“You did not die with them?” Nineteen asked tactfully.
The king glowered, considering the question silly.
Nineteen rephrased the question. “Can you tell me, sir, why you did not suffer this same death?”
“I refused peace.”
“It was a matter of acceptance or rejection?”
“It was.”
“You are the only living human in all this world?”
“I am.”
“I do not understand how they all suffered and died of this peace simultaneously.”
“I didn’t say that!” the king snapped. “Idiot.” He searched among the languages familiar to him and said, “Degeneration. Dry rot requires only a few centuries.”
AGAIN the interpreter noted a subtle but baffling difference to the response. As before, the old man’s answer was partly understood and partly guessed at, and, as before, the analyzing equipment performed in normal fashion, but for the second time there had been an undefined change in the procedure. “Degeneration” and “dry rot” were undoubtedly a form of slow death; while “centuries” was probably one or more measurable units of time.
“I ask your pardon, great leader,” Nineteen continued smoothly. “I believe I now understand. Your subjects suffered peace for a number of centuries and gradually perished; a kind of lingering death. Is that correct?”
The king of the planet nodded dourly, his attentive eyes following the lithe movements of the young girl as she fidgeted in the grass.
“Thank you, sir. And what is a century?"
“One hundred years.”
“Ah, yes. And what constitutes a year, sir?”
“One revolution about the sun!” The king looked at his questioner with scorn. “Is a star-traveler ignorant of the most basic astronomy?”
Nineteen jumped with astonishment and listened to the murmur of surprise on the communication circuit. “Ah—then you are aware of our identity?”
The king was disgusted. “I know a starship when I see one, you fool!”
“Your great wisdom pleases me, honorable leader. Have other starships visited your kingdom?”
“Of course. How else would I know, stupid?”
(The woman at the scanning plates said excitedly: “There are no records of any known ship visiting this planet.”)
(The recording engineer said: “Nonetheless, he’s telling the truth. And he thinks us a pack of fools.”)
(“Most amazing,” Nineteen commented. “And perhaps we are—he certainly was not excited to see us, remember. Evidently his memory antedates our records. Let’s put the prime question.”)
Nineteen returned his attention to the native. “August leader, you must have lived a very long time to have watched your people perish over the centuries, and to have seen the visiting starships. Good sir, what is the number of your glorious years?”
Bitterly, the king of the planet told him.
The answer was not immediately intelligible, for it involved still another x unit of local time, and, to compound matters, there had been still another shift of tonal values. Grimly, not unmixed with annoyance, the king once more changed languages and answered the question—quite honestly—in Moabitish.
His questioner could only determine that the old man’s unusual life span had stretched over an x number of centuries, and he had to be content with that for the time being. But the interrogation continued.
FOR the remainder of that day, and the following three, the space visitors posed endless questions. They were insatiable.
Nineteen, prompted by whispers from within the ship, from those waiting far above, and from the technicians working about the clearing, valiantly attempted to pump the king of his knowledge of anthropology, archeology, astronomy, architecture, biology (running from botany through zoology—although biometrics proved to be a most frustrating business), chemistry, commerce, electronics, geology and geography, history (a fruitful mass of data!), mathematics, medicine and pharmacy, mythology, numeration—the list of subjects and the many detailed questions pertinent to each appeared to have no end.
The visitors pried and the old man answered in his fashion. He darted from one subfamily of languages to another, leaping from tongue to dialect and back again, watching the interpreter with malicious amusement. Without warning, he would turn from ultra-modern English to Prakrit, to Illyrian, to French, to Avestan, to Vulgate Latin, to Chaldean, to Pahlavi and then to Umbrian, always secretly amused in the belief that he was bewildering the inquisitor. His mastery of the many languages was as complete as his aged memory would permit and he was enjoying himself—until he suddenly discovered that the space visitor was wise to his game.
At some time during the lengthy sessions, the visitor had discovered the subterfuge and thereafter ignored the dazzling changes. The king of the planet lapsed into Aramic, his favorite tongue, and remained there. The malicious fun was lost.
The sessions were not continuous. They paused many times to rest because the king tired, and because he would fall into moody silences that could not be broken until he was ready to break them. They stopped then to eat and drink, and the young girl would bring food from the ship and place it before the old one.
He ate sparingly.
They took the time to inspect the many small discoveries the archeologists were bringing back from the ancient cemetery, and at the close of each day they closed up shop to sleep. The king refused the invitation to sleep in the scout, or in the mother ship hanging far above, always preferring to return to his mausoleum.
Before the king quit the clearing at the end of the first day, he made a small request, a mild one which surely could offend nobody, but it had to be refused. The translator was very sorry, but he simply could not permit the young girl to accompany the king back to his bed for the night. It just wasn’t done, and besides the girl was under age. Respectful regret and all that
The king strode away, greatly irritated.
ON the morning of the second day, the king was awakened by the noise the archeologists were making in the mausoleum, and he chased them outdoors. He let them know with strong language and unmistakable gestures that his home was the one sacred place barred to them. They could not knock holes in the many vaults lining the mausoleum walls—not even the small holes which would admit their camera lenses.
On the morning of the third day, the visitors had charted the local time sequences to their satisfaction, and the newfound knowledge excited them.
Nineteen probed for a solution to the riddle.
“Great sir, did many of your people live through centuries? That is, for many hundreds of years?”
“No.”
“What was their usual lifetime?”
“The good died young—they knew better than to stay alive. The worthless ones stayed longer; they were too mean to die.”
“But what number of years, great leader?” Nineteen strove for the impression of worshipping at the old man’s hardened feet. “How young is young?”
“Thirty or forty years,” the king said impatiently.
“And how old is old?”
“Seventy, eighty, ninety. A few lived past the century.”
“Ah, yes. But that extreme age was a rarity, was it not? Even when your subjects were not suffering peace?”
“Of course.”
“Pardon me, glorious one, but I do not understand your age. Why is it that you live so long?”
“I rejected peace— I’ve told you that!”
“You did, good sir, but we still do not understand. Is not peace a desirable attainment?”
“It is, until you get it. And then you rot.”
“And you rejected peace and thus avoided rotting. I’m afraid that isn’t as simple as it sounds, but then I do not expect to understand the theory. But, sir, there must be some rational reason for your tremendous age, some fact that you have not made known to us.”
The king stared at him, unwilling to answer.
“Have you discovered the secret of eterna
l life?” Nineteen asked anxiously. “Do you take drugs? Is it a dietary matter? Have you found some unknown substance which prolongs your life?”
THE king let his attention wander and fastened his gaze on the young girl, who was helping a botanist.
(“Keep at it,” the recording engineer whispered. “You scored a clean hit with one of those questions. His pulse raced.”)
“My own life,” Nineteen said smoothly, “and the lives of my companions are reasonably long. We may expect to live about two hundred years, if we are fortunate.”
The king pointed at the girl. “How old is she?”
“Not yet forty.” Nineteen smiled. “She is my daughter, an apprentice to this crew.” Without changing his conversational tone, he asked, “How old are you?”
The king replied with the identical answer given on the first day.
“But sir!” the translator declared. “That amounts to more than three thousand years! And that is incredible; I can scarcely believe it. How does one live for three thousand years by simply rejecting peace?”
“It depends upon the manner of rejection,” the old one said dourly. “And the time, and the place, and the catalyst.” His hungering gaze would not leave the girl.
“I’m afraid I do not understand you at all.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“It just isn’t possible to exist for so long!”
“I’m existing.” The king raised his eyes to the scout ship. “And that fellow yonder knows I’m not lying.”
(The whisper: “He isn’t lying, but you’ve hit on something. I believe he is superstitious. Question him.”)
Nineteen did, digging patiently but as deeply as he was able, utilizing his every skill to draw out the old man. He reverted to a subject they had discussed on a previous day, mythology, and examined it more carefully than before.
A number of significant things came to light which had been passed over before, and these new factors were weighed and balanced against all the conversations so far recorded.
In the end, Nineteen admitted to a partial defeat. The day drew to a close and he packed away his equipment, preparatory to returning to the mother ship; he wished he could remain a month or a year with the aged native, but that was not possible. They were leaving after darkness fell.
LUGGING their gear and their specimens, their recordings and their artifacts, the explorers returned to the scout. The military men dismantled the tall pole which had been planted in the clearing, and reverently packed away the varicolored ball that had spun atop it.
Food and drink were left outside, as a final tribute to the king of the planet, and the scout was made secure for lifting.
“It is imperative that we return to this planet,” Nineteen declared later. “Perhaps in a century or two. It is important to know if he will still be living.”
“He will be,” Seven predicted lightly. “Beetles and birchbark will keep going forever.”
“Not forever,” Nineteen contradicted, ignoring the levity. “Even he admitted it. But that last session was most productive; it must have high priority in translation and analysis. I wish I understood it more clearly now. No—he won’t live forever. He is aware of his eventual death, and, if my intuition is correct, he is looking forward to it. Can you imagine three thousand years?”
“I can’t,” Seven replied.
“Nor I, but I expect we will find he is very much correct in the figure. No wonder he wants release! His future death is hopelessly entangled in some supernatural fantasy; I no more understand that than I understand his fantastic reason for longevity. What is myth and what is real?”
Two said, “He believes in those old gods of the myth, believes in them flatly and without question. Do you suppose there is something to mythology after all?”
Nineteen smiled and shrugged. “I’m too old to say nonsense, however much I am tempted. But how many hundreds of fantastic legends have we stumbled over? How many wild fictions of imaginary men and imaginary monsters? They persist even in civilized areas. This one appears to be simply another variation—except that this one is living.”
Seven laughed. “Yes—in a cemetery.”
“He explained that. Again the explanation is caught up in myth. His god, or gods, are supposed to revisit the planet some day and take up all the spirits; when they left thousands of years ago, they promised they would come a second time. This second visitation is supposed to be a universal reawakening day, and the old leader sleeps in the midst of the dead so that he will not be overlooked when that day comes. It is the release he is expecting.”
“Release from eternal life? That is a favor?”
Two cut in dryly, “Try it sometime.”
“I might, if I get the chance,” Seven agreed. “How did the old boy manage it?”
“I don’t know how it really happened,” Nineteen said. “But according to his mythology, he angered the gods by rejecting peace and was sentenced to live until they came again. The gods won’t permit his death until that day. I wish I could get to the truth of the matter!”
THE king of the planet heard the starship go. It quit the sky with a repetition of the thunder which had accompanied its arrival, and after its passing the world was strangely quiet.
It was always like that after a big ship had passed, but presently the night sounds would return and the lonely world would be normal again. In a century or so, or perhaps three, or five, another ship would come and more visitors would descend on him, annoying him, questioning him, taunting him.
Without realizing it, they always taunted him.
For none of them was the one visitor he awaited.
The End
*******************************************
To the Tombaugh Station,
by Wilson Tucker
F&SF July 1960
Novella - 18455 words
Originally an Illinois farm-boy, later an Illinois motion-picture projectionist, freelance reporter, s.f. magazine collector, and prolific writer of mysteries and science fiction (his last two books were THE LINCOLN HUNTERS and THE MAN IN MY GRAVE ), Wilson Tucker is well qualified to tell this particularly convincing story of crime detection plus life on a small spaceship.
Toronto: August, 2009
KATHY BRISTOL ENTERED HER supervisor’s office by the side door, slipping from the public corridor into his room without having to run the gauntlet of curious faces in the outer offices. She let herself in with her own key, and the supervisor mumbled a perfunctory greeting without glancing up from his paperwork. He said, “Umm, Kate,” merely to acknowledge her presence. His desk was littered and untidy.
“Umm, Kate,” she retorted. “Five or six people have keys to that door.”
“But all of the others are elephants in wooden clogs. And none of the others wears perfume.” He paused to sniff. “You’ve changed it.”
“Look at me, governor.”
The supervisor turned from his desk and blinked at the young woman. He blinked again. She reminded him of a tall, extroverted showgirl—the brassy, half-educated kind of girl who supposed that successful showgirls should resemble courtesans. “Umm,” he said again. “You have changed.” And then he noticed her hair. “I say, you’ve also changed your hair.”
“I like change, governor.”
“Yes, I expect so. Come around and sit down.” He prowled over the littered desk and finally found the object of his search, which he handed across to her as she took the proffered chair. “This is your script.”
“I’ve read the script,” Kate reminded him, but she accepted the volume and thumbed through it once more.
The script consisted of nearly fifty pages of typed matter, plus numerous handwritten annotations on the margins of several pages; all were stapled together and bound with a stiff blue cover. A man’s name—Irvin Webb—and his city of residence was written on the cover, together with the file number assigned to him. The bulky volume was a reasonably complete dossier on that man and his career
and his vehicle. It detailed the grim case in which he was presently involved. Printed in minute type on the outside back cover of the dossier was the name and headquarters address of the Interworld Insurance Company. Several employees of the company, working under the direction of the supervisor had compiled the document. Kate Bristol had needed to read it out once to commit the contents to memory.
A colored photograph of Irvin Webb was included in the volume and she studied that photograph anew. She noted the network of harsh lines on his face and neck, and the tiny cancer scars marking his burnt skin—lines and scars that readily identified his poor profession. Irvin Webb was a sky tramp.
“He is long overdue,” she said flatly.
The supervisor agreed to that. “Forty-odd, I think. Umm, yes, he’s forty-three years old. Five to ten years beyond the ordinary death or retirement date, I would say. And he knows it, Kate. That certain knowledge may have pushed him over the edge.”
“They seldom quit in time.” She peered at the eyes in the photograph and found them black, contrasting starkly with the white or grey hair.
“Greed,” the supervisor reminded her. “Or aimlessness. They always seem to believe they can find one more cargo, make one more trip. They continue to pay us expensive premiums and continue to fly to the bitter end, seldom realizing the latter affect the former. This Webb, now . . .”
“Compelling motive,” the woman suggested.
“Most compelling,” her supervisor nodded. “A considerable sum is involved here. With one partner dead and the other in jail—well, there you are.”
“What about the one in jail?”
“Forget him. You know absolutely nothing of him.”
“All right, governor.” She tapped the dossier. “Irvin Webb is our prime suspect?”
“He is; otherwise the assignments would have been different.” The supervisor had no compunction on the assignment; he knew the woman to be cold, efficient and tough-minded—he knew her for a huntress. And he had long ago learned, via the grapevine, that at least one man in the outer office had discovered her statuesque body was not to be played with. He said, “I expect this will be routine. For you, at any rate.”
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