Beyond the End of Time (1952) Anthology

by Frederik Pohl (ed. )

  As he slowly recovered his strength, he grew conscious of great cold. The earth was far below. Frost was beginning to appear on the silver surface of the platform. He pushed the first lever slightly forward, without decreasing the speed. The platform behind him remained at the same distance.

  Suddenly he wanted to be back in the pen, back among those who fought with fist and teeth and nails. He wanted the security of the pen. He wanted to weep with loneliness and with fear of the death which was coming so inexorably behind him. The masters could not be beaten. One must not escape from the masters. That was the Law.

  He looked back. The distance between the two platforms was too great for the use of the black rod. Anger was black within him. He growled softly.

  He shifted his position, stretched out on his belly. Then he held lightly to one of the small hand rails, brought the black rod up and aimed it at the following platform. Glancing over his shoulder, he hooked a cautious toe over the forward speed lever, suddenly yanked it back to full reveisc.

  The strain nearly tore his arm out.

  The platform loomed up with startling suddenness. Finger on the button, he held the rod aimed at the two of them, saw them driven back off the platform in a spray of the dqpr watery liquid that had stained the street of the city.

  Their empty platform shot by him on one side so close that he could have touched it. He scrambled quickly to the front of his own platform, grasped the leading edge and once more switched to full speed ahead.

  The other two platforms were much closer. Almost as close as the first one had been. He did not dare try the trick again. They had seen it, certainly. They would be

  Far ahead rode the empty platform that had passed him. Without the burden of passengers, it quickly increased the distance.

  The sun was high when he approached the fringes of a huge forest. He glanced back. The pursuers held their position. He looked ahead. They would never find him in the immensity of that forest; yet they might mark the spot where he landed, and blast the earth with some weapon other than the black rod.

  He lowered the platform slowly without diminishing speed until he was but a few feet from the tops of the highest trees.

  It was worth a chance. They were far behind him, so far behind that they were two white dots on a metal sheet half the size of his little fingernail.

  He made his decision. Bracing himself as before, he threw the lever into reverse, and, as the platform came momentarily to a dead stop, he pushed the lever forward again, yanking the altitude lever back.

  He let the platform speed out from under him. He had hoped to drop into the trees. Instead, he landed in a small clearing, landed wth a force that drove the wind from him, dropped him into sudden darkness . . .

  "So THEY were all killed?" Riss asked.

  "Nineteen of them were. The twentieth, throne you saw the day before yesterday, fled on a platform. He dropped off over the northern forest. An hour later his platform ran out of fuel and it was only then that the stupid ones who followed him found the platform empty

  and discovered that he had (alien. They could not find the place of course, but it is obvious that he died."

  "He was more intelligent than the others,” Thome

  “A good beast to hunt, my friend. A dangerous beast. The best kind. . Better than the fire lizards of Venus or the winged snakes of Callisto. This beast called man is the best of all.”

  “When is the next hunt?"

  “We're expecting a shipment next week. But for the next hunt, there will be special, complicated controls on the platforms and thrust guns, so that the creatures cannot capture them and use them.”

  "Splendid idea," Riss said. He looked down toward the pen where the creatures were fighting to get at the food trough.

  It was night when Peter awakened. His head throbbed. Something bit into his side and he found that it was the useless fragments of the black rod, broken by his fall.

  His sensitive nose savored the light breeze that blew along the forest floor. He broke the rope that still held the club to his waist. He got to his knees and listened. Something rustled in the leaves. He crouched, sprang, and killed it with the first blow of the club. It was a small

  By the pale light of dawn he saw that it was a beast with a hide covered with long still thoms. Its belly was soft. He tore it open with a sharp stick, ate the raw meat. It would have been better cooked, but there was no way to make fire.

  An hour later he found a cold brook, drank deeply and bathed his bruises. He was stiff from the (all.

  It was good to be free, to walk where he pleased. The free air had a good smell. The forest floor was pleasantly springy under his feet.

  He walked aimlessly under the huge trees, and it was as though deep instincts were reawakened, as though all his senses had become sharper.

  Even so, he did not know that they had surrounded him until he heard the hoarse shout that was a signal.

  It happened in the middle of a clearing. He paused, saw the men step out from behind the clumps of brush. He turned, found them on all sides.

  They were powerful men with wary eyes, tangled beards. They wore the skins of animals, belted around them with leather thongs. He was oddly conscious for the first time in his life of his absolute nakedness.

  There was no escape. They carried clubs, even as he, but to the ends of their clubs were lashed sharpened

  One of them, not as powerful as the others, and unarmed, stepped toward him. Peter lifted the club in a threatening gesture.

  "Who are you?” the stranger asked.

  "I am Peter."

  "I am Saul. Where do you come from?"

  "I was in the pens. The masters put me in the ruined city so they could find me and kill me. I killed them instead. I took their platform and their gun and I came to this place."

  Saul looked at him with contempt. "You wear no skins and you are dirty. You come from the pens. That is

  Peter threw aside his club and growled low in his throat. "You lead these men? I can kill you."

  "It is like that in the pens, but not here, my friend. He who leads here is the one best able to lead, not the one with the sharpest teeth. Should you strike me, these others would kill you quickly.”

  Peter looked sullenly around at the waiting men. He saw, on their faces, not the blood lust of those who watched the fights in the pens, but rather a sort of contempt, and amusement. It made him ashamed.

  "Did you escape?” Peter asked the one who called himself Saul.

  "My father escaped. I was born here in the forest. This place is called Nicolet. All of us were born here, except that one over there. He escaped five years ago.”

  “What do you do here?” Peter asked him.

  The man called Saul looked proud. “We live in huts in the forest. We trap game, plant crops and increase in numbers. We are free and strong. We no longer call those beings our masters. We are our own masters." He looked around. The other men rumbled agreement.

  "What will you do to me?” Peter asked.

  “If we do not want you with us, we will kill you. If you want to come with us, you must remember that we do not fight among each other. We work, all of us. It is hard, but it is good. We will find you skins to wear. Among the daughters you will find a wife. Then all will help to build your hut. You will obey our laws and vote in the council of the adults as does every one of us."

  As the first touch of night began to shade the forest, the hunting party topped the crest and went eagerly down the slope to the village. Peter was with them, clothed in fresh skins.

  Hidden among the trees, the lights of the cooking fires twinkled. He heard the glad welcoming cries of the women, the soft sounds of the voices of the children.

  He stood alone for a moment, and there was an odd slinging in his eyes and it seemed to him that he surely had been in this place before, heard these same warm

  He started violently as Saul touched his arm.

  "Come, Peter,” he said. “They are eager to see y
ou. Already the men have told about you. Tonight you will share my food and drink and sleep in my hut."

  Peter followed him slowly down into the glow of the firelight.

  They were brought up orbits apart—but ancient Mars showed them they were brothers

  HEREDITY

  By Isaac Asimov

  Dr. Stefansson fondled the thick sheaf of typewritten papers that lay before him, “It’s all here, Harvey-twenty-five years of work.”

  Mild-mannered Professor Harvey puffed idly at his pipe, “Well, your part is over-and Markey’s, too, on Ganymede. It’s up to the twins, themselves, now.”

  A short ruminative silence, and then Dr. Stefansson stirred uneasily, “Are you going to break the news to Allen soon?”

  The other nodded quietly, “It will have to be done before we get to Mars, and the sooner the better.” He paused, then added in a tightened voice, “I wonder how it feels to find out after twenty-five years that one has a twin brother whom one has never seen. It must be a damned shock.”

  “How did George take it?”

  “Didn’t believe it at first, and I don’t blame him. Markey had to work like a horse to convince him it wasn’t a hoax. I suppose I’ll have as hard a job with Allen.” He knocked the dottle from his pipe and shook his head.

  “I have half a mind to go to Mars just to see those two get together,” remarked Dr. Stefansson wistfully. “You’ll do no such thing, Stef. This experiment’s taken too long and means too much to have you rum it by any such fool move.”

  “I know, I know! Heredity versus environment! Perhaps at last the definite answer.” He spoke half to himself, as if repeating an old, familiar formula, “Two identical twins, separated at birth; one brought up on old, civilized Earth, the other on pioneer Ganymede. Then, on their twenty-fifth birthday brought together for the first time on Mars-God! I wish Carter had lived to see the end of it They’re his children.”

  “Too bad!-But we’re alive, and the twins. To carry the experiment to its end will be our tribute to him.”

  There is no way of telling, at first seeing the Martian branch of Medicinal Products, Inc., that it is surrounded by anything but desert. You can’t see the vast underground caverns where the native fungi of Mars are artificially nurtured into huge blooming fields. The intricate transportation system that connects all parts of the square miles of fields to the central building is invisible. The irrigation system; the air-purifiers; the drainage pipes, are all hidden.

  And what one sees is the broad squat red-brick building and Martian desert, rusty and dry, all about

  That had been all George Carter had seen upon arriving via rocket-taxi, but him, at least, appearances had not deceived. It would have been strange had it done so, for his life on Ganymede had been oriented in its every phase towards eventual general managership of that very concern. He knew every square inch of the caverns below as well as if he had been born and raised in them himself.

  And now he sat in Professor Lemuel Harvey’s small office and allowed just the slightest trace of uneasiness to cross his impassive countenance. His ice-blue eyes sought those of Professor Harvey.

  “This-this twin brother o’ mine. He’ll be here soon?”

  Professor Harvey nodded, “He’s on his way over right now.”

  George Carter uncrossed his knees. His expression was almost wistful, “He looks a lot like me, d’ya rackon?”

  “Quite a lot. You’re identical twins, you know.”

  “Hmm! Rackon so! Wish I’d known him all the time-on Ganny!” He frowned. “He’s lived on Airth all’s life, huh?”

  An expression of interest crossed Professor Harvey’s face. He said briskly, “You dislike Earthmen?”

  “No, not exactly,” came the immediate answer. “It’s just the Airthmen are tanderfeet All of ‘m I know are.”

  Harvey stifled a grin, and conversation languished.

  The door-signal snapped Harvey out of his reverie and George Carter out of his chair at the same instant. The professor pressed the desk-button and the door opened.

  The figure on the threshold crossed into the room and then stopped. The twin brothers faced each other.

  It was a tense, breathless moment, and Professor Harvey sank into his soft chair, put his finger-tips together and watched keenly.

  The two stood stiffly erect, ten feet apart, neither making a move to lessen the distance. They made a curious contrast-a contrast all the more marked because of the vast similarity between the two.

  Eyes of frozen blue gazed deep into eyes of frozen blue. Each saw a long, straight nose over full, red lips pressed firmly together. The high cheekbones were as prominent in one as in the other, the jutting, angular chin as square. There was even the same, odd half-cock of one eyebrow in twin expressions of absorbed, part-quizzical interest.

  But with the face, all resemblance ended. Allen Carter’s clothes bore the New York stamp on every square inch. From his loose blouse, past his dark purple knee breeches, salmon-colored cellulite stockings, down to the glistening sandals on his feet, he stood a living embodiment of latest Terrestrial fashion.

  For a fleeting moment, George Carter was conscious of a feeling of ungainliness as he stood there in his tight-sleeved, close-necked shirt of Ganymedan linen. His unbuttoned vest and his voluminous trousers with their ends tucked into high-laced, heavy-soled boots were clumsy and provincial. Evenhe felt it-for just a moment

  From his sleeve-pocket Allen removed a cigarette case-it was the first move either of the brothers had made-opened it, withdrew a slender cylinder of paper-covered tobacco that spontaneously glowed into life at the first puff.

  George hesitated a fraction of a second and his subsequent action was almost one of defiance. His hand plunged into his inner vest pocket and drew therefrom the green, shriveled form of a cigar made of Ganymedan greenleaf. A match flared into .flame upon his thumbnail and for a long moment, he matched, puff for puff, the cigarette of his brother.

  And then Allen laughed-a queer, high-pitched laugh, “Your eyes are a little closer together, I think.”

  “Rackon ‘tis, maybe. Y’r hair’s fixed sort o’ different.” There was faint disapproval in his voice. Allen’s hand went self-consciously to his long, light-brown hair, carefully curled at the ends, while his eyes flickered over the carelessly-bound queue into which the other’s equally long hair was drawn.

  “I suppose we’ll have to get used to each other. -I’m willing to try.” The Earth twin was advancing now, hand outstretched.

  George smiled, “Y’ bet. ‘At goes here, too.”

  The hands met and gripped.

  “Y’r name’s All’n, huh?” said George.

  “And yours is George, isn’t it?” answered Allen.

  And then for a long while they said nothing more. They just looked-and smiled as they strove to bridge the twenty-five year gap that separated them.

  George Carter’s impersonal gaze swept over the carpet of low-growing purple blooms that stretched in plot-path bordered squares into the misty distance of the caverns. The newspapers and feature writers might rhapsodize over the “Fungus Gold” of Mars-about the purified extracts, in yields of ounces to acres of blooms, that had become indispensable to the medical profession of the System. Opiates, purified vitamins, a new vegetable specific against pneumonia-the blooms were worth their weight in gold, almost.

  But they were merely blooms to George Carter-blooms to be forced to full growth, harvested, baled, and shipped to the Aresopolis labs hundreds of miles away.

  He cut his little ground car to half-speed and leant furiously out the window, “Hi y’ mudcat there. Y’ with the dairty face. Watch what y’r doing-keep the domned water in the channel.”

  He drew back and the ground car leapt ahead once more. The Ganymedan muttered viciously to himself, “These domned men about here are wairse than useless. So many machines t’ do their wairk for ‘m they give their brains a pairmenent vacation, I rackon.”

  The ground car came
to a halt and he clambered out. Picking his way between the fungus plots, he approached the clustered group of men about the spider-armed machine in the plotway ahead.

  “Well, here I am. What is ‘t, All’n?”

  Allen’s head bobbed up from behind the other side of the machine. He waved at the men about him, “Stop it for a second!” and leaped toward his twin.

  “George, it works. It’s slow and clumsy, but it works. We can improve it now that we’ve got the fundamentals down. And in no time at all, we’ll be able to-”

  “Now wait a while, All’n. On Ganny, we go slow. Y’ live long, that way. What y’ got there?”

  Allen paused and swabbed at his forehead. His face shone with grease, sweat, and excitement. “I’ve been working on this thing ever since I finished college. It’s a modification of something we have on Earth-but it’s no end improved. It’s a mechanical bloom picker.”

  He had fished a much-folded square of heavy paper from his pocket and talked steadily as he spread it on the plotway before them, “Up to now, bloom-picking has been the bottleneck of production, to say nothing of the 15 to 20% loss due to picking under-and over-ripe blooms. After all, human eyes are only human eyes, and the blooms-Here, look!”

  The paper was spread flat and Allen squatted before it George leaned over his shoulder, with frowning watchfulness.

  “You see. It’s a combination of fluoroscope and photoelectric cell. The ripeness of the bloom can be told by the state of the spores within. This machine is adjusted so that the proper circuit is tripped upon the impingement of just that combination of light and dark formed by ripe spores within the bloom. On the other hand, this second circuit-but look, it’s easier to show you.”

  He was up again, brimming with enthusiasm. With a jump, he was in the low seat behind the picker and had pulled the lever.

  Ponderously, the picker turned towards the blooms and its “eye” travelled sideways six inches above the ground. As it passed each fungus bloom, a long spidery arm shot out, lopping it cleanly half an inch from the ground and depositing it neatly in the downward sloping slide beneath. A pile of blooms formed behind the machine.