Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Do something!” Casker shouted. The liquid was trying to back him into a corner.

  “Nothing I can do,” Hellman said, reading on. “Ah, here’s the error. It doesn’t say ‘Everyone drinks Voozy.’ Wrong subject. ‘Voozy drinks everyone.’ That tells us something! The Helgans must have soaked liquid in through their pores. Naturally, they would prefer to be drunk, instead of to drink.”

  Casker tried to dodge around the liquid, but it cut him off with a merry gurgle. Desperately he picked up a small bale and threw it at the Voozy. The Voozy caught the bale and drank it. Then it discarded that and turned back to Casker.

  Hellman tossed another box. The Voozy drank this one and a third and fourth that Casker threw in. Then, apparently exhausted, it flowed back into its vat.

  Casker clapped down the lid and sat on it, trembling violently.

  “Not so good,” Hellman said. “We’ve been taking it for granted that the Helgans had eating habits like us. But, of course, it doesn’t necessarily—”

  “No, it doesn’t. No, sir, it certainly doesn’t. I guess we can see that it doesn’t. Anyone can see that it doesn’t—”

  “Stop that,” Hellman ordered sternly. “We’ve no time for hysteria.”

  “Sorry.” Casker slowly moved away from the Voozy vat.

  “I guess we’ll have to assume that their meat is our poison,” Hellman said thoughtfully. “So now we’ll see if their poison is our meat.”

  Casker didn’t say anything. He was wondering what would have happened if the Voozy had drunk him.

  In the corner, the rubbery block was still giggling to itself.

  “NOW here’s a likely-looking poison,” Hellman said, half an hour later.

  Casker had recovered completely, except for an occasional twitch of the lips.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  Hellman rolled a tiny tube in the palm of his hand.

  “It’s called Pvastkin’s Plugger. The label reads: WARNING! HIGHLY DANGEROUS! PVASTKIN’S PLUGGER IS DESIGNED TO FILL HOLES OR CRACKS OF NOT MORE THAN TWO CUBIC VIMS. HOWEVER—THE PLUGGER IS NOT TO BE EATEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. THE ACTIVE INGREDIENT, RAMOTOL, WHICH MAKES PVASTKIN’S SO EXCELLENT A PLUGGER RENDERS IT HIGHLY DANGEROUS WHEN TAKEN INTERNALLY.”

  “Sounds great,” Casker said. “It’ll probably blow us sky-high.”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?” Hellman asked.

  Casker thought for a moment. The food of Helg was obviously unpalatable for humans. So perhaps was their poison . . . but wasn’t starvation better than this sort of thing?

  After a moment’s communion with his stomach, he decided that starvation was not better.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  Hellman slipped the burner under his arm and unscrewed the top of the little bottle. He shook it.

  Nothing happened.

  “It’s got a seal,” Casker pointed out.

  Hellman punctured the seal with his fingernail and set the bottle on the floor. An evil-smelling green froth began to bubble out.

  Hellman looked dubiously at the froth. It was congealing into a glob and spreading over the floor.

  “Yeast, perhaps,” he said, gripping the burner tightly.

  “Come, come. Faint heart never filled empty stomach.”

  “I’m not holding you back,” Hellman said.

  The glob swelled to the size of a man’s head.

  “How long is that supposed to go on?” Casker asked.

  “Well,” Hellman said, “it’s advertised as a Plugger. I suppose that’s what it does—expands to plug up holes.”

  “Sure. But how much?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know how much two cubic vims are. But it can’t go on much—”

  Belatedly, they noticed that the Plugger had filled almost a quarter of the room and was showing no signs of stopping.

  “We should have believed the label!” Casker yelled to him, across the spreading glob. “It is dangerous!”

  As the Plugger produced more surface, it began to accelerate in its growth. A sticky edge touched Hellman and he jumped back.

  “Watch out!”

  He couldn’t reach Casker, on the other side of the gigantic sphere of blob. Hellman tried to run around, but the Plugger had spread, cutting the room in half. It began to swell toward the walls.

  “Run for it!” Hellman yelled, and rushed to the door behind him.

  HE flung it open just as the expanding glob reached him. On the other side of the room, he heard a door slam shut. Hellman didn’t wait any longer. He sprinted through and slammed the door behind him.

  He stood for a moment, panting, the burner in his hand. He hadn’t realized how weak he was. That sprint had cut his reserves of energy dangerously close to the collapsing point. At least Casker had made it, too, though.

  But he was still in trouble.

  The Plugger poured merrily through the blasted lock, into the room. Hellman tried a practice shot on it, but the Plugger was evidently impervious . . . as, he realized, a good plugger should be.

  It was showing no signs of fatigue.

  Hellman hurried to the far wall. The door was locked, as the others had been, so he burned out the lock and went through.

  How far could the glob expand? How much was two cubic vims? Two cubic miles, perhaps? For all he knew, the Plugger was used to repair faults in the crusts of planets.

  In the next room, Hellman stopped to catch his breath. He remembered that the building was circular. He would burn his way through the remaining doors and join Casker. They would burn their way outside and . . .

  Casker didn’t have a burner!

  Hellman turned white with shock. Casker had made it into the room on the right, because they had burned it open earlier. The Plugger was undoubtedly oozing into that room, through the shattered lock . . . and Casker couldn’t get out! The Plugger was on his left, a locked door on his right!

  Rallying his remaining strength, Hellman began to run. Boxes seemed to get in his way purposefully, tripping him, slowing him down. He blasted the next door and hurried on to the next. And the next. And the next.

  The Plugger couldn’t expand completely into Casker’s room!

  Or could it?

  The wedge-shaped rooms, each a segment of a circle, seemed to stretch before him forever, a jumbled montage of locked doors, alien goods, more doors, more goods. Hellman fell over a crate, got to his feet, and fell again. He had reached the limit of his strength and passed it. But Casker was his friend.

  Besides, without a pilot, he’d never get off the place.

  Hellman struggled through two more rooms on trembling legs and then collapsed in front of a third.

  “Is that you, Hellman?” he heard Casker ask, from the other side of the door.

  “You all right?” Hellman managed to gasp.

  “Haven’t much room in here,” Casker said, “but the Plugger’s stopped growing. Hellman, get me out of here!”

  HELLMAN lay on the floor panting. “Moment,” he said.

  “Moment, hell!” Casker shouted. “Get me out. I’ve found water!”

  “What? How?”

  “Get me out of here!”

  Hellman tried to stand up, but his legs weren’t cooperating. “What happened?” he asked.

  “When I saw that glob filling the room, I figured I’d try to start up the Super Custom Transport. Thought maybe it could knock down the door and get me out. So I pumped it full of high-gain Integor fuel.”

  “Yes?” Hellman said, still trying to get his legs under control.

  “That Super Custom Transport is an animal, Hellman! And the Integor fuel is water! Now get me out!”

  Hellman lay back with a contented sigh. If he had had a little more time, he would have worked out the whole thing himself by pure logic. But it was all very apparent now. The most efficient machine to go over those vertical, razor-sharp mountains would be an animal, probably with retractable suckers. It was kept in hibernation between trips; and i
f it drank water, the other products designed for it would be palatable, too. Of course they still didn’t know much about the late inhabitants, but undoubtedly . . .

  “Burn down that door!” Casker shrieked, his voice breaking.

  Hellman was pondering the irony of it all. If one man’s meat—and his poison—are your poison, then try eating something else. So simple, really.

  But there was one thing that still bothered him.

  “How did you know it was an Earth-type animal?” he asked.

  “Its breath, stupid! It inhales and exhales and smells as if it’s eaten onions!” There was a sound of cans falling and bottles shattering. “Now hurry!”

  “What’s wrong?” Hellman asked, finally getting to his feet and poising the burner.

  “The Custom Super Transport. It’s got me cornered behind a pile of cases. Hellman, it seems to think that I’m its meat!”

  Broiled with the burner—well done for Heilman, medium rare for Casker—it was their meat, with enough left over for the trip back to Calao.

  THE PERFECT WOMAN

  Somebody once came up with a song title we have never forgotten: “For every man there is a woman, so why did I get stuck with you?”

  Not that Mr. Morcheck felt that way about Myra. He not only believed she was absolutely perfect; you could get a punch in the nose for doubting it!

  And he was so right—for a while!

  MR. MORCHECK awoke with a sour taste in his mouth and a laugh ringing in his ears. It was George Owen-Clark’s laugh, the last thing he remembered from the Triad-Morgan party. And what a party it had been! All Earth had been celebrating the turn of the century. The year Three Thousand! Peace and prosperity to all, and happy life . . .

  “How happy is your life?” Owen-Clark had asked, grinning slyly, more than a little drunk. “I mean, how is life with your sweet wife?”

  That had been unpleasant. Everyone knew that Owen-Clark was a Primitivist, but what right had he to rub people’s noses in it? Just because he had married a Primitive Woman . . .

  “I love my wife,” Morcheck had said stoutly. “And she’s a hell of a lot nicer and more responsive than that bundle of neuroses you call your wife.”

  But of course, you can’t get under the thick hide of a Primitivist. Primitivists love the faults in their women as much as their virtues—more, perhaps. Owen-Clark had grinned ever more slyly, and said, “You know, Morcheck old man, I think your wife needs a checkup. Have you noticed her reflexes lately?”

  Insufferable idiot! Mr. Morcheck eased himself out of bed, blinking at the bright morning sun which hid behind his curtains. Myra’s reflexes—the hell of it was, there was a germ of truth in what Owen-Clark had said. Of late, Myra had seemed rather—out of sorts.

  “Myra!” Morcheck called. “Is my coffee ready?” There was a pause. Then her voice floated brightly upstairs. “In a minute!”

  Morcheck slid into a pair of slacks, still blinking sleepily. Thank Stat the next three days were celebration-points. He’d need all of them just to get over last night’s party.

  Downstairs, Myra was bustling around, pouring coffee, folding napkins, pulling out his chair for him. He sat down, and she kissed him on his bald spot. He liked being kissed on his bald spot.

  “How’s my little wife this morning?” he asked.

  “Wonderful, darling,” she said after a little pause. “I made Seffiners for you this morning. You like Seffiners.”

  Morcheck bit into one, done to a turn, and sipped his coffee.

  “How do you feel this morning?” he asked her.

  Myra buttered a piece of toast for him, then said, “Wonderful, darling. You know, it was a perfectly wonderful party last night. I loved every moment of it.”

  “I got a little bit veery,” Morcheck said with a wry grin.

  “I love you when you’re veery,” Myra said. “You talk like an angel—like a very clever angel, I mean. I could listen to you forever.” She buttered another piece of toast for him.

  Mr. Morcheck beamed on her like a benignant sun, then frowned. He put down his Seffiner and scratched his cheek.

  “You know,” he said, “I had a little ruck-in with Owen-Clark. He was talking about Primitive Women.”

  Myra buttered a fifth piece of toast for him without answering, adding it to the growing pile. She started to reach for a sixth, but he touched her hand lightly. She bent forward and kissed him on the nose.

  “Primitive Women!” she scoffed. “Those neurotic creatures! Aren’t you happier with me, dear? I may be Modern—but no Primitive Woman could love you the way I do—and I adore you!”

  What she said was true. Man had never, in all recorded history, been able to live happily with unreconstructed Primitive Woman. The egoistic, spoiled creatures demanded a lifetime of care and attention. It was notorious that Owen-Clark’s wife made him dry the dishes. And the fool put up with it! Primitive Women were forever asking for money with which to buy clothes and trinkets, demanding breakfast in bed, dashing off to bridge games, talking for hours on the telephone, and Stat knows what else. They tried to take over men’s jobs. Ultimately, they proved their equality.

  Some idiots like Owen-Clark insisted on their excellence.

  Under his wife’s enveloping love, Mr. Morcheck felt his hangover seep slowly away. Myra wasn’t eating. He knew that she had eaten earlier, so that she could give her full attention to feeding him. It was little things like that that made all the difference.

  “He said your reaction time had slowed down.”

  “He did?” Myra asked, after a pause. “Those Primitives think they know everything.”

  It was the right answer, but it had taken too long. Mr.

  Morcheck asked his wife a few more questions, observing her reaction time by the second hand on the kitchen clock.

  She was slowing up!

  “Did the mail come?” he asked her quickly. “Did anyone call? Will I be late for work?”

  After three seconds she opened her mouth, then closed it again. Something was terribly wrong.

  “I love you,” she said simply.

  Mr. Morcheck felt his heart pound against his ribs. He loved her! Madly, passionately! But that disgusting Owen-Clark had been right. She needed a checkup. Myra seemed to sense his thought. She rallied perceptibly, and said, “All I want is your happiness, dear. I think I’m sick . . . Will you have me cured? Will you take me back after I’m cured—and not let them change me—I wouldn’t want to be changed!” Her bright head sank on her arms. She cried—noiselessly, so as not to disturb him.

  “It’ll just be a checkup, darling,” Morcheck said, trying to hold back his own tears. But he knew—as well as she knew—that she was really sick.

  It was so unfair, he thought. Primitive Woman, with her coarse mental fiber, was almost immune to such ailments.

  But delicate Modern Woman, with her finely balanced sensibilities, was all too prone. So monstrously unfair!

  Because Modern Woman contained all the finest, dearest qualities of femininity.

  Except stamina.

  Myra rallied again. She raised herself to her feet with an effort. She was very beautiful. Her sickness had put a high color in her cheeks, and the morning sun highlighted her hair.

  “My darling,” she said. “Won’t you let me stay a little longer? I may recover by myself.” But her eyes were fast becoming unfocused.

  “Darling . . .” She caught herself quickly, holding on to an edge of the table. “When you have a new wife—try to remember how much I loved you.” She sat down, her face blank.

  “I’ll get the car,” Morcheck murmured, and hurried away.

  Any longer and he would have broken down himself.

  Walking to the garage he felt numb, tired, broken. Myra—gone! And modern science, for all its great achievements, unable to help.

  He reached the garage and said, “All right, back out.”

  Smoothly his car backed out and stopped beside him.

  “Anything w
rong, boss?” his car asked. “You look worried. Still got a hangover?”

  “No—it’s Myra. She’s sick.”

  The car was silent for a moment. Then it said softly, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Morcheck. I wish there were something I could do.”

  “Thank you,” Morcheck said, glad to have a friend at this hour. “I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  The car backed to the door and Morcheck helped Myra inside. Gently the car started.

  It maintained a delicate silence on the way back to the factory.

  1954

  RITUAL

  Akeenobob trotted up to Elder Singer’s hut and began dancing the important-message dance, making the appropriate sounds by slapping his tail rhythmically on the ground. Immediately, Elder Singer came to the door, arms folded on his chest, tail coiled on his shoulder in the listening position.

  “A god-ship has come,” Akeenobob said, dancing the correct accompanying measure.

  “Indeed?” said Elder Singer, squinting approvingly at Akeenobob’s dance step. Here was good form! None of the sloppy, simplified movements of the Alhona heresy.

  “In the divine and actual metal!” Akeenobob cried.

  “Praised be the gods,” Elder Singer said formally, concealing his excitement. At last! The gods had returned! “Summon the village.”

  Akeenobob went to the village square and danced the dance of assembly. Elder Singer burned a pinch of sacred snuff, rubbed sand on his tail and, thus purified, trotted out to lead the welcoming dances.

  The god-ship, a great cylinder of blackened, pitted metal, was lying on a little plain. The villagers gathered a respectful distance from it, arranged in the figure of General Welcome To All Gods.

  The god-ship opened, and two gods stumbled out.

  Elder Singer recognized their appearance at once. In The Giant Book of Gods, written nearly five thousand years ago, all possible types of deity had been described. There were gods who were big and gods who were small, winged gods, hooved gods, one-armed, two-armed, three-armed gods, tentacled gods, scaly gods, and the many other forms that godhood was pleased to take.