Adventures on Other Planets

by Donald A. Wollheim

  “Woman?” said Stannard. “There are men and women masters here?”

  “One woman-master,” said the Pasiki in seeming bliss. “Eight—nine-ten man-master, master. You make leven man-master for Pasikil”

  The trail widened ahead. There was a sort of glade with thick, leafy stuff for a carpet in the place of grass. There was a tent set up there. Stannard wanted to rub his eyes. It was not a tent, but a pavillion—a shelter erected on poles, shimmering like silk. There was a carpet on the ground. There was a table. There was a couch. There was a chair. The table was loaded with fruits and great platters heaped with foodstuffs. There were even bottles with colored contents. There was a stream of black, glistening figures running out of the farther side of the glade where the trail re-entered the jungle. Each carried some object, and every object was human. Stannard saw cushions, books, binoculars, pots and pans, silverware. He saw a sporting-rifle being hustled out of the forest toward the pavillion. He saw clothing—all of a mans wardrobe carried piece by piece to be dumped at the back of the pavillion.

  “Pasiki bring things for man-master,” chirped the English-speaking creature. “Everything our man-master left. Not one thing lost! All for new man-master.”

  Then Stannard stiffened. The things being brought out of the forest, now, were unbelievable. They looked like human bodies, except that they were carried with such lightness and such ease that they could not possibly be bodies. More, bodies would not be limp and boneless like that.

  “Man-style servant-suits, master,” the skipping creature gloated. “Pasiki make master happy, master make Pasiki glad. You lookl You seel”

  At sight of the litter, the creatures carrying the limp objects stopped short. And then Stannard’s eyes popped wide. The things that looked like human bodies were actually suits, of a sort. Like divingsuits. But their look was utterly different. The creatures who carried them put them hastily down. Then they struggled with them. They put them on. And suddenly, instead of glistening black articulated things that looked like ants or stick-insects, there were half a dozen startlingly human-like figures moving toward the pavillion.

  When the litter stopped, these oddities stood in amazing similitude of human servants to greet him. There was a figure which looked exactly like a butler out of an old book, complete with striped pants and vest. There was a valet.

  There were two footmen. There were two maids, similarly contrived. They were incredibly convincing. Their flesh was lifelike. Their faces wore the reserved, detached expressions of perfect servants. Even their eyes moved and they had hands with fingers on them. The only thing that was not wholly lifelike was the fact that the garments on the figures had been moulded on them. The disguises—uniforms—servant-suits—were made of some extraordinarily flexible plastic, on the order of foam-flex, and each contained a hollow interior into which one of the insectile Pasiki fitted. With a stick-creature inside, the flexible creation stood erect and moved and looked human. Then the movements of the creature inside moved the outer shell as a man in a divingsuit moves his casing.

  “Master,” said the butler-shape, “we have gladness. Welcome, master. You rest and eat, master?”

  Stannard surreptitiously pinched himself. He got out of the fitter. The food looked good and smelled good. The butler-thing pulled back the chair. Stannard, his eyes a bit narrow, halted.

  “Hm," he said suspiciously. “Did I see a rifle just now?”

  An unintelligible sound. Then a glistening black creature darted from the back of the pavillion. It placed a rifle in the lifelike hands of a footman-figure. The footman presented it to Stannard with an infinitely deferential bow. Stannard examined it closely. It seemed to be in perfect condition. He raised it and aimed at a tree-limb across the open space. He pulled the trigger. There was the normal, violent surge of energy and the regulation flare of deep-purple flame. The branch flew apart with a burst of steam. Stannard lowered the rifle. It was a weapon, all right, and in good working order. If these creatures had intended to kill him after some extraordinary hokus-pokus, they wouldn't have given him a rifle with which he could kill scores of them!

  "All right,” he said grimly. “I guess this is straight. I'll have lunch. Then what?”

  “Masters house waits,” said the butler-thing, obsequiously.

  “If master wishes, he goes there. Or Pasiki make him new house here. Or anywhere. Anything master desires, Pasiki will do with gladness.”

  Stannard sat down. He had something to think about. He began to have a queer, so-far-unjustified hunch that this distincdy novel experience had something to do with the job he'd had on hand when he was ship-wrecked.

  “You wish music, master?” asked the butler, deferentially,

  “Eh? Oh, surely,” said Stannard, abstractedly.

  His seat did not give him a view of the trail from which a Hie of black creatures still trotted, bringing burdens. Now he saw an orchestra file before him. It looked real. It had uniforms. He suddenly recognized it—a name-band which had made visiphone records which ten years before had caught the fancy of half the galaxy. Servant-suits—plastic shapes into which the Pasiki slid themselves—reproduced the build and faces of the original musicians. There were instruments. Music began. It was an excellent imitation of a visiphone record, but after a moment Stannard noted that the movements of the instrumentalists did not match the music. The sound did not come from the instruments, then, but from that diaphragm each of the Pasiki possessed, and which vibrated to make speech or sound. It was somehow shocking to realize it.

  Then dancers appeared, and Stannard almost started up. They were slim and graceful and shapely, and they had plainly studied visiphone records and learned the dances of human beings. But they were Pasiki, clothed in plastic suit-masks. Still, they were astonishingly like lissome human girls in the minimum of costume, dancing to sultry, impassioned music.

  Somehow, Stannard felt a little sick.

  On the third morning, as he waked, the butler-form hovered about his bed. The bed, like the palace to which he had been conducted, was shoddy and elaborate and falsely elegant. The building had plainly been constructed by the Pasiki under orders from a human being who considered that visiphone records portrayed the everyday life of aristocrats.

  “Master,” said the butler-thing obsequiously, “man-master comes to see you. In two hours."

  Stannard rolled out of bed. The butler-masked Pasiki helped him to dress. Stannard wore the garments in which he had been wrecked, including his belt. As he fastened it, the butler handed him another belt. It contained two hand-blasters in holsters.

  “Why weapons?” asked Stannard. “If I'm to have a visitor—"

  “Man-masters, master,” said the butler-thing blandly, “always wear weapons to see each other.”

  He bowed, to withdraw.

  “But why?” demanded Stannard. “Custom or what?” “Sometimes they kill,” said the butler, as if piously regretful. “It is not for Pasiki to understand, master. The master who was here before was killed by another master.” Stannard said: “How'd the killing come about?"

  “Who knows, master? They drank together, and the other master killed our master. You can ask, master, when he comes.”

  “The same killer's to be my visitor, eh?" said Stannard. “And what happened after the killing?”

  “He went away, master. He did not want our master’s possessions."

  “How about the law?”

  The butler-thing said blankly:

  “Law, master?*

  “I see," said Stannard grimly. “Humans are above the law to Pasiki. And there are too few to make laws for themselves. But didn’t you Pasiki do anything at all when your master was killed?”

  “We asked what the other master wished us to do, master,” said the butler-shape. “We wished to serve him. But he told us to go to the devil. Then he would not tell us how to do that thing and laughed as he went away.”

  “I see," said Stannard.

  He buckled on the extra
belt with the two blasters. The Pasiki served men, apparently. Any man would do. There was no feeling of loyalty to an individual. One man killed another man, and the Pasiki who had been joyous slaves to the murdered man promptly offered themselves as joyous slaves to the murderer. It was somehow convincing. It looked quite a lot as if this fitted into Stannards hunch about a connection between Pasik and his job. But there was no mention of a woman-master, yet. He’d almost forgotten the one mention of her that he’d heard.

  He was at breakfast when, utterly without warning, she came into the room. Her entrance was partly hidden by the butler-mask with its shiny-skinned occupant, who was serving Stannard his breakfast with elaborate ceremony. Stannard saw the feminine form, but he had seen enough foam-flex servants. This one he had not seen before, but he was not interested. He spooned out a morsel of a curious pink-fleshed fruit and put it to his lips. Then the butler-thing move obsequiously aside and bowed.

  “Welcomel” said the butler-thing profoundly. “Welcome to woman-masterl Pasiki have gladnessl”

  Stannard looked up blankly. The girl faced him across the table, and she had a blaster in her hand. It pointed straight at Stannard.

  “Good-moming,” said the girl in a taut voice. “I’d like to know something about you, please. Of course I’d better kill you out of hand, but I’d like to be fair.”

  Stannard blinked. His eyes went to the blaster, and to her face. He suddenly noted that her costume was not a part of her body. It was not moulded on. It had been donned.

  “You—you’re humanl” he said blankly.

  “Quite,” said the girl. She was very pale. “And my Pasiki have let slip you were planning to pay me a visit, so I thought I'd visit first. Don’t move, pleasel I’m going to take your blasters.”

  She moved around the table, keeping him covered. The human-seeming servants skipped agilely out of her way. She ignored them. Stannard sat still, his hands on the table.

  “Don't move I" she repeated fiercely, “I’ve no reason not to shoot!”

  She was behind him. The blaster-muzzle touched the back of his neck. It pressed. Hard. She bent forward and reached around him to loosen the belt which held his weapons. He felt the warmth of her breath.

  “Be still!” she commanded. But he caught the note of strain which was almost hysteria in her voice. “Keep still!”

  The pressure of the blaster-muzzle was almost savage against his neck. Then he turned his head. Because of the pressure, the blaster-muzzle slid off and past his cheek. It Hared as she desperately pulled the trigger. A part of the opposite wall spurted intolerable flame. And then the girl was in his arms, fighting desperately, and he was twisting the blaster from her fingers. Flames roared from the ceiling as the blaster flashed again. The room filled with stinking smoke.

  Then he had the weapon away from her. He stepped back, breathing fast. He released her.

  “I’d rather not be killed this morning,” he told her. “More especially, not for a Pasiki holiday!”

  He gestured angrily about him. The foam-figures—so incredibly convincing at any one glance—stared avidly at the picture of conflict between human beings. Other Pasiki— hordes of black, shining, inhuman shapes—pressed to look zestfully in through doors and windows.

  “I’ve more than a hunch that they hate humans,” he said wrathfully. “It would be only to be expected that they’d he to you if it would make you try to kill me, and perhaps to me to get me killed. But is everybody here fooled by it? If my presence here’s annoying, I’ll be delighted to leavel 1 didn't come here on purpose! These creatures aren't my idea of congenial society!”

  He glowered at her. Then he turned and snarled at the Pasiki in servant-suits and otherwise, who watched hopefully for a killing.

  “Get the devil away from here!” he rasped.

  Obsequiously, the servants retired. The staring, inhuman faces outside vanished. Stannard tossed the girl’s blaster contemptuously on the table.

  “Sit down I” he said sourly. “I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know, especially if you’ll tell me a few things!”

  The girl panted, staring at him as if she did not believe what she had seen and heard.

  “You—let me go!” she said, as if stunned. “You—really let me—go!”

  Stannard went back to the pink-fleshed fruit.

  “Why not? I’ve been here for . . he counted up, “this is my third day. I was in a space-car headed from Billem to Sooris. I was alone. I'd had some repairs made in Billem, and they were badly done. Whether on purpose or not, some fool soldered the firing control junctions instead of flash-welding them, and the vibration broke them loose. I landed here with four jets firing out of eighteen, and all of them on one side. My gyros burned out too, trying to hold me on course. And I hit out of control, jumped, and ran away before the fuel blew. I came back to find Pasiki dancing joyously about the hole the crater had made, and then they fawned on me and said they loved me to death. They've been repeating that song ever since but I doubt their sincerity. I would like to get away from this planet. It isn't my idea of a sane or a wholesome atmosphere. Now, what else do you want to know?”

  Her face worked suddenly.

  “If—if that's true,'' she said unsteadily, “that's enough. If you were—really shipwrecked, and didn’t—come here like the others—”

  He raised his eyebrows, but his unreasonable hunch grew stronger. She was trembling. There was enormous relief in her voice.

  “Sit down and have breakfast,” he commanded. “By the way. I wasn't told you were coming. I guess that that was to give you an extra chance to kill me. I have been told that I’m to have a man visitor. Is he likely to have—ah—murderous intentions too?”

  She looked scared.

  “That would be—Mr. Brent. He s the nearest. Y-yes. He’ll probably kill you. And—" Then she said desperately. “May I have my blaster back, please? Pleasel If he’s coming I'll need itl But—but together we should be able to kill him instead. • .

  Her name, she said, was Jan Casin, and she had been on Pasik for ten years—since she was a small child. The Hill Foundation had sent her father to the planet as a one-man scientific expedition. The Space Directory said that the local intelligent race was friendly to humans and there seemed to be no danger.

  But a long while later—and this was not reported to the Space Patrol, and hence never got into the Directory—the situation changed. A trader of a new sort landed. He was a typical trader of the later time, one-half merchant and two-thirds pirate when he dared. The Pasiki, he discovered, had gemstones highly valued for technical uses. The trader bargained for them. But he and his crew were contemptuous of the stick-like, insectiform natives. The men were overbearing and rapacious. When the Pasiki grew resentful, the traders siezed a number of them and threatened to kill them unless they were ransomed for a full cargo of gemstones. The Pasiki, in turn, managed to sieze some members of the trader’s crew for hostages. The traders crew, enraged, blasted a Pasiki town. The Pasiki promptly killed the hostages. The trader departed, swearing vengeance.

  Later the trader returned with five other trading-ships. The Pasiki were furiously warned of wrath to come unless they made complete submission. They defied the six ships. And the ships set about a methodical, murderous slaughter. Every town and every village was blasted. Pasiki by millions must have been killed. The gemstones wanted by the traders could be recovered from the ashes of blasted towns, and doubtless were. And then the six ships set up fan-beams— already illegal for any but Space Patrol ships to possess—and made gigantic roundups of the survivors, driving them ahead of the curtains of agony until more thousands died of exha us-tion, and until the sobbing, beaten remnant had lost all spirit and all hope.

  When the six ships left, the few survivors of the last enormity had been subdued as no race was ever subdued before. They had sworn terrible oaths for themselves and their descendants until the end of time. They were the slaves of men. They were vermin under the feet
of men. They would dig up the gemstones men craved and give them as tribute forever and ever and ever. And they were passionately resigned to it

  For thirty full years, mine-slavery was their function. Then the gemstones lost their value because it became possible to crystallize carbon in any size and quantity anywhere. There had never been many humans on Pasik, at any time, and the Space Patrol had carefully been kept in ignorance of events there. But when the gemstones lost value, most humans left. Those who left, however, kept the secret of a planet to which any man could retire when troubles were close upon him, and those who remained stayed on because they were wanted too badly by the Patrol to find safety anywhere else. They turned the submissive Pasiki into domestic slaves. They built palaces and lived as kings over the scuttling little people. Before they died off they were joined by others,—some their late comrades of the mining days, and some badly wanted men who could pay lavishly for sanctuary. Pasik became an exclusive haven for the very cream of the aristocracy of crime. There was no law. There was no check upon anything any man chose to do. The Pasiki had lost the spirit to revolt. They abased themselves before any human, and obeyed any order in blindly terrified haste.