chance to collect my wits, dematerialize or
anything—you said we shouldn't dematerialize in front of anybody."
"That's right."
"Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk,
so I was. But they had a blood sample before I could manufacture any
alcohol in my blood, although I implanted a memory in them that I
reeked of it." He laughed. "I fancy they're thoroughly confused."
"And you're thoroughly amused, no doubt. Have they questioned you?"
"At great length. They had a psychiatrist in to see me. He was a queer
fellow with the most stupid set of questions and tests I ever saw."
"And you amused yourself with him."
"I suppose you'd think so."
"Who do you tell them you are?"
"John Smith. A rather prevalent name here, I understand. I
manufactured a pasteboard called a social security card and a driver's
license—"
"Never mind. It's easy to see you've been your own inimitable self.
Believe me, if I ever get back to the Ultroom I hope I never see you
again. And I hope I'll never leave there again though I'm rejuvenated
through a million years."
"Was Kanad's life germ transferred all right this time?"
Tendal 13 shook his head. "I haven't heard. The transfers are getting
more difficult all the time. In 1609, you'll remember, it was a case
of pneumonia for the two-year-old. A simple procedure. It wouldn't
work here. Medicine's too far along." He produced a notebook. "The
last jump was 342 years, a little more than average. The next ought to
be around 2250. Things will be more difficult than ever there,
probably."
"Do you think Kanad will be angry about all this?"
"How would you like to have to go through all those birth processes,
to have your life germ knocked from one era to the next?"
"Frankly, I didn't think he'd go back so far."
"If it had been anybody but Kanad nobody'd ever have thought of going
back after it. The life germ of the head of the whole galactic system
who came to the Ultroom to be transplanted to a younger body—and then
sending him back beyond his original birth date—" Tendal 13 got up
and commenced his pacing again. "Oh, I suppose Kanad's partly to
blame, wanting rejuvenating at only 300 years. Some have waited a
thousand or more or until their bones are like paper."
"I just wonder how angry Kanad will be," Arvid muttered.
HB92167. Ultroom Error. Tendal 13. Arvid 6. Kanad transfer
out of 1951 complete. Next Kanad transfer ready. 2267.
Phullam 19, son of Orla 39 and Rhoda R, 22H Level M,
Hemisphere B, Quadrant 3, Sector I. Arrive his 329th Day.
TB92167
Arvid 6 rose from the cot and the two men faced each other.
"Before we leave, Arvid," Tendal 13 started to say.
"I know, I know. You want me to let you handle everything."
"Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done?"
"I guess I have made mistakes. From now on you be the boss. I'll do
whatever you say."
"I hope I can count on that." Tendal 13 rang the jail buzzer.
The jailer unlocked the cell door.
"You remember the chief said it's all right to take him with me,
Matthews," Tendal 13 told the jailer.
"Yes, I remember," the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out
of the cell.
They walked together down the jail corridor. When they came to another
barred door the jailer fumbled with the keys and clumsily tried
several with no luck.
Arvid 6, an amused set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched
the jailer's expression as he walked through the bars of the door. He
laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge.
"Arvid!"
Tendal 13 walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid 6 by the
shoulders and shook him.
The jailer watched stupified as the two men vanished in the middle of
a violent argument.
|
train | 24275 | [
"Relationship between Harry Zeckler and Paul Meyeroff?",
"What crime has Zeckler committed to warrant imprisonment?",
"What motivates people like Zeckler to commit such crimes as he committed?",
"Why was Altair regarded at once by the Trading Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value?",
"The proceedings of Altairian trial defy which tenet of the modern western legal system?",
"Altairian's economy is most likely representative of which system:",
"What does the outcome of Zeckler's trial suggest about the modern legal system?"
] | [
[
"Meyeroff is Zeckler's legal representation",
"Meyeroff is an official sent to extradite Zeckler",
"Zeckler is a con man for Meyeroff",
"Zeckler abetted in a crime that Meyeroff perpetrated"
],
[
"embezzlement",
"fraud",
"encroachment",
"indecent exposure"
],
[
"New interplanetary laws created more incentive to commit crimes in vulnerable areas than they offered protection from such crimes.",
"Representatives from the Trading Commission set up an operation to hire and arrest con men in order to secure resources without being indicted.",
"The interplanetary laws made it easy for wealthy corporations and entities to prey upon those they considered less civilized and intelligent.",
"The Trading Commission offered monetary compensation for whoever was willing to secure unexploited trading ground on neighboring planets."
],
[
"They do not understand the loopholes in the trading laws",
"They have a large amount of 'unclaimed' land",
"They were an ideal location for an interplanetary prison system",
"They have a large reservoir of 'unclaimed' uranium"
],
[
"a defendant is innocent until proven guilty",
"a defendant has a right to due process",
"no warrant shall be issued without just cause",
"no one shall be subject to self-incrimination"
],
[
"capitalism",
"laissez faire",
"socialism",
"Keynesian"
],
[
"The legal system is set up to benefit those with more power and wealth.",
"For a defendant in the legal system, there is no desirable outcome.",
"The better lawyer a defendant has, the more likely they are to clear their names.",
"Sometimes it is more optimal to lie and make a guilty plea, than to tell the truth and be found guilty."
]
] | [
2,
2,
1,
4,
1,
2,
3
] | [
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | Letter
of
the
Law
by Alan E. Nourse
The
place was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves.
Meyerhoff followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard
down the slippery flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the
dead, musty air with distaste. He drew his carefully tailored
Terran-styled jacket closer about his shoulders, shivering as his
eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holes they were passing.
His foot slipped on the slimy flags from time to time, and
finally he paused to wipe the caked mud from his trouser leg.
"How much farther is it?" he shouted angrily.
The guard waved a heavy paw vaguely into the blackness
ahead. Quite suddenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the
Altairian stopped, producing a huge key ring from some obscure
fold of his hairy hide. "I still don't see any reason for
all the fuss," he grumbled in a wounded tone. "We've treated
him like a brother."
One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhoff peered
into the blackness, catching a vaguely human outline against
the back wall. "Harry?" he called sharply.
There was a startled gasp from within, and a skinny, gnarled
little man suddenly appeared in the guard's light, like a grotesque,
twisted ghost out of the blackness. Wide blue eyes
regarded Meyerhoff from beneath uneven black eyebrows, and
then the little man's face broke into a crafty grin. "Paul! So
they sent
you
! I knew I could count on it!" He executed a
deep, awkward bow, motioning Meyerhoff into the dark
cubicle. "Not much to offer you," he said slyly, "but it's the
best I can do under the circumstances."
Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. "We'll
have some privacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling.
And leave us the light."
The guard grumbled, and started for the door. "It's about
time you showed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great
day! Lucky they sent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for
years—"
"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your
pal," Meyerhoff snapped. "And you've been here for two
weeks, three days, and approximately four hours. You're getting
as bad as your gentle guards when it comes to bandying
the truth around." He peered through the dim light at the
gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a
week's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin
on his lips. His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked
with great splotches of mud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened
a little. "So Harry Zeckler's in a jam again," he said.
"You
look
as if they'd treated you like a brother."
The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't
know what brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread
and water I've been getting, nothing more, and then only if they
feel like bringing it down." He sank wearily down on the rock
bench along the wall. "I thought you'd never get here! I sent
an appeal to the Terran Consulate the first day I was arrested.
What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a man
over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide transportation
off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've been
sitting here rotting—" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared
at Meyerhoff. "You
brought
the papers, didn't you? I mean,
we can leave now?"
Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and
disgust. "You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know
that?"
Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I
spend a couple of weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was
worth it! I've got three million credits sitting in the Terran
Consulate on Altair V, just waiting for me to walk in and pick
them up. Three million credits—do you hear? That's enough
to set me up for life!"
Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "
If
you live long enough to walk
in and pick them up, that is."
"What do you mean, if?"
Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense
whisper in the musty cell. "I mean that right now you are
practically dead. You may not know it, but you are. You walk
into a newly opened planet with your smart little bag of tricks,
walk in here with a shaky passport and no permit, with no
knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of inaccuracies
in the Explorer's Guide, and even then you're not
content to come in and sell something legitimate, something
the natives might conceivably be able to use. No, nothing so
simple for you. You have to pull your usual high-pressure stuff.
And this time, buddy, you're paying the piper."
"
You mean I'm not being extradited?
"
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. "I mean precisely that.
You've committed a crime here—a major crime. The Altairians
are sore about it. And the Terran Consulate isn't willing
to sell all the trading possibilities here down the river just to
get you out of a mess. You're going to stand trial—and these
natives are out to get you. Personally, I think they're
going
to get you."
Zeckler stood up shakily. "You can't believe anything the
natives say," he said uneasily. "They're pathological liars.
Why, you should see what they tried to sell
me
! You've never
seen such a pack of liars as these critters." He glanced up at
Meyerhoff. "They'll probably drop a little fine on me and let
me go."
"A little fine of one Terran neck." Meyerhoff grinned nastily.
"You've committed the most heinous crime these creatures can
imagine, and they're going to get you for it if it's the last thing
they do. I'm afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are
over."
Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette,
and lighted it with trembling fingers. "It's bad, then,"
he said finally.
"It's bad, all right."
Some shadow of the sly, elfin grin crept over the little con-man's
face. "Well, at any rate, I'm glad they sent you over,"
he said weakly. "Nothing like a good lawyer to handle a trial."
"
Lawyer?
Not me! Oh, no. Sorry, but no thanks." Meyerhoff
chuckled. "I'm your advisor, old boy. Nothing else. I'm here
to keep you from botching things up still worse for the Trading
Commission, that's all. I wouldn't get tangled up in a mess
with those creatures for anything!" He shook his head. "You're
your own lawyer, Mr. Super-salesman. It's all your show. And
you'd better get your head out of the sand, or you're going to
lose a case like it's never been lost before!"
Meyerhoff watched the man's pale face, and shook his head.
In a way, he thought, it was a pity to see such a change in the
rosy-cheeked, dapper, cocksure little man who had talked his
way glibly in and out of more jams than Meyerhoff could
count. Trading brought scalpers; it was almost inevitable that
where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered, it
would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out
from Terra with the first wave of exploration—the slick, fast-talking
con-men who could work new territories unfettered by
the legal restrictions that soon closed down the more established
planets. The first men in were the richest out, and
through some curious quirk of the Terrestrial mind, they knew
they could count on Terran protection, however crooked and
underhand their methods.
But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and
social practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper
with them. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading
Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value, but
early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on
the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, three-eyed
inhabitants—warned specifically against the confidence tactics
so frequently used—but there was always somebody, Meyerhoff
reflected sourly, who just didn't get the word.
Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face
a study in troubled concentration. "But I didn't
do
anything!"
he exploded finally. "So I pulled an old con game. So what?
Why should they get so excited? So I clipped a few thousand
credits, pulled a little fast business." He shrugged eloquently,
spreading his hands. "Everybody's doing it. They do it to each
other without batting an eye. You should
see
these critters
operate on each other. Why, my little scheme was peanuts by
comparison."
Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing
the bowl with infinite patience. "And precisely what sort of
con game was it?" he asked quietly.
Zeckler shrugged again. "The simplest, tiredest, moldiest
old racket that ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old
Terran gag about the Brooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only
these critters didn't want bridges. They wanted land—this
gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farm land.' So I gave them
what they wanted. I just sold them some land."
Meyerhoff nodded fiercely. "You sure did. A hundred square
kilos at a swipe. Only you sold the same hundred square kilos
to a dozen different natives." Suddenly he threw back his hands
and roared. "Of all the things you
shouldn't
have done—"
"But what's a chunk of land?"
Meyerhoff shook his head hopelessly. "If you hadn't been
so greedy, you'd have found out what a chunk of land was to
these natives before you started peddling it. You'd have found
out other things about them, too. You'd have learned that
in spite of all their bumbling and fussing and squabbling
they're not so dull. You'd have found out that they're marsupials,
and that two out of five of them get thrown out of
their mother's pouch before they're old enough to survive.
You'd have realized that they have to start fighting for individual
rights almost as soon as they're born. Anything goes,
as long as it benefits them as individuals."
Meyerhoff grinned at the little man's horrified face. "Never
heard of that, had you? And you've never heard of other things,
too. You've probably never heard that there are just too many
Altairians here for the food their planet can supply, and their
diet is so finicky that they just can't live on anything that
doesn't grow here. And consequently, land is the key factor
in their economy, not money; nothing but land. To get land,
it's every man for himself, and the loser starves, and their
entire legal and monetary system revolves on that principle.
They've built up the most confusing and impossible system of
barter and trade imaginable, aimed at individual survival, with
land as the value behind the credit. That explains the lying—of
course they're liars, with an economy like that. They've
completely missed the concept of truth. Pathological? You bet
they're pathological! Only a fool would tell the truth when his
life depended on his being a better liar than the next guy!
Lying is the time-honored tradition, with their entire legal
system built around it."
Zeckler snorted. "But how could they
possibly
have a legal
system? I mean, if they don't recognize the truth when it slaps
them in the face?"
Meyerhoff shrugged. "As we understand legal systems, I
suppose they don't have one. They have only the haziest idea
what truth represents, and they've shrugged off the idea as
impossible and useless." He chuckled maliciously. "So you
went out and found a chunk of ground in the uplands, and
sold it to a dozen separate, self-centered, half-starved natives!
Encroachment on private property is legal grounds for murder
on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same
chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds."
Meyerhoff sighed. "You've got twelve mad Altairians in your
hair. You've got a mad planet in your hair. And in the meantime,
Terra's most valuable uranium source in five centuries
is threatening to cut off supply unless they see your blood
splattered liberally all the way from here to the equator."
Zeckler was visibly shaken. "Look," he said weakly, "so I
wasn't so smart. What am I going to do? I mean, are you
going to sit quietly by and let them butcher me? How could
I defend myself in a legal setup like
this
?"
Meyerhoff smiled coolly. "You're going to get your sly little
con-man brain to working, I think," he said softly. "By Interplanetary
Rules, they have to give you a trial in Terran legal
form—judge, jury, court procedure, all that folderol. They
think it's a big joke—after all, what could a judicial oath mean
to them?—but they agreed. Only thing is, they're going to
hang you, if they die trying. So you'd better get those stunted
little wits of yours clicking—and if you try to implicate
me
,
even a little bit, I'll be out of there so fast you won't know
what happened."
With that Meyerhoff walked to the door. He jerked it inward
sharply, and spilled two guards over on their faces.
"Privacy," he grunted, and started back up the slippery corridor.
It certainly
looked
like a courtroom, at any rate. In the front
of the long, damp stone room was a bench, with a seat behind
it, and a small straight chair to the right. To the left was a stand
with twelve chairs—larger chairs, with a railing running along
the front. The rest of the room was filled almost to the door
with seats facing the bench. Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired
guard into the room, nodding approvingly. "Not such a bad
arrangement," he said. "They must have gotten the idea fast."
Meyerhoff wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and
shot the little con-man a stony glance. "At least you've got
a courtroom, a judge, and a jury for this mess. Beyond that—"
He shrugged eloquently. "I can't make any promises."
In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang.
Loud, harsh voices were heard as half a dozen of the huge
Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler
clamped on the headset to his translator unit, and watched the
hubbub in the anteroom with growing alarm. Finally the question
of precedent seemed to be settled, and a group of the
Altairians filed in, in order of stature, stalking across the room
in flowing black robes, pug-nosed faces glowering with self-importance.
They descended upon the jury box, grunting and
scrapping with each other for the first-row seats, and the judge
took his place with obvious satisfaction behind the heavy
wooden bench. Finally, the prosecuting attorney appeared,
flanked by two clerks, who took their places beside him. The
prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned
and delivered a sly wink at the judge.
In a moment the room was a hubbub as it filled with the
huge, bumbling, bear-like creatures, jostling each other and
fighting for seats, growling and complaining. Two small fights
broke out in the rear, but were quickly subdued by the group
of gendarmes guarding the entrance. Finally the judge glared
down at Zeckler with all three eyes, and pounded the bench top
with a wooden mallet until the roar of activity subsided. The
jurymen wriggled uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging
winks, and finally turned their attention to the front of the
court.
"We are reading the case of the people of Altair I," the
judge's voice roared out, "against one Harry Zeckler—" he
paused for a long, impressive moment—"Terran." The courtroom
immediately burst into an angry growl, until the judge
pounded the bench five or six times more. "This—creature—is
hereby accused of the following crimes," the judge bellowed.
"Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Altair I. Brutal
murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of
Karzan at the third hour before dawn in the second period
after his arrival. Desecration of the Temple of our beloved
Goddess Zermat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiracy with the
lesser gods to cause the unprecedented drought in the Dermatti
section of our fair globe. Obscene exposure of his pouch-marks
in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges of jail-break
and bribery—" The judge pounded the bench for order—"Espionage
with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation
for interplanetary invasion."
The little con-man's jaw sagged lower and lower, the color
draining from his face. He turned, wide-eyed, to Meyerhoff,
then back to the judge.
"The Chairman of the Jury," said the Judge succinctly, "will
read the verdict."
The little native in the front of the jury-box popped up like
a puppet on a string. "Defendant found guilty on all counts,"
he said.
"Defendant is guilty! The court will pronounce sentence—"
"
Now wait a minute!
" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed.
"What kind of railroad job—"
The judge blinked disappointedly at Paul Meyerhoff. "Not
yet?" he asked, unhappily.
"No." Meyerhoff's hands twitched nervously. "Not yet, Your
Honor. Later, Your Honor. The trial comes
first
."
The judge looked as if his candy had been stolen. "But you
said
I should call for the verdict."
"Later. You have to have the trial before you can have the
verdict."
The Altairian shrugged indifferently. "Now—later—" he
muttered.
"Have the prosecutor call his first witness," said Meyerhoff.
Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. "These charges," he
whispered. "They're insane!"
"Of course they are," Meyerhoff whispered back.
"But what am I going to—"
"Sit tight. Let
them
set things up."
"But those
lies
. They're liars, the whole pack of them—" He
broke off as the prosecutor roared a name.
The shaggy brute who took the stand was wearing a bright
purple hat which sat rakishly over one ear. He grinned the
Altairian equivalent of a hungry grin at the prosecutor. Then
he cleared his throat and started. "This Terran riffraff—"
"The oath," muttered the judge. "We've got to have the
oath."
The prosecutor nodded, and four natives moved forward,
carrying huge inscribed marble slabs to the front of the court.
One by one the chunks were reverently piled in a heap at the
witness's feet. The witness placed a huge, hairy paw on the
cairn, and the prosecutor said, "Do you swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you—" he
paused to squint at the paper in his hand, and finished on a
puzzled note, "—Goddess?"
The witness removed the paw from the rock pile long enough
to scratch his ear. Then he replaced it, and replied, "Of course,"
in an injured tone.
"Then tell this court what you have seen of the activities of
this abominable wretch."
The witness settled back into the chair, fixing one eye on
Zeckler's face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third
as if in meditation. "I think it happened on the fourth night
of the seventh crossing of Altair II (may the Goddess cast
a drought upon it)—or was it the seventh night of the fourth
crossing?—" he grinned apologetically at the judge—"when I
was making my way back through town toward my blessed
land-plot, minding my own business, Your Honor, after weeks
of bargaining for the crop I was harvesting. Suddenly from the
shadow of the building, this creature—" he waved a paw at
Zeckler—"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had
a weapon I'd never seen before, and before I could find my
voice he forced me back against the wall. I could see by the
cruel glint in his eyes that there was no warmth, no sympathy
in his heart, that I was—"
"Objection!" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his
feet. "This witness can't even remember what night he's talking
about!"
The judge looked startled. Then he pawed feverishly through
his bundle of notes. "Overruled," he said abruptly. "Continue,
please."
The witness glowered at Zeckler. "As I was saying before
this loutish interruption," he muttered, "I could see that I was
face to face with the most desperate of criminal types, even
for Terrans. Note the shape of his head, the flabbiness of his
ears. I was petrified with fear. And then, helpless as I was, this
two-legged abomination began to shower me with threats of
evil to my blessed home, dark threats of poisoning my land
unless I would tell him where he could find the resting place
of our blessed Goddess—"
"I never saw him before in my life," Zeckler moaned to
Meyerhoff. "Listen to him! Why should I care where their
Goddess—"
Meyerhoff gave him a stony look. "The Goddess runs things
around here. She makes it rain. If it doesn't rain, somebody's
insulted her. It's very simple."
"But how can I fight testimony like that?"
"I doubt if you
can
fight it."
"But they can't prove a word of it—" He looked at the jury,
who were listening enraptured to the second witness on the
stand. This one was testifying regarding the butcherous slaughter
of eighteen (or was it twenty-three? Oh, yes, twenty-three)
women and children in the suburban village of Karzan. The
pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an energy
weapon which ate great, gaping holes in the sides of buildings.
A third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the
room grew hotter and muggier. Zeckler grew paler and paler,
his eyes turning glassy as the testimony piled up. "But it's not
true
," he whispered to Meyerhoff.
"Of course it isn't! Can't you understand?
These people
have no regard for truth.
It's stupid, to them, silly, a mark of
low intelligence. The only thing in the world they have any
respect for is a liar bigger and more skillful than they are."
Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed
out. "Does the defendant have anything to say before
the jury delivers the verdict?"
"Do I have—" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his
pale cheeks suddenly taking on a feverish glow. He sat down
gingerly on the witness chair, facing the judge, his eyes bright
with fear and excitement. "Your—Your Honor, I—I have a
statement to make which will have a most important bearing
on this case. You must listen with the greatest care." He
glanced quickly at Meyerhoff, and back to the judge. "Your
Honor," he said in a hushed voice. "You are in gravest of
danger. All of you. Your lives—your very land is at stake."
The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly
as a murmur arose in the court. "Our land?"
"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear," Zeckler
said quickly, licking his lips nervously. "You must try to
understand me—" he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder
"now, because I may not live long enough to repeat what
I am about to tell you—"
The murmur quieted down, all ears straining in their headsets
to hear his words. "These charges," he continued, "all of
them—they're perfectly true. At least, they
seem
to be perfectly
true. But in every instance, I was working with heart and
soul, risking my life, for the welfare of your beautiful planet."
There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zeckler
frowned and rubbed his hands together. "It was my misfortune,"
he said, "to go to the wrong planet when I first came to
Altair from my homeland on Terra. I—I landed on Altair II,
a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very fortunate error.
Because in attempting to arrange trading in that frightful place,
I made certain contacts." His voice trembled, and sank lower.
"I learned the horrible thing which is about to happen to this
planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is
theirs, not mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her
and lied to her, coerced her all-powerful goodness to their own
evil interests, preparing for the day when they could persuade
her to cast your land into the fiery furnace of a ten-year-drought—"
Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing.
One by one the natives nudged one another, and booed, and
guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's
words. "The defendant is obviously lying," roared the prosecutor
over the pandemonium. "Any fool knows that the Goddess
can't be bribed. How could she be a Goddess if she could?"
Zeckler grew paler. "But—perhaps they were very clever—"
"And how could they flatter her, when she knows, beyond
doubt, that she is the most exquisitely radiant creature in all
the Universe? And
you
dare to insult her, drag her name in
the dirt."
The hisses grew louder, more belligerent. Cries of "Butcher
him!" and "Scald his bowels!" rose from the courtroom. The
judge banged for silence, his eyes angry.
"Unless the defendant wishes to take up more of our precious
time with these ridiculous lies, the jury—"
"Wait! Your Honor, I request a short recess before I present
my final plea."
"Recess?"
"A few moments to collect my thoughts, to arrange my
case."
The judge settled back with a disgusted snarl. "Do I have
to?" he asked Meyerhoff.
Meyerhoff nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his
shoulder to the anteroom. "You can go in there," he said.
Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness
stand, amid riotous boos and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom.
Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at
Meyerhoff with haunted eyes. "It—it doesn't look so good,"
he muttered.
Meyerhoff's eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he
felt a surge of pity and admiration for the haggard con-man.
"It's worse than I'd anticipated," he admitted glumly. "That
was a good try, but you just don't know enough about them
and their Goddess." He sat down wearily. "I don't see what
you can do. They want your blood, and they're going to have
it. They just won't believe you, no matter
how
big a lie you
tell."
Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. "This lying business,"
he said finally, "exactly how does it work?"
"The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It's as simple as
that. It doesn't matter how outlandish a whopper you tell.
Unless, of course, they've made up their minds that you just
naturally aren't as big a liar as they are. And it looks like that's
just what they've done. It wouldn't make any difference to
them
what
you say—unless, somehow, you could
make
them
believe it."
Zeckler frowned. "And how do they regard the—the biggest
liar? I mean, how do they feel toward him?"
Meyerhoff shifted uneasily. "It's hard to say. It's been my
experience that they respect him highly—maybe even fear him
a little. After all, the most convincing liar always wins in any
transaction, so he gets more land, more food, more power.
Yes, I think the biggest liar could go where he pleased without
any interference."
Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.
"Wait a minute," he said tensely. "To tell them a lie
that they'd have to believe—a lie they simply couldn't
help
but believe—" He turned on Meyerhoff, his hands trembling.
"Do they
think
the way we do? I mean, with logic, cause and
effect, examining evidence and drawing conclusions? Given
certain evidence, would they have to draw the same conclusions
that we have to draw?"
Meyerhoff blinked. "Well—yes. Oh, yes, they're perfectly
logical."
Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his
sallow face. His thin body fairly shook. He started hopping
up and down on one foot, staring idiotically into space. "If I
could only think—" he muttered. "Somebody—somewhere—something
I read."
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"It was a Greek, I think—"
Meyerhoff stared at him. "Oh, come now. Have you gone
off your rocker completely? You've got a problem on your
hands, man."
"No, no, I've got a problem in the bag!" Zeckler's cheeks
flushed. "Let's go back in there—I think I've got an answer!"
The courtroom quieted the moment they opened the door,
and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler
had taken his seat on the witness stand, the judge turned to
the head juryman. "Now, then," he said with happy finality.
"The jury—"
"Hold on! Just one minute more."
The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a
rock. "Oh, yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead
and say it."
Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. "You want
to convict me," he said softly, "in the worst sort of way. Isn't
that right?"
Eyes swung toward him. The judge broke into an evil grin.
"That's right."
"But you can't really convict me until you've considered
carefully any statement I make in my own defense. Isn't that
right?"
The judge looked uncomfortable. "If you've got something
to say, go ahead and say it."
"I've got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But
you'd better listen to it, and think it out carefully before you
decide that you really want to convict me." He paused, and
glanced slyly at the judge. "You don't think much of those
who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put
this
statement in your
record, then." His voice was loud and clear in the still room.
"
All Earthmen are absolutely incapable of telling the truth.
"
Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury's faces. One or two
exchanged startled glances, and the room was still as death.
The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back.
"But you"—he stammered. "You're"—He stopped in mid-sentence,
his jaw sagging.
One of the jurymen let out a little squeak, and fainted dead
away. It took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement
to soak in.
And then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.
"Really," said Harry Zeckler loftily, "it was so obvious I'm
amazed that it didn't occur to me first thing." He settled himself
down comfortably in the control cabin of the Interplanetary
Rocket and grinned at the outline of Altair IV looming larger
in the view screen.
Paul Meyerhoff stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed
angrily. "You might at least have told me what you
were planning."
"And take the chance of being overheard? Don't be silly.
It had to come as a bombshell. I had to establish myself as a
liar—the prize liar of them all, but I had to tell the sort of lie
that they simply could not cope with. Something that would
throw them into such utter confusion that they wouldn't
dare
convict me." He grinned impishly at Meyerhoff. "The paradox
of Epimenides the Cretan. It really stopped them cold. They
knew
I was an Earthmen, which meant that my statement that
Earthmen were liars was a lie, which meant that maybe I wasn't
a liar, in which case—oh, it was tailor-made."
"It sure was." Meyerhoff's voice was a snarl.
"Well, it made me out a liar in a class they couldn't approach,
didn't it?"
Meyerhoff's face was purple with anger. "Oh, indeed it did!
And it put
all
Earthmen in exactly the same class, too."
"So what's honor among thieves? I got off, didn't I?"
Meyerhoff turned on him fiercely. "Oh, you got off just fine.
You scared the living daylights out of them. And in an eon of
lying they never have run up against a short-circuit like that.
You've also completely botched any hope of ever setting up
a trading alliance with Altair I, and that includes uranium, too.
Smart people don't gamble with loaded dice. You scared them
so badly they don't want anything to do with us."
Zeckler's grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously.
"Ah, well. After all, the Trading Alliance was
your
outlook,
wasn't it? What a pity!" He clucked his tongue sadly. "Me,
I've got a fortune in credits sitting back at the consulate waiting
for me—enough to keep me on silk for quite a while, I
might say. I think I'll just take a nice, long vacation."
Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee
appeared in his eyes. "Yes, I think you will. I'm quite sure of
it, in fact. Won't cost you a cent, either."
"Eh?"
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary
lint fleck from his lapel, and looked up at Zeckler slyly. "That—uh—jury
trial. The Altairians weren't any too happy to
oblige. They wanted to execute you outright. Thought a trial
was awfully silly—until they got their money back, of course.
Not too much—just three million credits."
Zeckler went white. "But that money was in banking custody!"
"Is that right? My goodness. You don't suppose they could
have lost those papers, do you?" Meyerhoff grinned at the
little con-man. "And incidentally, you're under arrest, you
know."
A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. "
Arrest!
"
"Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? Conspiring to undermine the
authority of the Terran Trading Commission. Serious charge,
you know. Yes, I think we'll take a nice long vacation together,
straight back to Terra. And there I think you'll face a jury
trial."
Zeckler spluttered. "There's no evidence—you've got nothing
on me! What kind of a frame are you trying to pull?"
"A
lovely
frame. Airtight. A frame from the bottom up, and
you're right square in the middle. And this time—" Meyerhoff
tapped a cigarette on his thumb with happy finality—"this time
I
don't
think you'll get off."
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from "Tiger by the Tail and Other Science Fiction
Stories by Alan E. Nourse" and was first published in
If Magazine
January 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 23791 | [
"What makes the far side of the moon intolerable?",
"What motivates Pop Young to live on the far side of the moon?",
"Which item would most likely be shared by Sattell and Pop?",
"What is the relationship between Sattell and Pop Young?",
"What do the colony inhabitants share?",
"What effect does Sattell's proximity have on Pop?",
"Which of the following describes Pop's attitude toward Sattell?",
"Which term best describes Pop's attitude toward his lunar occupation?",
"Which term best describes Sattell's attitude toward Pop?",
"How does Sattell hope to get rid of Pop?"
] | [
[
"extreme temperatures",
"loud noises from the mines",
"social isolation",
"vicious predators"
],
[
"He is being compensated for a wrongful death suit that occurred back on Earth",
"He is close to Sattell's location, which enhances his memories of his wife and children",
"If he left his post, there would be no one to monitor the mines in the Big Crack",
"If he returned to Earth, he would be arrested for the murder of his family"
],
[
"hatchet",
"pencil",
"lighter",
"screwdriver"
],
[
"Sattell uses methods to help Pop recover his memories",
"Sattell is trying to escape Pop, who believes he killed his family",
"Sattell was Pop's neighbor back on Earth",
"Sattell is Pop's son and the only witness who saw Pop murder his wife and other children"
],
[
"traumatic brain injuries",
"criminal backgrounds",
"fear of open spaces",
"aversion to sunlight"
],
[
"It brings Pop's memory of the murder of his family into clarity",
"It motivates him to plot his revenge against his family's murderer",
"It amplifies the pain of his Pop's head injury",
"It restores Pop's memories of his wife and children"
],
[
"obsessive",
"delirious",
"ambivalent",
"vengeful"
],
[
"methodical",
"unselfish",
"passionate",
"resentful"
],
[
"condescending",
"frenetic",
"aggrieved",
"repugnant"
],
[
"Luring him down into the Big Crack and killing him",
"Hiring an assassin from a neighboring planet",
"Blowing up the shack near the edge of the Big Crack",
"Escaping on board a secondhand lunar tour vessel"
]
] | [
1,
2,
2,
2,
3,
4,
1,
1,
3,
4
] | [
0,
0,
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1,
1
] | SCRIMSHAW
The old man
just wanted to get back his
memory—and the methods he used were
gently hellish, from the viewpoint of the
others....
BY MURRAY LEINSTER
Illustrated by Freas
Pop Young was the one known
man who could stand life on the
surface of the Moon's far side, and,
therefore, he occupied the shack on
the Big Crack's edge, above the
mining colony there. Some people
said that no normal man could do
it, and mentioned the scar of a
ghastly head-wound to explain his
ability. One man partly guessed the
secret, but only partly. His name was
Sattell and he had reason not to
talk. Pop Young alone knew the
whole truth, and he kept his mouth
shut, too. It wasn't anybody else's
business.
The shack and the job he filled
were located in the medieval notion
of the physical appearance of hell.
By day the environment was heat and
torment. By night—lunar night, of
course, and lunar day—it was frigidity
and horror. Once in two weeks
Earth-time a rocketship came around
the horizon from Lunar City with
stores for the colony deep underground.
Pop received the stores and
took care of them. He handed over
the product of the mine, to be forwarded
to Earth. The rocket went
away again. Come nightfall Pop
lowered the supplies down the long
cable into the Big Crack to the colony
far down inside, and freshened up
the landing field marks with magnesium
marking-powder if a rocket-blast
had blurred them. That was
fundamentally all he had to do. But
without him the mine down in the
Crack would have had to shut
down.
The Crack, of course, was that
gaping rocky fault which stretches
nine hundred miles, jaggedly, over
the side of the Moon that Earth
never sees. There is one stretch where
it is a yawning gulf a full half-mile
wide and unguessably deep. Where
Pop Young's shack stood it was only
a hundred yards, but the colony was
a full mile down, in one wall. There
is nothing like it on Earth, of course.
When it was first found, scientists
descended into it to examine the exposed
rock-strata and learn the history
of the Moon before its craters
were made. But they found more
than history. They found the reason
for the colony and the rocket landing
field and the shack.
The reason for Pop was something
else.
The shack stood a hundred feet
from the Big Crack's edge. It looked
like a dust-heap thirty feet high, and
it was. The outside was surface
moondust, piled over a tiny dome to
be insulation against the cold of
night and shadow and the furnace
heat of day. Pop lived in it all alone,
and in his spare time he worked
industriously at recovering some
missing portions of his life that Sattell
had managed to take away from
him.
He thought often of Sattell, down
in the colony underground. There
were galleries and tunnels and living-quarters
down there. There were
air-tight bulkheads for safety, and a
hydroponic garden to keep the air
fresh, and all sorts of things to make
life possible for men under if not
on the Moon.
But it wasn't fun, even underground.
In the Moon's slight gravity,
a man is really adjusted to existence
when he has a well-developed case
of agoraphobia. With such an aid, a
man can get into a tiny, coffinlike
cubbyhole, and feel solidity above
and below and around him, and
happily tell himself that it feels delicious.
Sometimes it does.
But Sattell couldn't comfort himself
so easily. He knew about Pop,
up on the surface. He'd shipped out,
whimpering, to the Moon to get far
away from Pop, and Pop was just
about a mile overhead and there was
no way to get around him. It was
difficult to get away from the mine,
anyhow. It doesn't take too long for
the low gravity to tear a man's
nerves to shreds. He has to develop
kinks in his head to survive. And
those kinks—
The first men to leave the colony
had to be knocked cold and shipped
out unconscious. They'd been underground—and
in low gravity—long
enough to be utterly unable to face
the idea of open spaces. Even now
there were some who had to be carried,
but there were some tougher
ones who were able to walk to the
rocketship if Pop put a tarpaulin
over their heads so they didn't have
to see the sky. In any case Pop was
essential, either for carrying or
guidance.
Sattell got the shakes when he
thought of Pop, and Pop rather
probably knew it. Of course, by the
time he took the job tending the
shack, he was pretty certain about
Sattell. The facts spoke for themselves.
Pop had come back to consciousness
in a hospital with a great
wound in his head and no memory
of anything that had happened before
that moment. It was not that his
identity was in question. When he
was stronger, the doctors told him
who he was, and as gently as possible
what had happened to his wife
and children. They'd been murdered
after he was seemingly killed defending
them. But he didn't remember
a thing. Not then. It was
something of a blessing.
But when he was physically recovered
he set about trying to pick
up the threads of the life he could
no longer remember. He met Sattell
quite by accident. Sattell looked familiar.
Pop eagerly tried to ask him
questions. And Sattell turned gray
and frantically denied that he'd ever
seen Pop before.
All of which happened back on
Earth and a long time ago. It seemed
to Pop that the sight of Sattell had
brought back some vague and cloudy
memories. They were not sharp,
though, and he hunted up Sattell
again to find out if he was right.
And Sattell went into panic when
he returned.
Nowadays, by the Big Crack, Pop
wasn't so insistent on seeing Sattell,
but he was deeply concerned with
the recovery of the memories that
Sattell helped bring back. Pop was
a highly conscientious man. He took
good care of his job. There was a
warning-bell in the shack, and when
a rocketship from Lunar City got
above the horizon and could send a
tight beam, the gong clanged loudly,
and Pop got into a vacuum-suit
and went out the air lock. He usually
reached the moondozer about the
time the ship began to brake for
landing, and he watched it come in.
He saw the silver needle in the
sky fighting momentum above a line
of jagged crater-walls. It slowed, and
slowed, and curved down as it drew
nearer. The pilot killed all forward
motion just above the field and came
steadily and smoothly down to land
between the silvery triangles that
marked the landing place.
Instantly the rockets cut off,
drums of fuel and air and food came
out of the cargo-hatch and Pop swept
forward with the dozer. It was a
miniature tractor with a gigantic
scoop in front. He pushed a great
mound of talc-fine dust before him
to cover up the cargo. It was necessary.
With freight costing what it
did, fuel and air and food came
frozen solid, in containers barely
thicker than foil. While they stayed
at space-shadow temperature, the foil
would hold anything. And a cover of
insulating moondust with vacuum
between the grains kept even air
frozen solid, though in sunlight.
At such times Pop hardly thought
of Sattell. He knew he had plenty
of time for that. He'd started to follow
Sattell knowing what had happened
to his wife and children, but
it was hearsay only. He had no memory
of them at all. But Sattell stirred
the lost memories. At first Pop followed
absorbedly from city to city,
to recover the years that had been
wiped out by an axe-blow. He did
recover a good deal. When Sattell
fled to another continent, Pop followed
because he had some distinct
memories of his wife—and the way
he'd felt about her—and some fugitive
mental images of his children.
When Sattell frenziedly tried to deny
knowledge of the murder in Tangier,
Pop had come to remember both his
children and some of the happiness
of his married life.
Even when Sattell—whimpering—signed
up for Lunar City, Pop tracked
him. By that time he was quite
sure that Sattell was the man who'd
killed his family. If so, Sattell had
profited by less than two days' pay
for wiping out everything that Pop
possessed. But Pop wanted it back.
He couldn't prove Sattell's guilt.
There was no evidence. In any case,
he didn't really want Sattell to die.
If he did, there'd be no way to recover
more lost memories.
Sometimes, in the shack on the far
side of the Moon, Pop Young had
odd fancies about Sattell. There was
the mine, for example. In each two
Earth-weeks of working, the mine-colony
nearly filled up a three-gallon
cannister with greasy-seeming white
crystals shaped like two pyramids
base to base. The filled cannister
would weigh a hundred pounds on
Earth. Here it weighed eighteen. But
on Earth its contents would be computed
in carats, and a hundred
pounds was worth millions. Yet here
on the Moon Pop kept a waiting cannister
on a shelf in his tiny dome,
behind the air-apparatus. It rattled
if he shook it, and it was worth no
more than so many pebbles. But
sometimes Pop wondered if Sattell
ever thought of the value of the
mine's production. If he would kill
a woman and two children and think
he'd killed a man for no more than
a hundred dollars, what enormity
would he commit for a three-gallon
quantity of uncut diamonds?
But he did not dwell on such
speculation. The sun rose very, very
slowly in what by convention was
called the east. It took nearly two
hours to urge its disk above the
horizon, and it burned terribly in
emptiness for fourteen times twenty-four
hours before sunset. Then there
was night, and for three hundred
and thirty-six consecutive hours there
were only stars overhead and the
sky was a hole so terrible that a man
who looked up into it—what with
the nagging sensation of one-sixth
gravity—tended to lose all confidence
in the stability of things. Most men
immediately found it hysterically necessary
to seize hold of something
solid to keep from falling upward.
But nothing felt solid. Everything
fell, too. Wherefore most men tended
to scream.
But not Pop. He'd come to the
Moon in the first place because Sattell
was here. Near Sattell, he found
memories of times when he was a
young man with a young wife who
loved him extravagantly. Then pictures
of his children came out of
emptiness and grew sharp and clear.
He found that he loved them very
dearly. And when he was near Sattell
he literally recovered them—in
the sense that he came to know new
things about them and had new
memories of them every day. He
hadn't yet remembered the crime
which lost them to him. Until he
did—and the fact possessed a certain
grisly humor—Pop didn't even hate
Sattell. He simply wanted to be near
him because it enabled him to recover
new and vivid parts of his
youth that had been lost.
Otherwise, he was wholly matter-of-fact—certainly
so for the far side
of the Moon. He was a rather fussy
housekeeper. The shack above the
Big Crack's rim was as tidy as any
lighthouse or fur-trapper's cabin. He
tended his air-apparatus with a fine
precision. It was perfectly simple. In
the shadow of the shack he had an
unfailing source of extreme low
temperature. Air from the shack
flowed into a shadow-chilled pipe.
Moisture condensed out of it here,
and CO
2
froze solidly out of it there,
and on beyond it collected as restless,
transparent liquid air. At the same
time, liquid air from another tank
evaporated to maintain the proper
air pressure in the shack. Every so
often Pop tapped the pipe where the
moisture froze, and lumps of water
ice clattered out to be returned to the
humidifier. Less often he took out the
CO
2
snow, and measured it, and
dumped an equivalent quantity of
pale-blue liquid oxygen into the liquid
air that had been purified by
cold. The oxygen dissolved. Then the
apparatus reversed itself and supplied
fresh air from the now-enriched
fluid, while the depleted other
tank began to fill up with cold-purified
liquid air.
Outside the shack, jagged stony
pinnacles reared in the starlight, and
craters complained of the bombardment
from space that had made them.
But, outside, nothing ever happened.
Inside, it was quite different.
Working on his memories, one
day Pop made a little sketch. It
helped a great deal. He grew deeply
interested. Writing-material was
scarce, but he spent most of the time
between two particular rocket-landings
getting down on paper exactly
how a child had looked while sleeping,
some fifteen years before. He
remembered with astonishment that
the child had really looked exactly
like that! Later he began a sketch of
his partly-remembered wife. In time—he
had plenty—it became a really
truthful likeness.
The sun rose, and baked the
abomination of desolation which was
the moonscape. Pop Young meticulously
touched up the glittering
triangles which were landing guides
for the Lunar City ships. They glittered
from the thinnest conceivable
layer of magnesium marking-powder.
He checked over the moondozer.
He tended the air apparatus. He did
everything that his job and survival
required. Ungrudgingly.
Then he made more sketches. The
images to be drawn came back more
clearly when he thought of Sattell,
so by keeping Sattell in mind he recovered
the memory of a chair that
had been in his forgotten home.
Then he drew his wife sitting in it,
reading. It felt very good to see her
again. And he speculated about
whether Sattell ever thought of millions
of dollars' worth of new-mined
diamonds knocking about unguarded
in the shack, and he suddenly recollected
clearly the way one of his
children had looked while playing
with her doll. He made a quick
sketch to keep from forgetting that.
There was no purpose in the
sketching, save that he'd lost all his
young manhood through a senseless
crime. He wanted his youth back. He
was recovering it bit by bit. The
occupation made it absurdly easy to
live on the surface of the far side of
the Moon, whether anybody else
could do it or not.
Sattell had no such device for adjusting
to the lunar state of things.
Living on the Moon was bad enough
anyhow, then, but living one mile
underground from Pop Young was
much worse. Sattell clearly remembered
the crime Pop Young hadn't
yet recalled. He considered that Pop
had made no overt attempt to revenge
himself because he planned
some retaliation so horrible and lingering
that it was worth waiting for.
He came to hate Pop with an insane
ferocity. And fear. In his mind the
need to escape became an obsession
on top of the other psychotic states
normal to a Moon-colonist.
But he was helpless. He couldn't
leave. There was Pop. He couldn't
kill Pop. He had no chance—and he
was afraid. The one absurd, irrelevant
thing he could do was write
letters back to Earth. He did that.
He wrote with the desperate, impassioned,
frantic blend of persuasion
and information and genius-like invention
of a prisoner in a high-security
prison, trying to induce someone
to help him escape.
He had friends, of a sort, but for
a long time his letters produced
nothing. The Moon swung in vast
circles about the Earth, and the Earth
swung sedately about the Sun. The
other planets danced their saraband.
The rest of humanity went about its
own affairs with fascinated attention.
But then an event occurred which
bore directly upon Pop Young and
Sattell and Pop Young's missing
years.
Somebody back on Earth promoted
a luxury passenger-line of spaceships
to ply between Earth and
Moon. It looked like a perfect set-up.
Three spacecraft capable of the journey
came into being with attendant
reams of publicity. They promised a
thrill and a new distinction for the
rich. Guided tours to Lunar! The
most expensive and most thrilling
trip in history! One hundred thousand
dollars for a twelve-day cruise
through space, with views of the
Moon's far side and trips through
Lunar City and a landing in Aristarchus,
plus sound-tapes of the journey
and fame hitherto reserved for
honest explorers!
It didn't seem to have anything
to do with Pop or with Sattell. But
it did.
There were just two passenger
tours. The first was fully booked.
But the passengers who paid so highly,
expected to be pleasantly thrilled
and shielded from all reasons for
alarm. And they couldn't be. Something
happens when a self-centered
and complacent individual unsuspectingly
looks out of a spaceship
port and sees the cosmos unshielded
by mists or clouds or other aids to
blindness against reality. It is shattering.
A millionaire cut his throat when
he saw Earth dwindled to a mere
blue-green ball in vastness. He could
not endure his own smallness in the
face of immensity. Not one passenger
disembarked even for Lunar
City. Most of them cowered in their
chairs, hiding their eyes. They were
the simple cases of hysteria. But the
richest girl on Earth, who'd had five
husbands and believed that nothing
could move her—she went into
catatonic withdrawal and neither
saw nor heard nor moved. Two other
passengers sobbed in improvised
strait jackets. The first shipload
started home. Fast.
The second luxury liner took off
with only four passengers and turned
back before reaching the Moon.
Space-pilots could take the strain of
space-flight because they had work
to do. Workers for the lunar mines
could make the trip under heavy
sedation. But it was too early in the
development of space-travel for
pleasure-passengers. They weren't
prepared for the more humbling
facts of life.
Pop heard of the quaint commercial
enterprise through the micro-tapes
put off at the shack for the men
down in the mine. Sattell probably
learned of it the same way. Pop didn't
even think of it again. It seemed
to have nothing to do with him. But
Sattell undoubtedly dealt with it
fully in his desperate writings back
to Earth.
Pop matter-of-factly tended the
shack and the landing field and the
stores for the Big Crack mine. Between-times
he made more drawings
in pursuit of his own private objective.
Quite accidentally, he developed
a certain talent professional artists
might have approved. But he was not
trying to communicate, but to discover.
Drawing—especially with his
mind on Sattell—he found fresh incidents
popping up in his recollection.
Times when he was happy. One
day he remembered the puppy his
children had owned and loved. He
drew it painstakingly—and it was
his again. Thereafter he could remember
it any time he chose. He did
actually recover a completely vanished
past.
He envisioned a way to increase
that recovery. But there was a marked
shortage of artists' materials on the
Moon. All freight had to be hauled
from Earth, on a voyage equal to
rather more than a thousand times
around the equator of the Earth.
Artists' supplies were not often included.
Pop didn't even ask.
He began to explore the area outside
the shack for possible material
no one would think of sending from
Earth. He collected stones of various
sorts, but when warmed up in the
shack they were useless. He found
no strictly lunar material which
would serve for modeling or carving
portraits in the ground. He found
minerals which could be pulverized
and used as pigments, but nothing
suitable for this new adventure in
the recovery of lost youth. He even
considered blasting, to aid his search.
He could. Down in the mine, blasting
was done by soaking carbon black—from
CO
2
—in liquid oxygen, and then
firing it with a spark. It exploded
splendidly. And its fumes were
merely more CO
2
which an air-apparatus
handled easily.
He didn't do any blasting. He didn't
find any signs of the sort of
mineral he required. Marble would
have been perfect, but there is no
marble on the Moon. Naturally! Yet
Pop continued to search absorbedly
for material with which to capture
memory. Sattell still seemed necessary,
but—
Early one lunar morning he was
a good two miles from his shack
when he saw rocket-fumes in the
sky. It was most unlikely. He wasn't
looking for anything of the sort, but
out of the corner of his eye he observed
that something moved. Which
was impossible. He turned his head,
and there were rocket-fumes coming
over the horizon, not in the direction
of Lunar City. Which was more
impossible still.
He stared. A tiny silver rocket to
the westward poured out monstrous
masses of vapor. It decelerated swiftly.
It curved downward. The rockets
checked for an instant, and flamed
again more violently, and checked
once more. This was not an expert
approach. It was a faulty one. Curving
surface-ward in a sharply changing
parabola, the pilot over-corrected
and had to wait to gather down-speed,
and then over-corrected again.
It was an altogether clumsy landing.
The ship was not even perfectly vertical
when it settled not quite in the
landing-area marked by silvery triangles.
One of its tail-fins crumpled
slightly. It tilted a little when fully
landed.
Then nothing happened.
Pop made his way toward it in
the skittering, skating gait one uses
in one-sixth gravity. When he was
within half a mile, an air-lock door
opened in the ship's side. But nothing
came out of the lock. No space-suited
figure. No cargo came drifting
down with the singular deliberation
of falling objects on the Moon.
It was just barely past lunar sunrise
on the far side of the Moon.
Incredibly long and utterly black
shadows stretched across the plain,
and half the rocketship was dazzling
white and half was blacker than
blackness itself. The sun still hung
low indeed in the black, star-speckled
sky. Pop waded through moondust,
raising a trail of slowly settling
powder. He knew only that the ship
didn't come from Lunar City, but
from Earth. He couldn't imagine
why. He did not even wildly connect
it with what—say—Sattell might
have written with desperate plausibility
about greasy-seeming white
crystals out of the mine, knocking
about Pop Young's shack in cannisters
containing a hundred Earth-pounds
weight of richness.
Pop reached the rocketship. He
approached the big tail-fins. On one
of them there were welded ladder-rungs
going up to the opened air-lock
door.
He climbed.
The air-lock was perfectly normal
when he reached it. There was a
glass port in the inner door, and he
saw eyes looking through it at him.
He pulled the outer door shut and
felt the whining vibration of admitted
air. His vacuum suit went slack
about him. The inner door began to
open, and Pop reached up and gave
his helmet the practiced twisting
jerk which removed it.
Then he blinked. There was a red-headed
man in the opened door. He
grinned savagely at Pop. He held a
very nasty hand-weapon trained on
Pop's middle.
"Don't come in!" he said mockingly.
"And I don't give a damn
about how you are. This isn't social.
It's business!"
Pop simply gaped. He couldn't
quite take it in.
"This," snapped the red-headed
man abruptly, "is a stickup!"
Pop's eyes went through the inner
lock-door. He saw that the interior
of the ship was stripped and bare.
But a spiral stairway descended from
some upper compartment. It had a
handrail of pure, transparent, water-clear
plastic. The walls were bare insulation,
but that trace of luxury remained.
Pop gazed at the plastic,
fascinated.
The red-headed man leaned forward,
snarling. He slashed Pop
across the face with the barrel of his
weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton,
savage brutality.
"Pay attention!" snarled the red-headed
man. "A stickup, I said! Get
it? You go get that can of stuff
from the mine! The diamonds!
Bring them here! Understand?"
Pop said numbly: "What the
hell?"
The red-headed man hit him
again. He was nerve-racked, and,
therefore, he wanted to hurt.
"Move!" he rasped. "I want the
diamonds you've got for the ship
from Lunar City! Bring 'em!" Pop
licked blood from his lips and the
man with the weapon raged at him.
"Then phone down to the mine!
Tell Sattell I'm here and he can
come on up! Tell him to bring any
more diamonds they've dug up since
the stuff you've got!"
He leaned forward. His face was
only inches from Pop Young's. It
was seamed and hard-bitten and
nerve-racked. But any man would be
quivering if he wasn't used to space
or the feel of one-sixth gravity on
the Moon. He panted:
"And get it straight! You try
any tricks and we take off! We
swing over your shack! The rocket-blast
smashes it! We burn you
down! Then we swing over the cable
down to the mine and the rocket-flame
melts it! You die and everybody
in the mine besides! No tricks!
We didn't come here for nothing!"
He twitched all over. Then he
struck cruelly again at Pop Young's
face. He seemed filled with fury, at
least partly hysterical. It was the tension
that space-travel—then, at its
beginning—produced. It was meaningless
savagery due to terror. But,
of course, Pop was helpless to resent
it. There were no weapons on the
Moon and the mention of Sattell's
name showed the uselessness of bluff.
He'd pictured the complete set-up
by the edge of the Big Crack. Pop
could do nothing.
The red-headed man checked
himself, panting. He drew back and
slammed the inner lock-door. There
was the sound of pumping.
Pop put his helmet back on and
sealed it. The outer door opened.
Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After
a second or two he went out and
climbed down the welded-on ladder-bars
to the ground.
He headed back toward his shack.
Somehow, the mention of Sattell had
made his mind work better. It always
did. He began painstakingly to
put things together. The red-headed
man knew the routine here in every
detail. He knew Sattell. That part
was simple. Sattell had planned this
multi-million-dollar coup, as a man
in prison might plan his break. The
stripped interior of the ship identified
it.
It was one of the unsuccessful
luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps
it was stolen for the journey
here. Sattell's associates had had to
steal or somehow get the fuel, and
somehow find a pilot. But there were
diamonds worth at least five million
dollars waiting for them, and the
whole job might not have called for
more than two men—with Sattell as
a third. According to the economics
of crime, it was feasible. Anyhow it
was being done.
Pop reached the dust-heap which
was his shack and went in the air
lock. Inside, he went to the vision-phone
and called the mine-colony
down in the Crack. He gave the
message he'd been told to pass on.
Sattell to come up, with what diamonds
had been dug since the
regular cannister was sent up for the
Lunar City ship that would be due
presently. Otherwise the ship on the
landing strip would destroy shack
and Pop and the colony together.
"I'd guess," said Pop painstakingly,
"that Sattell figured it out. He's
probably got some sort of gun to
keep you from holding him down
there. But he won't know his friends
are here—not right this minute he
won't."
A shaking voice asked questions
from the vision-phone.
"No," said Pop, "they'll do it anyhow.
If we were able to tell about
'em, they'd be chased. But if I'm
dead and the shacks smashed and
the cable burnt through, they'll be
back on Earth long before a new
cable's been got and let down to you.
So they'll do all they can no matter
what I do." He added, "I wouldn't
tell Sattell a thing about it, if I were
you. It'll save trouble. Just let him
keep on waiting for this to happen.
It'll save you trouble."
Another shaky question.
"Me?" asked Pop. "Oh, I'm going
to raise what hell I can. There's
some stuff in that ship I want."
He switched off the phone. He
went over to his air apparatus. He
took down the cannister of diamonds
which were worth five millions or
more back on Earth. He found a
bucket. He dumped the diamonds
casually into it. They floated downward
with great deliberation and
surged from side to side like a liquid
when they stopped. One-sixth gravity.
Pop regarded his drawings meditatively.
A sketch of his wife as he
now remembered her. It was very
good to remember. A drawing of his
two children, playing together. He
looked forward to remembering
much more about them. He grinned.
"That stair-rail," he said in deep
satisfaction. "That'll do it!"
He tore bed linen from his bunk
and worked on the emptied cannister.
It was a double container with a
thermware interior lining. Even on
Earth newly-mined diamonds sometimes
fly to pieces from internal
stress. On the Moon, it was not desirable
that diamonds be exposed to
repeated violent changes of temperature.
So a thermware-lined cannister
kept them at mine-temperature once
they were warmed to touchability.
Pop packed the cotton cloth in the
container. He hurried a little, because
the men in the rocket were shaky and
might not practice patience. He took
a small emergency-lamp from his
spare spacesuit. He carefully cracked
its bulb, exposing the filament within.
He put the lamp on top of the
cotton and sprinkled magnesium
marking-powder over everything.
Then he went to the air-apparatus
and took out a flask of the liquid
oxygen used to keep his breathing-air
in balance. He poured the frigid,
pale-blue stuff into the cotton. He
saturated it.
All the inside of the shack was
foggy when he finished. Then he
pushed the cannister-top down. He
breathed a sigh of relief when it was
in place. He'd arranged for it to
break a frozen-brittle switch as it
descended. When it came off, the
switch would light the lamp with its
bare filament. There was powdered
magnesium in contact with it and
liquid oxygen all about.
He went out of the shack by the
air lock. On the way, thinking about
Sattell, he suddenly recovered a completely
new memory. On their first
wedding anniversary, so long ago,
he and his wife had gone out to
dinner to celebrate. He remembered
how she looked: the almost-smug
joy they shared that they would be
together for always, with one complete
year for proof.
Pop reflected hungrily that it was
something else to be made permanent
and inspected from time to time.
But he wanted more than a drawing
of this! He wanted to make the memory
permanent and to extend it—
If it had not been for his vacuum
suit and the cannister he carried, Pop
would have rubbed his hands.
Tall, jagged crater-walls rose
from the lunar plain. Monstrous, extended
inky shadows stretched
enormous distances, utterly black.
The sun, like a glowing octopod,
floated low at the edge of things and
seemed to hate all creation.
Pop reached the rocket. He
climbed the welded ladder-rungs to
the air lock. He closed the door. Air
whined. His suit sagged against his
body. He took off his helmet.
When the red-headed man opened
the inner door, the hand-weapon
shook and trembled. Pop said
calmly:
"Now I've got to go handle the
hoist, if Sattell's coming up from
the mine. If I don't do it, he don't
come up."
The red-headed man snarled. But
his eyes were on the cannister whose
contents should weigh a hundred
pounds on Earth.
"Any tricks," he rasped, "and you
know what happens!"
"Yeah," said Pop.
He stolidly put his helmet back
on. But his eyes went past the red-headed
man to the stair that wound
down, inside the ship, from some
compartment above. The stair-rail was
pure, clear, water-white plastic, not
less than three inches thick. There
was a lot of it!
The inner door closed. Pop opened
the outer. Air rushed out. He
climbed painstakingly down to the
ground. He started back toward the
shack.
There was the most luridly bright
of all possible flashes. There was no
sound, of course. But something
flamed very brightly, and the ground
thumped under Pop Young's vacuum
boots. He turned.
The rocketship was still in the act
of flying apart. It had been a splendid
explosion. Of course cotton sheeting
in liquid oxygen is not quite as
good an explosive as carbon-black,
which they used down in the mine.
Even with magnesium powder to
start the flame when a bare light-filament
ignited it, the cannister-bomb
hadn't equaled—say—T.N.T.
But the ship had fuel on board for
the trip back to Earth. And it blew,
too. It would be minutes before all
the fragments of the ship returned
to the Moon's surface. On the Moon,
things fall slowly.
Pop didn't wait. He searched
hopefully. Once a mass of steel plating
fell only yards from him, but it
did not interrupt his search.
When he went into the shack, he
grinned to himself. The call-light of
the vision-phone flickered wildly.
When he took off his helmet the bell
clanged incessantly. He answered. A
shaking voice from the mining-colony
panted:
"We felt a shock! What happened?
What do we do?"
"Don't do a thing," advised Pop.
"It's all right. I blew up the ship and
everything's all right. I wouldn't
even mention it to Sattell if I were
you."
He grinned happily down at a section
of plastic stair-rail he'd found
not too far from where the ship exploded.
When the man down in the
mine cut off, Pop got out of his
vacuum suit in a hurry. He placed
the plastic zestfully on the table
where he'd been restricted to drawing
pictures of his wife and children
in order to recover memories of
them.
He began to plan, gloatingly, the
thing he would carve out of a four-inch
section of the plastic. When it
was carved, he'd paint it. While he
worked, he'd think of Sattell, because
that was the way to get back the
missing portions of his life—the
parts Sattell had managed to get
away from him. He'd get back more
than ever, now!
He didn't wonder what he'd do
if he ever remembered the crime
Sattell had committed. He felt, somehow,
that he wouldn't get that back
until he'd recovered all the rest.
Gloating, it was amusing to remember
what people used to call
such art-works as he planned, when
carved by other lonely men in other
faraway places. They called those
sculptures scrimshaw.
But they were a lot more than
that!
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Astounding Science Fiction
September
1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 24247 | [
"What is Prantera referring to when he mentions 'Quentin'?",
"What is Prantera referring to when he mentions a 'mouthpiece'?",
"What is Prantera referring to when he mentions a 'pressure cooker'?",
"What central theme of the story is revealed in the conclusion?",
"How does Prantera initially gain trust with Temple-Tracy?",
"Why are Reston-Farrell and Brett-James not willing to assassinate Temple-Tracy themselves?",
"All of the following motivate Prantera to accept the proposal from Brett-James and Reston-Ferrell EXCEPT:"
] | [
[
"a target",
"an asylum",
"an associate",
"a prison"
],
[
"a lawyer",
"a weapon",
"a disguise",
"a crime boss"
],
[
"a courtroom",
"an interrogation room",
"a mental asylum",
"a set-up"
],
[
"The more good you do for others, the more opportunity for them to criticize you",
"If someone is willing to take a life, you cannot trust them to make moral decisions",
"When cornered, threatened creatures will do anything to survive",
"The prosperity of a nation is more important than any individual life"
],
[
"Giving him information about his opponents",
"Speaking to him in Amer-English",
"Revealing his potential assassins",
"Giving him a 1925 Old Calendar"
],
[
"They would feel such guilt after taking a fellow human's life as to cause them long-lasting anguish",
"They are fearful of Temple-Tracy's followers using him as a martyr to strengthen their cause",
"They are afraid of what might happen if they are forced to receive psychiatric treatment",
"They do not possess hatred in their genetic sequence and are incapable of committing vile acts"
],
[
"He does not need to worry about Temple-Tracy's followers seeking revenge",
"He does not have to fear being arrested by the police",
"He is unlikely to encounter someone with weapons during the job",
"He does not have a chance of being sent back to 1960"
]
] | [
4,
1,
3,
2,
2,
4,
1
] | [
0,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1
] | Illustrated by van Dongen
A gun is an interesting weapon; it can be hired, of
course, and naturally doesn't care who hires it. Something
much the same can be said of the gunman, too....
GUN FOR HIRE
By
MACK
REYNOLDS
Joe Prantera
called
softly, "Al." The pleasurable,
comfortable,
warm feeling began
spreading over him, the
way it always did.
The older man stopped and
squinted, but not suspiciously, even
now.
The evening was dark, it was unlikely
that the other even saw the
circle of steel that was the mouth of
the shotgun barrel, now resting on
the car's window ledge.
"Who's it?" he growled.
Joe Prantera said softly, "Big Louis
sent me, Al."
And he pressed the trigger.
And at that moment, the universe
caved inward upon Joseph Marie
Prantera.
There was nausea and nausea upon
nausea.
There was a falling through all
space and through all time. There was
doubling and twisting and twitching
of every muscle and nerve.
There was pain, horror and tumultuous
fear.
And he came out of it as quickly
and completely as he'd gone in.
He was in, he thought, a hospital
and his first reaction was to think,
This here California. Everything different.
Then his second thought was
Something went wrong. Big Louis, he
ain't going to like this.
He brought his thinking to the
present. So far as he could remember,
he hadn't completely pulled the trigger.
That at least meant that whatever
the rap was it wouldn't be too
tough. With luck, the syndicate would
get him off with a couple of years at
Quentin.
A door slid open in the wall in a
way that Joe had never seen a door
operate before.
This here California.
The clothes on the newcomer were
wrong, too. For the first time, Joe
Prantera began to sense an alienness—a
something that was awfully
wrong.
The other spoke precisely and
slowly, the way a highly educated man
speaks a language which he reads
and writes fluently but has little occasion
to practice vocally. "You have recovered?"
Joe Prantera looked at the other
expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck
was one of these foreign doctors, like.
The newcomer said, "You have undoubtedly
been through a most harrowing
experience. If you have any
untoward symptoms, possibly I could
be of assistance."
Joe couldn't figure out how he
stood. For one thing, there should
have been some kind of police guard.
The other said, "Perhaps a bit of
stimulant?"
Joe said flatly, "I wanta lawyer."
The newcomer frowned at him. "A
lawyer?"
"I'm not sayin' nothin'. Not until I
get a mouthpiece."
The newcomer started off on another
tack. "My name is Lawrence
Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken,
you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Salviati happened to be Joe's mother's
maiden name. But it was unlikely
this character could have known that.
Joe had been born in Naples and his
mother had died in childbirth. His
father hadn't brought him to the
States until the age of five and by that
time he had a stepmother.
"I wanta mouthpiece," Joe said
flatly, "or let me outta here."
Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, "You
are not being constrained. There are
clothes for you in the closet there."
Joe gingerly tried swinging his
feet to the floor and sitting up, while
the other stood watching him, strangely.
He came to his feet. With the exception
of a faint nausea, which
brought back memories of that extreme
condition he'd suffered during
... during what? He hadn't the
vaguest idea of what had happened.
He was dressed in a hospital-type
nightgown. He looked down at it and
snorted and made his way over to the
closet. It opened on his approach, the
door sliding back into the wall in
much the same manner as the room's
door had opened for Reston-Farrell.
Joe Prantera scowled and said,
"These ain't my clothes."
"No, I am afraid not."
"You think I'd be seen dead wearing
this stuff? What is this, some religious
crackpot hospital?"
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid,
Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are
the only garments available. I suggest
you look out the window there."
Joe gave him a long, chill look
and then stepped to the window. He
couldn't figure the other. Unless he
was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in
some kind of pressure cooker and
this was one of the fruitcakes.
He looked out, however, not on the
lawns and walks of a sanitarium but
upon a wide boulevard of what was
obviously a populous city.
And for a moment again, Joe Prantera
felt the depths of nausea.
This was not his world.
He stared for a long, long moment.
The cars didn't even have wheels, he
noted dully. He turned slowly and
faced the older man.
Reston-Farrell said compassionately,
"Try this, it's excellent cognac."
Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally,
flatly, "What's it all about?"
The other put down the unaccepted
glass. "We were afraid first
realization would be a shock to you,"
he said. "My colleague is in the adjoining
room. We will be glad to explain
to you if you will join us there."
"I wanta get out of here," Joe said.
"Where would you go?"
The fear of police, of Al Rossi's
vengeance, of the measures that
might be taken by Big Louis on his
failure, were now far away.
Reston-Farrell had approached the
door by which he had entered and it
reopened for him. He went through
it without looking back.
There was nothing else to do. Joe
dressed, then followed him.
In the adjoining room was a circular
table that would have accommodated
a dozen persons. Two were
seated there now, papers, books and
soiled coffee cups before them. There
had evidently been a long wait.
Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already
met, was tall and drawn of face
and with a chainsmoker's nervousness.
The other was heavier and more
at ease. They were both, Joe estimated,
somewhere in their middle fifties.
They both looked like docs. He
wondered, all over again, if this was
some kind of pressure cooker.
But that didn't explain the view
from the window.
Reston-Farrell said, "May I present
my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James?
Warren, this is our guest from
... from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera."
Brett-James nodded to him, friendly,
so far as Joe could see. He said
gently, "I think it would be Mr. Joseph
Prantera, wouldn't it? The maternal
linage was almost universally
ignored." His voice too gave the impression
he was speaking a language
not usually on his tongue.
Joe took an empty chair, hardly
bothering to note its alien qualities.
His body seemed to
fit
into the piece
of furniture, as though it had been
molded to his order.
Joe said, "I think maybe I'll take
that there drink, Doc."
Reston-Farrell said, "Of course,"
and then something else Joe didn't
get. Whatever the something else
was, a slot opened in the middle of
the table and a glass, so clear of texture
as to be all but invisible, was
elevated. It contained possibly three
ounces of golden fluid.
Joe didn't allow himself to think
of its means of delivery. He took up
the drink and bolted it. He put the
glass down and said carefully,
"What's it all about, huh?"
Warren Brett-James said soothingly,
"Prepare yourself for somewhat
of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no
longer in Los Angeles—"
"Ya think I'm stupid? I can see
that."
"I was about to say, Los Angeles of
1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you
to Nuevo Los Angeles."
"Ta where?"
"To Nuevo Los Angeles and to
the year—" Brett-James looked at his
companion. "What is the date, Old
Calendar?"
"2133," Reston-Farrell said. "2133
A.D. they would say."
Joe Prantera looked from one of
them to the other, scowling. "What
are you guys talking about?"
Warren Brett-James said softly,
"Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in
the year 1960, you are now in the
year 2133."
He said, uncomprehendingly, "You
mean I been, like, unconscious for—"
He let the sentence fall away as he
realized the impossibility.
Brett-James said gently, "Hardly
for one hundred and seventy years,
Mr. Prantera."
Reston-Farrell said, "I am afraid we
are confusing you. Briefly, we have
transported
you, I suppose one might
say, from your own era to ours."
Joe Prantera had never been exposed
to the concept of time travel.
He had simply never associated with
anyone who had ever even remotely
considered such an idea. Now he said,
"You mean, like, I been asleep all
that time?"
"Not exactly," Brett-James said,
frowning.
Reston-Farrell said, "Suffice to say,
you are now one hundred and seventy-three
years after the last memory you
have."
Joe Prantera's mind suddenly reverted
to those last memories and his
eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt
suddenly at bay. He said, "Maybe
you guys better let me in on what's
this all about."
Reston-Farrell said, "Mr. Prantera,
we have brought you from your era
to perform a task for us."
Joe stared at him, and then at the
other. He couldn't believe he was getting
through to them. Or, at least,
that they were to him.
Finally he said, "If I get this, you
want me to do a job for you."
"That is correct."
Joe said, "You guys know the kind
of jobs I do?"
"That is correct."
"Like hell you do. You think I'm
stupid? I never even seen you before."
Joe Prantera came abruptly to
his feet. "I'm gettin' outta here."
For the second time, Reston-Farrell
said, "Where would you go, Mr.
Prantera?"
Joe glared at him. Then sat down
again, as abruptly as he'd arisen.
"Let's start all over again. I got this
straight, you brought me, some
screwy way, all the way ... here.
O.K., I'll buy that. I seen what it looks
like out that window—" The real
comprehension was seeping through
to him even as he talked. "Everybody
I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big
Louis, everybody, they're dead. Even
Big Louis."
"Yes," Brett-James said, his voice
soft. "They are all dead, Mr. Prantera.
Their children are all dead, and their
grandchildren."
The two men of the future said
nothing more for long minutes while
Joe Prantera's mind whirled its confusion.
Finally he said, "What's this bit
about you wanting me to give it to
some guy."
"That is why we brought you here,
Mr. Prantera. You were ... you
are, a professional assassin."
"Hey, wait a minute, now."
Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring
the interruption. "There is small
point in denying your calling. Pray
remember that at the point when we
...
transported
you, you were about
to dispose of a contemporary named
Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen,
I might say, whose demise would
probably have caused small dismay to
society."
They had him pegged all right. Joe
said, "But why me? Why don't you
get some heavy from now? Somebody
knows the ropes these days."
Brett-James said, "Mr. Prantera,
there are no professional assassins in
this age, nor have there been for over
a century and a half."
"Well, then do it yourself." Joe
Prantera's irritation over this whole
complicated mess was growing. And
already he was beginning to long for
the things he knew—for Jessie and
Tony and the others, for his favorite
bar, for the lasagne down at Papa
Giovanni's. Right now he could have
welcomed a calling down at the hands
of Big Louis.
Reston-Farrell had come to his feet
and walked to one of the large room's
windows. He looked out, as though
unseeing. Then, his back turned, he
said, "We have tried, but it is simply
not in us, Mr. Prantera."
"You mean you're yella?"
"No, if by that you mean afraid. It
is simply not within us to take the
life of a fellow creature—not to speak
of a fellow man."
Joe snapped: "Everything you guys
say sounds crazy. Let's start all over
again."
Brett-James said, "Let me do it,
Lawrence." He turned his eyes to Joe.
"Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did
you ever consider the future?"
Joe looked at him blankly.
"In your day you were confronted
with national and international, problems.
Just as we are today and just as
nations were a century or a millennium
ago."
"Sure, O.K., so we had problems. I
know whatcha mean—like wars, and
depressions and dictators and like
that."
"Yes, like that," Brett-James
nodded.
The heavy-set man paused a moment.
"Yes, like that," he repeated.
"That we confront you now indicates
that the problems of your day were
solved. Hadn't they been, the world
most surely would have destroyed itself.
Wars? Our pedagogues are hard
put to convince their students that
such ever existed. More than a century
and a half ago our society eliminated
the reasons for international
conflict. For that matter," he added
musingly, "we eliminated most international
boundaries. Depressions?
Shortly after your own period, man
awoke to the fact that he had achieved
to the point where it was possible to
produce an abundance for all with a
minimum of toil. Overnight, for all
practical purposes, the whole world
was industrialized, automated. The
second industrial revolution was accompanied
by revolutionary changes
in almost every field, certainly in every
science. Dictators? Your ancestors
found, Mr. Prantera, that it is
difficult for a man to be free so long
as others are still enslaved. Today the
democratic ethic has reached a pinnacle
never dreamed of in your own
era."
"O.K., O.K.," Joe Prantera growled.
"So everybody's got it made. What I
wanta know is what's all this about
me giving it ta somebody? If everything's
so great, how come you want
me to knock this guy off?"
Reston-Farrell bent forward and
thumped his right index finger twice
on the table. "The bacterium of hate—a
new strain—has found the human
race unprotected from its disease.
We had thought our vaccines
immunized us."
"What's that suppose to mean?"
Brett-James took up the ball again.
"Mr. Prantera, have you ever heard of
Ghengis Khan, of Tamerlane, Alexander,
Caesar?"
Joe Prantera scowled at him emptily.
"Or, more likely, of Napoleon, Hitler,
Stalin?"
"Sure I heard of Hitler and Stalin,"
Joe growled. "I ain't stupid."
The other nodded. "Such men are
unique. They have a drive ... a
drive to power which exceeds by far
the ambitions of the average man.
They are genii in their way, Mr. Prantera,
genii of evil. Such a genius of
evil has appeared on the current
scene."
"Now we're getting somewheres,"
Joe snorted. "So you got a guy what's
a little ambitious, like, eh? And you
guys ain't got the guts to give it to
him. O.K. What's in it for me?"
The two of them frowned, exchanged
glances. Reston-Farrell said,
"You know, that is one aspect we had
not considered."
Brett-James said to Joe Prantera,
"Had we not, ah, taken you at the
time we did, do you realize what
would have happened?"
"Sure," Joe grunted. "I woulda let
old Al Rossi have it right in the guts,
five times. Then I woulda took the
plane back to Chi."
Brett-James was shaking his head.
"No. You see, by coincidence, a police
squad car was coming down the
street just at that moment to arrest
Mr. Rossi. You would have been apprehended.
As I understand Californian
law of the period, your life
would have been forfeit, Mr. Prantera."
Joe winced. It didn't occur to him
to doubt their word.
Reston-Farrell said, "As to reward,
Mr. Prantera, we have already told
you there is ultra-abundance in this
age. Once this task has been performed,
we will sponsor your entry
into present day society. Competent
psychiatric therapy will soon remove
your present—"
"Waita minute, now. You figure on
gettin' me candled by some head
shrinker, eh? No thanks, Buster. I'm
going back to my own—"
Brett-James was shaking his head
again. "I am afraid there is no return,
Mr. Prantera. Time travel works but
in one direction,
with
the flow of the
time stream. There can be no return
to your own era."
Joe Prantera had been rocking
with the mental blows he had been
assimilating, but this was the final
haymaker. He was stuck in this
squaresville of a world.
Joe Prantera on a job was thorough.
Careful, painstaking, competent.
He spent the first three days of his
life in the year 2133 getting the feel
of things. Brett-James and Reston-Farrell
had been appointed to work
with him. Joe didn't meet any of the
others who belonged to the group
which had taken the measures to
bring him from the past. He didn't
want to meet them. The fewer persons
involved, the better.
He stayed in the apartment of
Reston-Farrell. Joe had been right,
Reston-Farrell was a medical doctor.
Brett-James evidently had something
to do with the process that had enabled
them to bring Joe from the
past. Joe didn't know how they'd
done it, and he didn't care. Joe was a
realist. He was here. The thing was
to adapt.
There didn't seem to be any hurry.
Once the deal was made, they left it
up to him to make the decisions.
They drove him around the town,
when he wished to check the traffic
arteries. They flew him about the
whole vicinity. From the air, Southern
California looked much the same
as it had in his own time. Oceans,
mountains, and to a lesser extent, deserts,
are fairly permanent even
against man's corroding efforts.
It was while he was flying with
Brett-James on the second day that
Joe said, "How about Mexico? Could
I make the get to Mexico?"
The physicist looked at him questioningly.
"Get?" he said.
Joe Prantera said impatiently, "The
getaway. After I give it to this Howard
Temple-Tracy guy, I gotta go on
the run, don't I?"
"I see." Brett-James cleared his
throat. "Mexico is no longer a separate
nation, Mr. Prantera. All North
America has been united into one
unit. Today, there are only eight nations
in the world."
"Where's the nearest?"
"South America."
"That's a helluva long way to go on
a get."
"We hadn't thought of the matter
being handled in that manner."
Joe eyed him in scorn. "Oh, you
didn't, huh? What happens after I
give it to this guy? I just sit around
and wait for the cops to put the arm
on me?"
Brett-James grimaced in amusement.
"Mr. Prantera, this will probably
be difficult for you to comprehend,
but there are no police in this
era."
Joe gaped at him. "No police!
What happens if you gotta throw
some guy in stir?"
"If I understand your idiom correctly,
you mean prison. There are
no prisons in this era, Mr. Prantera."
Joe stared. "No cops, no jails. What
stops anybody? What stops anybody
from just going into some bank, like,
and collecting up all the bread?"
Brett-James cleared his throat.
"Mr. Prantera, there are no banks."
"No banks! You gotta have banks!"
"And no money to put in them.
We found it a rather antiquated
method of distribution well over a
century ago."
Joe had given up. Now he merely
stared.
Brett-James said reasonably, "We
found we were devoting as much
time to financial matters in all their
endless ramifications—including
bank robberies—as we were to productive
efforts. So we turned to more
efficient methods of distribution."
On the fourth day, Joe said, "O.K.,
let's get down to facts. Summa the
things you guys say don't stick together
so good. Now, first place,
where's this guy Temple-Tracy you
want knocked off?"
Reston-Farrell and Brett-James
were both present. The three of them
sat in the living room of the latter's
apartment, sipping a sparkling wine
which seemed to be the prevailing
beverage of the day. For Joe's taste
it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was
available to those who wanted it.
Reston-Farrell said, "You mean,
where does he reside? Why, here in
this city."
"Well, that's handy, eh?" Joe
scratched himself thoughtfully. "You
got somebody can finger him for me?"
"Finger him?"
"Look, before I can give it to this
guy I gotta know some place where
he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al
Rossi. My finger, he works in Rossi's
house, see? He lets me know every
Wednesday night, eight o'clock, Al
leaves the house all by hisself. O.K.,
so I can make plans, like, to give it
to him." Joe Prantera wound it up
reasonably. "You gotta have a finger."
Brett-James said, "Why not just go
to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,
dispose of him?"
"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm
stupid? How do I know how many
witnesses hangin' around? How do I
know if the guy's carryin' heat?"
"Heat?"
"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid?
I come to give it to him and he
gives it to me instead."
Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "Howard
Temple-Tracy lives alone. He customarily
receives visitors every afternoon,
largely potential followers. He
is attempting to recruit members to
an organization he is forming. It
would be quite simple for you to
enter his establishment and dispose
of him. I assure you, he does not possess
weapons."
Joe was indignant. "Just like that,
eh?" he said sarcastically. "Then what
happens? How do I get out of the
building? Where's my get car parked?
Where do I hide out? Where do I
dump the heat?"
"Dump the heat?"
"Get rid of the gun. You want I
should get caught with the gun on
me? I'd wind up in the gas chamber
so quick—"
"See here, Mr. Prantera," Brett-James
said softly. "We no longer have
capital punishment, you must realize."
"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught.
What
is
the rap these days, huh?"
Joe scowled. "You said they didn't
have no jails any more."
"This is difficult for you to understand,
I imagine," Reston-Farrell told
him, "but, you see, we no longer punish
people in this era."
That took a long, unbelieving moment
to sink in. "You mean, like, no
matter what they do? That's crazy.
Everybody'd be running around giving
it to everybody else."
"The motivation for crime has
been removed, Mr. Prantera," Reston-Farrell
attempted to explain. "A
person who commits a violence
against another is obviously in need
of medical care. And, consequently,
receives it."
"You mean, like, if I steal a car or
something, they just take me to a
doctor?" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.
"Why would anybody wish to steal
a car?" Reston-Farrell said easily.
"But if I
give it
to somebody?"
"You will be turned over to a medical
institution. Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy
is the last man you will
ever kill, Mr. Prantera."
A chillness was in the belly of Joe
Prantera. He said very slowly, very
dangerously, "You guys figure on me
getting caught, don't you?"
"Yes," Brett-James said evenly.
"Well then, figure something else.
You think I'm stupid?"
"Mr. Prantera," Dr. Reston-Farrell
said, "there has been as much progress
in the field of psychiatry in the
past two centuries as there has in
any other. Your treatment would be
brief and painless, believe me."
Joe said coldly, "And what happens
to you guys? How do you know I
won't rat on you?"
Brett-James said gently, "The moment
after you have accomplished
your mission, we plan to turn ourselves
over to the nearest institution
to have determined whether or not
we also need therapy."
"Now I'm beginning to wonder
about you guys," Joe said. "Look, all
over again, what'd'ya wanta give it to
this guy for?"
The doctor said, "We explained
the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen
Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous,
atavistic, evil genius. We are
afraid for our institutions if his plans
are allowed to mature."
"Well if you got things so good,
everybody's got it made, like, who'd
listen to him?"
The doctor nodded at the validity
of the question. "Mr. Prantera,
Homo
sapiens
is a unique animal. Physically
he matures at approximately the age
of thirteen. However, mental maturity
and adjustment is often not fully
realized until thirty or even more.
Indeed, it is sometimes never
achieved. Before such maturity is
reached, our youth are susceptible to
romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism,
racism, the supposed glory of
the military, all seem romantic to the
immature. They rebel at the orderliness
of present society. They seek entertainment
in excitement. Citizen
Temple-Tracy is aware of this and
finds his recruits among the young."
"O.K., so this guy is dangerous.
You want him knocked off before he
screws everything up. But the way
things are, there's no way of making
a get. So you'll have to get some other
patsy. Not me."
"I am afraid you have no alternative,"
Brett-James said gently. "Without
us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera,
you do not even speak the language."
"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand
summa the big words you eggheads
use, but I get by O.K."
Brett-James said, "Amer-English is
no longer the language spoken by the
man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only
students of such subjects any longer
speak such tongues as Amer-English,
French, Russian or the many others
that once confused the race with
their limitations as a means of communication."
"You mean there's no place in the
whole world where they talk American?"
Joe demanded, aghast.
Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the
car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next
to him and Warren Brett-James sat
in the back. Joe had, tucked in his
belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed
in a museum. It had been
more easily procured than the ammunition
to fit it, but that problem too
had been solved.
The others were nervous, obviously
repelled by the very conception of
what they had planned.
Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now
that they had got in the clutch, the
others were on the verge of chickening
out. He knew it wouldn't have
taken much for them to cancel the
project. It wasn't any answer though.
If they allowed him to call it off today,
they'd talk themselves into it
again before the week was through.
Besides, already Joe was beginning
to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,
warm feeling that came to him on
occasions like this.
He said, "You're sure this guy talks
American, eh?"
Warren Brett-James said, "Quite
sure. He is a student of history."
"And he won't think it's funny I
talk American to him, eh?"
"He'll undoubtedly be intrigued."
They pulled up before a large
apartment building that overlooked
the area once known as Wilmington.
Joe was coolly efficient now. He
pulled out the automatic, held it
down below his knees and threw a
shell into the barrel. He eased the
hammer down, thumbed on the
safety, stuck the weapon back in his
belt and beneath the jacketlike garment
he wore.
He said, "O.K. See you guys later."
He left them and entered the building.
An elevator—he still wasn't used
to their speed in this era—whooshed
him to the penthouse duplex occupied
by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.
There were two persons in the reception
room but they left on Joe's
arrival, without bothering to look at
him more than glancingly.
He spotted the screen immediately
and went over and stood before it.
The screen lit and revealed a
heavy-set, dour of countenance man
seated at a desk. He looked into Joe
Prantera's face, scowled and said
something.
Joe said, "Joseph Salviati-Prantera
to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy."
The other's shaggy eyebrows rose.
"Indeed," he said. "In Amer-English?"
Joe nodded.
"Enter," the other said.
A door had slid open on the other
side of the room. Joe walked through
it and into what was obviously an office.
Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a
desk. There was only one other chair
in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it
and remained standing.
Citizen Temple-Tracy said, "What
can I do for you?"
Joe looked at him for a long, long
moment. Then he reached down to
his belt and brought forth the .45
automatic. He moistened his lips.
Joe said softly, "You know what
this here is?"
Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon.
"It's a handgun, circa, I would
say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What
in the world are you doing with it?"
Joe said, very slowly, "Chief, in the
line you're in these days you needa
heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise,
Chief, you're gunna wind up
in some gutter with a lotta holes in
you. What I'm doin', I'm askin' for a
job. You need a good man knows how
to handle wunna these, Chief."
Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy
eyed him appraisingly. "Perhaps," he
said, "you are right at that. In the near
future, I may well need an assistant
knowledgeable in the field of violence.
Tell me more about yourself.
You surprise me considerably."
"Sure, Chief. It's kinda a long
story, though. First off, I better tell
you you got some bad enemies, Chief.
Two guys special, named Brett-James
and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one
of the first jobs I'm gunna hafta do
for you, Chief, is to give it to those
two."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Analog
December
1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26843 | [
"Which term best describes the narrator's attitude toward writing up the first trip to Mars?",
"After they landed, how were the crewmen viewed by the general public?",
"What is the central theme of the story?",
"What is the Martians' orientation toward water?",
"Who is the 'dope' on Mars?",
"What does the last line indicate about modern society, in general?",
"What's ironic about the narrator's and Kroger's decision to sign on for the flight scheduled to Venus?"
] | [
[
"ambivalent",
"apprehensive",
"resentful",
"downtrodden"
],
[
"with admiration",
"with curiosity",
"with fear",
"with disdain"
],
[
"Curiosity can cross dangerous boundaries, and lack of curiosity can blind one's self to those boundaries",
"Whatever we are addicted to will end up consuming us, if we allow it",
"Working together as a team is more advantageous than taking an individualistic approach",
"People, in general, are only interested in content if they find relevance or opportunity for personal gain"
],
[
"They fear it due to its ability to disintegrate their bodies",
"They utilize it to grow an army within their population",
"They desire it to fuel their underground Martian ecosystem",
"They are both curious and reluctant to understand its potential"
],
[
"Kroger, the biochemist",
"Jones, the co-pilot",
"The narrator",
"Desmond, the pilot"
],
[
"Humans in the modern age have been desensitized to crises",
"Creating a solution sometimes requires people to return to the source from which the problem originated",
"Quality is just as, if not more important, than quantity when it comes to armed forces",
"The preference for intrigue over information has the potential to destroy a society"
],
[
"The narrator is going to fabricate more events to make his story sound appealing to the general public",
"They have the least amount of technical experience compared to the other members of the Martian crew",
"They were permitted to attend due to their 'experience,' but their experience created a major crisis on Earth",
"The narrator's deadpan tone is not likely to convey the true excitement of the Venusian journey"
]
] | [
2,
1,
1,
1,
3,
1,
3
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
0
] | THE DOPE
on Mars
By JACK SHARKEY
Somebody had to get the human
angle on this trip ... but what
was humane about sending me?
Illustrated by WOOD
My
agent was the one who
got me the job of going
along to write up the first
trip to Mars. He was always getting
me things like that—appearances
on TV shows, or mentions in writers'
magazines. If he didn't sell
much of my stuff, at least he sold
me
.
"It'll be the biggest break a
writer ever got," he told me, two
days before blastoff. "Oh, sure
there'll be scientific reports on the
trip, but the public doesn't want
them; they want the
human
slant
on things."
"But, Louie," I said weakly, "I'll
probably be locked up for the
whole trip. If there are fights or accidents,
they won't tell
me
about
them."
"Nonsense," said Louie, sipping
carefully at a paper cup of scalding
coffee. "It'll be just like the
public going along vicariously.
They'll
identify
with you."
"But, Louie," I said, wiping the
dampness from my palms on the
knees of my trousers as I sat there,
"how'll I go about it? A story? An
article? A
you-are-there
type of report?
What?"
Louie shrugged. "So keep a
diary. It'll be more intimate, like."
"But what if nothing happens?"
I insisted hopelessly.
Louie smiled. "So you fake it."
I got up from the chair in his office
and stepped to the door.
"That's dishonest," I pointed out.
"Creative is the word," Louie
said.
So I went on the first trip to
Mars. And I kept a diary. This is
it. And it is honest. Honest it is.
October 1, 1960
They picked
the launching
date from the March, 1959, New
York
Times
, which stated that this
was the most likely time for launching.
Trip time is supposed to take
260 days (that's one way), so
we're aimed toward where Mars
will be (had
better
be, or else).
There are five of us on board. A
pilot, co-pilot, navigator and biochemist.
And, of course, me. I've
met all but the pilot (he's very
busy today), and they seem friendly
enough.
Dwight Kroger, the biochemist,
is rather old to take the "rigors of
the journey," as he puts it, but the
government had a choice between
sending a green scientist who could
stand the trip or an accomplished
man who would probably not survive,
so they picked Kroger. We've
blasted off, though, and he's still
with us. He looks a damn sight better
than I feel. He's kind of balding,
and very iron-gray-haired and
skinny, but his skin is tan as an Indian's,
and right now he's telling
jokes in the washroom with the co-pilot.
Jones (that's the co-pilot; I
didn't quite catch his first name) is
scarlet-faced, barrel-chested and
gives the general appearance of belonging
under the spreading chestnut
tree, not in a metal bullet flinging
itself out into airless space.
Come to think of it, who
does
belong
where we are?
The navigator's name is Lloyd
Streeter, but I haven't seen his face
yet. He has a little cubicle behind
the pilot's compartment, with all
kinds of maps and rulers and things.
He keeps bent low over a welded-to-the-wall
(they call it the bulkhead,
for some reason or other)
table, scratching away with a ballpoint
pen on the maps, and now
and then calling numbers over a
microphone to the pilot. His hair
is red and curly, and he looks as
though he'd be tall if he ever gets
to stand up. There are freckles on
the backs of his hands, so I think
he's probably got them on his face,
too. So far, all he's said is, "Scram,
I'm busy."
Kroger tells me that the pilot's
name is Patrick Desmond, but that
I can call him Pat when I get to
know him better. So far, he's still
Captain Desmond to me. I haven't
the vaguest idea what he looks like.
He was already on board when I
got here, with my typewriter and
ream of paper, so we didn't meet.
My compartment is small but
clean. I mean clean now. It wasn't
during blastoff. The inertial gravities
didn't bother me so much as
the gyroscopic spin they put on the
ship so we have a sort of artificial
gravity to hold us against the
curved floor. It's that constant
whirly feeling that gets me. I get
sick on merry-go-rounds, too.
They're having pork for dinner
today. Not me.
October 2, 1960
Feeling much
better today.
Kroger gave me a box of Dramamine
pills. He says they'll help my
stomach. So far, so good.
Lloyd came by, also. "You play
chess?" he asked.
"A little," I admitted.
"How about a game sometime?"
"Sure," I said. "Do you have a
board?"
He didn't.
Lloyd went away then, but the
interview wasn't wasted. I learned
that he
is
tall and
does
have a
freckled face. Maybe we can build
a chessboard. With my paper and
his ballpoint pen and ruler, it should
be easy. Don't know what we'll use
for pieces, though.
Jones (I still haven't learned his
first name) has been up with the
pilot all day. He passed my room
on the way to the galley (the
kitchen) for a cup of dark brown
coffee (they like it thick) and told
me that we were almost past the
Moon. I asked to look, but he said
not yet; the instrument panel is
Top Secret. They'd have to cover
it so I could look out the viewing
screen, and they still need it for
steering or something.
I still haven't met the pilot.
October 3, 1960
Well, I've
met the pilot. He is
kind of squat, with a vulturish neck
and close-set jet-black eyes that
make him look rather mean, but he
was pleasant enough, and said I
could call him Pat. I still don't
know Jones' first name, though Pat
spoke to him, and it sounded like
Flants. That can't be right.
Also, I am one of the first five
men in the history of the world to
see the opposite side of the Moon,
with a bluish blurred crescent beyond
it that Pat said was the Earth.
The back of the Moon isn't much
different from the front. As to the
space in front of the ship, well, it's
all black with white dots in it, and
none of the dots move, except in a
circle that Pat says is a "torque"
result from the gyroscopic spin
we're in. Actually, he explained to
me, the screen is supposed to keep
the image of space locked into
place no matter how much we spin.
But there's some kind of a "drag."
I told him I hoped it didn't mean
we'd land on Mars upside down. He
just stared at me.
I can't say I was too impressed
with that 16 x 19 view of outer
space. It's been done much better
in the movies. There's just no awesomeness
to it, no sense of depth or
immensity. It's as impressive as a
piece of velvet with salt sprinkled
on it.
Lloyd and I made a chessboard
out of a carton. Right now we're using
buttons for men. He's one of
these fast players who don't stop
and think out their moves. And so
far I haven't won a game.
It looks like a long trip.
October 4, 1960
I won
a game. Lloyd mistook my
queen-button for my bishop-button
and left his king in jeopardy, and
I checkmated him next move. He
said chess was a waste of time
and he had important work to do
and he went away.
I went to the galley for coffee
and had a talk about moss with
Kroger. He said there was a good
chance of lichen on Mars, and I
misunderstood and said, "A good
chance of liking
what
on Mars?"
and Kroger finished his coffee and
went up front.
When I got back to my compartment,
Lloyd had taken away the
chessboard and all his buttons. He
told me later he needed it to back
up a star map.
Pat slept mostly all day in his
compartment, and Jones sat and
watched the screen revolve. There
wasn't much to do, so I wrote a
poem, sort of.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With Martian rime, Venusian slime,
And a radioactive hoe.
I showed it to Kroger. He says
it may prove to be environmentally
accurate, but that I should stick to
prose.
October 5, 1960
Learned Jones'
first name.
He wrote something in the ship's
log, and I saw his signature. His
name is Fleance, like in "Macbeth."
He prefers to be called Jones. Pat
uses his first name as a gag. Some
fun.
And only 255 days to go.
April 1, 1961
I've skipped
over the last 177
days or so, because there's nothing
much new. I brought some books
with me on the trip, books that I'd
always meant to read and never
had the time. So now I know all
about
Vanity Fair
,
Pride and Prejudice
,
War and Peace
,
Gone with
the Wind
, and
Babbitt
.
They didn't take as long as I
thought they would, except for
Vanity Fair
. It must have been a
riot when it first came out. I mean,
all those sly digs at the aristocracy,
with copious interpolations by Mr.
Thackeray in case you didn't get
it when he'd pulled a particularly
good gag. Some fun.
And only 78 days to go.
June 1, 1961
Only 17 days
to go. I saw Mars
on the screen today. It seems to be
descending from overhead, but Pat
says that that's the "torque" doing
it. Actually, it's we who are coming
in sideways.
We've all grown beards, too. Pat
said it was against regulations, but
what the hell. We have a contest.
Longest whiskers on landing gets a
prize.
I asked Pat what the prize was
and he told me to go to hell.
June 18, 1961
Mars has
the whole screen
filled. Looks like Death Valley. No
sign of canals, but Pat says that's
because of the dust storm down below.
It's nice to have a "down below"
again. We're going to land, so
I have to go to my bunk. It's all
foam rubber, nylon braid supports
and magnesium tubing. Might as
well be cement for all the good it
did me at takeoff. Earth seems awfully
far away.
June 19, 1961
Well, we're down.
We have
to wear gas masks with oxygen
hook-ups. Kroger says the air is
breathable, but thin, and it has too
much dust in it to be any fun to
inhale. He's all for going out and
looking for lichen, but Pat says he's
got to set up camp, then get instructions
from Earth. So we just have
to wait. The air is very cold, but the
Sun is hot as hell when it hits you.
The sky is a blinding pink, or maybe
more of a pale fuchsia. Kroger
says it's the dust. The sand underfoot
is kind of rose-colored, and not
really gritty. The particles are
round and smooth.
No lichen so far. Kroger says
maybe in the canals, if there are
any canals. Lloyd wants to play
chess again.
Jones won the beard contest. Pat
gave him a cigar he'd smuggled on
board (no smoking was allowed on
the ship), and Jones threw it away.
He doesn't smoke.
June 20, 1961
Got lost today.
Pat told me
not to go too far from camp, so,
when I took a stroll, I made sure
every so often that I could still see
the rocket behind me. Walked for
maybe an hour; then the oxygen
gauge got past the halfway mark,
so I started back toward the rocket.
After maybe ten steps, the rocket
disappeared. One minute it was
standing there, tall and silvery, the
next instant it was gone.
Turned on my radio pack and
got hold of Pat. Told him what happened,
and he told Kroger. Kroger
said I had been following a mirage,
to step back a bit. I did, and I could
see the ship again. Kroger said to
try and walk toward where the ship
seemed to be, even when it wasn't
in view, and meantime they'd come
out after me in the jeep, following
my footprints.
Started walking back, and the
ship vanished again. It reappeared,
disappeared, but I kept going. Finally
saw the real ship, and Lloyd
and Jones waving their arms at me.
They were shouting through their
masks, but I couldn't hear them.
The air is too thin to carry sound
well.
All at once, something gleamed
in their hands, and they started
shooting at me with their rifles.
That's when I heard the noise behind
me. I was too scared to turn
around, but finally Jones and Lloyd
came running over, and I got up
enough nerve to look. There was
nothing there, but on the sand,
paralleling mine, were footprints.
At least I think they were footprints.
Twice as long as mine, and
three times as wide, but kind of
featureless because the sand's loose
and dry. They doubled back on
themselves, spaced considerably
farther apart.
"What was it?" I asked Lloyd
when he got to me.
"Damned if I know," he said. "It
was red and scaly, and I think it
had a tail. It was two heads taller
than you." He shuddered. "Ran off
when we fired."
"Where," said Jones, "are Pat and
Kroger?"
I didn't know. I hadn't seen
them, nor the jeep, on my trip back.
So we followed the wheel tracks for
a while, and they veered off from
my trail and followed another, very
much like the one that had been
paralleling mine when Jones and
Lloyd had taken a shot at the scaly
thing.
"We'd better get them on the
radio," said Jones, turning back
toward the ship.
There wasn't anything on the
radio but static.
Pat and Kroger haven't come
back yet, either.
June 21, 1961
We're not
alone here. More of
the scaly things have come toward
the camp, but a few rifle shots send
them away. They hop like kangaroos
when they're startled. Their
attitudes aren't menacing, but their
appearance is. And Jones says,
"Who knows what's 'menacing' in
an alien?"
We're going to look for Kroger
and Pat today. Jones says we'd better
before another windstorm blows
away the jeep tracks. Fortunately,
the jeep has a leaky oil pan, so we
always have the smears to follow,
unless they get covered up, too.
We're taking extra oxygen, shells,
and rifles. Food, too, of course.
And we're locking up the ship.
It's later
, now. We found the
jeep, but no Kroger or Pat. Lots of
those big tracks nearby. We're taking
the jeep to follow the aliens'
tracks. There's some moss around
here, on reddish brown rocks that
stick up through the sand, just on
the shady side, though. Kroger
must be happy to have found his
lichen.
The trail ended at the brink of
a deep crevice in the ground. Seems
to be an earthquake-type split in
solid rock, with the sand sifting
over this and the far edge like pink
silk cataracts. The bottom is in the
shade and can't be seen. The crack
seems to extend to our left and
right as far as we can look.
There looks like a trail down the
inside of the crevice, but the Sun's
setting, so we're waiting till tomorrow
to go down.
Going down was Jones' idea,
not mine.
June 22, 1961
Well, we're
at the bottom, and
there's water here, a shallow stream
about thirty feet wide that runs
along the center of the canal (we've
decided we're in a canal). No sign
of Pat or Kroger yet, but the sand
here is hard-packed and damp, and
there are normal-size footprints
mingled with the alien ones, sharp
and clear. The aliens seem to have
six or seven toes. It varies from
print to print. And they're barefoot,
too, or else they have the damnedest-looking
shoes in creation.
The constant shower of sand
near the cliff walls is annoying, but
it's sandless (shower-wise) near
the stream, so we're following the
footprints along the bank. Also, the
air's better down here. Still thin,
but not so bad as on the surface.
We're going without masks to save
oxygen for the return trip (Jones
assures me there'll
be
a return
trip), and the air's only a little bit
sandy, but handkerchiefs over nose
and mouth solve this.
We look like desperadoes, what
with the rifles and covered faces. I
said as much to Lloyd and he told
me to shut up. Moss all over the
cliff walls. Swell luck for Kroger.
We've found
Kroger and Pat,
with the help of the aliens. Or maybe
I should call them the Martians.
Either way, it's better than what
Jones calls them.
They took away our rifles and
brought us right to Kroger and Pat,
without our even asking. Jones is
mad at the way they got the rifles so
easily. When we came upon them
(a group of maybe ten, huddling
behind a boulder in ambush), he
fired, but the shots either bounced
off their scales or stuck in their
thick hides. Anyway, they took the
rifles away and threw them into the
stream, and picked us all up and
took us into a hole in the cliff wall.
The hole went on practically forever,
but it didn't get dark. Kroger
tells me that there are phosphorescent
bacteria living in the mold on
the walls. The air has a fresh-dug-grave
smell, but it's richer in oxygen
than even at the stream.
We're in a small cave that is just
off a bigger cave where lots of tunnels
come together. I can't remember
which one we came in through,
and neither can anyone else. Jones
asked me what the hell I kept writing
in the diary for, did I want to
make it a gift to Martian archeologists?
But I said where there's life
there's hope, and now he won't talk
to me. I congratulated Kroger on
the lichen I'd seen, but he just said
a short and unscientific word and
went to sleep.
There's a Martian guarding the
entrance to our cave. I don't know
what they intend to do with us.
Feed us, I hope. So far, they've just
left us here, and we're out of rations.
Kroger tried talking to the guard
once, but he (or it) made a whistling
kind of sound and flashed a
mouthful of teeth. Kroger says the
teeth are in multiple rows, like a
tiger shark's. I'd rather he hadn't
told me.
June 23, 1961, I think
We're either
in a docket or a
zoo. I can't tell which. There's a
rather square platform surrounded
on all four sides by running water,
maybe twenty feet across, and
we're on it. Martians keep coming
to the far edge of the water and
looking at us and whistling at each
other. A little Martian came near
the edge of the water and a larger
Martian whistled like crazy and
dragged it away.
"Water must be dangerous to
them," said Kroger.
"We shoulda brought water pistols,"
Jones muttered.
Pat said maybe we can swim to
safety. Kroger told Pat he was
crazy, that the little island we're on
here underground is bordered by a
fast river that goes into the planet.
We'd end up drowned in some grotto
in the heart of the planet, says
Kroger.
"What the hell," says Pat, "it's
better than starving."
It is not.
June 24, 1961, probably
I'm hungry
. So is everybody
else. Right now I could eat a dinner
raw, in a centrifuge, and keep it
down. A Martian threw a stone at
Jones today, and Jones threw one
back at him and broke off a couple
of scales. The Martian whistled
furiously and went away. When the
crowd thinned out, same as it did
yesterday (must be some sort of
sleeping cycle here), Kroger talked
Lloyd into swimming across the
river and getting the red scales.
Lloyd started at the upstream part
of the current, and was about a hundred
yards below this underground
island before he made the far side.
Sure is a swift current.
But he got the scales, walked
very far upstream of us, and swam
back with them. The stream sides
are steep, like in a fjord, and we
had to lift him out of the swirling
cold water, with the scales gripped
in his fist. Or what was left of the
scales. They had melted down in
the water and left his hand all
sticky.
Kroger took the gummy things,
studied them in the uncertain light,
then tasted them and grinned.
The Martians are made of sugar.
Later, same day
. Kroger
said that the Martian metabolism
must be like Terran (Earth-type)
metabolism, only with no pancreas
to make insulin. They store their
energy on the
outside
of their
bodies, in the form of scales. He's
watched them more closely and
seen that they have long rubbery
tubes for tongues, and that they
now and then suck up water from
the stream while they're watching
us, being careful not to get their lips
(all sugar, of course) wet. He
guesses that their "blood" must be
almost pure water, and that it
washes away (from the inside, of
course) the sugar they need for
energy.
I asked him where the sugar
came from, and he said probably
their bodies isolated carbon from
something (he thought it might be
the moss) and combined it with
the hydrogen and oxygen in the
water (even
I
knew the formula for
water) to make sugar, a common
carbohydrate.
Like plants, on Earth, he said.
Except, instead of using special
cells on leaves to form carbohydrates
with the help of sunpower,
as Earth plants do in photosynthesis
(Kroger spelled that word
for me), they used the
shape
of the
scales like prisms, to isolate the
spectra (another Kroger word)
necessary to form the sugar.
"I don't get it," I said politely,
when he'd finished his spiel.
"Simple," he said, as though he
were addressing me by name.
"They have a twofold reason to fear
water. One: by complete solvency
in that medium, they lose all energy
and die. Two: even partial sprinkling
alters the shape of the scales,
and they are unable to use sunpower
to form more sugar, and still die,
if a bit slower."
"Oh," I said, taking it down verbatim.
"So now what do we do?"
"We remove our boots," said
Kroger, sitting on the ground and
doing so, "and then we cross this
stream, fill the boots with water,
and
spray
our way to freedom."
"Which tunnel do we take?"
asked Pat, his eyes aglow at the
thought of escape.
Kroger shrugged. "We'll have to
chance taking any that seem to
slope upward. In any event, we can
always follow it back and start
again."
"I dunno," said Jones. "Remember
those
teeth
of theirs. They must
be for biting something more substantial
than moss, Kroger."
"We'll risk it," said Pat. "It's better
to go down fighting than to die
of starvation."
The hell it is.
June 24, 1961, for sure
The Martians
have coal
mines.
That's
what they use those
teeth for. We passed through one
and surprised a lot of them chewing
gritty hunks of anthracite out
of the walls. They came running at
us, whistling with those tubelike
tongues, and drooling dry coal dust,
but Pat swung one of his boots in
an arc that splashed all over the
ground in front of them, and they
turned tail (literally) and clattered
off down another tunnel,
sounding like a locomotive whistle
gone berserk.
We made the surface in another
hour, back in the canal, and were
lucky enough to find our own trail
to follow toward the place above
which the jeep still waited.
Jones got the rifles out of the
stream (the Martians had probably
thought they were beyond recovery
there) and we found the jeep. It
was nearly buried in sand, but we
got it cleaned off and running, and
got back to the ship quickly. First
thing we did on arriving was to
break out the stores and have a
celebration feast just outside the
door of the ship.
It was pork again, and I got sick.
June 25, 1961
We're going back
. Pat says
that a week is all we were allowed
to stay and that it's urgent to return
and tell what we've learned
about Mars (we know there are
Martians, and they're made of
sugar).
"Why," I said, "can't we just tell
it on the radio?"
"Because," said Pat, "if we tell
them now, by the time we get back
we'll be yesterday's news. This way
we may be lucky and get a parade."
"Maybe even money," said
Kroger, whose mind wasn't always
on science.
"But they'll ask why we didn't
radio the info, sir," said Jones uneasily.
"The radio," said Pat, nodding to
Lloyd, "was unfortunately broken
shortly after landing."
Lloyd blinked, then nodded
back and walked around the
rocket. I heard a crunching sound
and the shattering of glass, not unlike
the noise made when one
drives a rifle butt through a radio.
Well, it's time for takeoff.
This time
it wasn't so bad. I
thought I was getting my space-legs,
but Pat says there's less gravity on
Mars, so escape velocity didn't
have to be so fast, hence a smoother
(relatively) trip on our shock-absorbing
bunks.
Lloyd wants to play chess again.
I'll be careful not to win this time.
However, if I don't win, maybe this
time
I'll
be the one to quit.
Kroger is busy in his cramped
lab space trying to classify the little
moss he was able to gather, and
Jones and Pat are up front watching
the white specks revolve on that
black velvet again.
Guess I'll take a nap.
June 26, 1961
Hell's bells
. Kroger says
there are two baby Martians loose
on board ship. Pat told him he
was nuts, but there are certain
signs he's right. Like the missing
charcoal in the air-filtration-and-reclaiming
(AFAR) system. And
the water gauges are going down.
But the clincher is those two sugar
crystals Lloyd had grabbed up
when we were in that zoo. They're
gone.
Pat has declared a state of emergency.
Quick thinking, that's Pat.
Lloyd, before he remembered and
turned scarlet, suggested we radio
Earth for instructions. We can't.
Here we are, somewhere in a
void headed for Earth, with enough
air and water left for maybe three
days—if the Martians don't take
any more.
Kroger is thrilled that he is
learning something, maybe, about
Martian reproductive processes.
When he told Pat, Pat put it to a
vote whether or not to jettison
Kroger through the airlock. However,
it was decided that responsibility
was pretty well divided.
Lloyd had gotten the crystals,
Kroger had only studied them, and
Jones had brought them aboard.
So Kroger stays, but meanwhile
the air is getting worse. Pat suggested
Kroger put us all into a state
of suspended animation till landing
time, eight months away. Kroger
said, "How?"
June 27, 1961
Air is foul
and I'm very
thirsty. Kroger says that at least—when
the Martians get bigger—they'll
have to show themselves.
Pat says what do we do
then
? We
can't afford the water we need to
melt them down. Besides, the
melted crystals might
all
turn into
little Martians.
Jones says he'll go down spitting.
Pat says why not dismantle interior
of rocket to find out where
they're holing up? Fine idea.
How do you dismantle riveted
metal plates?
June 28, 1961
The AFAR system
is no more
and the water gauges are still dropping.
Kroger suggests baking bread,
then slicing it, then toasting it till
it turns to carbon, and we can use
the carbon in the AFAR system.
We'll have to try it, I guess.
The Martians
ate the bread.
Jones came forward to tell us the
loaves were cooling, and when he
got back they were gone. However,
he did find a few of the red crystals
on the galley deck (floor). They're
good-sized crystals, too. Which
means so are the Martians.
Kroger says the Martians must
be intelligent, otherwise they
couldn't have guessed at the carbohydrates
present in the bread after
a lifelong diet of anthracite. Pat
says let's jettison Kroger.
This time the vote went against
Kroger, but he got a last-minute reprieve
by suggesting the crystals
be pulverized and mixed with sulphuric
acid. He says this'll produce
carbon.
I certainly hope so.
So does Kroger.
Brief reprieve
for us. The
acid-sugar combination not only
produces carbon but water vapor,
and the gauge has gone up a notch.
That means that we have a quart
of water in the tanks for drinking.
However, the air's a bit better,
and we voted to let Kroger stay inside
the rocket.
Meantime, we have to catch
those Martians.
June 29, 1961
Worse and worse
. Lloyd
caught one of the Martians in the
firing chamber. We had to flood
the chamber with acid to subdue
the creature, which carbonized
nicely. So now we have plenty of
air and water again, but besides
having another Martian still on
the loose, we now don't have
enough acid left in the fuel tanks
to make a landing.
Pat says at least our vector will
carry us to Earth and we can die
on our home planet, which is better
than perishing in space.
The hell it is.
March 3, 1962
Earth in sight
. The other
Martian is still with us. He's where
we can't get at him without blow-torches,
but he can't get at the carbon
in the AFAR system, either,
which is a help. However, his tail
is prehensile, and now and then it
snakes out through an air duct and
yanks food right off the table from
under our noses.
Kroger says watch out.
We
are
made of carbohydrates, too. I'd
rather not have known.
March 4, 1962
Earth fills
the screen in the
control room. Pat says if we're
lucky, he might be able to use the
bit of fuel we have left to set us
in a descending spiral into one of
the oceans. The rocket is tighter
than a submarine, he insists, and
it will float till we're rescued, if
the plates don't crack under the impact.
We all agreed to try it. Not that
we thought it had a good chance of
working, but none of us had a better
idea.
I guess
you know the rest of
the story, about how that destroyer
spotted us and got us and
my diary aboard, and towed the
rocket to San Francisco. News of
the "captured Martian" leaked out,
and we all became nine-day wonders
until the dismantling of the
rocket.
Kroger says he must have dissolved
in the water, and wonders
what
that
would do. There are
about a thousand of those crystal-scales
on a Martian.
So last week we found out, when
those red-scaled things began clambering
out of the sea on every coastal
region on Earth. Kroger tried
to explain to me about salinity osmosis
and hydrostatic pressure and
crystalline life, but in no time at all
he lost me.
The point is, bullets won't stop
these things, and wherever a crystal
falls, a new Martian springs up
in a few weeks. It looks like the
five of us have abetted an invasion
from Mars.
Needless to say, we're no longer
heroes.
I haven't heard from Pat or
Lloyd for a week. Jones was picked
up attacking a candy factory yesterday,
and Kroger and I were allowed
to sign on for the flight to
Venus scheduled within the next
few days—because of our experience.
Kroger says there's only enough
fuel for a one-way trip. I don't care.
I've always wanted to travel with
the President.
—JACK SHARKEY
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine
June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.
|
train | 26569 | [
"What is the symbolism of the title?",
"What motivates Zarwell to take on the 'missions' he leads?",
"What is the purpose of a comanalysis?",
"Why did Zarwell deliberately inject himself? ",
"What do the settings of Zarwell's comanalyses have in common?",
"For what reason is Zarwell seeking treatment with Bergstrom? ",
"Which term best describes the sequencing of Zarwell's dreams under comanalysis? ",
"What is the purpose of the reclam crews?"
] | [
[
"The monkey represents the series of false memories implanted in Zarwell's mind",
"The monkey represents Zarwell's affliction with ennui after becoming a civilian and living a more mundane existence",
"The monkey represents Dr. Bergstrom's manipulative influence on Zarwell's psyche",
"The monkey represents Zarwell's pattern of joining resistance movements, only to watch them turn corrupt"
],
[
"He desires to eradicate the galaxy of authoritarian regimes",
"He is not consciously aware of why he agrees to participate in the missions",
"He enjoys the adrenaline rush of the precarious situations his missions place him in",
"He wishes to prevent Earth from being destroyed by man-made climate change"
],
[
"It paralyzes patients in order to restore their nervous systems to equilibrium",
"It gives more direct access to the plagues of the human mind",
"It allows a manipulator to implant false memories",
"It permits a psychoanalyst to remove traumatic memories"
],
[
"To forget memories that influence him to join more missions",
"To prevent a psychoanalyst from probing his memories",
"To disguise himself among civilians in a new society",
"To protect himself from corrupt government officials"
],
[
"deception",
"captivity",
"pursuits",
"weapons"
],
[
"He is experiencing symptoms of memory loss",
"He struggles with night terrors on a regular basis",
"He feels paranoid that someone is controlling his thoughts",
"He wishes to rid himself of the ennui that stems from his depression"
],
[
"arbitrary",
"prophetic",
"misleading",
"regressive"
],
[
"To imprison anyone who breaks the Meninger oath of inviolate confidence",
"To establish habitable human settlements after the destruction of Earth",
"To search for minerals that could be used to produce serum for comanalyses",
"To reclaim fugitives from resistance movements and force them into captivity"
]
] | [
4,
2,
2,
1,
3,
1,
1,
2
] | [
1,
0,
1,
1,
1,
0,
1,
0
] | Transcriber’s note:
This story was published in
Galaxy
magazine, June 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
[p
135
]
By CHARLES V. DE VET
monkey on his back
Under the cloud of cast-off identities
lay the shape of another man—
was it himself?
Illustrated by DILLON
HE was walking endlessly
down a long, glass-walled
corridor. Bright sunlight
slanted in through one wall, on the
blue knapsack across his shoulders.
Who he was, and what he was doing
here, was clouded. The truth lurked
in some corner of his consciousness,
but it was not reached by surface
awareness.
The corridor opened at last into
a large high-domed room, much
like a railway station or an air terminal.
He walked straight ahead.
At the sight of him a man leaning
negligently against a stone pillar,
to his right but within vision,
straightened and barked an order
to him, “Halt!” He lengthened his
stride but gave no other sign.
[p
136
]
Two men hurried through a
doorway of a small anteroom to his
left, calling to him. He turned away
and began to run.
Shouts and the sound of charging
feet came from behind him. He
cut to the right, running toward the
escalator to the second floor. Another
pair of men were hurrying
down, two steps at a stride. With
no break in pace he veered into an
opening beside the escalator.
At the first turn he saw that the
aisle merely circled the stairway,
coming out into the depot again on
the other side. It was a trap. He
glanced quickly around him.
At the rear of the space was a
row of lockers for traveler use. He
slipped a coin into a pay slot,
opened the zipper on his bag and
pulled out a flat briefcase. It took
him only a few seconds to push the
case into the compartment, lock it
and slide the key along the floor
beneath the locker.
There was nothing to do after
that—except wait.
The men pursuing him came
hurtling around the turn in the
aisle. He kicked his knapsack to
one side, spreading his feet wide
with an instinctive motion.
Until that instant he had intended
to fight. Now he swiftly
reassessed the odds. There were
five of them, he saw. He should be
able to incapacitate two or three
and break out. But the fact that
they had been expecting him meant
that others would very probably
be waiting outside. His best course
now was to sham ignorance. He
relaxed.
He offered no resistance as they
reached him.
They were not gentle men. A tall
ruffian, copper-brown face damp
with perspiration and body oil,
grabbed him by the jacket and
slammed him back against the
lockers. As he shifted his weight
to keep his footing someone drove
a fist into his face. He started to
raise his hands; and a hard flat
object crashed against the side of
his skull.
The starch went out of his legs.
“D
O you make anything out of
it?” the psychoanalyst Milton
Bergstrom, asked.
John Zarwell shook his head.
“Did I talk while I was under?”
“Oh, yes. You were supposed to.
That way I follow pretty well what
you’re reenacting.”
“How does it tie in with what I
told you before?”
Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinned
face betrayed no emotion
other than an introspective stillness
of his normally alert gaze. “I see
no connection,” he decided, his
words once again precise and meticulous.
“We don’t have enough to
go on. Do you feel able to try another
comanalysis this afternoon
yet?”
“I don’t see why not.” Zarwell
[p
137
]
opened the collar of his shirt. The
day was hot, and the room had no
air conditioning, still a rare luxury
on St. Martin’s. The office window
was open, but it let in no freshness,
only the mildly rank odor that pervaded
all the planet’s habitable
area.
“Good.” Bergstrom rose. “The
serum is quite harmless, John.” He
maintained a professional diversionary
chatter as he administered
the drug. “A scopolamine derivative
that’s been well tested.”
The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet
assumed abruptly the near transfluent
consistency of a damp
sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave
and rolled gently toward the far
wall.
Bergstrom continued talking,
with practiced urbanity. “When
psychiatry was a less exact science,”
his voice went on, seeming to come
from a great distance, “a doctor
had to spend weeks, sometimes
months or years interviewing a
patient. If he was skilled enough,
he could sort the relevancies from
the vast amount of chaff. We are
able now, with the help of the
serum, to confine our discourses to
matters cogent to the patient’s
trouble.”
The floor continued its transmutation,
and Zarwell sank deep into
viscous depths. “Lie back and relax.
Don’t …”
The words tumbled down from
above. They faded, were gone.
ZARWELL found himself
standing on a vast plain. There was
no sky above, and no horizon in the
distance. He was in a place without
space or dimension. There was
nothing here except himself—and
the gun that he held in his hand.
A weapon beautiful in its efficient
simplicity.
He should know all about the
instrument, its purpose and workings,
but he could not bring his
thoughts into rational focus. His
forehead creased with his mental
effort.
Abruptly the unreality about
him shifted perspective. He was
approaching—not walking, but
merely shortening the space between
them—the man who held
the gun. The man who was himself.
The other “himself” drifted
nearer also, as though drawn by a
mutual attraction.
The man with the gun raised his
weapon and pressed the trigger.
With the action the perspective
shifted again. He was watching the
face of the man he shot jerk and
twitch, expand and contract. The
face was unharmed, yet it was no
longer the same. No longer his own
features.
The stranger face smiled approvingly
at him.
“O
DD,” Bergstrom said.
He brought his hands up and joined
the tips of his fingers against his
chest. “But it’s another piece in the
[p
138
]
jig-saw. In time it will fit into
place.” He paused. “It means no
more to you than the first, I suppose?”
“No,” Zarwell answered.
He was not a talking man, Bergstrom
reflected. It was more than
reticence, however. The man had
a hard granite core, only partially
concealed by his present perplexity.
He was a man who could handle
himself well in an emergency.
Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing
his strayed thoughts. “I expected
as much. A quite normal first phase
of treatment.” He straightened a
paper on his desk. “I think that will
be enough for today. Twice in one
sitting is about all we ever try.
Otherwise some particular episode
might cause undue mental stress,
and set up a block.” He glanced
down at his appointment pad. “Tomorrow
at two, then?”
Zarwell grunted acknowledgment
and pushed himself to his
feet, apparently unaware that his
shirt clung damply to his body.
THE sun was still high when
Zarwell left the analyst’s office.
The white marble of the city’s
buildings shimmered in the afternoon
heat, squat and austere as
giant tree trunks, pock-marked and
gray-mottled with windows. Zarwell
was careful not to rest his hand
on the flesh searing surface of the
stone.
The evening meal hour was approaching
when he reached the
Flats, on the way to his apartment.
The streets of the old section were
near-deserted. The only sounds he
heard as he passed were the occasional
cry of a baby, chronically
uncomfortable in the day’s heat,
and the lowing of imported cattle
waiting in a nearby shed to be
shipped to the country.
All St. Martin’s has a distinctive
smell, as of an arid dried-out
swamp, with a faint taint of fish.
But in the Flats the odor changes.
Here is the smell of factories, warehouses,
and trading marts; the smell
of stale cooking drifting from the
homes of the laborers and lower
class techmen who live there.
Zarwell passed a group of
smaller children playing a desultory
game of lic-lic for pieces of
candy and cigarettes. Slowly he
climbed the stairs of a stone flat.
He prepared a supper for himself
and ate it without either enjoyment
or distaste. He lay down, fully
clothed, on his bed. The visit to the
analyst had done nothing to dispel
his ennui.
[p
139
]
The next morning when Zarwell
awoke he lay for a moment, unmoving.
The feeling was there
again, like a scene waiting only to
be gazed at directly to be perceived.
It was as though a great wisdom
lay at the edge of understanding.
If he rested quietly it would
all come to him. Yet always, when
his mind lost its sleep-induced
[p
140
]
lethargy, the moment of near understanding
slipped away.
This morning, however, the sense
of disorientation did not pass with
full wakefulness. He achieved no
understanding, but the strangeness
did not leave as he sat up.
He gazed about him. The room
did not seem to be his own. The
furnishings, and the clothing he observed
in a closet, might have belonged
to a stranger.
He pulled himself from his blankets,
his body moving with mechanical
reaction. The slippers into
which he put his feet were larger
than he had expected them to be.
He walked about the small apartment.
The place was familiar, but
only as it would have been if he
had studied it from blueprints, not
as though he lived there.
The feeling was still with him
when he returned to the psychoanalyst.
THE scene this time was more
kaleidoscopic, less personal.
A village was being ravaged.
Men struggled and died in the
streets. Zarwell moved among
them, seldom taking part in the
individual clashes, yet a moving
force in the
conflict
.
The background changed. He
understood that he was on a different
world.
Here a city burned. Its resistance
was nearing its end. Zarwell was
riding a shaggy pony outside a high
wall surrounding the stricken metropolis.
He moved in and joined a
party of short, bearded men, directing
them as they battered at the
wall with a huge log mounted on a
many-wheeled truck.
The log broke a breach in the
concrete and the besiegers charged
through, carrying back the defenders
who sought vainly to plug the
gap. Soon there would be rioting
in the streets again, plundering and
killing.
Zarwell was not the leader of the
invaders, only a lesser figure in the
rebellion. But he had played a leading
part in the planning of the
strategy that led to the city’s fall.
The job had been well done.
Time passed, without visible
break in the panorama. Now Zarwell
was fleeing, pursued by the
same bearded men who had been
his comrades before. Still he moved
with the same firm purpose, vigilant,
resourceful, and well prepared
for the eventuality that had befallen.
He made his escape without
difficulty.
He alighted from a space ship on
still another world—another shift
in time—and the atmosphere of
conflict engulfed him.
Weary but resigned he accepted
it, and did what he had to do …
BERGSTROM was regarding
him with speculative scrutiny.
“You’ve had quite a past, apparently,”
he observed.
[p
141
]
Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment.
“At least in my dreams.”
“Dreams?” Bergstrom’s eyes
widened in surprise. “Oh, I beg your
pardon. I must have forgotten to
explain. This work is so routine to
me that sometimes I forget it’s all
new to a patient. Actually what you
experienced under the drug were
not dreams. They were recollections
of real episodes from your
past.”
Zarwell’s expression became
wary. He watched Bergstrom
closely. After a minute, however,
he seemed satisfied, and he let himself
settle back against the cushion
of his chair. “I remember nothing
of what I saw,” he observed.
“That’s why you’re here, you
know,” Bergstrom answered. “To
help you remember.”
“But everything under the drug
is so …”
“Haphazard? That’s true. The
recall episodes are always purely
random, with no chronological sequence.
Our problem will be to reassemble
them in proper order
later. Or some particular scene may
trigger a complete memory return.
“It is my considered opinion,”
Bergstrom went on, “that your lost
memory will turn out to be no ordinary
amnesia. I believe we will find
that your mind has been tampered
with.”
“Nothing I’ve seen under the
drug fits into the past I do remember.”
“That’s what makes me so certain,”
Bergstrom said confidently.
“You don’t remember what we
have shown to be true. Conversely
then, what you think you remember
must be false. It must have been
implanted there. But we can go
into that later. For today I think
we have done enough. This episode
was quite prolonged.”
“I won’t have any time off again
until next week end,” Zarwell reminded
him.
“That’s right.” Bergstrom
thought for a moment. “We
shouldn’t let this hang too long.
Could you come here after work
tomorrow?”
“I suppose I could.”
“Fine,” Bergstrom said with satisfaction.
“I’ll admit I’m considerably
more than casually interested
in your case by this time.”
A WORK truck picked Zarwell
up the next morning and he
rode with a tech crew to the edge of
the reclam area. Beside the belt
bringing ocean muck from the converter
plant at the seashore his
bulldozer was waiting.
He took his place behind the
drive wheel and began working dirt
down between windbreakers anchored
in the rock. Along a makeshift
road into the badlands trucks
brought crushed lime and phosphorus
to supplement the ocean
sediment. The progress of life from
the sea to the land was a mechanical
[p
142
]
process of this growing world.
Nearly two hundred years ago,
when Earth established a colony on
St. Martin’s, the land surface of the
planet had been barren. Only its
seas thrived with animal and vegetable
life. The necessary machinery
and technicians had been supplied
by Earth, and the long struggle began
to fit the world for human
needs. When Zarwell arrived, six
months before, the vitalized area
already extended three hundred
miles along the coast, and sixty
miles inland. And every day the
progress continued. A large percentage
of the energy and resources
of the world were devoted to that
essential expansion.
The reclam crews filled and
sodded the sterile rock, planted
binding grasses, grain and trees, and
diverted rivers to keep it fertile.
When there were no rivers to divert
they blasted out springs and lakes
in the foothills to make their own.
Biologists developed the necessary
germ and insect life from what they
found in the sea. Where that failed,
they imported microorganisms
from Earth.
Three rubber-tracked crawlers
picked their way down from the
mountains until they joined the
road passing the belt. They were
loaded with ore that would be
smelted into metal for depleted
Earth, or for other colonies short
of minerals. It was St. Martin’s only
export thus far.
Zarwell pulled his sun helmet
lower, to better guard his hot, dry
features. The wind blew continuously
on St. Martin’s, but it furnished
small relief from the heat.
After its three-thousand-mile journey
across scorched sterile rock, it
sucked the moisture from a man’s
body, bringing a membrane-shrinking
dryness to the nostrils as it was
breathed in. With it came also the
cloying taste of limestone in a
worker’s mouth.
Zarwell gazed idly about at the
other laborers. Fully three-quarters
of them were beri-rabza ridden. A
cure for the skin fungus had not
yet been found; the men’s faces
and hands were scabbed and red.
The colony had grown to near self-sufficiency,
would soon have a moderate
prosperity, yet they still
lacked adequate medical and research
facilities.
Not all the world’s citizens were
content.
Bergstrom was waiting in his office
when Zarwell arrived that
evening.
HE was lying motionless on a
hard cot, with his eyes closed,
yet with his every sense sharply
quickened. Tentatively he tightened
small muscles in his arms and
legs. Across his wrists and thighs
he felt straps binding him to the
cot.
“So that’s our big, bad man,” a
coarse voice above him observed
[p
143
]
caustically. “He doesn’t look so
tough now, does he?”
“It might have been better to
kill him right away,” a second, less
confident voice said. “It’s supposed
to be impossible to hold him.”
“Don’t be stupid. We just do
what we’re told. We’ll hold him.”
“What do you think they’ll do
with him?”
“Execute him, I suppose,” the
harsh voice said matter-of-factly.
“They’re probably just curious to
see what he looks like first. They’ll
be disappointed.”
Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to
observe his surroundings.
It was a mistake. “He’s out of
it,” the first speaker said, and Zarwell
allowed his eyes to open fully.
The voice, he saw, belonged to
the big man who had bruised him
against the locker at the spaceport.
Irrelevantly he wondered how he
knew now that it had been a spaceport.
His captor’s broad face jeered
down at Zarwell. “Have a good
sleep?” he asked with mock solicitude.
Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge
that he heard.
The big man turned. “You can
tell the Chief he’s awake,” he said.
Zarwell followed his gaze to where
a younger man, with a blond lock of
hair on his forehead, stood behind
him. The youth nodded and went
out, while the other pulled a chair
up to the side of Zarwell’s cot.
While their attention was away
from him Zarwell had unobtrusively
loosened his bonds as much as
possible with arm leverage. As the
big man drew his chair nearer, he
made the hand farthest from him
tight and compact and worked it
free of the leather loop. He waited.
The big man belched. “You’re
supposed to be great stuff in a situation
like this,” he said, his smoke-tan
face splitting in a grin that revealed
large square teeth. “How
about giving me a sample?”
“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,”
Zarwell told him.
The grin faded from the oily face
as the man stood up. He leaned over
the cot—and Zarwell’s left hand
shot up and locked about his throat,
joined almost immediately by the
right.
The man’s mouth opened and he
tried to yell as he threw himself
frantically backward. He clawed at
the hands about his neck. When
that failed to break the grip he suddenly
reversed his weight and
drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.
Zarwell pulled the struggling
body down against his chest and
held it there until all agitated
movement ceased. He sat up then,
letting the body slide to the floor.
The straps about his thighs came
loose with little effort.
THE analyst dabbed at his upper
lip with a handkerchief. “The
episodes are beginning to tie together,”
he said, with an attempt at
[p
144
]
nonchalance. “The next couple
should do it.”
Zarwell did not answer. His
memory seemed on the point of
complete return, and he sat quietly,
hopefully. However, nothing more
came and he returned his attention
to his more immediate problem.
Opening a button on his shirt, he
pulled back a strip of plastic cloth
just below his rib cage and took
out a small flat pistol. He held it
in the palm of his hand. He knew
now why he always carried it.
Bergstrom had his bad moment.
“You’re not going to …” he began
at the sight of the gun. He tried
again. “You must be joking.”
“I have very little sense of humor,”
Zarwell corrected him.
“You’d be foolish!”
Bergstrom obviously realized
how close he was to death. Yet
surprisingly, after the first start,
he showed little fear. Zarwell had
thought the man a bit soft, too
adjusted to a life of ease and some
prestige to meet danger calmly.
Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.
“Why would I be foolish?” he
asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable
confidence?”
Bergstrom shook his head. “I
know it’s been broken before. But
you need me. You’re not through,
you know. If you killed me you’d
still have to trust some other
analyst.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“No.” Bergstrom was angry now.
“But use that logical mind you’re
supposed to have! Scenes before
this have shown what kind of man
you are. Just because this last happened
here on St. Martin’s makes
little difference. If I was going to
turn you in to the police, I’d have
done it before this.”
Zarwell debated with himself the
truth of what the other had said.
“Why didn’t you turn me in?” he
asked.
“Because you’re no mad-dog
killer!” Now that the crisis seemed
to be past, Bergstrom spoke more
calmly, even allowed himself to
relax. “You’re still pretty much in
the fog about yourself. I read more
in those comanalyses than you did.
I even know who you are!”
Zarwell’s eyebrows raised.
“Who am I?” he asked, very interested
now. Without attention he
put his pistol away in a trouser
pocket.
Bergstrom brushed the question
aside with one hand. “Your name
makes little difference. You’ve used
many. But you are an idealist. Your
killings were necessary to bring
justice to the places you visited. By
now you’re almost a legend among
the human worlds. I’d like to talk
more with you on that later.”
While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom
pressed his advantage. “One
more scene might do it,” he said.
“Should we try again—if you trust
me, that is?”
[p
145
]
Zarwell made his decision quickly.
“Go ahead,” he answered.
ALL Zarwell’s attention seemed
on the cigar he lit as he rode
down the escalator, but he surveyed
the terminal carefully over the rim
of his hand. He spied no suspicious
loungers.
Behind the escalator he groped
along the floor beneath the lockers
until he found his key. The briefcase
was under his arm a minute
later.
In the basement lave he put a
coin in the pay slot of a private
compartment and went in.
As he zipped open the briefcase
he surveyed his features in the mirror.
A small muscle at the corner of
one eye twitched spasmodically.
One cheek wore a frozen quarter
smile. Thirty-six hours under the
paralysis was longer than advisable.
The muscles should be rested at
least every twenty hours.
Fortunately his natural features
would serve as an adequate disguise
now.
He adjusted the ring setting on
the pistol-shaped instrument that
he took from his case, and carefully
rayed several small areas of
his face, loosening muscles that had
been tight too long. He sighed
gratefully when he finished, massaging
his cheeks and forehead with
considerable pleasure. Another
glance in the mirror satisfied him
with the changes that had been
made. He turned to his briefcase
again and exchanged the gun for
a small syringe, which he pushed
into a trouser pocket, and a single-edged
razor blade.
Removing his fiber-cloth jacket
he slashed it into strips with the
razor blade and flushed it down the
disposal bowl. With the sleeves of
his blouse rolled up he had the
appearance of a typical workman
as he strolled from the compartment.
Back at the locker he replaced
the briefcase and, with a wad of
gum, glued the key to the bottom
of the locker frame.
One step more. Taking the syringe
from his pocket, he plunged
the needle into his forearm and
tossed the instrument down a
waste chute. He took three more
steps and paused uncertainly.
When he looked about him it
was with the expression of a man
waking from a vivid dream.
“Q
UITE ingenious,” Graves
murmured admiringly. “You
had your mind already preconditioned
for the shot. But why would
you deliberately give yourself amnesia?”
“What better disguise than to
believe the part you’re playing?”
“A good man must have done
that job on your mind,” Bergstrom
commented. “I’d have hesitated to
try it myself. It must have taken a
lot of trust on your part.”
[p
146
]
“Trust and money,” Zarwell said
drily.
“Your memory’s back then?”
Zarwell nodded.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Bergstrom
assured him. “Now that
you’re well again I’d like to introduce
you to a man named Vernon
Johnson. This world …”
Zarwell stopped him with an upraised
hand. “Good God, man, can’t
you see the reason for all this? I’m
tired. I’m trying to quit.”
“Quit?” Bergstrom did not quite
follow him.
“It started on my home colony,”
Zarwell explained listlessly. “A
gang of hoods had taken over the
government. I helped organize a
movement to get them out. There
was some bloodshed, but it went
quite well. Several months later an
unofficial envoy from another
world asked several of us to give
them a hand on the same kind of
job. The political conditions there
were rotten. We went with him.
Again we were successful. It seems
I have a kind of genius for that
sort of thing.”
He stretched out his legs and regarded
them thoughtfully. “I
learned then the truth of Russell’s
saying: ‘When the oppressed win
their freedom they are as oppressive
as their former masters.’ When
they went bad, I opposed them.
This time I failed. But I escaped
again. I have quite a talent for that
also.
“I’m not a professional do-gooder.”
Zarwell’s tone appealed
to Bergstrom for understanding. “I
have only a normal man’s indignation
at injustice. And now I’ve done
my share. Yet, wherever I go, the
word eventually gets out, and I’m
right back in a fight again. It’s like
the proverbial monkey on my back.
I can’t get rid of it.”
He rose. “That disguise and
memory planting were supposed to
get me out of it. I should have
known it wouldn’t work. But this
time I’m not going to be drawn
back in! You and your Vernon
Johnson can do your own revolting.
I’m through!”
Bergstrom did not argue as he
left.
RESTLESSNESS drove Zarwell
from his flat the next day—a
legal holiday on St. Martin’s. At
a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered
in the shadow of an adjacent
building watching workmen drilling
an excavation for a new structure.
When a man strolled to his side
and stood watching the workmen,
he was not surprised. He waited for
the other to speak.
“I’d like to talk to you, if you
can spare a few minutes,” the
stranger said.
Zarwell turned and studied the
man without answering. He was
medium tall, with the body of an
athlete, though perhaps ten years
[p
147
]
beyond the age of sports. He had
a manner of contained energy.
“You’re Johnson?” he asked.
The man nodded.
Zarwell tried to feel the anger he
wanted to feel, but somehow it
would not come. “We have nothing
to talk about,” was the best he
could manage.
“Then will you just listen? After,
I’ll leave—if you tell me to.”
Against his will he found himself
liking the man, and wanting at least
to be courteous. He inclined his
head toward a curb wastebox with
a flat top. “Should we sit?”
Johnson smiled agreeably and
they walked over to the box and
sat down.
“When this colony was first
founded,” Johnson began without
preamble, “the administrative body
was a governor, and a council of
twelve. Their successors were to
be elected biennially. At first they
were. Then things changed. We
haven’t had an election now in the
last twenty-three years. St. Martin’s
is beginning to prosper. Yet
the only ones receiving the benefits
are the rulers. The citizens work
twelve hours a day. They are poorly
housed
, poorly fed, poorly clothed.
They …”
Zarwell found himself not listening
as Johnson’s voice went on. The
story was always the same. But why
did they always try to drag him into
their troubles?
Why hadn’t he chosen some
other world on which to hide?
The last question prompted a
new thought. Just why had he
chosen St. Martin’s? Was it only a
coincidence? Or had he,
subconsciously
at least, picked this particular
world? He had always
considered himself the unwilling
subject of glib persuaders … but
mightn’t some inner compulsion of
his own have put the monkey on his
back?
“… and we need your help.”
Johnson had finished his speech.
Zarwell gazed up at the bright
sky. He pulled in a long breath,
and let it out in a sigh.
“What are your plans so far?”
he asked wearily.
—
CHARLES V. DE VET
|
train | 99917 | [
"According to the author, what made open trade so accessible in the 14th century?",
"Which terms most likely describe how the author views Brexit?",
"What is the primary purpose of the article?",
"According to the author, how should progressive urban cities function differently than states?",
"According to the author, what do some of the most thriving modern cities have in common?",
"The Hanseatic League is most closely aligned with which form of government?",
"For the author, the Hanseatic League represents all of the following EXCEPT:",
"According to the author, what is the major factor that will determine if modern nations will adopt a replica of the Hanseatic League?"
] | [
[
"Prevalence of natural resources in concentrated areas",
"Agreement on shared principles of commerce",
"Settlement along geographically accessible areas",
"Inclusion of both rural and urban community members"
],
[
"perplexing and disturbing",
"ambitious and progressive",
"ill-conceived and quixotic",
"haphazard and inequitable"
],
[
"To share a historical account of 14th century commerce practices and why they were replaced",
"To propose a model for international commerce in nation-states with divided populations",
"To lament and decry Britain's misguided decision to abandon the European Union",
"To entertain readers with an ironic predicament that has resulted from western globalization"
],
[
"They should expand their operations into more rural areas to bring economic prosperity to those regions",
"They should maintain an isolationist approach from other cities as well as rural areas within their own nations",
"They should partner and contend with other cities to form international networks of commerce",
"They should work establish a symbiotic relationship with their states to ensure longevity of both entities"
],
[
"They are established in geographically appealing areas",
"They are determined to learn from the mistakes of their forebearers",
"They look beyond their borders for economic possibility",
"They are ruled by democratic governments"
],
[
"democracy",
"confederation",
"socialism",
"anarchy"
],
[
"open commerce",
"flexible governing bodies",
"booming industrialization",
"a pragmatic approach"
],
[
"Whether a model can exist without creating further disparities among citizens",
"Whether citizens can avoid war and hording of resources without permanent borders",
"Whether urban areas can accommodate the preferences of rural areas",
"Whether urban and rural denizens can orient goals based on shared values"
]
] | [
3,
3,
2,
3,
3,
2,
3,
1
] | [
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1
] | What cities in the post-Brexit era could learn from a 14th-century trading bloc
As you fly from the country now known as Germany to Britain, the coastal geography of northern European cities gently unfurls. You can see where the sea smacks into them, or where yawning estuaries unfold like funnels between green and brown city and choppy blue water. You can track the snaking rivers and canals that form unrepentant umbilical connections to the settlements set a little further inland.
By their nature cities along coasts and rivers developed so they could be open to trade with each other. From the middle of the 13th century, and for some 300 years after, many settlements dotted along this route formed the prosperous Hanseatic League, a European trading confederation of market towns, before the rise of the nation state led to its dissolution.
The Hanseatic League is not well known, and today it lives on most prominently in the name of the German national airline Lufthansa, literally the 'Hansa of the skies', whose planes you can look out of – and down towards the Hanseatic cities – on the short journeys between mainland Europe and Britain. The letters HH on the number plates of cars in Hamburg stand for Hansestadt Hamburg: another proud little memory of this hidden history.
In the traumatised atmosphere of post-Brexit Britain, it is worth remembering the Hanseatic League. It could point us towards new relationships between progressive city dwellers in a world that otherwise seems to be putting the brakes on modernity.
Despite some of Britain's Leave voters longing to inhabit a fantastical realm immune to foreign influence, the reality is patently very different to that. In the late 1300s, Chaucer wrote about characters travelling to Jerusalem, and others who came from Europe; and it was at exactly this point that the Hanseatic League slowly started to coalesce, eventually influencing our isles.
The League is most easily understood as a loose federation of cities that acted together in self-interest to promote trade. The Hanseatic cities developed their own legal system, and their armies came to one another's aid. Merchants who wanted to buy and sell and travel were taking the lead at a time when nation states were not fit for purpose: in the case of England or Denmark, leadership was too centralised and authoritarian, while in German-speaking lands a nation had yet to be formed.
We think of nations today as elemental almost, immovable. Yet look at any city of Mitteleuropa and you'll see the many different names it has had as borders and regimes have shifted with the sands of time. Nations come and go. Cities endure.
"It is often said that great cities survived great empires," says Cristina Ampatzidou, editor-in-chief of the Rotterdam-based online publishing platform Amateur Cities. "So it is not unrealistic to think of cities as discrete entities that compete and collaborate with each other, independently from the states to which they belong."
The cities involved in the Hanseatic League are found along the Baltic and North Sea coasts, and slightly inland too. The League stretched from Novgorod in the east – in what is now Russia – to London in the west. Tallinn, Riga, Gdańsk, Visby, Berlin, Cologne, Antwerp, Stockholm, Bergen, Kiel, Rostock, Dinant, Bruges, Turku, Groningen, Hanover, Wroclaw, Kaliningrad: all were involved at different stages in the Hanse's history, which ran on into the 1500s.
The League covered lands that today find themselves a part of the modern nations of Finland, Sweden, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Norway, Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia. It was a huge – and hugely ambitious – undertaking in the days when communications consisted of ink and paper and the only viable method of travel was by ship. Wood, fur, wool, silver, herring, cod and salt were the main items traded. But what was also exchanged was knowledge. In some ways it was an exercise in what we today call 'soft diplomacy'. There was no maniacal ruler overseeing things – merchants met and talked. They raised armies and waged war against kings who threatened their businesses and their freedoms and their peace.
There was a kind of proto-democracy at work. Professor Rainer Postel, of the Bundeswehr Universität (Germany's equivalent of Sandhurst military academy), has described the Hanse as "a community of interests without power politics". As David Abulafia, Professor of Mediterranean History at Cambridge points out, "The lack of an elaborate superstructure was one of the things that made the Hanse work. Having said that, one should recognise that Lübeck in particular dominated the League for long periods."
Lübeck was where the merchants most often met; and where renewed recent interest in the Hanse eventually led to Angela Merkel cutting the ribbon at the brand new European Hansemuseum in the city last year.
Germany today – multicultural, economically and culturally motoring, free and fair – seems like the ideal model for a modern European nation state. And part of that success lies in the gravitas the country has given to its Hanseatic history. For Germany is not a top-down country with one city unhealthily dominating as with France and Britain (regional economic inequalities have plagued Britain since the painful de-industrialisation of the 1980s, especially in the north). Germany respects federalism and its cities exist on a much more even keel. The way that Cologne, Munich, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf and Stuttgart all bring varied economic and cultural character to the party is pure Hanse. The former Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Berlin and Bremen have city state status within Germany, putting them on the same level as a whole region or 'land' like Bavaria or Brandenburg.
So how about a new Hanseatic League? I ask Benjamin Barber, senior fellow at New York's Fordham University. "I believe you will find there is a new Hanse," he says, "that constituted itself about 10 or 11 years ago – including many of the original Hanseatic League cities." Barber is founder of the Global Parliament of Mayors, which he describes as a kind of Hanse of all cities, not just European ports, which will give cities a global urban voice and a common platform for action. The parliament convenes for its inaugural session in The Hague in September.
"Cities both exist within nations and transcend nations. Their power lies not just in the extent of
de jure
autonomy ceded or granted by 'higher' levels of government," says Bruce Katz, centennial scholar at the Washington DC thinktank the Brookings Institution. "Rather, cities have de facto power, the result of larger market and demographic forces and environmental imperatives that value proximity, density, connectivity and quality. Smart nations will see themselves as partners to their cities, setting strong platforms for urban prosperity and devolving powers, where appropriate, to give cities the flexibility to perform… Dumb nations will continue to dictate from above, stifling market activity and urban potential."
But could we go further? Could cities like London declare independence from the UK? London's economy is larger than that of Scotland and Wales combined. "States will not vanish or surrender their waning sovereignty," says Benjamin Barber. "But cities will meet across frontiers and work together to solve problems. The objective is not an independent London or New York, but interdependent cities collaborating globally. And that is happening."
London's voters largely wanted to remain a part of the EU and to maintain the city's status as an entrepôt. There is clearly a widening chasm between urban and rural life at the heart of many nations. Visualisations of Austria's recent presidential election showed the issue clearly: the country's cities voted for the Green candidate Alexander Van der Bellen, while the the rural districts went for right-wing nationalist Norbert Hofer (whose legal challenge to the close result has resulted in a rerun being announced for October). And in the USA in November, it's likely that Trump voters will also come from rural areas and Clinton voters from the cities. City dwellers are finding ever more in common with the world's other city dwellers than with their countrymen 50 miles down the road.
Back in Britain, one of history's little oddities pops up on the east coast. Boston in Lincolnshire and King's Lynn in Norfolk were both forward-looking Hanseatic League towns that traded with far-flung ports and hosted foreign merchants. King's Lynn contains the only extantHanse House left in Britain (London's was knocked down to build Cannon Street Station in the 1800s). Yet in the EU referendum these two areas polled among the highest Leave votes of anywhere in the country.
"Things change," says LSE's Professor Tony Travers. "[King's Lynn] used to be very highly connected, but the economy moved on and left those trading ports like it in a different situation." Take, for example, the pivot towards the New World, with which trade made more sense from the west-coast ports like Bristol and Liverpool. While these boomed between the 1600s and 1800s, the Hanseatic ports declined and then died out. "One of the things that's interesting about the [referendum] decision is that it begs all sorts of questions about the future of the UK and its relationship with Europe; and of London and Scotland and their relationship with the rest of Europe. When the EU began as the EEC in the mid-20th century some saw it as a modern day Hanse. Now the EU seems to be waning, perhaps its successor will have to ape the Hanse even more."
For all its complex beauty, life can ultimately be reduced to a series of binary options: yes or no, stick or twist, in or out, innovation or stagnation, modernity or mythology. The referendum result was disappointing for many progressive observers because it felt like a step backwards. Despite being primarily about trade monopolies and money making, the Hanse was, in its way, an early stab at stepping forwards: it encompassed internationalism, rational thought, free trade, loose democratic institutions and, most crucially of all, movement.
The future, for many observers, can only be understood in terms of the free movement of people, capital, goods and ideas. It is this necessary movement, and its possible curtailment, that could be the spark that leads to cities like London to seek independence and parity with other world cities – rather than with the rural hinterlands of Britain.
Of course, cities seceding from their nation states would provide huge headaches for countries whose biggest economic driver had been removed – as well as likely deepening ideological differences between city and rural dwellers. Moreover, cities need the food the countryside provides.
Yet for all the potential pitfalls, city states can thrive. Look at Singapore, Hong Kong, or de facto city states like Dubai and Abu Dhabi. One of the most telling characteristics about these four – all of course former British imperial enclaves – is that they are utterly outward looking. To return to the sky analogy, it's the airlines of each of these (Singapore Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Emirates and Etihad) that open up each respective city to the world in the way that the machinery of the Hanse did on the Baltic Sea 600 years ago. And it's the unions each city makes with other places that also look thoroughly Hanseatic in character. A model for modern city states, then. But is it one that we want?
"The Hanseatic League was not always accepted by local citizens," says Cristina Ampatzidou, "because the privileges granted to the Hanse merchants were forcing local traders out of competition and many cities took steps to eliminate them. The reasons the countryside is turning to the right [globally] are not independent from cities turning increasingly into speculation machines for the profit of a happy few. It is basically these systemic contradictions that must be addressed before we resort to more isolationist ideas that would intensify the urban-rural political divide. The bottom line is not whether a contemporary Hanse-esque federation is possible, it probably is; but whether it is actually desirable."
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99912 | [
"Which term best describes the author's tone toward delivering a 'baby' by C-section for the first time?",
"What factor necessitates the change in frequency of performed C-sections?",
"Which factor is the best predictor of necessity for an emergency C-section on a fetus?",
"Describe how the frequency of C-sections has changed over time",
"What risk, according to the author, is increased by practitioners who are wary of performing C-sections?",
"What inspired Tydeman to develop his device?",
"According to Tydeman, what has caused the Tydeman tube to not get sold/approved?",
"What is the inspiration for the simulator's name?",
"Which terms best describe the medical field's response to new development of medical technology?"
] | [
[
"befuddled",
"petrified",
"apprehensive",
"confident"
],
[
"Uterine environment",
"Practitioner training",
"Cranial growth",
"Advanced technology"
],
[
"Father's birth weight",
"Mother's birth weight",
"Practitioner's level of experience",
"There is no agreed upon factor"
],
[
"The frequency has gradually decreased",
"The frequency has plateaued",
"The frequency has no significant trend",
"The frequency has steadily increased"
],
[
"They could be sued for malpractice if the fetus does not survive childbirth",
"They could be sued for malpractice if the mother does not survive childbirth",
"They could increase the prevalence of impaction and, therefore, challenging births",
"They could accidentally make the incision in the wrong location, necessitating further costly surgeries"
],
[
"A mannequin",
"A sound",
"An advertisement",
"A smell"
],
[
"Any products that could possibly cause death during childbirth are generally viewed with more apprehension",
"Because his device is so promising, investors want him to pay for its commercialization",
"Too many investors are competing over the rights of commercialization",
"Tydeman does not approve of the prototypes generated by potential investors"
],
[
"Its emotional connotations",
"Tydeman's mother",
"Tydeman's wife",
"Its use of literary device"
],
[
"gratuitous and enthusiastic",
"methodical and cumbersome",
"equivocal and inconsistent",
"deadpan and leisurely"
]
] | [
3,
3,
4,
4,
3,
2,
2,
4,
3
] | [
0,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | Obstetrics for beginners
It's my first go at delivering a baby by caesarean section – and the foetal head is impacted, jammed in its mother's pelvis. To be honest I'm struggling.
Incisions have been made in the lower part of the mother's abdomen and womb. I've pushed my gloved hand inside and managed to slide my fingers between the baby's head and the surrounding uterine tissue. But it's difficult. The baby is tightly wedged in. I've had to push hard to get my hand to the far side of its head, and even though I'm now cupping and grasping it in the approved manner, I can't seem to pull it out. Dare I grip its head more firmly? Dare I pull harder?
The baby's mother – she's called Debra – remains impassive throughout these agonised fumblings. Her face reveals nothing of what she may be feeling. But then Debra has no feelings. Indeed she has no face…
So you can stop worrying. Debra – Desperate Debra to use her full trade name – is a simulator designed to help doctors practise their skill at dealing with impacted foetuses: babies that get stuck trying to exit the womb by the normal route. She comprises the lower two thirds (ie from the mid-chest region downwards) of a life-sized but limbless female torso made of flesh-coloured silicone rubber. She comes with a vulva, a pre-cut incision in her abdomen and, most importantly, a uterus containing a foetal head that should, in the normal way of things, be free to emerge between her legs. But this fetus is going nowhere until an obstetrician – or in this case me – can successfully grasp and pull it out.
The clever and sophisticated simulator I'm playing with started life as a lash-up in an obstetrician's home workshop: a Heath Robinson-style contraption barely recognisable as a model of the human body. But it wasn't at that stage intended as a simulator for training medical staff. Its sole purpose was to test the effectiveness of a novel device called a Tydeman tube. Paradoxically, although the testing equipment, Debra, is now commercially available, the device it was intended to test has yet to reach the market.
The inventor of the tube and of Desperate Debra is Dr Graham Tydeman, a consultant in obstetrics and gynaecology at Victoria Hospital in Kirkcaldy, Fife. Only after he'd built Debra did he realise that she might serve a purpose beyond his original intention. His is a decade-long tale of inspired insights, thwarted aims and shifting purposes; but with a good outcome. Although the Tydeman tube is still in gestation, Desperate Debra herself is now thriving.
To understand the desperation of Debra and how the Tydeman tube might help to relieve it requires a brief foray into basic obstetric knowhow. Evolution has endowed us with heads proportionally so large that even when labour runs according to plan, the delivery process involves a bit of a squeeze. For the baby's head to get stuck on the way out may not be usual, but it's by no means a rarity.
The standard response is to perform a caesarean section. Every year some 160,000 babies are born in the UK this way, with almost two thirds of them classified as emergencies. One audit has suggested that roughly 8,000 babies get stuck and have to be delivered by caesarean at a stage when their mothers are fully dilated. "Some of the babies will be so close to coming out by the normal route," says Tydeman, "that it's then difficult to get them back up and remove them through the hole in the woman's tummy." Which women are most at risk of this setback seems to be largely unpredictable. "We just observe that it happens… It's been discussed in the medical literature since the 1940s, but until 10 years ago, and throughout my training and most of my life as a consultant, it wasn't really talked about."
Considering the universality of childbirth, impaction and the best way of dealing with it are topics that seem to have gone remarkably unstudied. "There are strong opinions about why it happens and what to do, but very little research evidence," says Tydeman, adding that many of these opinions are contradictory.
In a protracted birth that's destined to end with a caesarean, the longer the labour is allowed to go on before the obstetrician decides to intervene, the greater the likelihood that the baby's head will become impacted. However, concern over the rising number of babies born by caesarean has made doctors more wary of doing them – one consequence of which is that medical staff may allow a difficult birth to continue for longer before they resort to surgery. This could be boosting the frequency of impaction. But, again, no one is certain.
When obstetricians doing planned caesareans slice open a mother's womb, what they usually see is the baby's head. By slipping a hand round and below it they can easily guide the baby out. "When you do a caesarean for an impacted baby," says Tydeman, "you make the incision in the same place, but what you might come across is a shoulder because the baby's so much further down [the birth canal]." As I'd discovered for myself, sliding a hand around the baby's head is then far more difficult. "It makes your fingers hurt," says Tydeman. "It makes your pulse rate go up to about 200, and you break out in a sweat because know you've only got about five or 10 minutes before there are serious consequences. The clock is ticking."
If a baby's head is jammed down in the mother's pelvic region, common sense suggests that it might help if a second person gives a gentle backward push on the area of its head visible through the mother's dilated cervix. "In our unit," says Tydeman, "when the woman is fully dilated and you'd expect the baby to come out normally [but it doesn't]… a registrar will be asking for a push-up about one in five times." Although registrars are doctors still in training, they're nonetheless experienced; which suggests requests for push-ups during unplanned caesareans are far from uncommon. The Tydeman tube is a gadget intended to make this manoeuvre safer and more effective.
Creativity and innovation have many unlikely sources. What seems to have inspired Tydeman to develop his device was the characteristic sound of a Wellington boot being pulled free of wet, muddy ground: a slurpy, sucking, gurgling noise. When an impacted foetal head is pulled free of the uterus it's often accompanied by a similar sucking noise, the result of air rushing in between the obstetrician's fingers to fill the space vacated. "What occurred to me years ago was that if the air can't get in, why not put a tube up into the vagina so that it can get in from below the baby's head." From time to time, if he felt he felt the baby might stick, Tydeman would slip a length of sterile silicone tubing through the woman's vagina and up into the womb next to the baby's head. Allowing air in by this route would release any suction forces tending to hold it where it was.
Tydeman didn't do much with the idea until 10 years ago when one trainee, who was experiencing real difficulty getting heads out, prompted him to think again about the problem. Around the same time, he met professor of obstetrics Andrew Shennan and consultant midwife Annette Briley, both of the Women's Health Academic Centre at St Thomas's hospital. Between them they came up with a device – the Tydeman tube – to make pushing on the foetus more controlled while simultaneously releasing any vacuum that might be holding it in place.
The instrument is made up of a rigid plastic tube opening into a softer silicone cup. Pressure to the foetal head is applied using four pads projecting forward from the cup's interior. Holding the device by the tube, the user places the cup against the part of the head exposed through the dilated cervix, and presses. This pushes the baby back up into the uterus while releasing any suction pressure that may have been holding it, so allowing the obstetrician to extract it more easily. Because pressure is distributed equally between the four pads with a greater combined surface area than that of a user's fingertips, the risk of inadvertent damage is minimised.
The team found some money to employ a product designer who used computer-aided design technology and 3D printing to make a prototype. "We were at the point of getting one made in silicone," says Tydeman, "when we realised that before we started experimenting on women we really ought to test it on a simulator." No such simulator existed – so he decided to make one himself.
That Tydeman was able to do this comes as no great surprise once you've glanced at his website. His career may be rooted in medicine but his interests encompass sculpture, furniture making and much else. He works in wood, glass, metals and plastic. "I've got a big workshop with a lathe and a forge," he says. "I make stuff. I always have, ever since I was a child. My dad was a woodwork teacher, my mum was very creative with fabric."
Although tests carried out with the Debra prototype showed that the tube would work as intended, Tydeman and his colleagues then faced what he calls a kind of medical catch-22. "We had the tube finished about three years ago… but we were more interested in trying to save lives than selling a product. We thought that the right thing to do before commercialising it was to be sure we'd got the best design." They tried it on a dozen or so women in labour, and concluded that it did what it supposed to. But they held off trying to market it because they wanted to do more extensive, more rigorous clinical studies.
This presented a problem. "If you've applied for research money," says Tydeman, "but you've already got what seems to be a commercially viable design, potential funders are going to say that the company aiming to sell it should pay for the work." On the other hand, commercial interest is easier to drum up if you've already got evidence that a device is safe and effective.
That said, the team didn't want to leave the tube sitting on the shelf. So they eventually decided to go ahead and find a commercial partner willing to manufacture and market it. They have now identified one, and are fairly confident it will soon be in production. With sufficient users it should then be possible to compile factual – as opposed to anecdotal – evidence of benefit. Not ideal, Tydeman concedes, but the best they can do at present.
In the meantime, back to Desperate Debra: so named, Tydeman says, not after any particular person but because the appellation is memorably alliterative. He put together the original Debra in a weekend. The skin was made out of a neoprene wetsuit fixed to a scaffolding formed from plastic tubing he'd found 20 years ago in skip outside a Glasgow pub; the head was cast in silicone from a model he'd made in plasticine, and the rest comprised old springs and other bits of stuff lying around his workshop. "It wasn't actually that difficult," Tydeman says.
When originally conceived, remember, Debra was simply a means of testing the effectiveness of the tube. What she looked like was neither here nor there. It was only once Debra was reborn as a teaching aid that she needed sprucing up.
Tydeman can remember the exact moment when the idea of her having a greater role dawned on him. "I was on the sleeper train down from Scotland to London," he says. "Debra was with me because the first Tydeman tube had become available at St Thomas's… It was about midnight, I'd had my free whisky and I suddenly thought, 'Blow me! Even if the tube doesn't work, Debra could be useful as a teaching aid'."
The following morning, at St Thomas's, Tydeman asked a visiting professor of obstetrics to have a look at Debra and tell him what she thought. She put her hand into Debra's womb, grasped the foetal head and said it felt just like the real thing. "Terribly flattering," Tydeman laughs.
With a grant from the Guy's and St Thomas's Charity fund they made Debra more presentable. Tydeman showed the prototype to Adam Rouilly, an established company specialising in medical models and simulators. They were impressed. A year later, the first of Debra's smartened-up sisters was on the market.
In Debra as she is now, the precise extent and nature of her desperation can be fine-tuned according to need. The foetal head inside her uterus can be moved to mimic the various positions that an unborn baby may adopt. By tightening a spring inside Debra's body, it's also possible vary the degree of impaction from mild to so severe that the head is virtually impossible to extract. In this way she simulates the full range of difficulty that obstetricians are likely to encounter.
So how valuable in training medical staff is a simulator like this? Very, according to Annette Briley. Imagine it's the middle of the night and an unplanned emergency caesarean is required: "Some poor junior doctor might find himself trying to manage it on his own." To have practised the knack of extracting a firmly impacted baby from a simulator is lot better than first honing your skill on a real woman.
At St Thomas's, midwives in training also get an opportunity to practise on Debra. The chances that midwives will find themselves having to do the actual extraction of an infant are slim; but they're quite likely to be asked to help the obstetrician by pushing a stuck baby from below. Debra's anatomy allows them to practise this skill; and to learn where and how hard to push on the infant skull. "Any practice you've done in the cold light of day will help you stay calm and composed in an emergency, and that's what we're aiming for," says Briley.
It's still too soon to make a final judgement about Debra’s impact. "When we first brought Debra out," Briley recalls, "some of the really experienced professors said things like, 'We always managed without one. Why would you need this?' But ask them to have a go at using it and then they admit it's really good." Medicine as a whole has an oddly ambivalent relationship to innovation. Some new findings, techniques or equipment take years to penetrate the profession; others are seized upon immediately.
A proper study of the clinical effectiveness of the Tydeman tube will necessarily involve women giving birth. Assessing the value of Debra as a simulator didn't require human subjects; and the team has already conducted such a study. Thirty obstetricians, from three NHS maternity units and with varying levels of experience, took part. They all received a brief explanation of how Debra works, and were then asked to try a timed removal of the foetal head at three different levels of difficulty. Overall, 87 per cent reported that the simulator offered a realistic experience of dealing with an impacted head, and 93 per cent thought it would be valuable as a training device.
The use of simulators to teach technical skills is now common in medical schools. You can learn to sew up a knife wound, catheterise a bladder or intubate an airway. You can practise cardiopulmonary resuscitation or ear syringing or even go through the motions of a keyhole surgical procedure. The technology required to do these things may cost a few pounds, or tens of thousands. Either way, given that most of these devices were invented during the past three or four decades, it comes as something of a surprise to learn that simulation for medical purposes can be traced back as far as the Chinese Song dynasty of 960-1279 AD.
One of the treatments of choice in that era was, naturally, acupuncture. But how to teach tyro-acupuncturists where to place the needles? Simple. A life-size bronze statue dotted with small holes indicated the points of insertion. And how then to test the students' grasp of their subject? If the statute was hollow, filled with liquid and given an outer coating of wax to mask the holes, a correct needle insertion would be followed by a leak.
Given the universality of childbirth it's no surprise that, then as now, the womb turns out to be the most simulated of our organs. For the benefit of 18th-century midwives and doctors-in-training, the Bologna surgeon Giovanni Antonio Galli devised a birthing simulator comprising a glass uterus supported by an artificial pelvis and containing a flexible foetus. Trainees had to deliver the baby while wearing a blindfold. Only the tutor could witness the fumbling of their hands.
As the material for a convincing simulation, glass clearly has its drawbacks. But another 18th-century contraption used a pink cloth-covered mannequin comprising a female torso complete with genitalia, a set of implantable foetuses of various ages, and even – a real
coup de théâtre
, this – a facility for exuding suitably coloured liquids at the appropriate moment.
Oddly, as medicine became more scientific, most of these devices fell by the wayside. As an academic review of these and other devices has pointed out, much of the 20th century was something of Dark Ages for simulation. Its value in professional training has had to be rediscovered: an endeavour in which inventive people like Graham Tydeman, sometimes with workshops rich in discarded junk, are still fruitfully engaged.
This article was originally published on TheLong+Short. Read the original article.
|
train | 99921 | [
"What is the author's grievance against photographers?",
"What does the author mean to communicate by comparing the photographer's task to the sculptor's mission?",
"According to the author, what makes it difficult for the author to capture a subject's soul?",
"How does the author try to disarm their subjects? ",
"Which statement would the author most likely support?",
"What potential drawback does the author acknowledge regarding the popularity of Creative Commons licenses?",
"What is the central purpose of the article? ",
"What impact does the author believe they have made on society?"
] | [
[
"Photographers are too concerned with bending an image to fit their incomplete or inaccurate perspective of a subject",
"Too many photographers are flocking over to digital art, signaling the death knell of darkroom photography",
"Photographers are more interested in personal financial gain than supporting the vitality of their industry",
"There are too many photographers competing for the same creative opportunities"
],
[
"Photographers should strive to capture the essence of a person, vs. how the photographer wishes to portray them",
"Photographers should follow the path of sculptors in using more unconventional means to capture their subjects",
"Photographers should present more neutral, ambiguous renderings of a person in order to give the viewer a chance to participate in the art",
"Photographers should get to know their subjects on an intimate level, so the subjects feel more free to display their authentic selves during a session"
],
[
"People's tendency to overemphasize the qualities they want others to associate with them",
"People's tendency to behave uncharacteristically in front of a camera",
"People's tendency to refuse a photographer access to the most painful moments of their lives",
"People's tendency to forget that the photographer is even in the room"
],
[
"Engaging them in conversation",
"Telling them a personal story",
"Highlighting their best angles",
"Making silly faces or gestures"
],
[
"Humans want people to be viewed the way they view themselves",
"Humans are too trusting in anything aligned with 'freedom' and 'creativity'",
"Humans are easily manipulated by powerful corporations",
"Humans have a proclivity toward a negativity bias"
],
[
"If everything becomes free, then no one can make any kind of profit",
"Too many people will not pay attention to when Creative Commons licenses expire",
"Corporations can potentially take advantage of people who use Creative Commons licenses",
"The Creative Commons license will eventually be replaced with something more equitable"
],
[
"To advocate support for expansion of Creative Commons licenses",
"To inform the readership of current problems in the photography industry",
"To illustrate how photographers go about their creative processes",
"To praise a fellow photographer and writer for his recent contributions"
],
[
"Introducing legislature to protect individuals from exploitation",
"Introducing the first wave of CC popularity",
"Preserving the art of darkroom photography",
"Using leadership to balance and focus of CC growth"
]
] | [
1,
1,
2,
1,
1,
3,
1,
4
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
0,
1,
1,
1
] | Just another free soul
In his foreword to the book, Lessig writes that you understand your subjects “by learning to see them in a certain way.” What is that certain way?
I think I’m trying to get a mental image of a person, certain
expressions, or what I think that person is about. I’m trying to capture
what I think they look like, which is many times a minority of their
typical expressions, or their typical stance. So, if I’m taking pictures
of Larry [Lessig], I want to have his signature hand gestures, and not
just random ones.
I think I’m trying to capture pictures of people that help others see
what they’re about. Some photographers will make someone look the way
the photographer wants them to look, and not the way they appear, so
they’ll pick the one picture out of 100 where the guy looks more
egotistical than he really is. Some photographers are almost medical,
and are going after a perfect portrait. I’m somewhere in between.
It’s amazing how many people will upload snapshots of people where the
pictures don’t look like them at all. To me, uploading a picture that is
not an easily recognizable picture of that person defeats the point,
which I’m working toward, to try to express who they are. On the other
hand, professional photographers usually have a subject whom they don’t
know personally, so they end up having to try to capture an image that
they’ve created based on who they think the person is or how they want
that person to appear. You know how sculptors often say that they’re
just freeing an image from a block? What I’m trying to do is free
someone’s soul from his or her image. There are a lot of things that
make this hard. A lot of people are uncomfortable in front of a camera,
or might make expressions that aren’t very natural for them. And if the
person is nervous, it’s very difficult to try to see what it is that
you’re trying to capture.
A lot of what I’m doing is, I just start shooting photos. After half an
hour of having their picture taken, people start to ignore you. Or I’ll
take pictures when I’m talking to people about what they’re doing, so
after a while they get distracted by the conversation and forget about
the camera. That’s something that I’m not perfect at, but I’m getting
better.
I think good photographers are also able to disarm people through
conversation, but still, it’s difficult to have a disarming conversation
with somebody you don’t know, or to make them laugh. Many times people
make a face for me that they wouldn’t make for a professional
photographer.
For instance, a board meeting picture, like the one with Eric Saltzman:
that was during a very tense discussion. I’ve found that people are at
their most animated at these kinds of meetings, and look the most alive
when they are under a lot of pressure, and super- focused. But usually
if an outsider is in the room, they won’t get into that. I mean, it
would be difficult for a cameraman to be in a room where a board is
having a heated debate.
But those are the things that I’m trying to capture, because most people
don’t get to see that. At the Creative Commons board meeting, Larry
asked me to put the camera away after awhile [laughs] because it was
distracting. We were having a very heated discussion and I was taking
all of these pictures. But he credited me later because afterward those
pictures turned out the best.
In your mind, what is a ‘Freesoul’ ?
A freesoul is somewhat of a pun. On the one hand it means you are free,
liberated. You, as a human spirit, are open. And then, it also has the
meaning that you are unencumbered legally, that you are free, as in
‘free software.’
There’s a paradox: with many people’s Wikipedia
articles to which I’ve contributed, when it comes to the picture, many
of these people don’t have any free photos of themselves on the web, so
while they are “notable” on Wikipedia, their images aren’t free of the
copyright of the photographer, or the institution who hired the
photographer to take the picture. Often, even the subject of the article
can’t make an image available to the Wikimedia/Wikipedia community.
This means that a lot of people who have a Net presence have a legally
encumbered Net presence. People who are invited to conferences get asked
all the time, “By the way, do you have a photo that we can use?” But
they don’t. By making these pictures available under a Creative Commons
license, now they do. This is solving the issue of legal freedom.
The third part of the pun is that, since I’m asking for a model release
from the subjects, I’m asking everyone to be much more open and giving
about their image than most people typically are. I’m giving, you’re
giving, we’re all giving to participate and to try to create this
wonderful work, and allow others to create derivative works.
Of course people can abuse that, just like they can abuse anything. But
I want people to see the value in sharing over the fear in sharing. The
fact is, it’s much more likely that somebody is going to use these
pictures for something positive, rather than for something negative. The
benefits greatly outweigh the risks. I think we spend way too much of
our lives worrying about the risks, at the cost of a lot of the
benefits.
This is a celebration of all of the people who are willing to give. In a
way, giving up your image and allowing anyone to use it: it’s the
ultimate gift. In one way it’s kind of vain. [laughs] But in another
way it’s wonderful. A Wikipedia article on some person but with no
picture is sad.
Besides Wikipedia, how do you imagine these photos being used?
They can be used in textbooks and in mainstream media articles about the
person. Now they can get a picture that represents the person, at least
from my perspective. That said, I shouldn’t be the only person doing
this. More people should do the same, and make the photographs available
freely. For one, I feel that “free” CC licensed photos have a much
higher chance of not disappearing. But I don’t know exactly how these
photos are going to be used, so in a sense I’m curious. For example,
recently I received the Harvard Berkman Center pamphlet. It was a report
of what they’re doing, and they also had a bunch of my pictures in
there. They all had attribution, and it made me feel really good. There
were pictures of different Berkman Center members that I had taken in
various places all over the world. I think that the subject is probably
happy with this, and I’m happy, and the Berkman Center’s happy because
they’re not all pictures of people sitting at desks in the Berkman
Center. There’s one more important thing: Creative Commons is great for
original creative works or derivative creative works, but when it
involves human images, it gets very complicated. We all know the Virgin
Mobile case, where Virgin used CC licensed images in an advertisement
without getting permission from the models, and got in trouble. What
we’re trying to do here is to expand beyond just copyright, to make it
more thorough from a legal perspective. It’s also an important
educational point, so people understand that, in addition to the
Creative Commons licenses, we need people to provide other rights in
cases where the law requires such rights to be cleared before reuse.
What have you learned about the people in these networks, just in the past year?
That’s a good question. I think that at least Creative Commons has
become much more mainstream. Creative Commons has moved from a fringy
academic discussion to a boardroom discussion. Yahoo announced that it
will be using Creative Commons for all of their basic infrastructure,
and integrating it all. Google has CC search in their advanced search.
Microsoft is working with CC as well and have a plug-in. Nine Inch Nails
released their album, Ghost, under a Creative Commons license. The list
goes on. Many people are asking: can you make money and share? The
answer is, yes. CC is becoming an important part of the business
discussion.
But one thing that happens when a movement like CC becomes a business
thing, is that a lot of the pioneers fade into the background, and it
becomes a part of industry. This happened to the Internet. And so while
you still have the core people who still remember and hold the torch for
the philosophical side, the Internet has become much more of a business.
Now, when you go to many Internet conferences, it’s mostly salesmen in
attendance.
I believe that the success of the Internet has two parts. The first part
is the market- driven business side, which has made the Internet
affordable and ubiquitous. The second part is the strong movement of
participants who fight to keep the Internet open and try to prevent the
business side from corrupting the fundamental elements that make the
Internet great. The Net Neutrality or Open Network discussion going on
right now is a good example of the importance of continuing to balance
these principles with business interests.
Similarly, I think that business interests can help make Creative
Commons ubiquitous and more easily accessible to everyone. However, I
think it’s important to remember to keep pushing to make content more
“free” and not allow businesses to use Creative Commons in exploitive or
destructive ways.
In addition to the business side, Creative Commons is being used by
educators to create open courseware around the world and in the area of
science and technology to promote sharing in research. And as of now, we
have the license ported to at least 44 jurisdictions, and the number of
countries with projects continues to grow. In many ways, the movement
outside of the United States has become much bigger than the movement in
the United States. Although the United States is still slightly farther
ahead in terms of commercialization, the size of the whole free culture
movement outside of the United States is huge now. The CC China Photo
exhibit was just amazing. There were some great
images, and a lot of the photographers were professionals. This is
beyond what anybody has done in the US. A lot of the progress that we’re
making is international.
What are your personal realizations or experiences?
Well, we’re all getting old, if you look at these pictures. But there’s
another thing, though, about this book: the number of
professional-quality amateurs has increased significantly due to the
importance of digital in both professional and high-end amateur
photography I hate to say it, a lot of people love the darkroom, but it
really feels like the death of the darkroom with this year.
With new 22 megapixel cameras coming in under $10,000, and Lightroom
and some of this software at a couple hundred dollars, it doesn’t really
make sense, except for particularly fussy artists, to do wet-work
anymore. If you’re a commercial photographer or a high-end amateur, you
can do anything you used to do in the darkroom. I think it has really
lowered the bar. I don’t know how that affects the industry directly,
but for me, it bridged a huge gap.
I used to be darkroom geek. I loved my darkroom, and even when I didn’t
have my darkroom anymore, I still was shooting 6x6 Hasselblad 120 film
and processing it in a special lab, and then digitizing it. For me, that
film was it. You could never get as good as medium-format film or
large-format film
At the time, the digital Hasselblad backs were too expensive, and were
still not as good as 8x10 film. So there was this whole period where the
darkroom was not all that exciting, but the digital wasn’t perfect. I
went through a limbo period. I had invested so much in my Hasselblad
system, and my Leica M6 set. I had bought the Leica R8, but I was
kicking myself because it was terrible. But then the Leica M8 came out,
and I bought one at the beginning of 2007. The M8 really got me to where
I could use my old gear, and it had enough megapixels to be as good as
some film.
Another way of saying it was that there was a gear breakthrough at the
beginning of last year. Okay, that’s pretty materialistic! So there was
a technology breakthrough, let’s call it that, that allowed me to switch
completely away from film, and I think this happened to a lot of
photographers. It caused an explosion of content and an increase in the
quality of content on sites like Flickr. It has
allowed amateurs to create a business model with professionals.
Interestingly, I think these new high-end amateurs are buying more
photography books and photographs and are probably providing an
increasing revenue stream for professional photographers. I think most
amateurs, including myself, are paying homage to the professionals and
not trying to “compete” with them.
Despite the existence of social software, what is still important about meeting people face-to-face?
For me, the right way to use a lot of the new social software is by
making it easier to spend more physical time with the people you like
best. Dopplr is a great example. When
I visit a city, I will see all of the people who are in the city at the
same time. When I went to London awhile ago, there were 47 people I knew
in London, and a huge percentage of those people don’t live there. I
would bet that more than half of the photos in this book are pictures of
friends, and they’re not in their hometown.
That’s the really interesting thing that is happening right now: it’s
really increasing your ability to spend quality time with, actually, a
smaller number of people. It allows you to actively filter. Your
meetings don’t have to be random. If I look at the list of people in
this book, although there are some obvious people missing whom I didn’t
see last year, probably met more of my friends last year, my real
friends, than I’ve met in any other year. I know my travels were crazy,
but I think that the online world has allowed me to do that.
What’s great about photography is that it captures the moment that I was
sharing with that person. It’s not just a connection on a social network
online, which is really pretty binary. I can look at all these photos
and remember exactly what we were doing, what we were eating, what we
were drinking, what we were talking about, and to me that’s a much more
rich experience.
It’s the combination of social software and photography. For me, reality
is “the present” plus what you remember from the past. I think this
project is really sharing memories with people. Blog posts contribute as
well, but to me photography is a really good way of doing that. When I
look at the expressions, I remember the moment and get a sense of
presence.
I think the main problem for me is the environmental impact of flying
around. Just as I never believed that we would have a paperless office,
being able to connect with people through social software mostly
increases your travel, it doesn’t decrease it. It is great because you
get to meet all these people. But it is bad for the environment, and bad
for our jet lag.
How would you characterize your contributions to free culture?
I think it’s mostly incremental. I think there is very little we
actually do all by ourselves, and I hate saying, “I did this” or “I did
that.” I think that in most cases, focusing on individual contributions
or achievements undervalues the importance of everyone else involved.
Having said that, I think my main contribution is probably in supporting
Creative Commons as a fan, board member, chairman of the board and now
CEO. I think CC has a significant role, and helping to keep it on track
and growing is probably the single most important role that I have in
Free Culture.
Specifically, I think that trying to keep an international focus and a
balance between business and the non-business elements of the movement
is essential. My job is to keep that focus and maintain that balance.
Also, CC needs to run smoothly as an organization and there is a lot of
operational work that we all need to do. My photography is a way for me
to participate in a small measure on the creative side of the Free
Culture movement, and helps me see things from that perspective as well.
However, I believe in emergent democracy and the importance of trying to
celebrate the community more than the heroes. Of course, I’m a huge fan
of Larry’s and I have great respect for the leaders of our movement. But
more than anything, I’m thankful for and respectful of all of the
participants who aren’t so well known and who are essential to moving
everything forward.
Personally, I don’t think it’s ultimately meaningful to talk about one
individual’s personal contribution to any movement. The real meaning is
in the whole movement. I’m just one participant. Just another free soul.
|
train | 99923 | [
"How is Sharism justified?",
"By explaining neural activity in the brain, what does the author of the article imply?",
"According to the author, why do people stop themselves from sharing as much as they could?",
"What do certain corporations lose by remaining closed off to sharing?",
"How does the author contradict their promises that sharing will produce a more equitable society?",
"The author promises all of the following returns from investing in Sharism EXCEPT for:",
"How does the author appeal to readers to convince them to align themselves with Sharism?"
] | [
[
"sharing is the only way to eliminate economic and social disparities among neighboring countries",
"if humans do not adopt sharism as a culture, major corporations will adopt it to gain more power",
"the disparity between the wealthy and those living in poverty has become too wide",
"sharing is embedded within human deoxyribonucleic acid and a hardwired feature of the brain"
],
[
"If humans want to avoid the major illnesses like dementia and Alzheimers, they can do so by sharing more content as they grow older",
"If humans do not use their neurons, they will lose them (and their potential) forever",
"If humans can quickly acclimate to a Sharist ideology, there is a better chance that they can survive global threats",
"If humans are not constantly sharing, they will deteriorate and become unproductive"
],
[
"They are distrustful and apprehensive of a negative social response",
"They are unsure of the best venue for sharing their content",
"They believe that people who share on a frequent basis are desperate for attention",
"They generally feel that the cost of their content is not as high as the value"
],
[
"Collective bargaining",
"Reputational power",
"Lucrative ideas",
"Stock market gains"
],
[
"By allowing anyone from anywhere to publish anything, a lack of credibility and accuracy in content means that people living in poverty are more likely to be taken advantage of",
"By equating sharing with equity, those who do not share will inevitably be denied access to certain benefits",
"By connecting creativity to cultural capital, those who are more logical and scientific thinkers will be marginalized",
"By comparing sharing to human neural activity, the author implies that humans who have a preference not to share are 'less than' and will be treated differently"
],
[
"access to cultural capital",
"amplified networks",
"social validation",
"exclusive copyright privileges"
],
[
"Promising a more equitable future for all",
"Discussing how prior failed inventions could have been successful if more collaborators participated",
"Refuting the argument that greedy corporations could manipulate the Sharist system",
"Associating sharing with bravery and leadership"
]
] | [
4,
4,
1,
3,
2,
4,
1
] | [
1,
1,
0,
0,
1,
0,
0
] | Sharism: A Mind Revolution
With the People of the World Wide Web communicating more fully and
freely in Social Media while rallying a Web 2.0 content boom, the inner
dynamics of such a creative explosion must be studied more closely. What
motivates those who join this movement and what future will they create?
A key fact is that a superabundance of community respect and social
capital are being accumulated by those who share. The key motivator of
Social Media and the core spirit of Web 2.0 is a mind switch called
Sharism. Sharism suggests a re-orientation of personal values. We see it
in User Generated Content. It is the pledge of Creative Commons. It is
in the plans of future-oriented cultural initiatives. Sharism is also a
mental practice that anyone can try, a social-psychological attitude to
transform a wide and isolated world into a super-smart Social Brain.
The Neuron Doctrine
Sharism is encoded in the Human Genome. Although eclipsed by the many
pragmatisms of daily life, the theory of Sharism finds basis in
neuroscience and its study of the working model of the human brain.
Although we can’t entirely say how the brain works as a whole, we do
have a model of the functional mechanism of the nervous system and its
neurons. A neuron is not a simple organic cell, but a very powerful,
electrically excitable biological processor. Groups of neurons form
vastly interconnected networks, which, by changing the strength of the
synapses between cells, can process information, and learn. A neuron, by
sharing chemical signals with its neighbors, can be integrated into more
meaningful patterns that keep the neuron active and alive. Moreover,
such a simple logic can be iterated and amplified, since all neurons
work on a similar principle of connecting and sharing. Originally, the
brain is quite open. A neural network exists to share activity and
information, and I believe this model of the brain should inspire ideas
and decisions about human networks.
Thus, our brain supports sharing in its very system-nature. This has
profound implications for the creative process. Whenever you have an
intention to create, you will find it easier to generate more creative
ideas if you keep the sharing process firmly in mind. The
idea-forming-process is not linear, but more like an avalanche of
amplifications along the thinking path. It moves with the momentum of a
creative snowball. If your internal cognitive system encourages sharing,
you can engineer a feedback loop of happiness, which will help you
generate even more ideas in return. It’s a kind of butterfly- effect, as
the small creative energy you spend will eventually return to make you,
and the world, more creative.
However, daily decisions for most adults are quite low in creative
productivity, if only because they’ve switched off their sharing paths.
People generally like to share what they create, but in a culture that
tells them to be protective of their ideas, people start to believe in
the danger of sharing. Then Sharism will be degraded in their mind and
not encouraged in their society. But if we can encourage someone to
share, her sharing paths will stay open. Sharism will be kept in her
mind as a memory and an instinct. If in the future she faces a creative
choice, her choice will be, “Share.”
These mind-switches are too subtle to be felt. But since the brain, and
society, is a connected system, the accumulation of these
micro-attitudes, from neuron to neuron and person to person, can result
in observable behavior. It is easy to tell if a person, a group, a
company, a nation is oriented toward Sharism or not. For those who are
not, what they defend as “cultural goods” and “intellectual property”
are just excuses for the status quo of keeping a community closed. Much
of their “culture” will be protected, but the net result is the direct
loss of many other precious ideas, and the subsequent loss of all the
potential gains of sharing. This lost knowledge is a black hole in our
life, which may start to swallow other values as well.
Non-sharing culture misleads us with its absolute separation of Private
and Public space. It makes creative action a binary choice between
public and private, open and closed. This creates a gap in the spectrum
of knowledge. Although this gap has the potential to become a valuable
creative space, concerns about privacy make this gap hard to fill. We
shouldn’t be surprised that, to be safe, most people keep their sharing
private and stay “closed.” They may fear the Internet creates a
potential for abuse that they can’t fight alone. However, the paradox
is: The less you share, the less power you have.
New Technologies and the Rise of Sharism
Let’s track back to 1999, when there were only a few hundred pioneer
bloggers around the world, and no more than ten times that many readers
following each blog. Human history is always so: something important was
happening, but the rest of the world hadn’t yet realized it. The shift
toward easy-to-use online publishing triggered a soft revolution in just
five years. People made a quick and easy transition from reading blogs,
to leaving comments and taking part in online conversations, and then to
the sudden realization that they should become bloggers themselves. More
bloggers created more readers, and more readers made more blogs. The
revolution was viral.
Bloggers generate lively and timely information on the Internet, and
connect to each other with RSS, hyperlinks, comments, trackbacks and
quotes. The small-scale granularity of the content can fill discrete
gaps in experience and thus record a new human history. Once you become
a blogger, once you have accumulated so much social capital in such a
small site, it’s hard to stop. We can’t explain this fact with a theory
of addiction. It’s an impulse to share. It’s the energy of the memes
that want to be passed from mouth to mouth and mind to mind. It’s more
than just E-mail. It’s Sharism.
Bloggers are always keen to keep the social context of their posts in
mind, by asking themselves, “Who is going to see this?” Bloggers are
agile in adjusting their tone−and privacy settings−to advance ideas and
stay out of trouble. It’s not self-censorship, but a sense of smart
expression. But once blogs reached the tipping point, they expanded into
the blogosphere. This required a more delicate social networking system
and content- sharing architecture. But people now understand that they
can have better control over a wide spectrum of relationships. Like how
Flickr allows people to share their photos widely, but safely. The
checkbox-based privacy of Flickr may seem unfamiliar to a new user, but
you can use it to toy with the mind-switches of Sharism. By checking a
box we can choose to share or not to share. From my observations, I have
seen photographers on Flickr become more open to sharing, while
retaining flexible choices.
The rapid emergence of Social Applications that can communicate and
cooperate, by allowing people to output content from one service to
another, is letting users pump their memes into a pipeline-like
ecosystem. This interconnectedness allows memes to travel along multiple
online social networks, and potentially reach a huge audience. As a
result, such a Micro-pipeline system is making Social Media a true
alternative to broadcast media. These new technologies are reviving
Sharism in our closed culture.
Local Practice, Global Gain
If you happened to lose your Sharism in a bad educational or cultural
setting, it’s hard to get it back. But it’s not impossible. A
persistence of practice can lead to a full recovery. You can think of
Sharism as a spiritual practice. But you must practice everyday.
Otherwise, you might lose the power of sharing. Permanently.
You might need something to spur you on, to keep you from quitting and
returning to a closed mindset. Here’s an idea: put a sticky note on your
desk that says, “What do you want to share today?” I’m not kidding.
Then, if anything interesting comes your way: Share It! The easiest way
to both start and keep sharing is by using different kinds of social
software applications. Your first meme you want to share may be small,
but you can amplify it with new technologies. Enlist some people from
your network and invite them into a new social application. At first it
might be hard to feel the gains of Sharism. The true test then is to see
if you can keep track of the feedback that you get from sharing. You
will realize that almost all sharing activities will generate positive
results. The happiness that this will obtain is only the most immediate
reward. But there are others.
The first type of reward that you will get comes in the form of
comments. Then you know you’ve provoked interest, appreciation,
excitement. The second reward is access to all the other stuff being
shared by friends in your network. Since you know and trust them, you
will be that much more interested in what they have to share. Already,
the return is a multiple of the small meme you first shared. But the
third type of return is more dramatic still. Anything you share can be
forwarded, circulated and republished via other people’s networks. This
cascade effect can spread your work to the networked masses.
Improvements in social software are making the speed of dissemination as
fast as a mouse-click. You should get to know the Sharism-You. You’re
about to become popular, and fast
This brings us to the fourth and final type of return. It has a meaning
not only for you, but for the whole of society. If you so choose, you
may allow others to create derivative works from what you share. This
one choice could easily snowball into more creations along the sharing
path, from people at key nodes in the network who are all as passionate
about creating and sharing as you are. After many iterative rounds of
development, a large creative work may spring from your choice to share.
Of course, you will get the credit that you asked for, and deserve. And
it’s okay to seek financial rewards. But you will in every case get
something just as substantial: Happiness.
The more people who create in the spirit of Sharism, the easier it will
be to attain well- balanced and equitable Social Media that is woven by
people themselves. Media won’t be controlled by any single person but
will rely on the even distribution of social networking. These “Shaeros”
(Sharing Heroes) will naturally become the opinion leaders in the first
wave of Social Media. However, these media rights will belong to
everyone. You yourself can be both producer and consumer in such a
system.
Sharism Safeguards Your Rights
Still, many questions will be raised about Sharism as an initiative in
new age. The main one is copyright. One concern is that any loss of
control over copyrighted content will lead to noticeable deficits in
personal wealth, or just loss of control. 5 years ago, I would have said
that this was a possibility. But things are changing today. The sharing
environment is more protected than you might think. Many new social
applications make it easy to set terms-of-use along your sharing path.
Any infringement of those terms will be challenged not just by the law,
but by your community. Your audience, who benefit form your sharing, can
also be the gatekeepers of your rights. Even if you are a traditional
copyright holder, this sounds ideal.
Furthermore, by realizing all the immediate and emergent rewards that
can be had by sharing, you may eventually find that copyright and “All
Rights Reserved” are far from your mind. You will enjoy sharing too much
to worry about who is keeping a copy. The new economic formula is, the
more people remix your works, the higher the return.
I want to point out that Sharism is not Communism, nor Socialism. As for
those die- hard Communists we know, they have often abused people’s
sharing nature and forced them to give up their rights, and their
property. Socialism, that tender Communism, in our experience also
lacked respect for these rights. Under these systems, the state owns all
property. Under Sharism, you can keep ownership, if you want. But I like
to share. And this is how I choose to spread ideas, and prosperity
Sharism is totally based on your own consensus. It’s not a very hard
concept to understand, especially since copyleft movements like the Free
Software Foundation and Creative Commons have been around for years.
These movements are redefining a more flexible spectrum of licenses for
both developers and end-users to tag their works. Because the new
licenses can be recognized by either humans or machines, it’s becoming
easier to re-share those works in new online ecosystems.
The Spirit of the Web, a Social Brain
Sharism is the Spirit of the Age of Web 2.0. It has the consistency of a
naturalized Epistemology and modernized Axiology, but also promises the
power of a new Internet philosophy. Sharism will transform the world
into an emergent Social Brain: a networked hybrid of people and
software. We are Networked Neurons connected by the synapses of Social
Software.
This is an evolutionary leap, a small step for us and a giant one for
human society. With new “hairy” emergent technologies sprouting all
around us, we can generate higher connectivities and increase the
throughput of our social links. The more open and strongly connected we
social neurons are, the better the sharing environment will be for all
people. The more collective our intelligence, the wiser our actions will
be. People have always found better solutions through conversations. Now
we can put it all online.
Sharism will be the politics of the next global superpower. It will not
be a country, but a new human network joined by Social Software. This
may remain a distant dream, and even a well-defined public sharing
policy might not be close at hand. But the ideas that I’m discussing can
improve governments today. We can integrate our current and emerging
democratic systems with new folksonomies (based on the collaborative,
social indexing of information) to enable people to make queries, share
data and remix information for public use. The collective intelligence
of a vast and equitable sharing environment can be the gatekeeper of our
rights, and a government watchdog. In the future, policymaking can be
made more nuanced with the micro-involvement of the sharing community.
This “Emergent Democracy” is more real-time than periodical
parliamentary sessions. It will also increase the spectrum of our
choices, beyond the binary options of “Yes” or “No” referenda.
Representative democracy will become more timely and diligent, because
we will represent ourselves within the system.
Sharism will result in better social justice. In a healthy sharing
environment, any evidence of injustice can get amplified to get the
public’s attention. Anyone who has been abused can get real and instant
support from her peers and her peers’ peers. Appeals to justice will
take the form of petitions through multiple, interconnected channels.
Using these tools, anyone can create a large social impact. With
multiple devices and many social applications, each of us can become
more sociable, and society more individual. We no longer have to act
alone.
Emergent democracy will only happen when Sharism becomes the literacy of
the majority. Since Sharism can improve communication, collaboration and
mutual understanding, I believe it has a place within the educational
system. Sharism can be applied to any cultural discourse, CoP (Community
of Practice) or problem-solving context. It is also an antidote to
social depression, since sharelessness is just dragging our society
down. In present or formerly totalitarian countries, this downward cycle
is even more apparent. The future world will be a hybrid of human and
machine that will generate better and faster decisions anytime,
anywhere. The flow of information between minds will become more
flexible and more productive. These vast networks of sharing will create
a new social order−A Mind Revolution!
|