Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “All you have to do is push us back,” Powell said.

  “I’ve told you,” Walker gasped, his eyes wild. “I’ve lost it. I can’t do it any more.” His voice started to get louder.

  “Now listen to me,” Powell said sternly. “You don’t lose it. That’s defeatist talk.” He went smoothly into his best inspirational speech, one reserved for extra-bad moments. It was good, he had to admit. He talked about the stars and Earth, and science, and man’s mission on the planets. He talked of the undeveloped psi powers, and their importance in the scheme of things.

  Walker stopped crying. He listened, his eyes knotted on Powell’s face.

  Powell told him about the future of psi, making it up as he went along. How the psi powers would some day link the stars. But until that day, it was up to men like Walker to lead the way.

  And a great deal more.

  “Come on, boy,” Powell cried, after he saw that his audience was thoroughly hooked. “You haven’t lost it. Try again!”

  “I will!” Walker wiped his nose on his sleeve again and shut his eyes. Cords in his neck stood out. Powell held on to the side of the bunk and watched his precious dynamo begin to operate.

  Across the room a door flew open, then slammed shut. Walker’s face grew red.

  Fascinated, Powell watched the psi’s face. The long nose glistened with sweat, the wide lips were peeled back. Walker was in an agony of concentration.

  Then he relaxed, and sagged back against the bunk.

  “I can’t do it,” he said. “I just can’t.”

  Powell wanted to tell him to try again. But he remembered Rule 4: The psi must be allowed to run at his own pace. Excess pressure will break him.

  “Take a rest,” Powell said, resisting a strong temptation to throttle the man. He stood up, taking care to keep his face expressionless.

  “I’ve killed you all,” Walker said.

  Powell left the room.

  The ship rounded the great curve and started the long fall sunwards. Arriglio cut the engines, mourning the expenditure of fuel. They were really short now. Just how short, Danton set out to discover.

  In free fall now, with all apparent motion stopped, the ship seemed to hang in space. The sun grew in size—too slowly. Much too slowly.

  Walker remained in his bunk, refusing any more conversation. Powell knew that the man was judging himself—and condemning, over and over again. He wanted to do something about it, but couldn’t figure out what.

  “Here’s the score,” Danton said, in the Main Room. He showed Powell a graph. “Here’s course and speed, here’s destination.” He pointed out the lines. “We run out of food here—” The line fell far short of their destination. “And we run out of water here.” That line was still shorter.

  “How about if we accelerate?” Powell asked.

  “Too far to go,” Danton said. “I’ve tried juggling it every way around, and it still comes out no good. We couldn’t even make it if we ate each other, and drank the blood.”

  “That’s a pleasant thought, you gory pig,” Arriglio said from the other side of the room.

  “Don’t you like it?” Danton asked.

  “Not a bit.” Arriglio pushed himself off a wall and floated forward, moving easily in the weightless ship.

  “Then do something about it,” Danton said, pushing himself forward to meet Arriglio.

  “Hey, stop it,” Powell said. “Come on, break it up.” The two men parted suddenly.

  “The guy I’d like to get is that—”

  “Stop it,” Powell said sharply. He heard a noise. Walker floated in. Powell hoped he hadn’t heard the conversation.

  “Come on in,” Powell said.

  “Sure, pull up a chair,” Danton said, with an effort at friendliness.

  Powell knew that they would love to cut Walker into little pieces; but the requirements of the situation forced them to be pleasant to him. It was an added strain, having to cater to the man who had put them in this spot.

  “I wanted to say—” Walker began.

  “Go on,” Arriglio encouraged, determined not to be outdone by Danton. “Go on, boy.” His tone was friendly, but his bleak eyes contradicted it.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Walker said. “I wouldn’t have even gone on this trip, only Mr. Waverley thought I should.”

  “We understand,” Danton said, his fingers clenching into fists.

  “Sure, it’s all right,” Arriglio said.

  “You all hate me,” Walker said, and floated out.

  “Haven’t you guys any control over yourselves?” Powell asked when Walker was gone. “Rule 3, remember? Understanding and sympathy must be used at all times—”

  “I was understanding,” Arriglio said angrily. Danton nodded.

  “Understanding! The way you looked at him!”

  “I’m sorry, captain,” Arriglio said formally. “I’m no actor. If I don’t like a guy, I don’t like him.” He glared at Danton. Danton glared back.

  “I told you to think of him as a machine,” Powell said. “Arriglio, I’ve seen you pamper those engines of yours outrageously.”

  “Sure,” Arriglio said, “but I can swear at them, too, and kick ’em if I want to.”

  That was the trouble, Powell thought, with working with a sentient machine. You couldn’t take out your frustrations on it.

  “Well, don’t start anything, you two,” Powell said.

  Arriglio pushed himself to the opposite side of the room, found the cards and started to deal himself a hand of solitaire.

  Powell went to the control room to think things out.

  Outside the port the stars glittered. Dead space lay, a grave five hundred million miles long.

  There had to be a solution. Start from there.

  A way out, Powell thought. Their psi dynamo had functioned on the way out. Why wasn’t he functioning now?

  He took out the instructions Waverley had given him and studied them.

  These empirically derived operating rules are given—

  Those rules were a long way from the truth, Powell thought. Waverley still had a long way to go.

  Certain maintenance and operating modes must be observed—

  They had observed them, to the best of their ability. Theoretically, there should be nothing wrong with the psi. But still, the delicate intricate dynamo in Walker’s mind refused to function.

  Powell slapped a hand against his thigh. It was so frustrating, to have all that power bottled there. Enough to take them home with ease—enough, probably, to take them to Alpha Centauri, or the galactic center. And they couldn’t tap it.

  Because they didn’t know how to operate the machinery.

  Operating instructions. He was no psychiatrist. He couldn’t hope to cure Walker of his neuroticisms. All he could do was relieve them enough to get him to work.

  What had he left out?

  He read back over the instructions, and an idea began forming in his mind. There was something else. He almost had it now—

  “Captain!”

  “What do you want?” Powell asked, angry for the first time on the trip. He had been so-close! He glared at Danton.

  “It’s Walker, Sam. He’s locked himself in one of the rooms. I think he’s going to kill himself!”

  Powell pushed himself against a wall and shot down a corridor, Danton following. Arriglio was at the door, hammering on it and shouting. Powell pushed him aside and floated up.

  “Walker. Can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Bring something to get this open,” Powell whispered. “Walker!” he shouted again. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I’m doing it,” Walker’s voice came through.

  “Don’t! As captain of this ship I order you—”

  Walker’s gurgle cut him short.

  Arriglio hurried back with a blowtorch. They melted the lock, and Powell swore he would never ride another ship with as much as a door in it. If he ever rode another ship. />
  They burst the door open and floated in. Then Arriglio burst into laughter.

  Their unhappy, overloaded dynamo was floating in midair, his arms and legs jerking grotesquely. Around his neck was a rope, the other end attached to a stanchion in the ceiling. The amazing fool had tried to hang himself—in weightless free-fall.

  But then, suddenly, it wasn’t so funny. Walker was strangling, and they were unable to loosen the rope.

  Frantically they worked on it, trying to get some purchase in the weightless air. Finally, Danton had the foresight to burn the rope loose with the torch.

  Walker had knotted the rope to the ceiling, tying the other end around his neck. But to make it really effective, he had tied a constrictor knot in it. This knot would tighten easily, and stay tight. It could be loosened only by yanking both ends in a certain way.

  Walker had tied the ends around the back of his neck in a square knot, out of reach. He had braced himself against the ceiling, and kicked off hard. The knot had tightened—

  It was a close thing, and an adequate measure of Walker’s desperation.

  “Pull him up,” Powell said. He glared at the gasping, red-faced Walker, and tried to think.

  He had coaxed him and kidded him, followed the rules and added the oil of sympathy and the fuel of praise. And what had he gotten?

  His precious machine had almost ruined itself.

  That’s no way to run anything, he told himself. If I want an engine to turn over, I turn it over. I don’t stand around patting its case. To hell with the rules!

  “We’re through playing games,” Powell said, and he was addressing all of them now. “Take your positions. We’re blasting off.”

  He silenced their questions with a glare, and pushed himself off.

  In the control room he said a silent prayer. Then he snapped on the intercom.

  “Danton, Set?”

  “Set, captain.”

  “Arriglio?”

  “All set.”

  “Walker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ten seconds. Main drive on.” The engines thundered into life. “Get it up there,” Powell said. “I want max plus.”

  “Right, captain.”

  “Danton, get set on auxiliary.”

  “Set, captain.”

  “Six seconds. Walker, stand by.”

  “Yes, sir,” the frightened voice of Walker said.

  “Four seconds,” Powell said, hoping that Walker wouldn’t have time to tell himself he couldn’t do it.

  “Two seconds.” Come on, he told himself. This had better be it. Let it be it.

  One second.

  “Blast! Come in, Walker!”

  The ship surged forward, but he could feel no response from Walker. The ship was operating on her engines alone.

  “Fine, Walker,” Powell said coolly. “Give her some more.”

  Still there was no response.

  “Excellent work,” Powell said. “Arriglio, cut the main drive. Take over, Walker.”

  For an agonizing second there was nothing. And then the ship surged forward.

  There was a wrench, milder than on the takeoff, and the stars began to blur.

  “Get your course from Danton,” he said to Walker. “Fine work, Mr. Walker.”

  So that was it, Powell thought. Those rules Waverley had given him might work on Earth. But in a stress situation—well, he had some interesting information to bring back.

  Walker’s self-induced paralysis had passed in the swift, taken-for-granted orders. Naturally.

  Cancel all other instructions. The cardinal rule for operating the psi:

  A psi is a human being, and must be treated as one. A psi’s abilities must be accepted—and used—as accomplished skills, not freak talents.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” Powell said, recognizing Walker’s voice.

  “Shall I boost her up a little faster?” the psi asked.

  “Do so, Mr. Walker,” Powell said in a fine, serious, commanding voice.

  THE END

  WHAT GOES UP

  What goes up must come down, as they say about even the stock market. It was true enough, until Edgarson found a world where the law of averages was repealed. They ran strictly to flat top square waves: very square.

  “All right, space rat, out you go,” the junior officer said with a wide, boyish grin.

  “Couldn’t we talk this over?” Edgarson asked, edging down the gangplank with a certain dignity. “I mean, to leave me in this backwoods—” He gestured at the dusty, deserted landing field, the raw brick buildings, the tar road; all the signs of a low-order atomic civilization.

  “I assure you,” Edgarson went on, “I would be glad to work my passage if you’d just take me to some civilized—”

  The port closed with a clang. Edgarson sighed and walked away from the ship. My God, he thought, I don’t even know the name of the planet where they’ve gone and dumped me!

  He pushed back his shoulders as he reached the tar road. Behind him the ship lifted, silently and efficiently, and was gone. Once the ship was out of sight, Edgarson allowed his back to slump.

  Those damned starships . . .

  But he couldn’t blame them. A stowaway has no rights. He had known that. But what else could he have done?

  After his businesses had gone bankrupt on Moira II, Edgarson had to get out, but fast. The fastest way without capital was to hide aboard a long-haul transport.

  The ship had taken off just in time. The authorities of the Belt Stars, of which Moira II was the proudest jewel, were quite strict with what they termed “irresponsible” bankruptcies.

  Unfortunately, the ship’s captain was equally strict with unpaid-for weight. They had dropped Edgarson’s scrawny 132 pounds on the first oxygen planet on their course.

  What was he going to do now?

  Edgarson glanced back at the signs in front of the little spaceport. Luckily they were in Fammish, one of the great interstellar tongues. The planet was called Porif. He had never heard of it.

  One of the signs pointed to the city of Mif. Edgarson followed it, hands in his pockets, scuffing his feet along the rough tar.

  This, he told himself was the end. The absolute end. He’d never get off this place. Four times he had made fortunes, and four times lost them in the maddening uncertainties of beltstar finances.

  I’m through, he thought. Might as well hang myself.

  A passing vehicle almost made hanging unnecessary. An antique gas job, it was rolling along at a good seventy miles an hour. Edgarson heard it, turned, and there it was, swaying over the entire road. His eyes bulged. It was coming straight for him.

  At the last moment he unparalyzed his muscles enough to leap into the ditch beside him.

  The car ground to a halt a hundred feet up the road.

  “You maniac!” Edgarson screamed in passable Fammish. Suicide was all very well. But when one is almost killed—

  “What are you doing now?” he shouted at the man, who was backing his car. “Coming back for another try?”

  “Terribly sorry,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. He was large, red-faced and red-headed. “Did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Frighten me!” Edgarson said. “The hell with that. You almost killed me.”

  “Oh, no,” the man said, eyeing him closely. “You’re not old enough.”

  “Sure I’m old enough,” Edgarson said. “Anyone is old enough to die.”

  “You must be an outworlder,” the redheaded man said. “I should have noticed your accent. Well, friend, you can’t die here. Not yet.”

  “I can die any place or time I want,” Edgarson said, feeling silly.

  The redheaded man thought that over for a moment, rubbing the side of his nose with a freckled forefinger. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Thirty-six.”

  “I thought you were about my age. Here on Porif you can’t die before you’re fifty-four. At least, not during this cycle.”

/>   Edgarson didn’t have any immediate answer for that. He just gaped.

  “My name’s Fals,” the man told him. “Could I offer you a ride into town?” Edgarson climbed into the car. In a few moments Fals had it careening crazily over the road.

  “You’ll kill us both,” Edgarson gasped as the landscape whizzed by.

  “Well, I am a touch euphoric,” Fals said. “But the statistics are against it. I won’t kill either of us. And the car’s insured.”

  Edgarson rode the rest of the way in stoical silence. He didn’t know what sort of place Porif was, and until he found out, he determined to keep quiet. He didn’t want to break any taboos. He knew that in the bewildering array of planets in the civilized galaxy, there were some pretty odd spots. Places where reason and common sense went to hell on a trolley. Places where the law of gravity was repealed for six months out of the year, and the verities of Earth science were looked upon as polite fiction.

  Natural law, as defined by Earth and Belt scientists, didn’t mean much to old mother nature. Perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to construct a logical, consistent type of universe.

  Edgarson was prepared to accept, tentatively, that he couldn’t die before the age of fifty-four. On Porif.

  “Here we are,” Fals said cheerfully, pulling up in front of a small brick house in what must have been a suburb of the city. “Is there anything I can do for you? Any favor, anything?”

  He must be euphoric, Edgarson thought. But he wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip past him.

  “I’m temporarily embarrassed for funds,” he began smoothly. “If you could—”

  “Say no more,” Fals said. “Be my guest. Stay at my house. I couldn’t refuse you anything, right now.”

  “You couldn’t?” Edgarson asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Practically nothing. I’m at the extreme peak of an altruist upswing. One of my personality characteristics. It’ll pass in a day or two, of course. I’ll probably regret, all this exceedingly. But come in.”

  Just outside the doorway he stopped. “Don’t mind my sister,” he said in a confiding whisper. “Hetta’s not feeling so good. You know how ectomorphs can be? Well, she’s just coming out of the bottom of a depressive trough. Be nice to her.” He laughed uproariously and kicked open the door.