Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  General Vargas wrote home soon after the successful conquest of Magellanic:

  Dear Lupe, I promised to tell you about the invasion. It went very well. So well, in fact, that at first we suspected some sort of treachery. We airdropped a first force of a thousand picked men, armed to the teeth, into the big square in the middle of the main city here, which is called Megalopolis. Our boys landed during a folk dancing festival and there was quite a bit of confusion, as you can imagine, since the population thought our boys were demonstrating war dances. We cleared that up soon enough.

  The remaining four thousand troopers of the first wave came down just outside the city, since there was no room to pack them into the town square. The lads marched into Megalopolis in good order, and they got an enthusiastic greeting from the citizens, who seemed delighted to see them.

  The Magellanics took in the situation quickly, and had flowers and paper streamers handy to give our boys a proper welcome. There were no unfortunate incidents, aside from several local women getting trampled in their eagerness to show our boys a nice welcome.

  Magellanic is a very nice planet, prosperous, and with a nice climate except at the poles where we don’t go. We have seen no signs of the alien invaders that Hurtevurt told us about. Either they are holed up in the hills, or they all left when our ship approached.

  Now it is a week later. We have been very busy and I am writing hastily so this letter can go out with the first load of booty which we’re sending to Earth.

  Our Art Squads have done a fine job of combing the planet. As we promised the men, the first haul is theirs.

  Frankly, the stuff doesn’t look like much. But we’ve collected whatever we can find in the way of furniture, postage stamps, gold, silver, and precious stones, and that sort of thing.

  It’s too bad that we have to ship it all back to Earth at government expense and sell it for the troops. But that’s what we promised and otherwise they might mutiny.

  We’re also sending back some of the local food surpluses. I just hope there’s a market for cranko nuts and pubble fruit back on Earth. Personally, lean do without it.

  I forgot to mention, we are sending back to Earth our first draft of Magellanic workers. We had no trouble collecting them. A lot of people on this planet have volunteered to do stoop labor in the fields and unskilled crap work in the factories for starvation wages. This is useful because nobody on Earth wants to do that stuff anymore.

  I’ll write again soon. Much love, my baby vulture.

  Six months later, Vargas received the following message from General Gatt, now on Earth fulfilling his duties as Supreme Leader and Total Commander:

  Getulio, I’m dashing this off in great haste. We need a total change in policy and we need it fast. My accountants have just brought me the news that our occupation is costing us more than it is bringing in by a factor often. I don’t know how this happened. I always thought one made a profit out of winning a war. You know I’ve lived by the motto, “To the victor goes the spoils.”

  But it isn’t working that way here. The art treasures we brought back have brought in very little on Earth’s art market. In fact, leading art critics have declared that the Magellanics are in apre-artistic stage of their development! We can’t sell their music, either, and their furniture is both uncomfortable to sit in, ugly to look at, and tends to break easily.

  And as if that isn’t bad enough, now we have all these Magellanics on Earth doing cheap labor. How can cheap labor not be cost-efficient? My experts tell me we’re putting millions of Earth citizens out of work, and using up all our tax revenue because the first thing a Magellanic does when he gets here is go on the dole until he finds a really good job.

  That’s the trouble, you see. They’re not content to stay in the cheap labor market. They learn fast and now some of them are in key positions in government, health, industry. I wanted to pass a law to keep them out of the good jobs, but my own advisers told me that was prejudiced and nobody would stand for it.

  So listen, Getulio, stop at once from sending any more of them to Earth. Be prepared to take back all the ones I can round up and ship back to you. Prepare an announcement saying that the forces of Earth have succeeded in their goal of freeing the Magellanics from the cruel conquerors who had been pressing their faces into the dirt and now they’re on their own.

  As soon as you can, sooner if possible, I want you to pull all our troops out, cancel the war, end the occupation, and get yourself and your men home as fast as you can.

  I forgot to mention, these Magellanics are unbelievablyfertile. The ones here on Earth need only about three months from impregnation to birth. They have a whole lot of triplets and quintuplets, too. Getulio, we have to get rid of these moochers fast, before they take over our planet and eat us out of house and home.

  Close up and come home. We’ll think of something new.

  When Vargas told the news to Captain Arnold Stone, his Chief Accountant, he asked for an accounting to show how much profit they had been showing during their stay on Magellanic.

  “Profit?” Stone said with a short, sardonic laugh. “We’ve been running at a loss ever since we got here.”

  “But what about the taxes we imposed?”

  “Imposing is one thing, collecting is another. They never seem to have any money.”

  “What about the Magellanic workers on Earth? Don’t they send back some of their wages?”

  Stone shook his head. “They invest every cent of it in Earth tax-free municipal bonds. They claim it’s an ancient custom of theirs.”

  “I never liked them from the start,” Vargas said. “I always knew they’d be trouble.”

  “You got that right,” Stone said.

  “All right, get someone in Communications to prepare an announcement for the population here. Tell them that we’ve done what we came here to do, that is, free them from the cruel hand of whoever it was who was oppressing them. Now we’re going away and they can do their own thing and lots of luck.”

  “That’s a lot,” Stone said. “I’d better get the boys in intelligence to help with the wording.”

  “Do that,” Vargas said. “And tell somebody to get the ships ready for immediate departure.

  That was the idea. But it didn’t work out that way.

  That afternoon, as Vargas sat in his office playing mumbly peg with his favorite Philippine bolo knife and dreaming of being back with Lupe, there was a flash of brilliance in the middle of the floor. Vargas didn’t hesitate a moment when he saw it. He dived under the desk to avoid what he assumed was an assassination attempt.

  It was sort of nice, under the desk, even though it was not a particularly sturdy desk, Magellanic furniture-building being what it was. Still, it gave Vargas a feeling of protection, and time to unholster his ivory-handled laser blaster.

  A voice said, “If you try to use that on me, you are going to be very sorry.”

  Vargas peered out and saw, standing in the middle of his office, the characteristic metal skin and flashing eyes of the Galactic Effectuator.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Vargas said, getting out from under the table with as much dignity as circumstances allowed. He reholstered his firearm, took his seat at his desk again, and said, “Sorry about that, Galactic Effectuator. I thought it might be an assassination team. Can’t be too careful, you know. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “The first thing,” the Galactic Effectuator said, “is not to try zapping me again. We let you get away with it once. Try again and the Galactic Forces will nuke you back to the Stone Age. If you think I’m kidding, take a look out the window.”

  Vargas looked. The sky was dark with ships. They were big ships, as you’d expect of a Galactic Force.

  “I want to apologize for zapping you earlier,” Vargas said. “I was acting on bad advice. I’m glad you’ve come. You’re just in time to hear me declare the end of Earth’s occupation. Maybe you’d like to watch us get out of here and go home.”

  “I kno
w that is what you are planning,” the Effectuator said. “I’m here to tell you it’s not going to be quite as easy as that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Galactic policy is to keep the status quo, whatever it is. We were unable to prevent you from declaring war on Magellanic. That is the one mistake you’re allowed. You’ve got this place, now you have to keep it.”

  “Believe me,” Vargas said, “this sort of thing will never happen again. Can’t we just apologize and forget it?”

  “No,” said the Effectuator. “You can’t get out of it as easily as that. War was your idea, not ours. Now you’re stuck with it.”

  “But the war’s over!”

  “According to Galactic Rules, the war is only over when those you attacked say it’s over. And I can assure you, the Magellanics are very satisfied with things as they are.”

  “I’m starting to get the feeling,” Vargas said, “that these Magellanics tricked us. That Hurtevurt and his story! It reminds me of something to do with a bird. But I can’t quite remember what.”

  “Permit me to refresh your memory,” the Effectuator said. “I have made a study of birdlife throughout the galaxy, so I know there is a bird called the cuckoo on your planet. It lays its egg in other birds’ nests and they take care of it. That is what the Magellanics have done to you Earth folks.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?” Vargas said, his voice blustery but shaky.

  “They get you to take over their planet. They get you to take their surplus workforce to your own world. Once there, you can’t get rid of them. But that’s what you get for trying to practice charity without taking thought for the consequences.”

  “Charity, hell! We were doing war!”

  “In the Galactic view,” the Effectuator said, “war is a form of charity.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “We believe that war entails a number of selfless and exemplary actions. First there’s the duty of rapine, which we define as the willingness to transfer large quantities of your planet’s best sperm to a civilization that badly needs it. Your troops have done well that way. Next there’s the duty of pillage, which is the act of cleansing the artistic life of a conquered people by carting away vast quantities of their inferior art treasures in order to unblock their creative self-expression and allow them to produce newer, better works. Finally we have the duty of education and self-improvement, which you have performed by taking in large numbers of Magellanic’s surplus and idle population to your own planet, where you support them until they are smart enough to put your own people out of work.”

  Vargas thought for a while, then shrugged and said, “You got it right, Galactic Effectuator. But how do we end it?”

  “That’s always the difficult part,” the Effectuator said. “Maybe, with some luck, you can find some other planet that’ll be crazy enough to take over both your planet and Magellanic. That’s the only way you’re going to get off the hook.”

  That is how, upon entering Galactic Civilization, Earth gave up war forever. And that is why there are Earthmen on all the civilized planets of the galaxy. They can be found on the street corners of dusty alien cities. They speak all languages. They sidle up to you and say, “Listen, Mister, would you like to take over a planet with no trouble at all?”

  Naturally, no one pays them the slightest attention. Even the newer civilizations have learned that war costs too much and charity begins at home.

  THE OTHER MARS

  It was a standing joke in the Mars Expedition base camp that whenever you saw Bernstein with a lot of equipment decked all over him, you know it was his day off and he was going exploring.

  The NASA-Mars expedition had been on the surface of the planet for less than a week. They had barely gotten a feel of the place. Still, Mars was almost exactly what they’d expected from previous photo-recon surveys: a place of vast mountains, of winding canyons and endless miles of plains strewn with rocks, most of them covered with a thick, reddish-brown dust. And there was no water, of course, and no life. That had been known for quite a while, ever since the Viking and Mariner photographs. It was a thrill to be on another planet, especially one so famous as Mars. But it was a disappointment that no life existed there.

  Bernstein was going further from the camp this time than ever before. He had promised to be extra careful. Everyone was afraid someone might wander off and break a leg and not be able to get back. It was dangerous to go wandering off alone. Official NASA policy discouraged solo ventures. On the other hand, there was no way they could stand each other’s company for the year this visit to Mars was supposed to last. They needed to go off alone.

  Bernstein was examining an interesting area that he’d looked at last week. The formations were just a little different from the surrounding jumble of rocks and volcanic extrusions. He came to the point he had gotten to last week. He’d marked his furthest progress with a bit of blue cloth. It was still there, the only blue thing in sight.

  His spacesuit was keeping him warm and, more importantly, alive. It had a built-in air supply, more than enough for this journey and back. Of equal importance were the heaters built into the suit. Right here in this spot, the temperature was about 25 degrees Centigrade below zero. When he looked at his gauge, the wind speed was around 35 kph. He knew it could gust suddenly up to a hundred, and go right off the scale at three hundred k an hour or more. The fine red brown dust blew incessantly. Without a suit, it could flay the hide off a man.

  He plodded past the spot he had reached last time. He was moving almost due south by his magnetic compass, and trying to keep careful note of what he was looking at. After half an hour of picking his way through rock fields, he saw an unusual feature ahead—two tall rocks that seemed to have been sculpted into a rough arch. He moved toward it, finally stopping in front of it.

  The rock forming the right side of the arch was about twenty feet high, the one on the left about fifteen feet high and just touching the other. The formation didn’t look quite the same as the other rocks. It was paler and had more yellow in it.

  He stepped through the arch. Even inside his insulated suit this gave him an odd physical sensation, like a mild electric shock. But he knew that had to be his imagination: stone arches don’t carry electrical charges. He passed through the arch and out the other side.

  Once through, he noticed that the scenery had changed. The rocks had become fewer, the countryside, which had been cut through by deep ravines, seemed to have turned into high desert covered with low rolling hills. It was possible to get a little visual perspective now. The sight of those low hills felt good to him. And the wind pressure had dropped somewhat. He continued forward.

  The wind continued to diminish. There was a perceptible clearing in the usually gritty atmosphere. He was moving among tangled rocks, going up a slight rise. He reached the crest and looked over. He was standing on the edge of a plain, and this was strange because he didn’t remember seeing this feature on the maps. Still, Mars was a big place, and even this small part of it hadn’t been thoroughly surveyed.

  The light was brighter here; the usual dust-haze had cleared. He could just make out formations far ahead on the plain. One in particular was interesting.

  He set his visor for maximum magnification, and saw what looked like a city. But what a city! He saw tall, slender, bone-white buildings, some with crystal towers, some with domes and minarets.

  He could just make out a road running in front of the city. There was something strange about that road. It was colored a sort of crystal, and it had bluish tones.

  Then he realized—it was water.

  But that was impossible.

  Still, impossible or not, he was looking at a Martian canal, and beyond it was a Martian city.

  There were no Martian canals. Schiaparelli and Lowell had been proven wrong. The Viking photographs of the 1970s proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that there were no canals, not even canal-like features on the planet. And there was no free-sta
nding water. A little water was believed to exist under the polar caps, and there were plans to tap it for the use of future expeditions. But that would come later. For the present, the only free-standing water on Mars was what the expedition had brought with them. Water had made up nearly three-quarters of their payload.

  Yet he was staring at something that looked like water. Something crystalline, sometimes green, sometimes blue. Something that acted like water.

  He needed to check it out.

  First he considered radioing back to the camp to report his discovery. Then he thought better of it. There could be no water on Mars! He’d sound like an idiot. “Bring us a sample,” they’d say. And if he got to the canal and found it was an illusion—what then?

  No, he’d investigate further before telling anyone anything. The chances were this was an illusion, some sort of Fata Morgana. When he got closer, it would fade away.

  He passed through a crazy patchwork of house-sized boulders, then came into open country again. The water was much closer. The canal had been out of his sight for a while, but now he could see it again. It ran straight and true, and there were tall branchy things lining its sides. Trees? But trees were as impossible on Mars as water. These didn’t seem to be in leaf. Were they petrified? No matter: trees had never grown on Mars!

  He continued, and the land dipped again. He calculated that when he crossed the next little rise he’d be just about at the canal, and not far from the city.

  Was he ready for this?

  He stood irresolute for a moment. There was still time to turn around, make his way back to the arch, pass through it, and return to the camp. He could just forget what he’d seen.

  It was an oddly appealing thought. He had the feeling that if he turned back now, resolutely willing himself not to believe what he had just experienced, it would be as though it had never happened. Mars would be the way it was at the base camp—dusty, sterile, airless, and uncontaminated by anomaly.