The Many Worlds of Poul Anderson

by Roger Elwood

  United States Senate, a gentleman. Therefore he straightened his high-collared blue naval tunic, ran a nervous hand down the creases of his white naval trousers, buffed his shining naval boots on the spilled-out naval parachute, and reached for his emergency kit.

  He neglected to comb his rumpled brown hair, and his lanky form did not exactly snap to attention. But he was, after all, quite alone.

  Not that he intended to remain in that possibly estimable condition. He shrugged the heavy packsack off his shoulders. It had been the only thing he grabbed besides the parachute when his boat failed, and the only thing he really needed. His hands fumbled it open and he reached in for the small but powerful radio which would bring help.

  He drew out a book.

  It looked unfamiliar, somehow … had they issued a new set of instructions since he was in boot camp? He opened it, looking for the section on Radios, Emergency, Use of. He read the first page he turned to:

  “—apparently incredibly fortunate historical development was, of course, quite logical. The relative decline in politico-economic influence of the Northern Hemisphere during the later twentieth century, the shift of civilized dominance to a Southeast Asia-Indian Ocean region with more resources, did not, as alarmists at the time predicted, spell the end of Western civilization. Rather did it spell an upsurge of Anglo-Saxon democratic and libertarian influence, for the simple reason that this area, which now held the purse strings of Earth, was in turn primarily led by Australia and New Zealand, which nations retained their primordial loyalty to the British Crown. The consequent renascence and renewed growth of the British Commonwealth of Nations, the shaping of its councils into a truly world—even interplanetary—government, climaxed as it was by the American Accession, has naturally tended to fix Western culture, even in small details of everyday life, in the mold of that particular time, a tendency which was accentuated by the unexpectedly early invention of the faster-than-light secondary drive and repeated contact with truly different mentalities, and has produced in the Solar System a social stability which our forefathers would have considered positively Utopian and which the Service, working through the Interbeing League, has as its goal to bring to all sentient races—”

  “Guk!” said Alex.

  He snapped the book shut. Its title leered up at him:

  EMPLOYEES’ ORIENTATION MANUAL

  By Adalbert Parr, Chief Control Commissioner

  Cultural Development Service

  Foreign Ministry of the United Commonwealths

  League City, N.Z., Sol III

  “Oh, no!” said Alex.

  Frantically, he pawed through the pack. There must be a radio … a ray thrower … a compass … one little can of beans?

  He extracted some five thousand tightly bundled copies of CDS Form J-16-LKR, to be filled out in quadruplicate by applicant and submitted with attached Forms G-776802 and W-2-ZGU.

  Alex’s snub-nosed face sagged open. His blue eyes revolved incredulously. There followed a long, dreadful moment in which he could only think how utterly useless the English language was when it came to describing issue-room clerks.

  “Oh, hell,” said Alexander Jones.

  He got up and began to walk.

  §

  He woke slowly with the sunrise and lay there for a while wishing he hadn’t. A long hike on an empty stomach followed by an uneasy attempt to sleep on the ground, plus the prospect of several thousand kilometers of the same, is not conducive to joy. And those animals, whatever they were, that had been yipping and howling all night sounded so damnably hungry.

  “He looks human.”

  “Yeah. But he ain’t dressed like no human.”

  Alex opened his eyes with a wild surmise. The drawling voices spoke … English!

  He closed his eyes again, immediately. “No,” he groaned.

  “He’s awake, Tex.” The voices were high-pitched, slightly unreal. Alex curled up into the embryonic position and reflected on the peculiar horror of a squeaky drawl.

  “Yeah. Git up, stranger. These hear parts ain’t healthy right now, nohow.”

  “No,” gibbered Alex. ‘Tell me it isn’t so. Tell me I’ve gone crazy, but deliver me from its being real!”

  “I dunno.” The voice was uncertain. “He don’t talk like no human.”

  Alex decided there was no point in wishing them out of existence. They looked harmless, anyway—to everything except his sanity. He crawled to his feet, his bones seeming to grate against each other, and faced the natives.

  The first expedition, he remembered, had reported two intelligent races. Hokas and Slissii, on this planet. And these must be Hokas. For small blessings, give praises! There were two of them, almost identical to the untrained Terrestrial eye: about a meter tall, tubby and golden-furred, with round bluntmuzzled heads and small black eyes. Except for the stubbyfingered hands, they resembled nothing so much as giant teddy bears.

  The first expedition had, however, said nothing about their speaking English with a drawl. Or about their wearing the dress of Earth’s nineteenth-century West.

  All the American historical stereofilms he had ever seen gabbled in Alex’s mind as he assessed their costumes. They wore—let’s see, start at the top and work down and try to keep your reason in the process—ten-gallon hats with brims wider than their own shoulders, tremendous red bandanas, checked shirts of riotous hues, levis, enormously flaring chaps, and high-heeled boots with outsize spurs. Two sagging cartridge belts on each plump waist supported heavy Colt six-shooters which almost dragged on the ground.

  One of the natives was standing before the Earthman, the other was mounted nearby, holding the reins of the first ones —well—his animal. The beasts were about the size of a pony, and had four hoofed feet … also whiplike tails, long necks with beaked heads, and scaly green hides. But of course, thought Alex wildly, of course they bore Western saddles with lassos at the horns. Of course. Who ever heard of a cowboy without a lasso?

  “Wa’l, I see yo’re awake/’ said the standing Hoka. “Howdy, stranger, howdy.” He extended his hand. T’m Tex and my pardner here is Monty.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” mumbled Alex, shaking hands in a dreamlike fashion. “I’m Alexander Jones.”

  “I dunno,” said Monty dubiously. “He ain’t named like no human.”

  “Are yo’ human, Alexanderjones?” asked Tex.

  The spaceman got a firm grip on himself and said, spacing his words with care: “I am Ensign Alexander Jones of the Terrestrial Interstellar Survey Service, attached to HMS Draco.” Now it was the Hokas who looked lost. He added wearily: “In other words, I’m from Earth. I’m human. Satisfied?”

  “I s’pose,” said Monty, still doubtful. “But we’d better take yo’ back to town with us an’ let Slick talk to yo’. He’ll know more about it. Cain’t take no chances in these hyar times.”

  “Why not?” said Tex, with a surprising bitterness. “What we got to lose, anyhow? But come on, Alexanderjones, we’ll go on to town. We shore don’t want to be found by no Injun war parties.”

  “Injuns?” asked Alex.

  “Shore. They’re cornin’, you know. We’d better sashay along. My pony’ll carry double.”

  Alex was not especially happy at riding a nervous reptile in a saddle built for a Hoka. Fortunately, the race was sufficiently broad in the beam for their seats to have spare room for a slim Earthman. The “pony” trotted ahead at a surprisingly fast and steady pace. Reptiles on Toka—so-called by the first expedition from the word for “earth” in the language of the most advanced Hoka society—seemed to be more highly evolved than in the Solar System. A fully developed four-chambered heart and a better nervous system made them almost equivalent to mammals.

  Nevertheless, the creature stank.

  Alex looked around. The prairie was just as big and bare, his ship just as far away.

  “ ’Tain’t none o’ my business, I reckon,” said Tex, “but how’d yo’ happen to be hyar?”

  �
�It’s a long story,” said Alex absent-mindedly. His thoughts at the moment were chiefly about food. ‘The Draco was out on Survey, mapping new planetary systems, and our course happened to take us close to this star, your sun, which we knew had been visited once before. We thought we’d look in and check on conditions, as well as resting ourselves on an Earth-type world. I was one of the several who went out in scoutboats to skim over this continent. Something went wrong, my engines failed and I barely escaped with my life. I parachuted out, and as bad luck would have it, my boat crashed in a river. So—well—due to various other circumstances, I just had to start hiking back toward my ship.”

  “Won’t yore pardners come after yo’?”

  “Sure, they’ll search—but how likely are they to find a shattered wreck on the bottom of a river, with half a continent to investigate? I could, perhaps have grubbed a big SOS in the soil and hoped it would be seen from the air, but what with the necessity of hunting food and all … well, I figured my best chance was to keep moving. But now I’m hungry enough to eat a … a buffalo.”

  “Ain’t likely to have buffalo meat in town,” said the Hoka imperturbably. “But we got good T-bone steaks.”

  “Oh,” said Alex.

  ‘To’ wouldn’t’a lasted long, hoofin’ it,” said Monty. “Ain’t got no gun.”

  “No, thanks to—never mind!” said Alex. “I thought I’d try to make a bow and some arrows.”

  “Bow an’ arrers—Say!” Monty squinted suspiciously at him. “What yo’ been doin’ around the Injuns?”

  “I ain’t—I haven’t been near any Injuns, dammit!”

  “Bows an’ arrers is Injun weapons, stranger.”

  “I wish they was,” mourned Tex. “We didn’t have no trouble back when only Hokas had six-guns. But now the Injuns got ’em too, it’s all up with us.” A tear trickled down his button nose.

  If the cowboys are teddy bears, thought Alex, then who— or what—are the Indians?

  “It’s lucky for yo’ me an’ Tex happened to pass by,” said Monty. “We was out to see if we couldn’t round up a few more steers afore the Injuns get here. No such luck, though. The greenskins done rustled ’em all.”

  Greenskins! Alex remembered a detail in the report of the first expedition: two intelligent races, the mammalian Hokas and the reptilian Slissii. And the Slissii, being stronger and more warlike, preyed on the Hokas—

  “Are the Injuns Slissii?” he asked.

  “Wa’l, they’re ornery, at least,” said Monty.

  “I mean … well … are they big tall beings, bigger than I am, but walking sort of stooped over … tails and fangs and green skins, and their talk is full of hissing noises?”

  ‘Why, shore. What else?” Monty shook his head, puzzled. “If yo’re a human, how come yo’ don’t even know what a Injun is?”

  They had been plop-plopping toward a large and noisy dust cloud. As they neared, Alex saw the cause, a giant herd of— uh—

  “Longhorn steers,” explained Monty.

  Well … yes … one long horn apiece, on the snout But at least the red-haired, short-legged, barrel-bodied “cattle” were mammals. Alex made out brands on the flanks of some. The entire herd was being urged along by fast-riding Hoka cowboys.

  “That’s the X Bar X outfit,” said Tex. “The Lone Rider decided to try an’ drive ’em ahead o’ the Injuns. But I’m afeered the greenskins’ll catch up with him purty soon.”

  “He cain’t do much else,” answered Monty. “All the ranchers, just about, are drivin’ their stock off the range. There just ain’t any place short o’ the Devil’s Nose whar we can make a stand. I shore don’t intend tryin’ to stay in town an’ hold off the Injuns, an’ I don’t think nobody else does either, in spite o’ Slick an’ the Lone Rider wantin’ us to.” “Hey,” objected Alex. “I thought you said the, er, Lone Rider was fleeing. Now you say he wants to fight. Which is it?”

  “Oh, the Lone Rider what owns the X Bar X is runnin’, but the Lone Rider o’ the Lazy T wants to stay. So do the Lone Rider o’ Buffalo Stomp, the Really Lone Rider, an’ the Loneliest Rider, but I’ll bet they changes their minds when the Injuns gets as close to them as the varmints is to us right now.”

  Alex clutched his head to keep it from flying off his shoulders. “How many Lone Riders are there, anyway?” he shouted.

  “How should I know?” shrugged Monty. “I knows at least ten myself. I gotta say,” he added exasperatedly, “that English shore ain’t got as many names as the old Hoka did. It gets gosh-awful tiresome to have a hundred other Montys around, or yell for Tex an’ be asked which one.”

  They passed the bawling herd at a jog trot and topped a low rise. Beyond it lay a village, perhaps a dozen small frame houses and a single rutted street lined with square-built false-fronted structures. The place was jammed with Hokas—on foot, mounted, in covered wagons and buggies—refugees from the approaching Injuns, Alex decided. As he was carried down the hill, he saw a clumsily lettered sign:

  WELCOME TO CANYON GULCH

  Pop. Weekdays 212

  Saturdays 1000

  “We’ll take yo’ to Slick,” said Monty above the hubbub. “He’ll know what to do with yo’.’’

  They forced their ponies slowly through the swirling, pressing, jabbering throng. The Hokas seemed to be a highly excitable race, given to arm-waving and shouting at the top of their lungs. There was no organization whatsoever to the evacuation, which proceeded slowly with its traffic tie-ups, arguments, gossip exchange, and exuberant pistol shooting into the air. Quite a few ponies and wagons stood deserted before the saloons, which formed an almost solid double row along the street.

  Alex tried to remember what there had been in the report of the first expedition. It was a brief report, the ship had only been on Toka for a couple of months. But—yes—the Hokas were described as friendly, merry, amazingly quick to learn … and hopelessly inefficient. Only their walled seacoast towns, in a state of bronze-age technology, had been able to stand off the Slissii; otherwise the reptiles were slowly but steadily conquering the scattered ursinoid tribes. A Hoka fought bravely when he was attacked, but shoved all thought of the enemy out of his cheerful mind whenever the danger was not immediately visible. It never occurred to the Hokas to band together in a massed offensive against the Slissii; such a race of individualists could never have formed an army anyway.

  A nice, but rather ineffectual little people. Alex felt somewhat smug about his own height, his dashing spaceman’s uniform, and the fighting, slugging, persevering human spirit which had carried man out to the stars. He felt like an elder brother.

  He’d have to do something about this situation, give these comic-opera creatures a hand. Which might also involve a promotion for Alexander Braithwaite Jones, since Earth wanted a plentiful supply of planets with friendly dominant species, and the first report on the Injuns—Slissii, blast it!—made it unlikely that they could ever get along with mankind.

  A. Jones, hero. Maybe then Tanni and I can—

  He grew aware that a fat, elderly Hoka was gaping at him, together with the rest of Canyon Gulch. This particular one wore a large metal star pinned to his vest.

  “Howdy, sheriff/’ said Tex, and snickered.

  “Howdy, Tex, old pal,” said the sheriff obsequiously. “An’ my good old sidekick Monty too. Howdy, howdy, gents! Who’s this hyar stranger—not a human?”

  “Yep, that’s what he says. Whar’s Slick?”

  “Which Slick?”

  ‘The Slick, yo’—yo’ sheriff!”

  The fat Hoka winced. “I think he’s in the backroom o’ the Paradise Saloon,” he said. And humbly: “Uh, Tex … Monty … yo’ll remember yore old pal come ee-lection day, won’t yo’?”

  “Reckon we might,” said Tex genially. “Yo’ been sheriff long enough.”

  “Oh, thank yo’, boys, thank yo’! If only the others will have yore kind hearts—” The eddying crowd swept the sheriff away.

  “What off Earth?” excl
aimed Alex. “What the hell was he trying to get you to do?”

  “Vote ag’in him come the next ee-lection, o’ course,” said Monty.

  “Against him? But the sheriff … he runs the town … maybe?”

  Tex and Monty looked bewildered. “Now I really wonder if yo’re human after all,” said Tex. “Why, the humans themselves taught us the sheriff is the dumbest man in town. Only we don’t think it’s fair a man should have to be called that all his life, so we chooses him once a y’ar.”

  “Buck there has been eelected sheriff three times runnin’,” said Monty. “He’s really dumb!”

  “But who is this Slick?” cried Alex a trifle wildly.

  “The town gambler, o’ course.”

  “What have I got to do with a town gambler?”

  Tex and Monty exchanged glances. “Look, now,” said Monty with strained patience, “we done allowed for a lot with yo’. But when yo’ don’t even know what the officer is what runs a town, that’s goin’ just a little too far.”

  “Oh,” said Alex. “A kind of city manager, then.”

  “Yo’re plumb loco,” said Monty firmly. Everybody knows a town is run by a town gambler!”

  §

  Slick wore the uniform of his office: tight pants, a black coat, a checked vest, a white shirt with wing collar and string tie, a diamond stickpin, a Derringer in one pocket and a pack of cards in the other. He looked tired and harried; he must have been under a tremendous strain in the last few days, but he welcomed Alex with eager volubility and led him into an office furnished in vaguely nineteenth-century style. Tex and Monty came along, barring the door against the trailing, chattering crowds.

  “We’ll rustle up some sandwiches for yo’,” beamed Slick. He offered Alex a vile purple cigar of some local weed, lit one himself, and sat down behind the rolltop desk. “Now,” he said, “when can we get help from yore human friends?” “Not soon, I’m afraid,” said Alex. “The Draco crew doesn’t know about this. They’ll be spending all their time flying around in search of me. Unless they chance to find me here, which isn’t likely, they won’t even learn about the Injun war.” “How long they figger to be here?”