Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  That, Skanlan knew, was why Gordon was puzzled almost to despair by what had happened on the planetoid. They must have had rigorous checks, those few men with Mells; much more so than on Earth. It was probably unusual if four hours went by without everyone seeing someone else; or at least, someone seeing everyone.

  And yet, the Hvai had managed to seize five minds in three years. How much easier it would be on Earth, even with the intricate system of checking and cross-checking names and hours. Who would they seize first?

  Skanlan thought over the names of his friends; their jobs, their habits. Which one?

  He left for home early.

  He spent most of the early evening over the punchbowl, mixing a complicated pink-and-green Venusian Paradise Punch. He hoped it would cheer everyone up. Leona, his wife, answered the door. She greeted the guests gaily, trying to instill a little party atmosphere into what seemed to be a gathering of vigilantes. She conveyed just the right tone; not frivolous, but relaxed and merry. Skanlan liked that quality in her. He was sure, however, that everyone could see the bulge in his coat pocket. He hoped it would be taken for a cigarette case.

  He tried to catalogue the names of his guests, but couldn’t seem to concentrate on them. The punch was occupying all his attention. As soon as he discovered which of the seventeen vital ingredients he had left out, it would be done. Now which was it? Vermouth? Skala? No, there were the empty bottles. Bitters? Lime, more than likely. He straightened up for a moment, hearing the doorbell chime again.

  Finding a lime, he squeezed exactly three drops into the concoction. As the lime dissolved, the green became darker, the pink streaks showed through it like jagged lightning. Like hell’s own cauldron, he thought. Then he saw Mitch Morris, the latest arrival, grinning broadly at him. As a matter of fact, all six feet and two hundred pounds of him were grinning broadly. Morris wasn’t the sort to be intimidated by a little call from Security. The rest of the guests were trying to act as though nothing unusual was taking place. Not Morris.

  “I saw your hand shake,” Mitch boomed with comic seriousness. “Loss of motor coordination—a sure sign! And you’re guarding Mells!”

  Skanlan found it very unfunny. A few people around them laughed; it was going to be a party after all. With Morris, it was always a party. He never lost an opportunity to accuse Skanlan, or his wife, of being controlled. He wasn’t going to stop now.

  “I have it on good authority,” Skanlan came back, “that you were holed up in your cellar three minutes past Limit. Will seven or eight of you seize him, please,” he finished, appealing to the guests. That brought a laugh, also.

  They’d laugh at anything. That’s how they were, Skanlan knew. Trying to show that the war strain wasn’t showing on them. Treating time-check as a big joke. Acting as though being controlled were the funniest thing in the world. Well, what the hell? he told himself. If we took it too seriously, we’d all crack up. Like nuts in May, or whenever nuts crack.

  “Pretty good,” Morris said. “Now where’s that guest of yours?” He scooped up a glass of punch, tasted it and smacked his lips. “Good Venus, this . . . Come on, where is he? I won’t assassinate him!”

  Skanlan tried to smile. He found that, unconsciously, he had clamped his hand on the butt of the blaster. Morris protests too much, he told himself. Over-verbose. The man had always been that way, but still . . . He would have to keep an eye on him.

  “Mells is a little late,” Skanlan said. He looked around for his wife.

  “I’ll report him,” Mitch said humorously, in too loud a voice. “I’ll have him scanned. Or blasted. Then his secret will die with him.” He waited for the laugh, then pulled out his notebook, and jotted down the names of the people around him. Everyone was doing the same, marking down Morris’ name and time of arrival. Skanlan unglued his hand from the blaster and picked up a pencil. He found his notebook under a bottle of gin and forced himself to go through the motions of time-check. Mitchell Morris-time-check-2045, by his wrist chronometer. He glanced quickly over his list—yes, he had everyone checked. As host, he had to be accurate.

  Morris wandered to the other side of the room to get in the rest of his time checks. The knot of people around the punchbowl slowly dissolved. Skanlan started transferring the contents of the punchbowl to tall, frosted glasses. He knew, without turning around, that his wife was nearby, walking toward him.

  “’Lo, honey,” she said softly, behind his shoulder.

  “Hi, tall, dark and splendiferous,” he replied lightly, filling a glass for her. “Nectar for my lady?” He handed her a pink and green glass with elaborate casualness.

  “Prithee, thanks.” She winked at him over the rim.

  “Has Mitch accused you of being controlled?” he asked her, returning the wink.

  “He intimated that I was head of the Hvai. Of course, I laughed politely.”

  “War is hell on introverts,” Skanlan told her. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him. I—”

  “The doorbell!”

  Skanlan answered it himself, certain that it would be Mells. One look at the man at the door told him he was right.

  High forehead, thick glasses. Dark clothes, hanging loosely off sloped shoulders. The pallor of a man who has spent a long time on a strange planet, one unwarmed by a friendly, nearby sun. He was of average height. Skanlan guessed his age as somewhere in the middle forties, a good ten years older than himself. Gordon stood beside him.

  “Here he is,” Gordon said. He turned quickly and left. Skanlan didn’t even have time to invite him in.

  “Sorry to be such a bother,” Mells said mildly.

  “Not at all,” Skanlan replied. He liked the man at once. “Come on in.”

  He led his distinguished guest inside. Fumbling in his pockets, he realized that his notebook was still over by the punchbowl. He went over to it and noted Mells’ time of arrival: Time check—2058. Above the noise, he could hear Mells’ voice saying, “Do I have to write down everybody’s name?” Mells wasn’t used to civilization’s methods of group-protection, Skanlan decided.

  Leona was beside him again. She rested one hand on his shoulder, looking in Mells’ direction. The man was having a difficult time of it already, trying to cope with a barrage of questions from all sides.

  “Is he safe, Joe?” she asked. “With all those people around him?”

  “I don’t know,” Skanlan replied, remembering his job. “I think we’d better cut him out of the crowd.” Together they moved in, and managed to extricate Mells from the people who surrounded him. Skanlan had a hand on his blaster all the time, not sure whether he felt ridiculous or not, as they steered Mells through a side door, into Skanlan’s den. Mells sank gratefully into one of the red leather chairs.

  “We thought you might like a little quiet to begin with,” Skanlan said. “I can vouch for all these people, but still—”

  “Thanks.” Mells smiled gratefully. “Nothing like this on Opal II. Frankly, I much prefer a quiet talk, and—thanks!”

  Leona Skanlan had quietly uncorked her husband’s 2245 Chianti. Graciously, she filled two glasses. Skanlan felt very proud of his tall, slender wife.

  “I think I’d better go back to the guests,” she said. “I’ll make your excuses for you.” She closed the door quietly behind her. “Lovely woman,” Mells said.

  “The best.”

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping the Chianti. To Skanlan, it seemed very natural. The war was very far away at that moment, and the Hvai just a dim, unpressing menace. He noticed Mells’ gaze, fixed upon the fifteenth century stiletto hanging from the side wall.

  “A symbol of the times,” Skanlan said, shaking himself out of his lethargy.

  “More appropriate if it dangled by a silk thread,” Mells murmured, smiling. “Over our heads, I mean.”

  “It is.”

  “Not for long,” Mells told him. “All I need is a few days. A week at most.”

  “Fine,” Skanlan said. “I suppose you’l
l want to start in the morning?” He heard Mells answer, but he wasn’t listening. There seemed to be something wrong. Nothing tangible, it was like a subtle irritation, or an altering of a sound he’d heard for so long that it had ceased to register on his consciousness. Ceased, that is, until it changed pitch. He listened carefully, hand near his blaster. It’s my nerves, he thought. Mells didn’t seem to notice anything.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Mells said. “In your capacity as an expert—what do you think of this war?”

  “I view it as an inevitability. Two expanding races, both with their full quota of stupidity, mismanagement, enthusiasm, hatred—” Skanlan broke off. There it was again, that feeling he couldn’t pin down. After a moment he ignored it. Mells wanted to talk about the causes of the war.

  Interplanetary travel had been sluggish. No one wanted to live on the arid Martian deserts; the Venusian swamps were even less appealing. Mercury and Jupiter were out of the question, as were the rest of the planets; except for a few scientific expeditions, the solar system was left alone.

  The development of the interstellar drive touched off the powder keg. Habitable planets were discovered, some of them veritable paradises. They were to be had for the asking. And the mystery, the romance of it all! Cassiopeia! Aldebaran! Names to conjure by!

  Romance and nationalism, in a day when nationalism had seemed doomed. Antares for the Irish! Hercules II and III for the Swedes!

  Nationalism and minority feeling were tremendously forceful agents. Every nation had its legends, its wild, bold adventurer-myths. There were the Vikings, the Cowboys, the Golden Horde. With interstellar travel, every man who ventured forth was a potential hero. Every spaceship filled with Chinese, Indians or Zulus was a myth-in-the-making, a story to be handed down from generation to generation. It was sheer ego-stuff, a challenge few could pass up.

  Millions wanted to go. The ships left Earth by the dozens, then by the hundreds and thousands. The over-all birthrate climbed to unprecedented heights.

  “Those were the great days,” Skanlan said. “The early days of the space-rush. I suppose everyone thought it would go on indefinitely.”

  Mells didn’t answer at once. He seemed sunk in thought, staring into his half-emptied glass of wine. The indirect lighting of the room glinted from one side of his glasses, making the only sharp points of light in the soft, comfortable room.

  “I suppose so,” he said at last. “If anyone bothered to think at all.”

  Space is never conquered. Star-systems are not conquered, nor even planets. Only the inhabitants are conquered, non-human inhabitants for the most part, aliens. They are slaughtered indiscriminately by decision of frontier law, decimated by decree of the drawn blaster. Time to think about justice later—much later.

  Many of the planets were populated solely by rudimentary life-forms. Once, evidence was found of an unimaginably ancient civilization, older than the Earth itself. It had long since crumpled. Humanoids were found several times, in a stone-age state of development. But the luck couldn’t last forever.

  Three ships filled with German emigrants contacted a Hvai planet. One fought free, escaping to tell about it.

  “By the way,” Mells said. “Is there any historical parallel for the General Zorine affair?”

  “Not really. Have some more wine. Is your secret really secret?” Skanlan asked. “I mean, can it be talked about at all?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mells said. “Not in detail, of course, but the general idea.”

  “Fine,” Skanlan filled both glasses again with the deep red wine. “I’ve been quite curious. The Zorine affair? Only surface parallels. Hvai control throws everything out of perspective. It’s the delayed-action dagger.”

  Mells looked at the stiletto on the wall. Skanlan watched him, then glanced nervously at the door. The party was getting boisterous; he could hear noises, even through the thick oak door.

  “Well, I think we have the armor for the Hvai dagger,” Mells said.

  One would assume that there would be room enough in the galaxy for two expanding races, especially since they had totally different requirements for a “livable” planet. That philosophy, which never functioned well on Earth, had no better success in space. Besides, there were two ships to be avenged. A fleet was mounted, and the war, at least nominally, begun. In a year there were two Earth fleets, and in fifteen months, eight. The Hvai made no peace overtures, gave no indication of being interested in sharing a rather good-sized galaxy. This was their most human quality.

  An all-out battle wasn’t fought for almost two years.

  The commanders of the Earth fleets had every reason to believe they would be successful. In small engagements, in dog-fights and skirmishes, Earth’s aramment and speed had been decidedly superior to the aliens’. They seemed to have a slight numerical superiority, as well. The second year was spent in endless maneuvering between the stars, establishing bases and communication lines and working out, for the first time in their experience, the technical problems of fighting a war in space. Finally the two forces closed. And Earth received the shock of its life.

  General Zorine, one of the fleet commanders, serenely ordered his ships to attack their own lines! Some ships obeyed, spearheading the enemy attack. Others hung irresolutely, unable to believe their orders. The Hvai took full advantage of the mixed-up situation, pouring the bulk of its fleet into the gap. Zorine was cut down by a quick-thinking lieutenant and his orders countermanded before the damage was irreparable. The battle seesawed, wavered, and finally ended indecisively. Earth’s losses had been staggering, but the Hvai had overestimated the factor of confusion.

  Zorine wasn’t a traitor. He had been “controlled.” That was when they found out about it. Both fleets withdrew to regroup.

  The enemy was a telepathic reptilian species. The fact had been concealed, to provide a secret weapon at the right time. Its potency had been demonstrated; probably, only the loose organization of the Earth fleets had saved them from total annihilation.

  The facts about the Hvai were discovered by another general, a man named Lester. He took charge of the seventy-four prisoners and had them questioned individually. The psychiatrists who worked under Lester were picked men, ingenious and sadistic. It was not a very pretty story, the way they gathered their information, but when they were through, seventy-four sets of answers lined up. After that, the prisoners were allowed to die. They were grateful for the favor.

  A great deal was learned about the nervous system of the Hvai, what they didn’t like and how much of it they could stand. But most important, there was the information about the thirteen-hour limit. This was wrenched out of seventy-four reptilian minds—they talked to their captors telepathically—along with the additional, and highly welcome information, that the effects of control weren’t permanent. Once the alien mind had withdrawn, as it would if its host were captured, the victim would recover, exactly as he would from any traumatic shock.

  This led to time-check and control-exam. Mells’ work began, and actual hostilities were, temporarily, stalemated. Lester was awarded the highest honors Earth could bestow.

  “Do you carry a blaster?” Skanlan asked. They had talked for more than an hour, rehashing most of the events of the war. Mells had explained his device, but it was beyond Skanlan’s limited knowledge of scientific subjects outside of history. He had a vague idea of what Mells meant by wave amplification, repulsion field, and phase-cancellor, but how they fitted together, why they did what they did, was too technical for him. The important thing was that the device was small, easily manufactured, and fool-proof.

  “A blaster? No, I don’t.” Mells smiled deprecatingly. “My job is to duck, not shoot back.”

  “Mmmm. Yes, but how about those men on the planetoid? Wouldn’t a blaster have been convenient?” Skanlan filled both glasses again. They had been talking so steadily, they had barely finished one whole glass each.

  “I’m much too clumsy with a blaster,” Mells said.
“I’d rather depend—”

  The door opened, too suddenly for Skanlan’s nerves. He leaped to his feet, blaster out. Then he sat down again, smiling sheepishly. It was his wife, and a guest. Skanlan didn’t put the blaster away.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,” Leona said. “But Doctor Shane has to go and he wanted to meet Professor Mells.”

  “Delighted,” Mells said, getting up. Skanlan watched narrowly as Mells shook hands with the white-haired old doctor. Automatically, he put Dr. Shane on his “suspicious” list.

  “And Mitch Morris insists on seeing him,” Leona Skanlan said to her husband. She made a little face, to show that she had kept Morris off as long as possible.

  “Come on,” Morris’ voice bellowed from the next room. “I just wanna shake hands with the guy!”

  “After Dr. Shane leaves,” Skanlan said coolly. Again he had that feeling of an altered tone, just outside his range of hearing. Morris was now number one on the list.

  In the next few days Skanlan really learned what suspicion was. He learned to view every waiter, every taxi driver, as a possible control. He learned to view anyone who came in contact with Mells—for any reason—as possibly having other motives. In their trips between the laboratory and Skanlan’s house, not much was ever said. Skanlan was too busy, hand on blaster, waiting, waiting.

  In a few days’ time he was transformed; no one who had known the calm, easygoing history professor would have thought him capable of becoming a slit-eyed gunman, practically overnight. Even his wife became alarmed when, one day, he drew his blaster on her in a single nervous reflex. She had spilled a cup of coffee, and that was his automatic action.

  Skanlan didn’t hear from Gordon again. He could picture the little man in his office, worrying. It didn’t bother him. He had enough to worry about himself. He had his list of suspects, topped by Mitch Morris, who had seen Mells twice more in four days. Morris was followed by Shane, who had seen him once more. Skanlan suspected Shane because he seemed so harmless.

  He had his private worries. That sense of something wrong bothered him more and more. In five days time he felt as though he were simply an extension for a blaster, topped by a pair of eyes. Something else bothered him.