“That’s odd. Hope nothing went wrong.” He sat down and proceeded to scratch himself intently under three armpits.
Feeling giddy, Arnold asked, “Where do you come from?”
“From Oole, naturally,” Hem said. “That’s where we plant the scomp. And it comes out here.”
“Just a moment.” Arnold sat down heavily. “Suppose you start at the beginning.”
“It’s perfectly simple. For generations, we Oolens have planted the scomp. When the scomp is young, it disappears for a few weeks. Then the mature plant appears again in our fields and we harvest it and eat it.”
“You’re going too fast for me. Where did you say Oole is?”
“Gregor says Oole is in a parallel universe. I wouldn’t know about that. He appeared in the middle of my fields about two months ago and taught me English. Then—”
“Two months?” Arnold echoed. He considered. “Different time framework, I suppose. Never mind. Go on.”
“Do you have something to eat?” Hem asked. “Haven’t eaten in three days. Couldn’t, you know.” Arnold handed him a loaf of bread and a jar of jam. “Well, when they opened the new North Territory,” Hem said, “I put in an early bid. So I packed my animals, purchased three class B wives and departed for my claim. Once there, I—”
“Stop!” Arnold begged. “What has this got to do with anything?”
“This is how it all happened. Don’t interrupt.”
SCRATCHING his left shoulder with one hand while stuffing bread and jam in his mouth with two others, Hem explained, “I reached the new territory and planted scomp. It blossomed and disappeared, as always. But when it reappeared, most of it had been consumed by some creature. Well, farmers have to expect trouble, so I planted again. The next crop was still too poor to harvest. I was furious. I determined to continue planting. We pioneers are a determined lot, you understand. But I was just about to give up and return to civilization when your partner came—”
“Let me see if I understand so far,” Arnold said. “You are from a universe parallel to ours. This scomp you plant grows in two universes, in order to complete its development.”
“That’s correct—at least it’s how Gregor explained it to us.”
“It seems an odd way to grow food.”
“We like it,” the Oolen said stiffly. He scratched behind all four knees. “Gregor says that our plants usually penetrate some uninhabited part of your universe. But this time, when I sowed in new territory, the scomp came up here.”
“Aha!” Arnold cried.
“Aha? He didn’t teach me that word. Anyhow, Gregor helped me. He told me I didn’t have to abandon my land; I just had to use my other fields. Gregor assures me that there is no one-to-one spatial correspondence between parallel universes, whatever that means. And this is in payment for our other business.”
Hem dropped the heavy sack on the floor. It made a loud clunk as it landed. Arnold opened it and peered inside.
The bars of yellow metal looked exactly like gold ingots.
Just then, the telephone rang. Arnold picked it up.
“Hello,” Gregor said, from the other end. “Is Hem there yet?”
“Yes . . .”
“He explained it all, didn’t he? About the parallel universe and how the scomp grows?”
“I think I understand,” Arnold said. “But—”
“Now listen,” Gregor continued. “Before, when we destroyed the plants, he sowed them again. Since his time is much longer than ours, they grew here overnight. But that’s over. He’s moving his fields. The next time you destroy the scomp, it’ll stay destroyed. Wait a week, then turn the cats and the Morganizer loose.”
Arnold shut his eyes tightly. Gregor had had two months to figure all this out. He hadn’t. It was happening too fast for him.
“What about Hem?” he asked.
“He’ll eat some scomp and go home. We had to starve it out of ourselves to get here.”
“All right,” Arnold said. “I think I—just a minute! Where are you?”
Gregor chuckled. “There’s no one-to-one correspondence between parallel universes, you know. I was standing on the edge of the field when the scomp wore off. I came out on the planet Thule.”
“But that’s on the other side of the Galaxy!” Gregor gasped.
“I know. I’ll meet you back on Earth. Be sure to bring the gold.”
Arnold hung up. Hem had gone.
It was only then that Arnold realized he hadn’t asked Gregor what the other business was, the business that the Oolen had paid for in solid gold.
HE found out later, when they were both back on Earth, in the offices of AAA Ace. The job was done. The slegs, returned to visibility, had been decimated by the cats and the Morganizer. Their contract was completed. They had to forfeit part of their profit, because the job ran two weeks overtime, but the loss was more than made good by the bars of Oolen gold.
“His fields were overrun with our cats,” Gregor told Arnold. “They were scaring his livestock. I rounded them all up and we sold them to the Oole Central Zoo. They never saw anything like them. He and I split the take.”
“Well,” Arnold said, rubbing the back of his neck, “it all worked out for the best.”
“It certainly did.”
Gregor was ferociously scratching his shoulder. Arnold watched for a moment, then felt a strong itching sensation on his chest—in his hair—on his calf—everywhere.
Carefully, he reached down and probed with his fingernails.
“I guess we aren’t quite through, though,” Gregor said.
“Why?” Arnold asked, scratching at his left biceps. “What is this?”
“Hem wasn’t the most hygienic of people and Oole was a pretty scrubby place.”
“What is it?”
“I’m afraid I picked up a lot of lice,” Gregor said. He scratched at his stomach. “Invisible lice, of course.”
THE FORTUNATE PERSON
No man had ever benefited quite so much from the achievements of modern science. With one more task to do he could rest forever.
Efforts to simplify technical science for Everyman are not new. Suppose one such effort should succeed, on a grand and impressive scale. And then something truly terrifying happened that turned author Robert Sheckley’s hair white and caused him to write this story. As far as we know Mr. Sheckley is still writing for the science-fantasy magazines, the slicks, and the silver screen. But just suppose this was his own personal story—or yours?
I’M REALLY AMAZINGLY well off down here. But you’ve got to remember that I’m a fortunate person. It was sheer good luck that sent me to Patagonia. Not pull, understand—no, nor ability. I’m a pretty good meteorologist, but they could have sent a better one. I’ve just been extremely lucky to be in the right places at the right times.
It takes on an aspect of the fabulous when you consider that the army equipped my weather station with just about every gadget known to man. Not entirely for me, of course. The army had planned on setting up a base here. They got all the equipment in, and then had to abandon the project.
I kept sending in my weather reports, though, as long as they wanted them. But the gadgets! Science has always amazed me. I’m something of a scientist myself, I suppose, but not a creative scientist, and that makes all the difference. You tell a creative scientist to do something impossible, and he goes right ahead and does it every time. It’s awe-inspiring. The way I see it, some general must have said to the scientists, “Boys, we’ve got a great shortage of specialists, and no chance of replacing them. Their duties must be performed by men who may often be completely unskilled. Sounds impossible, but what can you do about it?” And the scientists started to work in earnest, on all these incredible books and gadgets.
For example, last week I had a toothache. At first I thought it was just the cold, for it’s still pretty cold down here, even with the volcanoes acting up. But sure enough, it was a tooth-ache. So I took out the dental apparatus, set it up, and read what I w
as supposed to read. I examined myself and classified the tooth, the ache, the cavity. Then I injected myself, cleaned the tooth out, and filled it. And dentists spent years in school learning to do what I accomplished under pressure in five hours.
Take food now. I’d been getting disgustingly fat, because I had nothing to do but send in the weather reports. But when I stopped doing that I started turning out meals that the finest chefs in the world might well have envied. Cooking used to be an art, but once the scientists tackled it, they made an exact science out of it.
I could go on for pages. A lot of the stuff they gave me I have no further use for, because I’m all alone now. But anyone could be a competent, practicing lawyer with the guides they give you. They’re so arranged that anyone with average intelligence can find the sections you have to master to successfully defend a case, and learn what they mean in plain English. No one has ever tried to sue me, because I’ve always been lucky. But I wish someone would. I’d just like to try out those law books.
Building is another matter. When I first arrived here, I had to live in a quonset hut. But I unpacked some of the marvellous building machines, and found materials that anyone could work. I built myself a bombproof house of five rooms, with an inlaid tile bathroom. It isn’t real inlaid tile, of course, but it looks real enough, and is amazingly simple to put down. The wall-to-wall carpeting goes down easily too, once you’ve read up on it. The thing that surprised me the most was the plumbing for my house. Plumbing always seemed the most complicated thing in the world to me—more complicated even than medicine or dentistry. But I had no trouble at all with it. Perhaps it wouldn’t seem too perfect by professional standards, but it satisfies me. And the series of filters, sterilizers, purifiers, fortifiers, and so on, gives me water free of even the toughest germs. And I installed them all myself.
At times I get lonely down here, and there’s not much the scientists can do about that. There’s no substitute for companionship. But perhaps if the creative scientists had tried real hard they could have worked up something for isolated guys like me just a little better than complete loneliness. There aren’t even any Patagonians around for me to talk to. They wen: North after the tidal waves—the few who were left. And music isn’t much good. But then, I’m a person who doesn’t too much mind being alone. Perhaps that’s why they sent me down here.
I wish there were some trees, though.
Painting! I forgot to mention painting! Everyone knows how complicated that subject is. You have to know about perspective and line, color and mass, and I don’t know what else. You have to practically be a genius before you can get anything out of it.
Now, I just select my brushes, set up my canvas, and I can paint anything that appeals to me. Everything you have to do is in the book. The oils I have of sunsets here are spectacular. They’re good enough for a gallery. You never saw such sunsets! Flaming colors, impossible shapes! It’s all the dust in the air. My ears are better, too. Didn’t I say I was lucky? The ear-drums were completely shattered by the first concussion. But the hearing aid I wear is so small you can hardly see it, and I can hear better than ever. This brings me to the subject of medicine, and nowhere has science done a better job. The book tells me what to do about everything. I performed an appendectomy on myself that would have been considered impossible a few years ago. I just had to look up the symptoms, follow the directions, and it was done. I’ve doctored myself for all sorts of ailments, but of course there’s nothing I can do about the radiation poisoning. That’s not the fault of the books, however. It’s just that there’s nothing anyone can do about radiation poisoning. If I had the finest specialists in the world here, they couldn’t do anything about it.
If there were any specialists left. There aren’t, of course. It isn’t so bad. I know what to do so that it doesn’t hurt. And my luck didn’t run out or anything. It’s just that everyone’s luck ran out. Well, looking over this, it doesn’t seem much of a credo, which is what it was meant to be. I guess I’d better study one of those writing books. I’ll know how to say it all then, as well as it can be said. Exactly how I feel about science, I mean, and how grateful I am. I’m thirty-nine. I’ve lived longer than just about everyone, even if I die tomorrow. But that’s because I was lucky, and in the right places at the right times.
I guess I won’t bother with the writing book, since there’s no one around to read a word of manuscript. What good is a writer without an audience?
Photography is more interesting.
Besides, I have to unpack some grave-digging tools, and build a mausoleum, and carve a tombstone for myself.
THE LIFEBOAT MUTINY
No, sir, they do not build boats like this any longer . . . and this is the reason!
“TELL me the truth, did you ever see sweeter engines?” Joe, the Interstellar Junkman asked. “And look at those servos!”
“Hmm,” Gregor said judiciously.
That hull,” Joe said softly. “I bet it’s five hundred years old, and not a spot of corrosion on it.” He patted the burnished side of the boat affectionately. What luck, the pat seemed to say, that this paragon among vessels should be here just when AAA Ace needs a lifeboat.
“She certainly does seem rather nice,” Arnold said, with the studied air of a man who has fallen in love and is trying hard not to show it. “What do you think, Dick?”
Richard Gregor didn’t answer. The boat was handsome, and she looked perfect for ocean survey work on Trident. But you had to be careful about Joe’s merchandise.
“They just don’t build ’em this way any more,” Joe sighed. “Look at the propulsion unit. Couldn’t dent it with a triphammer. Note the capacity of the cooling system. Examine—”
“It looks good,” Gregor said slowly.
The AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service had dealt with Joe in the past, and had learned caution, not that Joe was dishonest; far from it. The flotsam he collected from anywhere in the inhabited Universe worked. But the ancient machines often had their own ideas of how a job should be done. They tended to grow peevish when forced into another routine.
“I don’t care if it’s beautiful, fast, durable, or even comfortable,” Gregor said defiantly. “I just want to be absolutely sure it’s safe.”
Joe nodded. “That’s the important thing, of course. Step inside.”
THEY entered the cabin of the boat. Joe stepped up to the instrument panel, smiled mysteriously, and pressed a button.
Immediately Gregor heard a voice which seemed to originate in his head, saying, “I am Lifeboat 32 4-A. My purpose—”
“Telepathy?” Gregor interrupted.
“Direct sense recording,” Joe said, smiling proudly. “No language barriers that way. I told you, they just don’t build ’em this way any more.”
“I am Lifeboat 324-A,” the boat esped again. “My primary purpose is to preserve those within me from peril, and to maintain them in good health. At present, I am only partially activated.”
“Could anything be safer?” Joe cried. “This is no senseless hunk of metal. This boat will look after you. This boat cares!” Gregor was impressed, even though the idea of an emotional boat was somehow distasteful. But then, paternalistic gadgets had always irritated him.
Arnold had no such feelings. “We’ll take it!”
“You won’t be sorry,” Joe said, in the frank and open tones that had helped make him a millionaire several times over. Gregor hoped not.
The next day, Lifeboat 324-A was loaded aboard their spaceship and they blasted off for Trident.
This planet, in the heart of the East Star Valley, had recently been bought by a real-estate speculator. He’d found her nearly perfect for colonization. Trident was the size of Mars, but with a far better climate. There was no indigenous native population to contend with, no poisonous plants, no germ-borne diseases. And, unlike so many worlds, Trident had no predatory animals. Indeed, she had no animals at all.
Apart from one small island and a polar ca
p, the entire planet was covered with water.
There was no real shortage of land; you could wade across several of Trident’s seas. The land just wasn’t heaped high enough.
AAA Ace had been commissioned to correct this minor flaw.
After landing on Trident’s single island, they launched the boat. The rest of the day was spent checking and loading the special survey equipment on board. Early the next morning, Gregor prepared sandwiches and filled a canteen with water. They were ready to begin work.
As soon as the mooring lines were cast off, Gregor joined Arnold in the cabin. With a small flourish, Arnold pressed the first button.
“I am Lifeboat 324-A,” the boat esped. “My primary purpose is to preserve those within me from peril, and to maintain them in good health. At present, I am only partially activated. For full activation, press button two.”
Gregor pressed the second button.
There was a muffled buzzing deep in the bowels of the boat. Nothing else happened.
“That’s odd,” Gregor said. He pressed the button again. The muffled buzz was repeated.
“Sounds like a short circuit,” Arnold said.
Glancing out the forward porthole, Gregor saw the shoreline of the island slowly drifting away. He felt a touch of panic. There was so much water here, and so little land. To make matters worse, nothing on the instrument panel resembled a wheel or tiller, nothing looked like a throttle or clutch. How did you operate a partially activated lifeboat?
“She must control telepathically,” Gregor said hopefully. In a stern voice he said, “Go ahead slowly.”
The little boat forged ahead.
“Now right a little.”
The boat responded perfectly to Gregor’s clear, although unnautical command. The partners exchanged smiles.
“Straighten out,” Gregor said, “and full speed ahead!”
The lifeboat charged forward into the shining, empty sea.
ARNOLD disappeared into the bilge with a flashlight and a circuit tester. The surveying was easy enough for Gregor to handle alone. The machines did all the work, tracing the major faults in the ocean bottom, locating the most promising volcanoes, running the flow and buildup charts. When the survey was complete, the next stage would be turned over to a subbcontractor. He would wire the volcanoes, seed the faults, retreat to a safe distance and touch the whole thing off.
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