The First Theodore R. Cogswell Megapack

by Theodore R. Cogswell

  “If you were up in a tree with two jungle beasts prowling around underneath, would you be able to use a blaster in your own defense?”

  The Saarian shuddered at the thought. “Of course not!”

  “But if they started fighting among themselves?”

  “If violent creatures choose to destroy themselves, it is no concern of mine,” said the little man.

  Kincaide was still not wholly convinced, “But where could they find a crew for a ship of war?”

  “It’s simple,” said Kit. “Check over the pattern of violence displayed by the crew after they captured me. They destroyed my ship, but before they did so they were careful to get me off safely. Once I was prisoner, there was a constant threat of violence, but note that it was never actually carried out. It’s true that no sane Saarian would act as they did—but why assume they were sane? When the Saarians had to find men capable of the show of violence they went to the only place where such men could be found, their insane asylums. Obviously, in a non-violent culture, the violent men would be considered mad. So the Saarians solved their problem by staffing the cruiser with men they considered to be homicidal maniacs. Unfortunately for them, when it came to an actual show of violence, when I socked one of them on the nose, the madmen weren’t any better able to take it than the sane.”

  “The sane?” asked Kincaide.

  “There were some—the priesthood. They were really the crew’s keepers. There had to be somebody along to keep that bunch in line. Being by profession in constant contact with the violent, they had stronger stomachs than the rest.

  He paused and motioned to an alert-looking, white-haired man who had just entered the tent. “Here’s the chief psychtech now. I think he’ll be able to back up what I just told you.”

  The white-haired man advanced, saluted, and began his report.

  “A thorough examination of the two Saarians brought in by Pilot Officer Carpenter has just been completed. In both cases we found conflicting delusional syndromes. Each of them is a psychotic whose paranoia expresses itself periodically in grandiose delusions. What makes these cases interesting, however, is that a second delusional pattern has artificially been imposed on them so that they are usually under the impression that they are members of the Polarian space forces. This, however, occasionally breaks down and the original syndrome becomes temporarily dominant.”

  “In other words,” said Kincaide helpfully, “they’re nuts!”

  The psychtech frowned and said severely, “Paranoid syndromes are a phenomenon that is by no means foreign to normal human psychology. The degree of divergency can only be determined by relating it to the norm. Since the norm itself is relative…”

  “All right,” said Kincaide hastily, “they’re not nuts.”

  The psychtech frowned at the interruption and continued. “On Saar these men would be considered detention cases because the Saarian social pattern has moved so far along the road to nonviolence that the symbol—the angry word or the threatening gestures—is viewed with the same alarm that more aggressive cultures reserve for the actual deed itself. Placed in a Polarian or a Terrestrial context, however, these men would be viewed as harmless eccentrics. No hatter how they want and posture, they’re constitutionally incapable of actual violence.”

  “Well, I guess that ties it up,” said Tarz. “I guess it does,” said Kincaide, and then struck by a sudden thought, he turned to Kit, “I know you’ve had a hard day, Carpenter, but if it wouldn’t be too much to ask…that pouch you were sent out from Earth with…it had my laundry in it.”

  “Regret to report, sir,” said Kit, “that I had to destroy it. You see…”

  * * * *

  Negotiations returned to normal as Tarz stabbed his finger down at the point on the map that marked the largest of the stellite deposits. “Now my government insists…”

  There was an interruption from the Saarian end of the table. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the little emissary, “but I am afraid that on the behalf of my government I shall have to ask you to give up this division of what isn’t yours and remove yourselves and your forces to your home systems.”

  Tarz and Kincaide stared at him in amazement. Then the Polarian gave a short barking laugh. “Look at who’s giving orders. The rabbit is showing his teeth.”

  For once the Saarian didn’t subside in frightened confusion. Instead he rose to his feet and held his hands up for silence. He trembled visibly, but even so there was a certain dignity about him as. if he were drawing on sources of hidden internal strength.

  “You have called us rabbits,” he said quietly. “This is not correct. Though you cannot understand it, we have come of age. In this coming we have put the brawling manner of our childhood so far behind us that only our unfortunates, our psychotics, are still capable of even the threat of violence.”

  “But this you should remember: there are cultures in this galaxy of a wildness that makes yours seem those of meek and timid children. Space wolves straining at the leash, begging for an excuse to spring at your throats.”

  He turned to Tarz. “You who boast of martial prowess, would you care to match ships with the Rigelians?”

  A momentary expression of fear flickered across the Prince’s face.

  “We have other madmen and other ships,” said the Saarian. “An exact replica of your own flagship is hanging off Orionis now manned by green-bearded men. If it came out of hyperspace in the middle of a crowded space land and blasted a merchant ship, would not the Rigelian war lords be grateful?”

  Tarz turned deathly pale and sat down abruptly.

  “And you, Space Marshall,” the little man continued, “Has Earth no enemies?”

  Kincaide sickened inside as he had a momentary vision of a blackened, burning Earth englobed by the blood-red ships of Achernar.

  The little man left his place at the end of the table and walked through the silence to the door of the tent.

  “And now if you’ll excuse me,” he said politely, “I am late for my lute lesson. On behalf of the people of Saar, may I wish you both a pleasant and speedy voyage home.”

  * * * *

  Late that evening a pilot officer of the Planetary Ferry Command walked happily up the embarkation ramp of Space Marshall Kincaide’s flagship, his discharge papers tucked safely away in an inner pocket. The diamond studded Terrestrial Cross and the great gleaming Polarian emerald of the Order of Merit, Third Grade, that had just been pinned to his chest, sparkled under the floodlights. There was a beatific smile on his face and a song in his heart as his fingers stroked these tributes from two great peace loving systems. Meanwhile a busy little calculating machine inside his head was rapidly converting them into crisp piles of one hundred credit notes. Civilian-to-be Kittridge Carpenter, owner and chief pilot of Ajax Carriers, was going home.

  MINIMUM SENTENCE

  Flip Danielson came striding into his forty-credit-a-day suite at the Hotel Metro, wearing a broad grin and a checked suit.

  “I’ve got him right where we want him,” he said. “He’s hanging on the ropes.”

  Stretched out on the bed with a wet towel swathed around his head like a turban, the pudgy figure groaned and turned over, burying his face in the covers.

  “Go ’way. I’m a sick man.”

  Flip skipped across the room, tossed the covers aside, and bounced up and down on the bed.

  “Snap out of it, Potsy. I’ve got us an out.”

  The fat man winced at the motion and feebly raised his head.

  “I’ll never live to use an out. What was I drinking last night, straight fusel-oil?”

  “Quang Dal was mixing cocktails out of creme de menthe and anisette, and you were taking two to every one of his just to be sociable.”

  “That explains it,” groaned Potsy. “Hand me that bottle on the bureau, like a good fellow. I’ve got to do something to get rid of that aftertaste.”

  Flip went over and got it, stopped to take a short sample himself, and then ha
nded it over. There was a liquid gurgle as the bottle dropped an inch and a half, and then a satisfied sigh.

  “Maybe I’ll live, after all. Now, who’s on the ropes?”

  “Quang Dal. No thanks to you, though. You were passed out in the corner, snoring like a pig, when I rolled him.”

  The fat man looked up in sudden interest. “How much did you get?”

  “Looks like about four thousand. I haven’t bothered to count it yet.”

  “Toss it over. I’ll be glad to.”

  “It’ll do for chicken feed.”

  Potsy clucked like a hen and grabbed the billfold. He pulled out a thick sheaf of currency and ran his fingers over it reverently.

  “Think of the time we can have—” He broke off suddenly and tossed the money despondently on the floor. “Could have had, I mean. We won’t have any use for money were we’re going. Twenty years—minimum!” He grabbed his head between his hands as it started in throbbing again.

  “And forty years maximum,” said Flip unsympathetically. “Next time you line up an easy mark, made sure she’s not the Police Commissioner’s mother-in-law.”

  “Maybe something will happen. We’ve still got three weeks before we have to report for sentencing.”

  “So?”

  “We’ve still got the ship. We could make a run for it.”

  “Where to? If it’s any place in the Solar System where people can live, the law’s there. And if it’s a place where the law isn’t, people can’t live.”

  Potsy drank unhappily from his bottle. “What gets me is that the floppers and the crawlers and the wigglers and the rest can hop around the Galaxy in just about nothing flat while we humans can’t go past Pluto. If we could just get our hands on one of their faster-than-light drives, we could thumb our noses at the law.” He sighed. “If wishes were horses…”

  “Get ready to saddle up.” There was a complacent smile on Flip’s face as he tossed a long manila envelope on to the bed. “The thought of sitting in a lunar prison cell for the next twenty years with nothing to look at but your fat face was just too much…so I went and did something about it.”

  Potsy opened the envelope and stared at its contents in bewilderment.

  Flip grinned. “Return ticket, passport, identity card—the works. His ship takes off at ten and I’ve pumped enough DDT into him to keep him under for another six hours. When Quang Dal comes to, he’s going to be an unhappy little Centaurian—broke, stranded, and friendless. Do you begin to get the picture?”

  Potsy looked up at his partner with open admiration. “Not friendless. He’s got us.”

  * * * *

  When Quang Dal’s six legs had recovered sufficient strength to carry him down the corridors in a tottering crawl, the first thing he did was go to the police.

  “Get outta here before I squash ya,” growled the desk sergeant. “If we’re such ignorant bums we ain’t good enough to be let in your Galactic Union, we sure ain’t smart enough to help you out when you get into a jam.”

  “But, sir,” protested Quang Dal, “I am just poor priwate Centaurian citizen who have nothing to do with admission standards whatsoewer. Is not to be despairing for that, howewer. Has not Grand Council giwen fine promise that admission shall be accompaniment of attainment of minimumnal socialization percentile?”

  “Scram,” said the desk sergeant. “I ain’t paid to get lectured by cockroaches.”

  Quang Dal drew himself up with dignity. “Is, one, inaccurate statement—terrestrial cockroach is not sapient being. Is, two, obviously hostile manifestation. Is through politeness and well-wishing comes minimumnal socialization, not harsh speaking. In Cosmos, all entities are siblings. Translation: brother and/or sisters.”

  With a quick wobble to the left, he avoided the descending boot and scuttled toward the door.

  “I love you,” he said ceremoniously, but earnestly. “Is well-wishing with a wengeance.”

  At the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Affairs, he received a politer reception, but little in the way of help.

  “Terribly sorry, old man,” said the Third Assistant. “Wouldn’t have had it happen for all the worlds. Don’t know quite what I can do about it, though, now that your ship’s gone. It was the first one in twenty years and there’s no telling when the next one will stop by. It is rather shameful the way the rest of the Galaxy tends to avoid us, you know. I mean, after all, if you chaps would let us in on the faster-than-light drive and a few things like that, we wouldn’t be so embarrassingly provincial.”

  “Are explaining many times before,” said Quang Dal patiently. “Is no such thing as faster-than-light drive. As your good man Einstein show you long time ago, is theoretical impossibility.”

  The Third Assistant sniffed his disbelief. “And how many months has it been since you left Alpha Centauri?”

  “Three months between time, but is not workable for Solar peoples. Is only what you call a conwenience.”

  The official maintained his professional calm, but there was a little edge to his voice.

  “I take it, then, that you consider us too stupid to know how to use it?”

  “Did not say,” said Quang Dal. “Is only unachiewement of minimumnal socialization. Are principles inwolved that might be used for harm to other entities.”

  The Third Assistant glanced at his watch, rose from his desk, and ushered the little Centaurian to the door.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, old man. Tea time, you know. Sorry I can’t offer you a lift home on one of our ships, but since we’ve never been able to do better than one-fifth light speed, I’m afraid that we’ll just have to putter around inside our own solar system until you chaps decide we’re socialized enough to be given the galactic drive. I’ll make a personal note of your case however, and when an extraterrestrial ship drops in, one of my successors will get in touch with you immediately.”

  Quang Dal’s attempt to explain again that there was no such thing as a faster-than-light drive was cut short by the closing of the door in his face. Rearing up on his hind legs, he ran his voice tube through the keyhole and said politely, “Note, please—I love you.”

  His only friends in a strange and hostile world, Potsy and Flip, were waiting for him when he got back to the hotel.

  “How did it go?”

  “Is, as you say, without soap,” said Quang Dal mournfully. “Is constant expectoration upon by unwell-wishers.”

  “Don’t let it get you down, pal,” comforted Potsy. “What do you expect from a bunch of bums with a low-grade socialization index?” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bulging billfold, and peeled off several bills. “Here’s a little ready cash. Just remember that no matter what happens, you’ve still got us.”

  Flip nodded his agreement. “What’s ours is yours. It may be fifty years before another galactic ship stops by, and even then it may be going the wrong way, but we’ll stand by you!”

  “If fifty years, not too bad,” said Quang Dal. “Is sewenty-fiwe, is too late, I think so maybe. Is now Ides of March. Would be most inconweniencing to spouses-to-be if not returning by June. Is getting married then,” he explained, “and sewening no good with only six.”

  “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying,” Potsy said, sympathetically, “you’re in a tough spot. If you’ve got to wait fifty years, it won’t be much of a marriage.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Flip. “I can just see the poor girls waiting for their lover to come home, hopefully setting a light in their windows each night, slowly losing hope as the years pass —growing lined and gray and bitter with, the thoughts of what might have been.”

  “Is many misconceptions here,” said Quang Dal. “In first place, is not year question, is month question. In second, is not females on Alpha Centauri same kind like Earth. Is seven sexes. I am splanton, number four kind.” He went into a detailed description of relations and permutations that left the two Earthmen confused.

  “If this is what is meant by being socialized,” said Potsy
finally, “I don’t see how Earth will ever make it.”

  “Potsy,” Flip said, “if our friend has to be home by June to get married, we’re going to see that he makes it. Like he’s always saying, all entities are siblings under the epidermis.”

  “I’m all for it,” said his partner, “but how?”

  “We’ve got a ship, haven’t we?”

  “Yeah, but without the galactic drive, it would take him twenty years to get back and he’s due in June.”

  “He can make it,” said Flip confidently. “All he has to do is build one of those faster-than-light gadgets and install it in the ship. Then he could make it back in time.”

  “Is not faster-than-light,” objected Quang Dal once more. “Is merely conwenience. But if loanation of ship could be made, would be well-wishing with a wegeance and impressive sign of attainment of minimumnal socialization.”

  * * * *

  Three weeks later, the job was done.

  “Is all fix and workable fine,” said Quang Dal. “You come down and see me off in morning. Is needful to express final love and gratitude.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Flip.

  “I think I go make last-time checkup.”

  When he left, Potsy pulled off his shoes and stretched on the bed.

  “Looks like we’ll make it.”

  “Just in time, too,” said Flip. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re due down at the Justice Department at noon tomorrow for sentencing.” He shuddered. “Twenty years would have been a long time!”

  “Not as long as forty,” said Potsy. “I think I’ll have a bottle sent up. I feel like celebrating.”

  “Excellent idea. Order up five women while you’re at it. We owe it to our race to see if we can get onto this sevening.”

  * * * *

  At eight sharp the next morning, the two were standing in the control room of their spaceship listening to Quang Dal’s last grateful good-bys.