“Me? I was doing a little anthropological work on the side. Wanted to find out where our friends lived. No luck. There are no paths, implements, clearings, anything. Not even caves.”
Kilpepper didn’t think it unusual that a biologist should be making a quick anthropological survey. It was impossible to represent all the sciences on an expedition of this sort. Survival was the first consideration—biology and bacteriology. Then language. After that, any botanical, ecological, psychological, sociological or any other knowledge was appreciated.
Eight or nine birds had joined the animals—or natives—around the ship when they got back. The birds were brilliantly colored also; polka dots, stripes, piebalds. There wasn’t a dun or gray in the lot.
Mate Morena and Crewman Flynn trudged through an outcropping of the forest. They stopped at the foot of a little hill.
“Do we have to climb it?” Flynn asked, sighing. The large camera on his back was weighing him down.
“The little hand says we gotta.” Morena pointed to his dial. The indicator showed the presence of metallic mass just over the rise.
“Spaceships ought to carry cars,” Flynn said, leaning forward to balance himself against the gentle slope of the hill.
“Yeh, or camels.”
Above them red and gold birds dipped and sailed, cheeping merrily. The breeze fanned the tall grass, and hummed melodiously through the leaves and branches of the nearby forest. Behind them, two of the natives followed. They were horse-shaped, except for their hides of green and white dots.
“Like a bloody circus,” Flynn observed, as one of the horses capered a circle around him.
“Yeh,” Morena said. They reached the top of the hill and started down. Then Flynn stopped.
“Look at that!”
At the base of the hill, rising slim and erect, was a metal pillar. They followed it up with their eyes. It climbed and climbed—and its top was lost in the clouds.
They hurried down and examined it. Closer, the pillar was more massy than they had thought. Almost twenty feet through, Morena estimated. At a guess he placed the metal as an alloy of steel, by its gray-blue color. But what steel, he asked himself, could support a shaft that size?
“How high would you say those clouds are?” Morena asked.
Flynn craned his neck. “Lord, they must be half a mile up. Maybe a mile.” The pillar had been hidden from the ship by the clouds, and by its gray-blue color which blended into the background.
“I don’t believe it,” Morena said. “I wonder what the compression strain on this thing is.” They stared in awe at the tremendous shaft.
“Well,” Flynn said, “I’d better get some pictures.” He unloaded his camera and snapped three shots of the shaft from twenty feet, then a shot with Morena for size comparison. For the next three pictures he sighted up the shaft.
“What do you figure it is?” Morena asked.
“Let the big brains figure it out,” Flynn said. “It ought to drive them nuts.” He strapped the camera back together. “Now I suppose we have to walk all the way back.” He looked at the brown and green horses. “Wonder if I could hitch a ride.”
“Go ahead and break your stupid neck,” Morena said.
“Here, boy, come on here,” Flynn called. One of the horses came over and knelt beside him. Flynn climbed on his back gingerly. Once he was astride he grinned at Morena.
“Just don’t smash that camera,” Morena said. “It’s government property.”
“Nice boy,” Flynn said to the horse. “Good fellow.” The horse got to his feet—and smiled.
“See you back in camp,” Flynn said, guiding the horse toward the hill.
“Hold it a second,” Morena said. He looked glumly at Flynn, then beckoned to the other horse. “Come on, boy.” The horse knelt and he climbed on.
They rode in circles for a few moments, experimenting. The horses could be guided by a touch. Their broad backs were amazingly comfortable. One of the red and gold birds came down and perched on Flynn’s shoulder.
“Hey, hey, this is the life,” Flynn said, patting the glossy hide of his mount. “Race you back to camp, Mate.”
“You’re on,” Morena said. But their horses would move no faster than a slow walk, in spite of all their urging.
At the ship, Kilpepper was squatting in the grass, watching Aramic at work. The linguist was a patient man. His sisters had always remarked on his patience. His colleagues had praised him for it, and his students, during his years of teaching, had appreciated it. Now, the backlog of sixteen years of self-containment was being called to the front.
“We’ll try it again,” Aramic said in his calmest voice. He flipped through the pages of Language Approach For Alien Grade Two Intelligences—a text written by himself—and found the diagram he wanted. He opened to the page and pointed.
The animal beside him looked like an inconceivable cross between a chipmunk and a giant panda. It cocked one eye at the diagram, the other eye wandering ludicrously around its socket.
“Planet,” Aramic said, pointing. “Planet.”
“Excuse me, Skipper,” Simmons said. “I’d like to set up this X-ray gadget here.”
“Certainly,” Kilpepper said, moving to let the biologist drag the machine into place.
“Planet,” Aramic said again.
“Elam vessel holam cram,” the chipmunk-panda said pleasantly.
Damn it, they had a language. The sounds they made were certainly representational. It was just a question of finding a common meeting ground. Had they mastered simple abstractions? Aramic put down his book and pointed to the chipmunk-panda.
“Animal,” he said, and waited.
“Get him to hold still,” Simmons said, focusing the X-ray. “That’s good. Now a few more.”
“Animal,” Aramic repeated hopefully.
“Eeful beeful box,” the animal said. “Hoful toful lox, ramadan, Samduran, eeful beeful box.”
Patience, Aramic reminded himself. Positive attitude. Be cheerful. Faint heart never.
He picked up another of his manuals. This one was called Language Approach to Alien Grade One Intelligences.
He found what he wanted and put it down again. Smiling, he held up a finger.
“One,” he said.
The animal leaned forward and sniffed his finger.
Smiling grimly, Aramic held up another finger. “Two.” A third. “Three.”
“Hoogelex,” the animal said suddenly.
A dipthong? Their word for one? “One,” he said again, waving the same finger.
“Vereserevef,” the animal replied, beaming.
Could that be an alternate ‘one’ ?
“One,” he said again.
The animal burst into song.
“Sevef hevef ulud cram, aragan, biligan, homus dram—”
It stopped and looked at the Language Approach manual, fluttering in the air, and at the back of the linguist who, with remarkable patience, had refrained from throttling him.
After Morena and Flynn returned, Kilpepper puzzled over their report. He had the photographs rushed through and studied them with care.
The shaft was round and smooth, and obviously manufactured. Any race that could put up a thing like that could give them trouble. Big trouble.
But who had put the shaft up? Not the happy, stupid animals around the ship, certainly.
“You say the top is hidden in the clouds?” Kilpepper asked.
“Yes sir,” Morena said. “That damn thing must be all of a mile high.”
“Go back,” Kilpepper said. “Take a radarscope. Take infrared equipment. Get me a picture of the top of that shaft. I want to know how high it goes and what’s on top of it. Quick.”
Flynn and Morena left the bridge.
Kilpepper looked at the still-wet photographs for a minute longer, then put them down. He wandered into the ship’s lab, vague worries nagging at him. The planet didn’t make sense, and that bothered him. Kilpepper had discovered the hard way t
hat there’s a pattern to everything. If you can’t find it in time, that’s just too bad for you.
Morrison, the bacteriologist, was a small, sad man. Right now he looked like an extension of the microscope he was peering into.
“Find anything?” Kilpepper asked.
“I’ve found the absence of something,” Morrison said, looking up and blinking. “I’ve found the absence of a hell of a lot of something.”
“What’s that?” Kilpepper asked.
“I’ve run tests on the flowers,” Morrison said, “and I’ve run tests on the earth, and tests on water samples. Nothing definitive yet, but brace yourself.”
“I’m braced. What is it?”
“There isn’t an ounce of bacteria on this planet!”
“Oh?” Kilpepper said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He didn’t consider it a particularly shocking announcement. But the bacteriologist was acting as if he had announced that the subsoil of the planet was one hundred per cent pure green cheese.
“That’s it. The water in the stream is purer than distilled alcohol. The dirt on this planet is cleaner than a boiled scalpel. The only bacteria are the ones we brought. And they’re being killed off.”
“How?”
“The air of this place has about three disinfecting agents I’ve detected, and probably a dozen more I haven’t. Same with the dirt and water. This place is sterile!”
“Well, now,” Kilpepper said. He couldn’t appreciate the full force of the statement. He was still worried about the steel shaft. “What does that mean?”
“I’m glad you asked me that,” Morrison said. “Yes, I’m really glad you asked me. It means simply that this place doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, come now.”
“I mean it. There can’t be life without microorganisms. One whole section of the life cycle is missing here.”
“Unfortunately, it does exist,” Kilpepper pointed out gently. “Have you any other theories?”
“Yes, but I want to finish these tests first. But I’ll tell you one thing, and maybe you can work it out for yourself.”
“Go on.”
“I haven’t been able to detect a piece of rock on this planet. That’s not strictly my field, of course—but we’re all jacks-of-all-trades on this expedition. Anyhow, I’m interested in geology. There’s no loose rock or stone anywhere around. The smallest stone is about seven tons, I’d estimate.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ah! You were wondering also?” Morrison smiled. “Excuse me. I want to complete these tests before supper.”
Just before sunset, the X-rays of the animals were finished. Kilpepper had another surprise. Morrison had told him that the planet couldn’t exist. Then Simmons insisted the animals couldn’t exist.
“Just look at these pictures,” he said to Kilpepper. “Look. Do you see any organs?”
“I don’t know much about X-rays . . .”
“You don’t have to. Just look.” The X-ray showed a few bones and one or two organs. There were traces of a nervous system on some of the pictures but, mostly, the animals seemed homogeneous throughout.
“There isn’t enough internal structure to keep a tapeworm going,” Simmons said. “This simplification is impossible. There’s nothing that corresponds to lungs or heart. No bloodstream. No brain. Damn little nervous system. What organs they have just don’t make sense.”
“And your conclusion—”
“That these animals don’t exist,” Simmons said, in high good humor. He liked the idea. It would be fun to do a paper on a non-existent animal.
Aramic passed them, swearing softly.
“Any luck on that lingo?” Simmons asked him.
“No!” Aramic shouted, then blushed. “Sorry. I tested them right down to intelligence grade C3BB. That’s amoeba class. No response.”
“Perhaps they’re just completely brainless,” Kilpepper suggested.
“No. The ability to do tricks shows a certain level of intelligence. They have a language of sorts, also, and a definite response pattern. But they won’t pay any attention. All they do is sing songs.”
“I think we all need supper,” Kilpepper said. “And perhaps a slug or two of the old standby.”
The old standby was much in evidence at supper. After a fifth or two had been consumed, the scientists mellowed sufficiently to consider some possibilities. They put together their facts.
Item, the natives—or animals—showed no sign of internal organs, no reproductive or excretive equipment. There seemed to be at least three dozen species, not counting birds, and more appearing every day.
The same with the plants.
Item, the planet was amazingly sterile, and acted to keep itself so.
Item, the natives had a language but evidently couldn’t impart it to others. Nor could they learn another language.
Item, there were no small rocks or stone around.
Item, there was a tremendous steel shaft, rising to a height of at least half a mile, exact height to be determined when the new pictures were developed. Although there was no sign of a machine culture, the shaft was obviously the product of one. Someone must have built it and put it there.
“Throw it all together and what have you got?” Kilpepper asked.
“I have a theory,” Morrison said. “It’s a beautiful theory. Would you care to hear it?”
Everyone said yes except Aramic, who was still brooding over his inability to learn the native language.
“The way I see it, this planet is man-made. It must be. No race would evolve without bacteria. It was made by a super race, the race who put that steel spire there. They built it for these animals.”
“Why?” Kilpepper asked.
“This is the beautiful part,” Morrison said dreamily. “Pure altruism. Look at the natives. Happy, playful. Completely devoid of violence, rid of all nasty habits. Don’t they deserve a world to themselves? A world where they can romp and play in an eternal summer?”
“That is beautiful,” Kilpepper said, stifling a grin. “But—”
“These people are here as a reminder,” Morrison continued. “A message to all passing races that men can live in peace.”
“There’s only one flaw in that,” Simmons said. “The animals could never have evolved naturally. You saw the X-rays.”
“That’s true . . .” The dreamer struggled briefly with the biologist, and the dreamer lost. “Perhaps they’re robots.”
“That’s the explanation I favor,” Simmons said. “The way I see it, the race that built the steel spire built these animals also. They’re servants, slaves. Why, they might even think we’re their masters.”
“Where would the real masters have gone?” Morrison asked.
“How the hell should I know?” Simmons said.
“And where would these masters live?” Kilpepper asked. “We haven’t spotted anything that looks like a habitation.”
“They’re so far advanced they don’t need machines or houses. They live directly with nature.”
“Then why do they need servants?” Morrison asked mercilessly. “And why did they build the spire?”
That evening the new pictures of the steel pillar were completed and the scientists examined them eagerly. The top of the pillar was almost a mile high, hidden in thick clouds. There was a projection on either side of the top, jutting out at right angles to a distance of eighty-five feet.
“Looks like it might be a watchtower,” Simmons said.
“What could they watch that high up?” Morrison asked. “All they’d see would be clouds.”
“Perhaps they like looking at clouds,” Simmons said.
“I’m going to bed,” Kilpepper stated, in utter disgust.
When Kilpepper woke up the next morning, something didn’t feel right. He dressed and went outside. There seemed to be something intangible in the wind. Or was it just his nerves?
Kilpepper shook his head. He had faith in his premonitions. They us
ually meant that, unconsciously, he had completed some process in reasoning.
Everything seemed to be in order around the ship. The animals were outside, wandering lazily around.
Kilpepper glared at them and walked around the ship. The scientists were back at work trying to solve the mysteries of the planet. Aramic was trying to learn the language from a mournfuleyed green and silver beast. The beast seemed unusually apathetic this morning. It barely muttered its songs, and paid no attention to Aramic.
Kilpepper thought of Circe. Could the animals be people, changed into beasts by some wicked sorcerer? He rejected the fanciful idea, and walked on.
The crew hadn’t noticed anything different. They had headed, en masse, for the waterfall, to get in some swimming. Kilpepper assigned two men to make a microscopic inspection of the steel shaft.
That worried him more than anything else. It didn’t seem to bother the other scientists, but Kilpepper figured that was natural. Every cobbler to his last. A linguist would be bound to attach primary importance to the language of the people, while a botanist would think the key to the planet lay in the multi-fruit bearing trees.
And what did he think? Captain Kilpepper examined his ideas. What he needed, he decided, was a field theory. Something that would unify all the observed phenomena.
What theory would do that? Why weren’t there any germs? Why weren’t there any rocks?
Why, why, why. Kilpepper felt sure that the explanation was relatively simple. He could almost see it—but not quite.
He sat down in the shade, leaning against the ship, and tried to think.
Around midday Aramic, the linguist, walked over. He threw his books, one by one, against the side of the ship.
“Temper,” Kilpepper said.
“I give up,” Aramic said. “Those beasts won’t pay any attention now. They’re barely talking. And they’ve stopped doing tricks.”
Kilpepper got to his feet and walked over to the animals. Sure enough, they didn’t seem at all lively. They crept around as though they were in the last stages of malnutrition.
Simmons was standing beside them, jotting down notes on a little pad.
“What’s wrong with your little friends?” Kilpepper asked.
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