Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Thanks, Dillon,” Arek said. “The feeling is sort of mutual. Now, if you’d give in—”

  “No,” Dillon said. “My terms.”

  “OK,” Arek said. “You asked for it!”

  “Bring it on,” Dillon muttered.

  Abruptly, the rocky hillside vanished.

  He was standing knee-deep in a gray marsh. Great gnarled trees rank with moss rose from the still green water. Lilies white as a fish’s belly jerked and swayed, although there was no breeze at all. A dead white vapor hung over the water and clung to the trees’ rough bark. There was not a sound in the swamp, although Dillon sensed life all around him.

  He waited, turning slowly around. He sniffed the stagnant, slow-moving air, shuffled his feet in the gluey mud, smelled the decaying fragrance of the lilies. And a realization came to him.

  This swamp had never existed on K’egra!

  He knew it, with the certainty with which an Earthman senses alien worlds. The gravity was different, and the air was different. Even the mud beneath his feet was unlike the mud of K’egra.

  The implications came crowding in, too quickly to be sorted. Could K’egra have space travel, then? Impossible! Then how could Arek know so well a planet other than his own? Had he read about it, imagined it, or—

  Something solid glanced heavily off his shoulder. In his speculation, the attack had caught Dillon off guard.

  He tried to move, but the mud clung to his feet. A branch had fallen from one of the giant overhanging trees. As he watched, the trees began to sway and crackle. Boughs bent and creaked, then broke, raining down upon him.

  But there was no wind.

  Half stunned, Dillon fought his way through the swamp, trying to find solid ground and a space away from the trees. But the great trunks lay everywhere, and there was no solidness in the swamp. The rain of branches increased, and Dillon whirled back and forth, looking for something to fight against. But there was only the silent swamp.

  “Come out and fight!” Dillon shrieked. He was beaten to his knees, stood up, fell again. Then, half-conscious, he saw a place of refuge.

  He struggled to a great tree and clung tightly to its roots. Boughs fell, branches whipped and slashed, but the tree couldn’t reach him. He was safe!

  But then he saw, with horror, that the lilies at the base of the tree had twined their long stalks around his ankles. He tried to kick them loose. They bent like pale snakes and clung tighter to him. He slashed them loose and ran from the shelter of the tree.

  “Fight me!” Dillon begged, as the branches rained around him. There was no answer. The lilies writhed on their stalks, reaching for him. Overhead was a whirr of angry wings. The birds of the swamp were gathering, black and ragged carrion crows, waiting for the end. And as Dillon swayed on his feet, he felt something warm and terrible touch his ankles.

  Then he knew what he had to do.

  It took a moment to get up his courage. Then Dillon plunged head-first into the dirty green water.

  As soon as he dived, the swamp became silent. The giant trees froze against the slate sky. The lilies lost their frenzy and hung limp on their stalks. The white vapor clung motionless to the rough bark of the trees, and the birds of prey glided silently through the thick air.

  For a while, bubbles frothed to the surface. Then the bubbles stopped.

  Dillon came up, gasping for breath, deep scratches across his neck and back. In his hands was the shapeless, transparent creature who ruled the swamp.

  He waded to a tree and swung the limp creature against it, shattering it completely. Then he sat down.

  Never had he been so tired and so sick, and so convinced of the futility of everything. Why was he struggling for life, when life occupied so insignificant a part in the scheme of things? Of what significance was his instant of life, measured against the swing of the planets, or the stately flaming of the stars? And Dillon was amazed at the lewdness with which he was scrambling for existence.

  The warm water lapped around his chest. Life, Dillon told himself sleepily, is nothing more than an itch on the hide of the non-living, a parasite of matter. Quantity counts, he told himself, as the water stroked his neck. What is the tininess of life compared to the vastness of nonliving? If nonliving is natural, he thought as the water touched his chin, then to live is to be diseased. And life’s only healthy thought is the wish for death.

  Death was a pleasant thought at that moment, as the water caressed his lips. There was a tiredness past resting, and a sickness past healing. Now it would be easy to let go, go down, abandon—

  “Very good,” Dillon whispered, pulling himself to his feet. “Very good try, Arek. Perhaps you’re tired, too? Perhaps there’s not much left in you but a little emotion?”

  It grew dark, and in the dark something whispered to Dillon, something that looked like him in miniature, that curled itself warmly on his shoulder.

  “But there are worse things than death,” his miniature said. “There are things no living being can face, guilty knowledge concealed in the very bottom of the soul, loathed and detested, but knowledge, and never to be denied. Death is better than this knowledge, Dillon. Death becomes precious, and infinitely costly. Death is to be prayed for, and cunning schemes are laid to capture death—when you must face what lies at the bottom of your soul.”

  Dillon tried not to listen to the creature who looked so much like himself. But the miniature clung to his shoulder and pointed. And Dillon saw something forming in the darkness, and recognized its form.

  “Not this, Dillon,” his double pleaded. “Please, not this! Be courageous, Dillon! Choose your death! Be bold, be brave! Know how to die at the right time!”

  Dillon, recognizing the shape of what was coming toward him, felt a fear he would never have imagined possible. For this was knowledge from the bottom of his soul, guilty knowledge of himself and all he ever thought he stood for.

  “Quickly, Dillon!” his double cried. “Be strong, be bold, be true! Die while you still know what you are!”

  And Dillon wanted to die. With a vast sigh of relief he began to release his hold, to let his essence slip away . . .

  And couldn’t.

  “Help me!” he screamed.

  “I can’t!” his miniature screamed back. “You must do this for yourself!”

  And Dillon tried again, with knowledge pressing close to his eyeballs, asked for death, begged for death, and could not let himself die.

  So there was only one thing to do. He gathered his last strength and flung himself despairingly forward, at the shape that danced before him.

  It disappeared.

  After a moment Dillon realized that every threat was gone. He was standing alone in territory he had conquered. In spite of everything, he had won! Before him now lay the citadel, untenanted, waiting for him. He felt a wave of respect for poor Arek. He had been a good fighter, a worthy adversary. Perhaps he could spare him a little living space, if Arek didn’t try to—

  “That’s very kind of you, Dillon,” a voice boomed out.

  Dillon had no time to react. He was caught in a grip so powerful that any thought of resistance was futile. Only then did he sense the real power of the K’egran’s mind.

  “You did well, Dillon,” Arek said. “You need never be ashamed of the fight you fought.”

  “But I never had a chance,” Dillon said.

  “No, never,” Arek said gently. “You thought the Earth invasion plan was unique, as most young races feel. But K’egra is ancient, Dillon, and in our time we have been invaded many times, physically and mentally. So it’s really nothing new for us.”

  “You played with me!” Dillon cried.

  “I wanted to find out what you were like,” Arek said.

  “How smug you must have felt! It was a game with you. All right, get it over with, finish it!”

  “Finish what?”

  “Kill me!”

  “Why should I kill you?” Arek asked.

  “Because—because what
else can you do with me? Why should I be treated differently from the rest?”

  “You met some of the others, Dillon. You wrestled with Ehtan, who had inhabited a swamp on his home planet, before he took to voyaging. And the miniature who whispered so persuasively in your ear is Oolermik, who came not too long ago, all bluster and fire, much like yourself.”

  “But—”

  “We accepted them here, made room for them, used their qualities to complement ours. Together we are more than we had been apart.”

  “You live together?” Dillon whispered. “In your body?”

  “Of course. Good bodies are scarce in the galaxy, and there’s not much room for the living. Dillon, meet my partners.”

  And Dillon saw the amorphous swamp creature again, and the scaly-hided Oolermik, and a dozen others.

  “But it can’t be!” Dillon cried. “Alien races can’t live together! Life is struggle and death! That’s a fundamental law of nature.”

  “An early law,” Arek said. “Long ago we discovered that cooperation means survival for all, and on far better terms. You’ll get used to it. Welcome into the confederacy, Dillon!”

  And Dillon, still dazed, entered the citadel, to sit in partnership with many races of the galaxy.

  COUNTRY CAPER

  It was called Scotty’s Diner, and it looked like a million other diners—just an anonymous aluminum boxcar set all by itself in a half circle of gravel on the edge of a concrete highway. It looked no worse than the others Madden had passed all day and he could expect to find nothing better ahead. It was sunset, suppertime, so he pulled in and parked beside a solitary diesel truck.

  The diner smelled like all diners—of boiled coffee and ancient grease, of lye rising from the white and black tiled floor. The counterman wore a soiled white apron and a white cap. He was making change for the only other customer, the driver of the diesel truck.

  “Well, Scotty, you sure got a problem,” the truck driver was saying, chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick.

  “I know I got a problem,” the counterman said. “Don’t nobody have to tell me that. But what do I do about it? I mean, what would you do, Nick?”

  The truck driver shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “It beats me, Scotty, it sure does. Don’t get mixed up in nothing is all I could advise you.”

  “Yeah,” Scotty said dubiously. “I know. But every time I think of that poor sick old man . . . Oh, well.”

  “Let old man Blandford watch out for himself,” Nick advised. “See ya next time through.”

  “Take it slow, Nick.” Scotty turned to Madden. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  “Hamburger special, mashed, peas.”

  Scotty nodded and turned on the gas under the grill. He was a big, ruddy, strong-featured man in his thirties, with close-cropped black hair and direct blue eyes. Madden, who was thin and swarthy and quick-eyed, felt uncomfortable around men like Scotty. They never seemed quite human to him, those frank, open, guileless, countrybred men, laboring year after year at some unpleasant and unrewarding job, monotonously honest, invincibly dull. But then, Madden was uncomfortable around most people. It was a natural result of Madden’s line of work.

  Scotty put the hamburger on the grill and stared at it thoughtfully. He said, “I just reckon I should do something about it.”

  “Eh?” Madden said.

  Scotty blinked, embarrassed, then rubbed the side of his sturdy jaw. “Lord, I’m thinking out loud now! I got that poor old Mr. Blandford on my mind, and I just don’t know what to do.” Scotty glared at the sizzling hamburger. “Poor old man’s got no family, no friends except me. He could die in that big old house without a soul to give him comfort.”

  Madden stifled a yawn. In his line of work he moved frequently from city to city, quite fast, and often by devious routes. He knew these lonely countermen in their aluminum diners. Give them a chance and they’d tell you every dull detail about their wives, children, aged parents, army-buddies, pets, and hobbies. But some of these yarns could be pretty funny, and even lead him to a bit of work. And Madden had no newspaper with him. So he said, “What’s wrong with the old guy ?”

  Scotty turned the hamburger over. “This Mr. Blandford, he lives in a big old house on the highway. He’s been alone there ten—no, eleven years—ever since Mrs. Blandford passed away. Never goes out. Never lets anyone in except me with the groceries. He’s got arthritis in both hands so bad he can hardly lift a frying pan. And his heart’s bad to boot. Last time I brought the groceries, I found him passed out on the stairs and gasping like a fish.”

  “So?” Madden asked. “What’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble? But I just told you! He’s got this bad ticker. Why, he could have another attack any time. He could die in that big old house without a soul to give him comfort.”

  “Oh,” said Madden, disappointed.

  Scotty served the hamburger steak. “Thing is,” the counterman went on, “that poor silly old man is just asking for trouble. He’s rich, but he hasn’t spent hardly a cent of money since Mrs. Blandford passed on. Keeps it in a little old safe in the attic.”

  “Hmm,” Madden said, his interest suddenly reawakening.

  “It’s no secret. Everybody knows about that safe,” Scotty said angrily. “What’s to stop somebody from breaking in and cleaning out the place?”

  “True,” Madden murmured.

  “Old man with arthritis in both hands ain’t going to stop nobody,” Scotty brooded. “And with that bum heart of his, the shock would probably kill him.”

  Madden finished and paid his check.

  “So you see? I think I should do something,” Scotty said, his direct blue eyes troubled. “Maybe I should tell the county board he’s out of his head.”

  “Leave it alone,” Madden advised. “You think he’d be happier in some old man’s home? Nobody’s happy locked up,” he added with conviction.

  “Maybe not, maybe not. And it isn’t any of my business, I know. But damn it, I’ve known that man since I was a kid. I used to mow his lawn. His wife used to make cookies—”

  “Forget it,” Madden said. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks. I guess I should forget it. Call again,” he said, as Madden left.

  The sunset had faded to a dirty red, and the white highway had an unreal twilight look. Madden switched on his parking lights and drove west, until he came to a high old house set back from the highway. He slowed down, peering anxiously until he saw, almost hidden by tall grass, a faded, sign reading Blandford. He drove on.

  In twenty minutes it had grown dark. Madden switched on his driving lights, made a U turn, and started back, humming softly to himself. He went by the Blandford house again, and, fifty yards past it, came to a stop. He glanced up and down the highway, but could see no headlights. Quickly he cut his own lights and pulled off the road, behind a huge unlit billboard.

  So far, so good. He took a snubnosed .38 revolver from his breast pocket, checked the safety, and put it back. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned back and stared thoughtfully in the direction of the high old house.

  He didn’t like the country, that vast and dubious region which separated New York from Chicago. What kind of people could live in a land of farms and highways and small grimy towns? To Madden they were a strange race. He put nothing past them.

  But business was business. From the glove compartment he removed a pair of sneakers and slipped them on. He pulled a small black bag from under the seat and took, after some thought, a screwdriver, a small flashlight, a piece of wire, a jimmy, a tin-edged knife, and a file. He distributed these among his pockets and stepped out of the car.

  City-bred, Madden covered the fifty yards to the house like an alley cat. Twigs and branches were comparable to tin cans and refuse bags. He avoided them automatically.

  At the house there was only a single dim light burning in a downstairs room. Madden circled the house until he saw, on the far side, the window of the attic room. A trellis l
ed up the side of the house. Madden shook it and found it firm. He wiped the perspiration from his hands and began to climb.

  The trellis ended at the second floor, but an iron drainpipe continued to the roof. The pipe seemed strong enough. Madden rested for a moment, then swarmed up the pipe to the attic window. It was slightly ajar, and the room within was black and impenetrable. Madden listened, but could hear no sound. He slid over the sill with the soft, dry sound of a snake gliding over a rock, and lay crouched on the floor, waiting.

  The silence was thick around him, and the darkness pressed against his eyes and filled his mouth. He waited for the shapes of furniture to loom black against the lesser blackness. But nothing changed, and Madden knew at last the darkness of a country night, without street lights or neon signs.

  He stretched his hand to the right, slowly. He extended his fingers, unwillingly, for an ancient and irrational part of Madden’s mind expected contact with something warm and wet and slimy. Instead, he touched the cool metal surface of the safe.

  At the same moment he heard a soft creak on the stairs beyond.

  He gripped his revolver and waited, praying that the abnormal darkness would lift. It couldn’t be that dark! He wondered if he had gone blind. And for a fraction of a second he had the fantasy that he had indeed gone blind, that the room was brilliantly lighted, that harshfaced country men were standing along the wall watching him as he crawled on the floor like a blind slug. The thought was so brief that Madden didn’t remember it a moment later when the stairs creaked a second time.

  Black as hell, he told himself; just exactly as black as hell. And old houses creak and grumble to themselves all night long.

  There was no further sound. He touched his revolver again, for reassurance, and crept to the safe. With his ear pressed against the cool metal, he began to turn the dial.

  Suddenly he heard a soft cough from the opposite side of the room. Madden whirled, instinctively hunching his shoulders, the revolver ready.

  A voice said, “What are you doing here?”