The Human Zero and Other Science-Fiction Masterpieces

by Sam Moskowitz

  “All right—we’ve heard that before. Yet you propose giving it to us?”

  “Who said anything about giving?”

  There was a pregnant silence. Then McKenzie said cautiously; “Of course, there’s no need to tell you that we”‘ be interested—very interested. If you’ll let us have the figures on efficiency, extraction rates, and all the other relevant statistics—no need to tell us the actual technical details if you don’t want to—then we’ll be able to talk business. I can’t really speak for my associates but I’m sure that they can raise enough cover to make any deal—"

  “Scott,” said Romano—and his voice now held a note of tiredness that for the first time reflected his age—”I’m not interested in doing a deal with your partners. I haven’t time to haggle with the boys in the front room and their lawyers and their lawyers’ lawyers. Fifty years I’ve “ doing that sort of thing, and believe me, I’m tired, is my development. It was done with my money, and the equipment is in my ship. I want to do a personal de direct with you. You can handle it from then on.”

  McKenzie blinked.

  “I couldn’t swing anything as big as this,” he protested “Sure, I appreciate the offer, but if this does what you say, it’s worth billions. And I’m just a poor but honest millionaire.”

  “Money I’m no longer interested in. What would I with it at my time of life? No, Scott, there’s just one thing I want now—and I want it right away, this minute. Give me the ‘Sea Spray’, and you can have my process.

  “You’re crazy! Why, even with inflation, you co build the ‘Spray’ for inside a million. And your process must be worth—”

  “I’m not arguing, Scott. What you say is true, but I’d an old man in a hurry, and it would take me a year to get a ship like yours built. I’ve wanted her ever since you showed her to me back at Miami. My proposal ‘•&. that you take over the ‘Valency’, with all her lab equip-; ment and records. It will only take an hour to swap out personal effects—we’ve a lawyer here who can make it all legal. And then I’m heading out into the Caribbean, down through the islands, and across the Pacific.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out?” said McKenzie in awed wonder.

  “Yes. You can take it or leave it.”

  “I never heard such a crazy deal in my life,” said McKenzie, somewhat petulantly. “Of course I’ll take it. I know a stubborn old mule when I see one.”

  The next hour was one of frantic activity. Sweating crew-members rushed back and forth with suitcases and bundles, while Dr. Romano sat happily in the midst of the turmoil he had created, a blissful smile upon his wrinkled old face. George and Professor McKenzie went into a legal huddle, and emerged with a document which Romano signed with hardly a glance.,

  Unexpected things began to emerge from the “Sea Spray”, such as a beautiful mutation mink and a beautiful non-mutation blonde.

  “Hello, Sylvia,” said Dr. Romano politely. “I’m afraid find the quarters here a little more cramped. The Professor never mentioned you were aboard. Never mind we won’t mention it either. Not actually in the contract, a gentleman’s agreement, shall we say? It would be such a pity to upset Mrs. McKenzie.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” pouted Sylvia, “Someone has to do all the Professor’s typing.”

  “And you do it damn badly, my dear,” said McKenzie, assisting her over the rail with true Southern gallantry, couldn’t help admiring his composure in such an embarrassing situation—he was by no means sure that he would have managed as well. But he wished he had the opportunity to find out.

  At last the chaos subsided, the stream of boxes and bundles subsided to a trickle. Dr. Romano shook hands with everybody, thanked George and Harry for their assistance, strode to the bridge of the “Sea Spray”, and ten minutes later, was half-way to the horizon. f Harry was wondering if it wasn’t about time for them to take their departure as well—they had never got round to explaining to Professor McKenzie what they were doing here in the first place—when the radio-telephone started calling. Dr. Romano was on the line.

  “Forgotten his tooth-brush, I suppose,” said George.

  It was not quite as trivial as that. Fortunately, the loudspeaker was switched on. Eavesdropping was practically forced upon them and required none of the effort that makes it so embarrassing to a gentleman.

  “Look here, Scott,” said Dr. Romano, “I think I owe you some sort of explanation.”

  “If you’ve gypped me, I’ll have you for every cent—”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. But I did rather pressurize you,! though everything I said was perfectly true. Don’t get too; annoyed with me—you’ve got a bargain. It’ll be a long time, though, before it makes you any money, and you’ll have to sink a few millions of your own into it first. You ‘ see, the efficiency has to be increased by about three orders of magnitude before it will be a commercial proposition: that bar of uranium cost me a couple of thou sand dollars. Now don’t blow your top—it can be done I’m certain of that. Dr. Kendall is the man to get: he all the basic work—hire him away from my people he ever much it costs you. You’re a stubborn cuss and know you’ll finish the job now it’s on your hands. That’s why I wanted you to have it. Poetic justice, too—you’ll be able to repay some of the damage you’ve done to land. Too bad it’ll make you a billionaire, but that can’t be helped.

  “Wait a minute—don’t cut in on me. I’d have finished the job myself if I had the time, but it’ll take at least three more years. And the doctors say I’ve only got six months I wasn’t kidding when I said I was in a hurry. I’m glad I clinched the deal without having to tell you that, but believe me I’d have used it as a weapon if I had to. Just one thing more—when you do get the process working name it after me, will you? That’s all—it’s no use calling me back. I won’t answer—and I know you can’t cab me.”

  Professor McKenzie didn’t turn a hair.

  “I thought it was something like that,” he said to one in particular. Then he sat down, produced an elaborate pocket slide-rule, and became oblivious to the work He scarcely looked up when George and Harry, feeling very much outclassed, made their polite departure and silently snorkeled away.

  “Like so many things that happen these days,” concluded Harry Purvis* “I still don’t know the final outcome of this meeting. I rather imagine that Professor McKenzie has run into some snags, or we’d have heard rumors about the process by now. But I’ve not the slightest doubt that sooner or later it’ll be perfected, so get ready to sell your mining shares. . . .

  “As for Dr. Romano, he wasn’t kidding, though his doctors were a little out in their estimates. He lasted a full year, and I guess the ‘Sea Spray’ helped a lot. They buried him in mid-Pacific, and it’s just occurred to me that the old boy would have appreciated that. I told you what fanatical conservationist he was, and it’s a piquant thought even now some of his atoms may be going through his own molecular sieve. . . .

  “I notice some incredulous looks, but it’s a fact. If you ok a tumbler of water, poured it into the ocean, mixed ell, then filled the glass from the sea, there’d still be some scores of molecules of water from the original sample in the tumbler. So—” he gave a gruesome little buckle—”it’s only a matter of tune before not only Dr. Romano, but all of us, make some contribution to the eve. And with that thought, gentlemen, I bid you all a pleasant good-night.”

  The Proxy Head

  by Robert Bloch

  Every time there is a lull in the news, the newspapers begin highlighting the reports of strange objects and "flying saucers" Seen in the skies, and embellish their stories with wild conjectures as to the existence of these objects, their possible origin and their purpose. A most popular theory suggests that they are extraterres trial observers. Actually, a really intelligent nonhuman race might have means of getting their information a lot closer to the source and with great authenticity. Consider Mr. Bloch's views on the possibility.

  Robert Bloch is perhaps best noted
for the touch of humor to be found in many of his stories. Despite this, he has done some of his best work in a serious vein. His novel, The Scarf, has obtained considerable popularity, and his short story collection. The Opener of the Way, has won favor.

  *

  The tall young man stalked through the hotel lobby and headed for a door marked MEN.

  Once inside the washroom he stood indecisively for a moment, then went over to a cubicle and deposited a nickel. The door swung open.

  He entered, shut the door, listened to the click. The click echoed a different click . . . click ... click ...

  The tall young man reached up, removed his wig, and opened the top of his head.

  He stood there, concealed in the cubicle, and his long slim fingers worked with the precision of delicate instruments. They made certain adjustments inside his skull, testing and setting and manipulating.

  Sonic a little off, he registered. Visio good but sonic reception poor. The street-noises tended to knock out the adjustment, sometimes. Change blueprints on next model, he registered. Allow wider range of compensation.

  Vibrationary reception worked perfectly, though. The orders from the control vessel came through constantly and with no interference. He knew what he had done, what he was doing, what he must do at all times.

  His instrument-fingers completed their work inside his cranium. For the final check, he pressed the voice-box and uttered a few experimental sounds. A cough, a sigh. The noises echoed in the hollow washroom. Perfect.

  Satisfied, he closed the slot in his head and carefully adjusted the wig once more. It was a handsome wig—real human hair, blond and wavy. He didn't know were the Hostiles had acquired it; probably from the raiding expedition last month when they came down to the desert and picked up those three men. What were they called?

  Prospectors. The message came through vibrationary reception immediately. That reassured him. His guardians were with him every minute, watching him and guiding him. They knew men, studied men, and would supply him with whatever information and instructions he needed under any circumstances. They were exactly aware of what they were doing at all times.

  Although the Alien roboteers were in the ship, a hundred miles up, they would always be with him through the medium of the vibrationary receptor built into his body.

  The young man smiled. Rubberized, synthetic epidermal tissue, carefully coated with plastic, responded instantly. The pseudo-lips parted, disclosing the gleaming perfection of false teeth. A soundless mechanism simulated muscular action. The smile, like everything else about the young man, was perfect.

  A great surge of confidence came to him through the receptor. The Hostiles were proud of him, proud of their work. And well they might be. Wasn't he entirely their creation? Hadn't they studied human anatomy, duplicated it perfectly and with utmost cunning? He could go anywhere, do anything, and never be suspected.

  Never be suspected. That was the big thing. A spy must be careful.

  That was part of the receptor's work, of course. To be careful for him. He was a mere machine. His consciousness was itself an illusion; actually he was only a highly evolved and complicated sending-receiving-registering mechanism. The combination gave him, in the aggregate, a sort of individuality, but it was neither necessary nor important.

  Like the consciousness of men. That wasn't important, either. Stupid, imperfect men—how simple it was to deceive them! His creators, up there in the ship, knew just how to do that. Men are easy to fool. You can do anything you please on this planet if you know how.

  Last night, when he was dropped, for example—dropped in an adaptation of mankind's own "parachute." He was given no conditioning or instructions; all he had to do was follow the orders and impulses coming through the receptor.

  He'd landed in a condition described as—?

  Naked. The word was supplied to him immediately (they knew everything, everything).

  He landed naked. That is to say, without the customary body-covering. According to the rules of mankind, this was wrong. He'd be noticed. So the receptors sent him into the city under the cover of darkness. Told him how to skulk, to hide, to creep ever so cautiously up to the window of the clothing store on the dark, deserted street. And the receptors guided him so that he used his brand-new body to smash the window, smash the sign reading, MONEY TO LOAN-WE BUY AND SELL. And he found the clothing, put it on. Mechanical fingers mastered the new intricacies of dressing, of putting on shoes and tying a tie.

  That would have looked odd to men, if there were one around to see. A life-size mechanical doll, dressing itself in a pawnshop ... grotesque—frightening.

  The receptor interrupted, now. You mustn't frighten them, it communicated. Not unless ordered. You are to be quiet. Do nothing to attract attention. Your job is to observe, react, record. That is all. And remember the dangers.

  Remember the dangers?

  It was hard for his mechanism to translate "remember" into a process and "dangers" into a realized phenomenon. He stood there in the dark cubicle and waited for awareness to come. It came.

  Hastily, he backed away from the bowl. That was one of the dangers. Water. Water and oil and any liquid. His eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, the aperture under the wig must be protected from moisture. Even dampness would destroy the delicate balance that enabled him to function.

  There would be no rain for forty-eight hours. That was known. No danger there. But he must avoid moisture.

  He looked down at the water in the bowl. It looked so harmless, but it was dangerous. Dangerous to him. Not to the Hostiles. They had no such makeups to have to protect. For them, this planet was quite suitable. They had waited and watched and experimented and spied for a long, long time now, until certain that everything would be ideal here.

  All that remained was to assess and analyze the present occupants—mankind. Mankind was many, and the Hostiles were few. The single ship possessed potential power and they could do almost anything, but the sheer weight of numbers promised victory to mankind, provided that mankind was ready to exist.

  That was his job, now. To react and record. To move among men and assess them, analyze their—psychology, the word came from the receptor, together with a complete file of meaning.

  He would spy on men. He would determine, or rather, the Hostiles would determine through him, whether mankind would resist a sudden surprise attack. Were men aggressive enough to put up determined resistance—or, as they presently surmised, would mankind flee from unknown terrors in blind panic?

  It would not take long to find out, now. The ship was up there, ready. They were ready. And he was ready. Ready to go out, to react and record.

  He left the cubicle. There was water in the outer washroom, but he avoided it. He avoided strong lights, too, as directed; he had to avoid places and situations where he'd be expected to—what was it?—eat and sleep. Yes, and he must not touch anyone or be touched. He knew these things, and many more.

  The receptor guided and directed him. It did not furnish explanations until necessary. Then explanations and proper reaction-patterns were instantly available.

  Right now, for example, in the pocket of his suit-coat was a silver object. He had been directed to put it there last night when he broke into the pawnshop. He didn't comprehend why. He had been given no further instructions or orders. Those would conic when needed.

  He walked across the deserted washroom.

  Then the door opened. Two men came in. A fat old man and a thin young man. (Old and young; he knew about that, how to recognize and distinguish all physical types.) They looked at him with the blank impersonality, almost as if they knew that he was a machine, and continued their conversation.

  The communication came to him.

  Walk over to them.

  He walked, heels clicking hollowly on the washroom floor.

  Put your right hand in your pocket.

  The hand moved on its errand.

  Pull out the object and display it.

 
The hand came out.

  Speak as directed, soft voice.

  He said, "Put up your hands!"

  They looked at him, eyes goggling in sudden shock. The older man said, "Look, he's got a gun!" They raised their hands.

  Get their money.

  The communicator told him what money was, its appearance and purpose as a medium of exchange; in a single instant, all of the data on currency was transmitted to him.

  And at the same time, the communicator directed him to get the money; told him how to search their pockets, how to find wallets and loose change.

  He got the money quickly, visio functioning and sonic on, in case of interruptions. But there were no interruptions. The two men stood there, breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the gun in his right hand as his left hand moved inside their pockets.

  For one paradoxical moment, the two humans were standing like machines while he was animate, purposeful, alive. Their roles were reversed.

  Something made a calculation, observed their reactions and estimated. The message came. They are afraid of you. This is fear. This is what to look for in men. Find fear. And when he came into their aura, when his pneumatic fingers touched them, instantly another mechanism located where a stomach would normally be, caught and recorded their respiration-rate, their pulse-rate, the delicate glandular reactions. This was fear. He would recognize it in the future.

  Commands came to him and he carried out orders. He told the men to remove their trousers. He deposited another nickel, herded them into a cubicle and slammed it shut. He opened the washroom window and dropped the trousers into the outer, empty courtyard.

  Then he left the washroom. The money jingled in his pocket, and the bills rustled against his chest. He walked quickly out of the hotel.