“Haven’t you got that tramp out of here yet?” I demanded, eyeing him scornfully over my insouciant silver-filmed shoulder.
“Easy, Babe,” he repeated, the vertical furrows creasing his brow to a depth of at least a centimeter and a half.
“That’s telling her, Slickie,” the blonde applauded.
“You two-timing rat!” I plagiarized, whipping up my silver skirt as if to whisk a gun from my nonexistent girdle.
His cannon coughed. Always a good sportsman, I moved an inch so that the bullet, slightly mis-aimed, took me exactly in the right eye, messily blowing off the back of my head. I winked at Slickie with my left eye and fell back through the doorway into the bedroom darkness.
I knew I had no time to spare. When a man’s shot one girl he begins to lose his natural restraint. Lying on the floor, I reconstituted my eye and did a quick patch-job on the back of my head in seventeen seconds flat.
As I emerged from the bedroom, they were entering into a clinch, each holding a gun lightly against the other’s back.
“Slickie,” I said, pouring myself a scant half liter of scotch, “I told you about that tramp.”
The ice-blonde squawked, threw up her hands as if she’d had a shot of strychnine, and ran out the door. I fancied I could feel the building tilt as she leaned on the elevator button.
I downed the scotch and advanced, shattering the paralyzed space-time that Slickie seemed to be depending on as a defense.
“Slickie,” I said, “let’s get down to cases. I am indeed from Galaxy Center and we very definitely don’t like your attitude. We don’t care what your motives are, or whether they are derived from jumbled genes, a curdled childhood, or a sick society. We simply love you and we want you to reform.” I grabbed him by a shivering shoulder that was now hardly higher than my waist, and dragged him into the bedroom, snatching up the rest of the scotch on the way. I switched on the light. The bedroom was a really lush love-nest. I drained the scotch—there was about a half liter left—and faced the cowering Slickie. “Now do to me,” I told him uncompromisingly, “the thing you’re always going to do to those girls, except you have to shoot them,”
He frothed like an epileptic, snatched out his cannon and emptied its magazine into various parts of my torso, but since he hit only two of my five brains, I wasn’t bothered. I reeled back bloodily through the blue smoke and fell into the bathroom. I felt real crazy—maybe I shouldn’t have taken that last half liter. I reconstituted my torso faster even than I had my head, but my silver frock was a mess. Not wanting to waste time and reluctant to use any more reconstituting energy, I stripped it off and popped into the off-the-shoulders evening dress the blonde had left lying over the edge of the bathtub. The dress wasn’t a bad fit. I went back into the bedroom. Slickie was sobbing softly at the foot of the bed and gently beating his head against it.
“Slickie,” I said, perhaps a shade too curtly, “about this love business—”
He sprang for the ceiling but didn’t quite burst through it. Falling back, by chance on his feet, he headed for the hall. Now it wasn’t in my orders from Galaxy Center that he run away and excite this world—in fact, my superiors had strictly forbidden such a happening. I had to stop Slickie. But I was a bit confused—perhaps fuddled by that last half liter. I hesitated—then he was too far away, had too big a start. To stop him, I knew I’d have to use tentacles. Swifter than thought I changed them and shot them out.
“Slickie,” I cried reassuringly, dragging him to me.
Then I realized that in my excitement, instead of using my upper dorsal tentacles, I’d used the upper ventral ones I kept transmuted into my beautiful milk glands. I do suppose they looked rather strange to Slickie as they came out of the bosom of my off-the-shoulders evening dress and drew him to me.
Frightening sounds came out of him. I let him go and tried to resume my gorgeous shape, but now I was really confused (that last half liter!) and lost control of my transmutations. When I found myself turning my topmast tentacle into a milk gland I gave up completely and—except for a lung and vocal cords—resumed my normal shape. It was quite a relief. After all, I had done what Galaxy Center had intended I should. From now on, the mere sight of a brassiere in a show window would be enough to give Slickie the shakes.
Still, I was bothered about the guy. As I say, he’d touched me.
I caressed him tenderly with my tentacles. Over and over again I explained that I was just a heptapus and that Galaxy Center had selected me for the job simply because my seven tentacles would transmute nicely into the seven extremities of the human female.
Over and over again I told him how I loved him.
It didn’t seem to help. Slickie Millane continued to weep hysterically.
In the years since this story first appeared we have grown more conditioned to the possibility that when and if Alien Intelligences do land here, they will avoid the more populated areas and instead seek out, as if by design, people whose world is limited by the horizon they know. But what would happen If they should land in one of those backwaters where Time has “sort of stopped”?
THE MARTIANS AND THE COYS
by
MACK REYNOLDS
Maw Coy climbed the fence down at the end of the south pasture and started up the aide of the creek, carrying her bundle over her shoulder and puffing slightly at her exertion.
She forded the creek there at the place where Hank’s old coon dog Jigger was killed by the boar three years ago come next hunting season. Jumping from rock to rock across the creek made her puff harder; Maw Coy wasn’t as young as she once was.
On the other side she rested a minute to light up her pipe and to look carefully about before heading up the draw. She didn’t really expect to see any Martins around here, but you never knew. Besides, there might’ve been a revenue agent. They were getting mighty thick and mighty uppity these days. You’d think the govemment’d have more to do than bother honest folks trying to make an honest living.
The pipe lit, Maw swung the bundle back over her shoulder and started up the draw. Paw and the boys, she reckoned, were probably hungry as a passel of hound dogs by now. She’d have to hurry.
When she entered the far side of the clearing, she couldn’t see any signs of them so she yelled, “You Paw! You Hank and Zeke!” Maw Coy liked to give the men folks warning before she came up on the still. Hank, in particular, was mighty quick on the trigger sometimes.
But there wasn’t any answer. She trudged across the clearing to where the still was hidden in a duster of pines. Nobody was there but Lem.
She let the bundle down and glowered at him. “Lem, you no-account, why didn’t you answer me when I hollered?”
He grinned at her vacuously, not bothering to get up from where he sat whittling, his back to an old oak. “Huh?” he said. A thin trickle of brown ran down from the side of his mouth and through the stubble on his chin.
“I said, how come you didn’t answer when I hollered?”
He said, “You called Faw and Hank and Zeke, you didn’t holler for me. What you got there, Maw, huh?” His watery eyes were fixed on the bundle.
Maw Coy sighed deeply and sat down on a tree stump. “Now what you think I got there, Lem? I been a bringing your vittles to you every day since Paw and you boys started up this new still. Where’s Paw Mid Zeke and Hank?”
Lem scratched himself with the stick he’d been whittling on. “They went off scoutin’ around for the revenooeis or maybe the Martins,” He let his mouth fall open and peered wistfully into the woods. He added, “I wish I could shoot me a Martin, Maw. I wish I could. I sure wish I could shoot me a Martin.”
The idea excited him. He brought his hulking body to its feet and went over to pick up an ancient shotgun from where it leaned against a mash barrel.
Maw Coy was taking com pone, some cold fried salt pork, and a quart of black-strap molasses from her bundle and arranging it on the top of an empty keg. “You mind yourself with that gun now, Lem. Mind how
you shot up your foot that time.”
Lem didn’t hear her; he was stroking the stock of the shotgun absently. “I could do it easy,” he muttered. “I could shoot me a Martin easy. I sure could, Maw. I’d show Hank and Zeke, I would.”
“You forget about the Martins, son,” Maw Coy said softly. “Yore my simple son—there’s at least one in every family, mostly more—and it ain’t fittin’ that you get into fights. You got a strong back, strongest in the hills, but yore too simple, Lem.”
“I ain’t as simple as Jim Martin, Maw,” Lem protested.
“Son, they don’t come no more simple than you,” his mother told him gently. “And mind that gun. You know how you bent the barrel of Zeke’s Winchester back double that time, absent-minded like.”
He stroked the gun stock, patted it, half in anger, half in protest. His lower lip hung down in a pout. “You stop talkin’ thataway, Maw,” he growled, “or I’ll larrup you one.”
Maw Coy didn’t answer. She reckoned she’d better set off into the woods and see if she could locate the rest of the men folks, so they could eat.
Lem said under his breath, “I could shoot me a Martin real easy, I could.”
To the Most Bigh, the Glorious, the Omnipotent, Omnipresent, and Omniscient, the Lord of the Seven, the Leader of the Chosen, Neo Geek XXXVIII;
In regard to: Testing of special weapons designed to eliminate present population of the third planet with the eventual view of colonizing.
From: Seegeel Wan, Commander of Spacecruiser 12544.
Your Omnipotence:
Upon the receipt of your orders, we proceeded to the planet in question (known to its inhabitants as Earth, or Terra) first touching at its satellite (Luna) in order to pick up the observation group which has been studying the potential foe for several decals.
Commander of the observation group, Baren Dari, has enjoyed the reputation of being our most outstanding authority on Earthlings. It has been principally through his recommendations that the secret, supplementary weapons, worked upon for the past decal, were devised. Baren Dari has successfully deciphered the principal language of Earth and through listening to their radio emanations has compiled a formidable work on his findings. But of his abilities, more later.
It might be added here that Baren Dari and all his group were more than ready to proceed to Earth and begin the slaughter of its inhabitants. It seems that these investigators have for decals listened most carefully to every radio emanation possible to pick up. This has evidently led them to the edge of complete frenzy—especially those who have been assigned the morning programs, sometimes known as “soap operas” by the Earthlings.
Baren Dari inspected the newly created weapons with considerable care and proclaimed them excellent for our purposes. In particular he was impressed with the I.Q. Depressor; the deadly poison, nark; and the lepbonic plague carrying fleas. He was convinced that these secret weapons would give our forces that advantage we seek before launching our all-out attack upon Earth.
Acting on Dari’s suggestions, we avoided the more heavily populated areas of Earth and landed our spacecruiser in a mountainous area of the planet known as Kentucky, a subdivision of the United States of America, one of the more advanced Earth nations.
Our plans did not work out as anticipated.
Keeping well in mind the need for secrecy, we made every attempt to land the spacecruiser without detection. We settled in a small valley near a stream and immediately sent out scouts to determine if there was any sign that our craft had been sighted in descent
Evidently, the population of the vicinity was so small that our plans were successful. Our patrols reported only one small group of Earthlings in the immediate area.
Deciding to test the new weapons on this gathering, we disembarked a force of a dozen warriors, all disguised as Earthlings and with myself as commander and Baren Dari as technical advisor.
“We must keep our senses alert for Sam Spade, Superman and the Lone Ranger,” Baren Dari said nervously, peering around among the strange exotic trees and other vegetation that grows on Earth.
I was somewhat surprised at his tone and obvious unease.
“Who?” I asked. “What?”
“Three Terran warriors of amazing ability and viciousness,” he told me. “I have been gathering reports of their activities from the radio for some time. They seem to have clairvoyant minds; one or the other of them almost invariably appears on the scene of violence.”
I said impatiently, “Without doubt, our weapons would mean the end of these warriors.”
I did not share his belief that any Earthling warriors might be our equals or superiors, but to remain on the cautious side, I immediately ordered that the Elect-no be switched on. This weapon, one of the several designed for the Earth campaign, as your Omnipotence is undoubtedly aware, is so constructed as to prevent the use of any internal combustion engine within a dozen miles of the Elect-no. In this case, no aircraft, no land-craft, utilizing internal combustion, could enter our zone.
Baren Dari seemed somewhat relieved at this precaution, but his attitude to a certain extent began to affect the rest of us. To prepare for any eventuality, I had the Fission-Suppressor activated. This, of course, automatically made it impossible for nuclear fission to take place within a hundred miles of our ship.
That measure pleased Baren Dari exceedingly in view of the fact that the Earth nations seemed to be spending practically all of their military appropriations on their so-called A-Bombs and H-Bombs. According to the radio emanations our Luna base had picked up, the Earthlings were interested in little else in a military way, except possibly bacteriological weapons, and, of course, we were prepared to deal them a strong blow along that line with our lepbonic plague spreading fleas.
At any rate, knowing that we had suppressed the use of their major weapon, the fission bomb, and had prevented transportation from entering the vicinity, we proceeded toward the clearing where the Earthlings had gathered, determined to test the I.Q. Depressor, nark, and the lepbonic plague fleas, for it was upon the success of these weapons that our Earth campaign depended.
We proceeded with care toward the clearing on the edge of which our scouts had detected Earthlings, and carefully approached from behind the one specimen we saw there. Evidently, the others had gone off.
Baren Dari, the only member of our little group who was familiar with the language, acted as spokesman, and we concealed for the moment at least the purpose of our “visit.” The following conversation was recorded by Baren Dari himself and later translated as literally as possible into our language. Earthling: “Huh? What’s that?”
Baren Dari: “Have no fear.”
Earthling: “Revenooers! Paw! Hank!”
(The meaning of the word revenooers was completely unknown to Baren Dari but from the Earthling’s tone of voice it is to be assumed that the term is a derogatory one.)
Baren Dari: “We are not revenooers. We are friends.” Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Dari: “We are not revenooers. We are friends.” Earthling (suspiciously): “Well, you can’t have no free com, if that’s what you’re looking for. Can’t buy none either. Paw won’t sell no raw com. Says corn ain’t fitten to drink unless it’s been aged a week.”
(This conversation seemed to puzzle Baren Dari and I was beginning to suspect already that his knowledge of the Earthlings was somewhat less than he had led me to believe.)
Baren Dari: “Where are the others?”
Earthling: “Huh?”
(This continual inability on the Earthling’s part to understand the questions put to him by Baren Dari also caused me to wonder whether or not the decals spent on Luna in observing Earth were quite as fruitful as they might have been.) Baren Dari: “Where are the others?”
Earthling: “Oh, you mean Maw and Paw and Hank and Zeke. They’re off looking for Martins.”
(Your Omnipotence is of course aware that in the language of the Earthlings our glorious planet is known as
Mars, and we as Martians, or, evidently, as this Earthling pronounced it, Martins.)
This information was, as you can well imagine, startling, since we had supposed that our landing had been made in the most complete secrecy. What means they had utilized to discover us is unknown.
Baren Dari: “Ahhhhh. And, er . . . what made them suspect there were Martians in the vicinity?”
Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Dari: “What made Maw and Paw and Hank and Zeke think there were Martians around?”
Earthling: “Oh.”
Baren Dari: “What made them think there were Martians about?”
Earthling: “Paw says he can smell him a Martian from most twenty miles away. Paw’s got a regular feelin’ for Martins, like. Paw’d rather shoot him a Martin than eat fried chicken. I wish I could shoot me a Martin, I wish. Yup, H sure wish I could shoot me a Martin. I wish—”
(This sixth sense of some of the Earthlings had been unsuspected by Baren Dari in spite of his decals of investigation. Evidently, the Earthlings have an unusual ability to detect the presence of alien life forms. Also surprising was the fact that the Earthlings were evidently aware of our plans to conquer their planet and were already worked up to a pitch of patriotism which made them extremely anxious to destroy us.)
Baren Dari turned to me and explained that there were four more of the Earthlings in the woods searching for us and that undoubtedly they would soon return. He suggested that we immediately try some of our weapons upon this specimen.
The plan seemed feasible enough so I ordered one of the warriors to find a suitable liquid in which to place a portion of the poison nark.
Ultimate plans, as you are aware, had been to drop, by spacecraft, small containers of nark in the reservoirs, rivers and lakes of the Earthlings. One drop was designated to be, as your Omnipotence knows, sufficient to poison a reservoir capable of supplying the water needs of a hundred thousand Earthlings.
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