Answerer didn’t try. He wasn’t supposed to.
Finally, Lek emitted a scornful laugh. One of his little stepping-stones flared at the sound, then faded back to its usual intensity.
Lek departed, striding swiftly across the stars.
Answerer knew. But he had to be asked the proper questions first. He pondered this limitation, gazing at the stars which were neither large nor small, but exactly the right size.
The proper questions. The race which built Answerer should have taken that into account, Answerer thought. They should have made some allowance for semantic nonsense, allowed him to attempt an unravelling.
Answerer contented himself with muttering the answers to himself.
EIGHTEEN creatures came to Answerer, neither walking nor flying, but simply appearing. Shivering in the cold glare of the stars, they gazed up at the massiveness of Answerer.
“If there is no distance,” one asked, “Then how can things be in other places?”
Answerer knew what distance was, and what places were. But he couldn’t answer the question. There was distance, but not as these creatures saw it. And there were places, but in a different fashion from that which the creatures expected.
“Rephrase the question,” Answerer said hopefully.
“Why are we short here,” one asked, “And long over there? Why are we fat over there, and short here? Why are the stars cold?”
Answerer knew all things. He knew why stars were cold, but he couldn’t explain it in terms of stars or coldness.
“Why,” another asked, “Is there a rule of eighteen? Why, when eighteen gather, is another produced?”
But of course the answer was part of another, greater question, which hadn’t been asked.
Another was produced by the rule of eighteen, and the nineteen creatures vanished.
Answerer mumbled the right questions to himself, and answered them.
“We made it,” Morran said. “Well, well.” He patted Lingman on the shoulder—lightly, because Lingman might fall apart.
The old biologist was tired. His face was sunken, yellow, lined. Already the mark of the skull was showing in his prominent yellow teeth, his small, flat nose, his exposed cheekbones. The matrix was showing through.
“Let’s get on,” Lingman said. He didn’t want to waste any time. He didn’t have any time to waste.
Helmeted, they walked along the little path.
“Not so fast,” Lingman murmured.
“Right,” Morran said. They walked together, along the dark path of the planet that was different from all other planets, soaring alone around a sun different from all other suns.
“Up here,” Morran said. The legends were explicit. A path, leading to stone steps. Stone steps to a courtyard. And then—the Answerer!
To them, Answerer looked like a white screen set in a wall. To their eyes, Answerer was very simple.
Lingman clasped his shaking hands together. This was the culmination of a lifetime’s work, financing, arguing, ferreting bits of legend, ending here, now.
“Remember,” he said to Morran, “We will be shocked. The truth will be like nothing we have imagined.”
“I’m ready,” Morran said, his eyes rapturous.
“Very well. Answerer,” Lingman said, in his thin little voice, “What is life?”
A voice spoke in their heads. “The question has no meaning. By ‘life,’ the Questioner is referring to a partial phenomenon, inexplicable except in terms of its whole.”
“Of what is life a part?” Lingman asked.
“This question, in its present form, admits of no answer. Questioner is still considering ‘life,’ from his personal, limited bias.”
“Answer it in your own terms, then,” Morran said.
“The Answerer can only answer questions.” Answerer thought again of the sad limitation imposed by his builders.
Silence.
“Is the universe expanding?” Morran asked confidently.
“ ‘Expansion’ is a term inapplicable to the situation. Universe, as the Questioner views it, is an illusory concept.”
“Can you tell us anything?” Morran asked.
“I can answer any valid question concerning the nature of things.”
THE two men looked at each other.
“I think I know what he means,” Lingman said sadly. “Our basic assumptions are wrong. All of them.”
“They can’t be,” Morran said. “Physics, biology—”
“Partial truths,” Lingman said, with a great weariness in his voice. “At least we’ve determined that much. We’ve found out that our inferences concerning observed phenomena are wrong.”
“But the rule of the simplest hypothesis—”
“It’s only a theory,” Lingman said.
“But life—he certainly could answer what life is?”
“Look at it this way,” Lingman said. “Suppose you were to ask, ‘Why was I born under the constellation Scorpio, in conjunction with Saturn?’ I would be unable to answer your question in terms of the zodiac, because the zodiac has nothing to do with it.”
“I see,” Morran said slowly. “He can’t answer questions in terms of our assumptions.”
“That seems to be the case. And he can’t alter our assumptions. He is limited to valid questions—which imply, it would seem, a knowledge we just don’t have.”
“We can’t even ask a valid question?” Morran asked. “I don’t believe that. We must know some basics.” He turned to Answerer. “What is death?”
“I cannot explain an anthropomorphism.”
“Death an anthropomorphism!” Morran said, and Lingman turned quickly. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“Are anthropomorphisms unreal?” he asked.
“Anthropomorphisms may be classified, tentatively, as, A, false truths, or B, partial truths in terms of a partial situation.”
“Which is applicable here?”
“Both.”
That was the closest they got. Morran was unable to draw any more from Answerer. For hours the two men tried, but truth was slipping farther and farther away.
“It’s maddening,” Morran said, after a while. “This thing has the answer to the whole universe, and he can’t tell us unless we ask the right question. But how are we supposed to know the right question?”
Lingman sat down on the ground, leaning against a stone wall. He closed his eyes.
“Savages, that’s what we are,” Morran said, pacing up and down in front of Answerer. “Imagine a bushman walking up to a physicist and asking him why he can’t shoot his arrow into the sun. The scientist can explain it only in his own terms. What would happen?”
“The scientist wouldn’t even attempt it,” Lingman said, in a dim voice; “he would know the limitations of the questioner.”
“It’s fine,” Morran said angrily. “How do you explain the earth’s rotation to a bushman? Or better, how do you explain relativity to him—maintaining scientific rigor in your explanation at all times, of course.”
Lingman, eyes closed, didn’t answer.
“We’re bushmen. But the gap is much greater here. Worm and super-man, perhaps. The worm desires to know the nature of dirt, and why there’s so much of it. Oh, well.”
“Shall we go, sir?” Morran asked. Lingman’s eyes remained closed. His taloned fingers were clenched, his cheeks sunk further in. The skull was emerging.
“Sir! Sir!”
And Answerer knew that that was not the answer.
ALONE on his planet, which is neither large nor small, but exactly the right size, Answerer waits. He cannot help the people who come to him, for even Answerer has restrictions.
He can answer only valid questions.
Universe? Life? Death? Purple? Eighteen?
Partial truths, half-truths, little bits of the great question.
But Answerer, alone, mumbles the questions to himself, the true questions, which no one can understand.
How could they understand t
he true answers?
The questions will never be asked, and Answerer remembers something his builders knew and forgot.
In order to ask a question you must already know most of the answer.
RESTRICTED AREA
The universe is a house of many rooms. They come in all sizes, shapes and colors, those rooms; and entering any one of them is always exciting and occasionally rewarding. What will be found in each new world? Weird vegetation? Strange animals? Humans or freaks, friend or foe? What heights has its culture reached—or has the peak long been passed and a period of degeneration set in?
A writer with an ingenious imagination and a keen sense of humor can have a field day under those circumstances. Robert Sheckley is well endowed with both!
Nice looking place, isn’t it, Captain?” Simmons asked with elaborate casualness, looking through the port. “Rather a paradise.” He yawned.
“You can’t go out yet,” Captain Kilpepper said, noting the biologist’s immediate disappointed expression.
“But Captain—”
“No.” Kilpepper looked out the port at the rolling meadow of grass. Sprinkled with red flowers, it appeared as luscious as it had two days ago when they had landed. To the right of the meadow was a brown forest shot through with yellow and orange blossoms. To the left was a row of hills, colored in contrasting shades of blue-green. A waterfall tumbled down one of the hills.
Trees, flowers, all that sort of thing. The place was undeniably pretty, and it was for that very reason that Kilpepper distrusted it. Experience with two wives and five new ships had taught him that a lovely exterior can conceal almost anything. And fifteen years in space had added lines to his forehead and gray to his hair, but hadn’t given him any reason for altering his conviction.
“Here are the reports, sir,” Mate Manella said, handing him a sheaf of papers. Manella had a petulant expression on his broad, ugged face. Behind the door, Kilpepper could hear shuffling feet and whispering voices. He knew it was the crew, assembled to hear what he would say this time.
They wanted outside, but bad.
Kilpepper skimmed the reports. They were the same as the last four groups. Atmosphere breathable and free of dangerous microorganisms, bacteria count nil, radargraph all clear. Some form of animal life in the nearby forest, but no energy manifestations. Detection of a large metallic mass, possibly an iron-rich mountain, several miles south. Noted for further investigation.
“That’s fine,” Kilpepper said unhappily. The reports vaguely annoyed him. He knew from past experience that there was usually something wrong with every planet. It paid to find it at the start, before costly accidents resulted.
“Can we go out, sir?” Manella asked, his short body stiffly erect. Kilpepper could almost feel the crewmen behind the door holding their breath.
“I don’t know,” Kilpepper said. He scratched his head, trying to think of some good reason for refusing again. There must be something wrong.
“All right,” he said at last. “Post a full guard for the time being. Let four men out. No one goes beyond twenty-five feet of the ship.” He had to let them go. After sixteen months in the hot, cramped spaceship, he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he didn’t.
“Yes sir!” Mate Manella said, and dashed out the door.
“I suppose that means the scientific team can go out,” Simmons said, his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Sure,” Kilpepper said wearily. “I’ll go with you. After all, this expedition is expendable.”
The air of the unnamed planet was fragrant after the musty, recirculated air of the ship. The breeze from the mountains was light and steady and refreshing.
Captain Kilpepper sniffed appreciatively, arms folded across his chest. The four crewmen were walking around, stretching their legs and breathing in great lungfuls of fresh air. The scientific team was standing together, wondering where to begin. Simmons bent down and plucked a spear of grass.
“Funny looking stuff,” he said, holding it up to the sunlight.
“Why?” Captain Kilpepper asked, walking over.
“Look at it.” The thin biologist held it higher. “Perfectly smooth. Doesn’t show any sign of cell formation. Let me see—” He bent over a red blossom.
“Hey! We got visitors!” A crewman named Flynn was the first to spot the natives. They came out of the forest and trotted across the meadow to the ship.
Captain Kilpepper glanced at the ship. The gunners were ready and alert. He touched his sidearm for reassurance, and waited.
“Oh, brother,” Aramic murmured. As the ship’s linguist, he eyed the advancing natives with intense professional interest. The rest of the men just stared.
In the lead was a creature with a neck at least eight feet long, like a giraffe, and thick, stubby legs, like an hippopotamus. It had a cheerful expression on its face. Its hide was purple, sprinkled with large white dots.
Next in line came five little beasts with pure white fur. They were about the size of terriers, and they had an owlishly solemn expression. A fat, red little creature with a green tail at least sixteen feet long brought up the rear.
They stopped in front of the men and bowed. There was a long moment of silence, then everyone burst into laughter.
The laughter seemed to be a signal. The five little ones leaped to the back of the hippo-giraffe. They scrambled for a moment, then climbed on each other’s shoulders. In a moment they were balanced, five high, like a team of acrobats.
The men applauded wildly.
The fat animal immediately started balancing on his tail.
“Bravo!” shouted Simmons.
The five furry animals jumped off the giraffe’s back and started to dance around the pig.
“Hurray!” Morrison, the bacteriologist, called.
The hippo-giraffe turned a clumsy somersault, landed on one ear, scrambled to his feet and bowed deeply.
Captain Kilpepper frowned and rubbed one hand against another. He was trying to figure out some reason for this behavior.
The natives burst into song. The melody was strange, but recognizable as a tune. They harmonized for a few seconds, then bowed and began to roll on the grass.
The crewmen were still applauding. Aramic had taken out his notebook and was jotting down the sounds.
“All right,” Kilpepper said. “Crew, back inside.”
They gave him reproachful looks.
“Let some of the other men have a chance,” the captain said. Regretfully, the men filed back inside.
“I suppose you want to examine them some more,” Kilpepper said to the scientists.
“We sure do,” Simmons stated. “Never saw anything like it.”
Kilpepper nodded and went back into the ship. Four more crewmen filed past him.
“Morena!” Kilpepper shouted. The mate came bounding into the bridge. “I want you to find that metal mass. Take a man and keep in radio contact with the ship at all times.”
“Yes sir,” Morena said, grinning broadly. “Friendly, aren’t they, sir?”
“Yes,” Kilpepper said.
“Nice little world,” the mate said.
“Yes.”
Mate Morena went off to collect his equipment.
Captain Kilpepper sat down and tried to figure out what was wrong with the planet.
Kilpepper spent most of the next day filling out progress reports. In the late afternoon he put down his pencil and went out for a walk.
“Have you got a moment, Captain?” Simmons asked. “There’s something I’d like to show you in the forest.” Kilpepper grumbled out of habit, but followed the biologist. He had been curious about the forest himself.
On the way, they were accompanied by three natives. These particular three looked like dogs, except for their coloring—red and white, like peppermint candy.
“Now then,” Simmons said with ill-concealed eagerness, once they were in the forest. “Look around. What do you see that strikes you as odd?”
Kilpepper looked. Th
e trees were thick-trunked and spaced wide apart. So wide apart, in fact, that it was possible to see the next clearing through them.
“Well,” he said, “you couldn’t get lost here.”
“It’s not that,” Simmons said. “Come on, look again.”
Kilpepper smiled. Simmons had brought him here because he made a better audience than any of his preoccupied colleagues.
Behind them, the three natives leaped and played.
“There’s no underbrush,” Kilpepper stated, after walking a few yards further. There were vines twisting up the sides of the trees, covered with multi-colored flowers. Glancing around, Kilpepper saw a bird dart down, flutter around the head of one of the peppermint-colored dogs, and fly away again.
The bird was colored gold and silver.
“Don’t you see anything wrong yet?” Simmons asked impatiently.
“Only the color scheme,” Kilpepper said. “Is there something else?”
“Look at the trees.”
The boughs were laden with fruit. It hung in clumps, all on the lower branches, of a bewildering variety of colors, sizes and shapes. There were things that looked like grapes, and things that looked like bananas, and things that looked like watermelons, and—
“Lots of different species, I guess,” Kilpepper hazarded, not sure what it was Simmons wanted him to see.
“Different species! Look, man. There are as many as ten different kinds of fruit growing on one branch!”
Examining closer, Kilpepper saw it was true. Each tree had an, amazing multiplicity of fruit.
“And that’s just impossible,” Simmons said. “It’s not my field, of course, but I can state with fair certainty that each fruit is a separate and distinct entity. They’re not stages of each other.”
“How do you account for it?” Kilpepper asked.
“I don’t have to,” the biologist grinned. “But some poor botanist is going to have his hands full.”
They turned and started to walk back. “What were you here for?” Kilpepper asked.
Various Fiction Page 35