The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r)

by Robert Silverberg

  As he did it, he saw he was botching it just like everything else. He had come too close, and his heavy boot was pressing on the tip of her shoe; and he had not quite landed square on her lips. But still, he was close to her. He was reluctant to break it up, but he felt she was only half-responding, not giving anything of herself while he had given all. He drew back a step.

  She did not have time to hide the expression of distaste that involuntarily crossed her face. He watched the expression on her face as she realized the kiss was over. He watched her silently.

  “Someday, maybe,” he said. She stared at him, not hiding the fear that was starting to grow on her face.

  He felt a cold chill deep in his stomach, and it grew until it passed through his throat and into his head.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Someday, maybe. But not you. Not anyone who’s just playing games. That’s all—you want something to tell your friends about, that’s why you volunteered for tonight’s assignment. It’s all you can do to keep from laughing at me, but you’re sticking to it. I don’t want any of it, hear me? Get away.”

  She stepped back a pace. “You ugly, clumsy clown. You ape!” Tears began to spoil the flawless mask of her face. Blinded with anger, he grabbed roughly for her arm, but she broke away and dashed back inside.

  She was trying to collect me, he thought. Her hobby: interesting dates. She wanted to add me to her collection. An Experience. Calmly he walked to the end of the veranda and stared off into the night, choking his rage. He watched the moon making its dead ride across the sky, and stared at the sprinkling of stars. The night was empty and cold, he thought, finally. But not more so than I.

  * * * *

  He turned and looked back through the half-opened window. He saw a girl who looked almost like her, but was not tall enough and wore a different dress. Then he spotted her. She was dancing with one of the Conforms, a frail-looking man a few inches shorter than she, with regular, handsome features. She laughed at some sly joke, and he laughed with her.

  Rolf watched the moon for a moment more, thinking of Laney’s warning. They just want to make fun of you. Look at the big ape, they’ll say.

  He knew he had to get out of there immediately. He was a Spacer, and they were Earthers, and he scorned them for being contemptuous little dolls, and they laughed at him for being a hulking ape. He was not a member of their species; he was not part of their world.

  He went inside. Kal Quinton came rushing up to him.

  “I’m going,” Rolf said.

  “What? You don’t mean that,” the little man said. “Why, the party’s scarcely gotten under way, and there are dozens of people who want to meet you. And you’ll miss the big show if you don’t stay.”

  “I’ve already seen the big show,” Rolf told him. “I want out. Now.”

  “You can’t leave now,” Quinton said. Rolf thought he saw tears in the corners of the little man’s eyes. “Please don’t leave. I’ve told everyone you’d be here—you’ll disgrace me.”

  “What do I care? Let me out of here.” Rolf started to move toward the door. Quinton attempted to push him back.

  “Just a minute, Rolf. Please!”

  “I have to get out,” he said. He knocked Quinton out of his way with a backhand swipe of his arm and dashed down the hall frantically, looking for the elevator.

  * * * *

  Laney and Kanaday were sitting up waiting for him when he got back, early in the morning. He slung himself into a pneumochair and unsealed his boots, releasing his cramped, tired feet.

  “Well,” Laney asked. “How was the party?”

  “You have fun among the Earthers, Rolf?”

  He said nothing.

  “It couldn’t have been that bad,” Laney said.

  Rolf looked up at her. “I’m leaving space. I’m going to go to a surgeon and have him turn me into an Earther. I hate this filthy life!”

  “He’s drunk,” Kanaday said.

  “No, I’m not drunk,” Rolf retorted. “I don’t want to be an ape any more.”

  “Is that what you are? If you’re an ape, what are they to you? Monkeys?” Kanaday laughed harshly.

  “Are they really so wonderful?” Laney asked. “Does the life appeal to you so much that you’ll give up space for it? Do you admire the Earthers so much?”

  * * * *

  She’s got me, Rolf thought. I hate Spacertown, but will I like Yawk any better? Do I really want to become one of those little puppets? But there’s nothing left in space for me. At least the Earthers are happy.

  I wish she wouldn’t look at me that way. “Leave me alone,” he snarled. “I’ll do whatever I want to do.” Laney was staring at him, trying to poke behind his mask of anger. He looked at her wide shoulders, her muscular frame, her unbeautiful hair and rugged face, and compared it with Jonne’s clinging grace, her flowing gold hair.

  He picked up his boots and stumped up to bed.

  * * * *

  The surgeon’s name was Goldring, and he was a wiry, intense man who had prevailed on one of his colleagues to give him a tiny slit of a mouth. He sat behind a shining plastiline desk, waiting patiently until Rolf finished talking.

  “It can’t be done,” he said at last. “Plastic surgeons can do almost anything, but I can’t turn you into an Earther. It’s not just a matter of chopping eight or ten inches out of your legs; I’d have to alter your entire bone structure or you’d be a hideous misproportioned monstrosity. And it can’t be done. I can’t build you a whole new body from scratch, and if I could do it you wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

  Rolf stamped his foot impatiently. “You’re the third surgeon who’s given me the same line. What is this—a conspiracy? I see what you can do. If you can graft a third arm onto somebody, you can turn me into an Earther.”

  “Please, Mr. Dekker. I’ve told you I can’t. But I don’t understand why you want such a change. Hardly a week goes by without some Yawk boy coming to me and asking to be turned into a Spacer, and I have to refuse him for the same reasons I’m refusing you! That’s the usual course of events—the romantic Earther boy wanting to go to space, and not being able to.”

  An idea hit Rolf. “Was one of them Kal Quinton?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dekker. I just can’t divulge any such information.”

  Rolf shot his arm across the desk and grasped the surgeon by the throat. “Answer me!”

  “Yes,” the surgeon gasped. “Quinton asked me for such an operation. Almost everyone wants one.”

  “And you can’t do it?” Rolf asked.

  “Of course not. I’ve told you: the amount of work needed to turn Earther into Spacer or Spacer into Earther is inconceivable. It’ll never be done.”

  “I guess that’s definite, then,” Rolf said, slumping a little in disappointment. “But there’s nothing to prevent you from giving me a new face—from taking away this face and replacing it with something people can look at without shuddering.”

  “I don’t understand you, Mr. Dekker,” the surgeon said.

  “I know that! Can’t you see it—I’m ugly! Why? Why should I look this way?”

  “Please calm down, Mr. Dekker. You don’t seem to realize that you’re a perfectly normal-looking Spacer. You were bred to look this way. It’s your genetic heritage. Space is not a thing for everyone; only men with extraordinary bone structure can withstand acceleration. The first men were carefully selected and bred. You see the result of five centuries of this sort of breeding. The sturdy, heavy-boned Spacers—you, Mr. Dekker, and your friends—are the only ones who are fit to travel in space. The others, the weaklings like myself, the little people, resort to plastic surgery to compensate for their deficiency. For a while the trend was to have everyone conform to a certain standard of beauty; if we couldn’t be strong, we could at least be ha
ndsome. Lately a new theory of individualism has sprung up, and now we strive for original forms in our bodies. This is all because size and strength has been bred out of us and given to you.”

  “I know all this,” Rolf said. “Why can’t you—”

  “Why can’t I peel away your natural face and make you look like an Earther? There’s no reason why; it would be a simple operation. But who would you fool? Why can’t you be grateful for what you are? You can go to Mars, while we can merely look at it. If I gave you a new face, it would cut you off from both sides. The Earthers would still know you were a Spacer, and I’m sure the other Spacers would immediately cease to associate with you.”

  * * * *

  “Who are you to say? You’re not supposed to pass judgment on whether an operation should be performed, or you wouldn’t pull out people’s eyes and stick diamonds in!”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Dekker.” The surgeon folded and unfolded his hands in impatience. “You must realize that you are what you are. Your appearance is a social norm, and for acceptance in your social environment you must continue to appear, well, perhaps, shall I say apelike?”

  It was as bad a word as the surgeon could have chosen.

  “Ape! Ape, am I! I’ll show you who’s an ape!” Rolf yelled, all the accumulated frustration of the last two days suddenly bursting loose. He leaped up and overturned the desk. Dr. Goldring hastily jumped backwards as the heavy desk crashed to the floor. A startled nurse dashed into the office, saw the situation, and immediately ran out.

  “Give me your instruments! I’ll operate on myself!” He knocked Goldring against the wall, pulled down a costly solidograph from the wall and kicked it at him, and crashed through into the operating room, where he began overturning tables and heaving chairs through glass shelves.

  “I’ll show you,” he said. He cracked an instrument case and took out a delicate knife with a near-microscopic edge. He bent it in half and threw the crumpled wreckage away. Wildly he destroyed everything he could, raging from one end of the room to the other, ripping down furnishings, smashing, destroying, while Dr. Goldring stood at the door and yelled for help.

  It was not long in coming. An army of Earther policemen erupted into the room and confronted him as he stood panting amid the wreckage. They were all short men, but there must have been twenty of them.

  “Don’t shoot him,” someone called. And then they advanced in a body.

  He picked up the operating table and hurled it at them. Three policemen crumpled under it, but the rest kept coming. He batted them away like insects, but they surrounded him and piled on. For a few moments he struggled under the load of fifteen small men, punching and kicking and yelling. He burst loose for an instant, but two of them were clinging to his legs and he hit the floor with a crash. They were on him immediately, and he stopped struggling after a while.

  * * * *

  The next thing he knew he was lying sprawled on the floor of his room in Spacertown, breathing dust out of the tattered carpet. He was a mass of cuts and bruises, and he knew they must have given him quite a going-over. He was sore from head to foot.

  So they hadn’t arrested him. No, of course not; no more than they would arrest any wild animal who went berserk. They had just dumped him back in the jungle. He tried to get up, but couldn’t make it. Quite a going-over it must have been. Nothing seemed broken, but everything was slightly bent.

  “Satisfied now?” said a voice from somewhere. It was a pleasant sound to hear, a voice, and he let the mere noise of it soak into his mind. “Now that you’ve proved to everyone that you really are just an ape?”

  He twisted his neck around—slowly, because his neck was stiff and sore. Laney was sitting on the edge of his bed with two suitcases next to her.

  “It really wasn’t necessary to run wild there,” she said. “The Earthers all knew you were just an animal anyway. You didn’t have to prove it so violently.”

  “Okay, Laney. Quit it.”

  “If you want me to. I just wanted to make sure you knew what had happened. A gang of Earther cops brought you back a while ago and dumped you here. They told me the story.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You’ve been telling everyone that all along, Rolf. Look where it got you. A royal beating at the hands of a bunch of Earthers. Now that they’ve thrown you out for the last time, has it filtered into your mind that this is where you belong?”

  “In Spacertown?”

  “Only between trips. You belong in space, Rolf. No surgeon can make you an Earther. The Earthers are dead, but they don’t know it yet. All their parties, their fancy clothes, their extra arms and missing ears—that means they’re decadent. They’re finished. You’re the one who’s alive; the whole universe is waiting for you to go out and step on its neck. And instead you want to turn yourself into a green-skinned little monkey! Why?”

  * * * *

  He pulled himself to a sitting position. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been all mixed up, I think.” He felt his powerful arm. “I’m a Spacer.” Suddenly he glanced at her. “What are the suitcases for?” he said.

  “I’m moving in,” Laney said. “I need a place to sleep.”

  “What’s the matter with Kanaday? Did he get tired of listening to you preaching? He’s my friend, Laney; I’m not going to do him dirt.”

  “He’s dead, Rolf. When the Earther cops came here to bring you back, and he saw what they did to you, his hatred overflowed. He always hated Earthers, and he hated them even more for the way you were being tricked into thinking they were worth anything. He got hold of one of those cops and just about twisted him into two pieces. They blasted him.”

  Rolf was silent. He let his head sink down on his knees.

  “So I moved down here. It’s lonely upstairs now. Come on; I’ll help you get up.”

  She walked toward him, hooked her hand under his arm, and half-dragged, half-pushed him to his feet. Her touch was firm, and there was no denying the strength behind her.

  “I have to get fixed up,” he said abruptly. “My leave’s up in two days. I have to get out of here. We’re shipping for Pluto.”

  * * * *

  He rocked unsteadily on his feet. “It’ll really get lonely here then,” he said.

  “Are you really going to go? Or are you going to find some jack-surgeon who’ll make your face pretty for a few dirty credits?”

  “Stop it. I mean it. I’m going. I’ll be gone a year on this signup. By then I’ll have enough cash piled up on various planets to be a rich man. I’ll get it all together and get a mansion on Venus, and have Greenie slaves.”

  It was getting toward noon. The sun, high in the sky, burst through the shutters and lit up the dingy room.

  “I’ll stay here,” Laney said. “You’re going to Pluto?”

  He nodded.

  “Kanaday was supposed to be going to Pluto. He was heading there when that explosion finished his foot. He never got there after that.”

  “Poor old Kanaday,” Rolf said.

  “I’ll miss him too. I guess I’ll have to run the boarding-house now. For a while. Will you come back here when your year’s up?”

  “I suppose so,” Rolf said without looking up. “This town is no worse than any of the other Spacertowns. No better, but no worse.” He slowly lifted his head and looked at her as she stood there facing him.

  “I hope you come back,” she said.

  The sun was coming in from behind her, now, and lighting her up. She was rugged, all right, and strong: a good hard worker. And she was well built. Suddenly his aches became less painful, as he looked at her and realized that she was infinitely more beautiful than the slick, glossy-looking girl he had kissed on the veranda, who had bought her teeth at a store and had gotten her figure from a surgeon. Laney, at least,
was real.

  “You know,” he said at last, “I think I have an idea. You wait here and I’ll come get you when my year’s up. I’ll have enough to pay passage to Venus for two. We can get a slightly smaller mansion than I planned on getting. But we can get it. Some parts of Venus are beautiful. And the closest those monkeys from Yawk can get to it is to look at it in the night sky. You think it’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” she said, moving toward him. Her head was nearly as high as his own.

  “I’ll go back to space. I have to, to keep my rating. But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  And as he drew her close, he knew she meant it.

  THE HUNTED HEROES

  Originally published in Amazing Stories, September 1956.

  “Let’s keep moving,” I told Val. “The surest way to die out here on Mars is to give up.” I reached over and turned up the pressure on her oxymask to make things a little easier for her. Through the glassite of the mask, I could see her face contorted in an agony of fatigue.

  And she probably thought the failure of the sandcat was all my fault, too. Val’s usually about the best wife a guy could ask for, but when she wants to be she can be a real flying bother.

  It was beyond her to see that some grease monkey back at the Dome was at fault—whoever it was who had failed to fasten down the engine hood. Nothing but what had stopped us could stop a sandcat: sand in the delicate mechanism of the atomic engine.

  But no; she blamed it all on me somehow: So we were out walking on the spongy sand of the Martian desert. We’d been walking a good eight hours.

  “Can’t we turn back now, Ron?” Val pleaded. “Maybe there isn’t any uranium in this sector at all. I think we’re crazy to keep on searching out here!”