Aliens from Analog

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  “About twelve thousand millions.”

  “He is lying,” exclaimed Borkor, hungrily eying the hammer.

  “One planet could not support such a number,” Eckster contributed.

  “They are scattered over a hundred planets,” said Taylor.

  “He is still lying,” Borkor maintained.

  Waving them down, Palamin asked, “And how many ships have they got?”

  “I regret that mere space scouts are not entrusted with fleet statistics,” replied Taylor coolly. “I can tell you only that I haven’t the slighest idea.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “If you want guesses, you can have them for what they are worth.”

  “Then make a guess.”

  “One million.”

  “Nonsense!” declared Palamin. “Utterly absurd!”

  “All right. One thousand. Or any other number you consider reasonable.”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Borkor complained.

  Palamin said to the others, “What do you expect? If we were to send a spy to Terra would we fill him up with top-secret information to give the enemy when caught? Or would we tell him just enough and only enough to enable him to carry out his task? The ideal spy is a shrewd ignoramus, able to take all, unable to give anything.”

  “The ideal spy wouldn’t be trapped in the first place,” commented Eckster maliciously.

  “Thank you for those kind words,” Taylor chipped in. “If I had come here as a spy, you’d have seen nothing of my ship, much less me.”

  “Well, exactly where were you heading for when forced to land on Gombar?” invited Palamin.

  “For the next system beyond.”

  “Ignoring this one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I go where I’m told.”

  “Your story is weak and implausible.” Palamin lay back and eyed him judicially. “It is not credible that a space explorer should bypass one system in favor of another that is farther away.”

  “I was aiming for a binary said to have at least forty planets,” said Taylor. “This system has only three. Doubtless it was considered relatively unimportant.”

  “What, with us inhabiting all three worlds?”

  “How were we to know that? Nobody has been this way before.”

  “They know it now,” put in Eckster, managing to make it sound sinister.

  “This one knows it,” Palamin corrected. “The others do not. And the longerthey don’t, the better for us. When another life form starts poking its snout into our system we need time to muster our strength.”

  This brought a murmur of general agreement.

  “It’s your state of mind,” offered Taylor.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You’re taking it for granted that a meeting must lead to a clash and in turn to a war.”

  “We’d be prize fools to assume anything else and let ourselves be caught unprepared,” Palamin pointed out.

  Taylor sighed. “To date we have established ourselves on a hundred planets without a single fight. The reason: we don’t go where we’re not wanted.”

  “I can imagine that,” Palamin gave back sarcastically. “Someone tells you to beat it and you obligingly beat it. It’s contrary to instinct.”

  “Your instinct,” said Taylor. “We see no sense in wasting time and money fighting when we can spend both exploring and exploiting.”

  “Meaning that your space fleets include no warships?”

  “Of course we have warships.”

  “Many?”

  “Enough to cope.”

  “Pacifists armed to the teeth,” said Palamin to the others. He registered a knowing smile.

  “Liars are always inconsistent,” pronounced Eckster with an air of authority. He fixed a stony gaze upon the prisoner. “If you are so careful to avoid trouble, why do you need warships?”

  “Because we have no guarantee that the entire cosmos shares our policy of live and let live.”

  “Be more explicit.”

  “We chewy nobody. But someday somebody may take it into their heads to chewy us.”

  “Then you will start a fight?”

  “No. The other party will have started it. We shall finish it.”

  “Sheer evasion,” scoffed Eckster to Palamin and the rest. “The technique is obvious to anyone but an idiot. They settle themselves upon a hundred planets—if we can believe that number, which I don’t! On most there is no opposition because nobody is there to oppose. On the others the natives are weak and backward, know that a struggle is doomed to failure and therefore offer none. But on any planet sufficiently strong and determined to resist—such as Gombar for instance—the Terrans will promptly treat that resistance as unwarranted interference with themselves. They will say they are being chevvied. It will be their moral justification for a war.”

  Palamin looked at Taylor. “What do you say to that?”

  Giving a deep shrug, Taylor said, “That kind of political cynicism has been long out of date where I come from. I can’t help it if mentally you’re about ten millennia behind us.”

  “Are we going to sit here and allow ourselves to be insulted by a prisoner in chains?” Eckster angrily demanded of Palamin. “Let us recommend that he be executed. Then we can all go home. I for one have had enough of this futile rigmarole.” Another said, “Me, too.” He looked an habitual me-tooer.

  “Patience,” advised Palamin. He spoke to Taylor. “You claim that you were under orders to examine the twin system of Halor and Ridi?”

  “If by that you mean the adjacent binary, the answer is yes. That was my prescribed destination.”

  “Let us suppose that instead you had been told to take a look over our Gombarian system. Would you have done so?”

  “I obey orders.”

  “You would have come upon us quietly and surreptitiously for a good snoop around?”

  “Not necessarily. If my first impression had been one of friendliness, I’d have presented myself openly.”

  “He is dodging the question,” insisted Eckster, still full of ire.

  “What would you have done if you had been uncertain of our reaction?” continued Palamin.

  “What anyone else would do,” Taylor retorted. “I’d hang around until I’d got the measure of it one way or the other.”

  “Meanwhile taking care to evade capture?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if you had not been satisfied with our attitude you’d have reported us as hostile?”

  “Potentially so.”

  “That is all we require,” decided Palamin. “Your admissions are tantamount to a confession that you are a spy. It does not matter in the least whether you were under orders to poke your inquisitive nose into this system or some other system, you are still a spy.” He turned to the others. “Are we all agreed?”

  They chorused, “Yes.”

  “There is only one proper fate for such as you,” Palamin finished. “You will be returned to your cell pending official execution.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Take him away.”

  The guards took him by simple process of jerking the chair from under him and kicking him erect. They tried to rush him out faster than he could go; he stumbled in his leg irons and almost fell. But he found time to throw one swift glance back from the doorway and his strangely pale eyes looked frozen.

  When the elderly warder brought in his evening meal, Taylor asked, “How do they execute people here?”

  “How do they do it where you come from?”

  “We don’t.”

  “You don’t?” The warder blinked in amazement. Putting the tray on the floor, he took a seat on the bench beside Taylor and left the heavily barred grille wide open. The butt of his gun protruded from its holster within easy reach of the prisoner’s grasp. “Then how do you handle dangerous criminals?”

  “We cure the curable by whatever means are effective no matter how drastic, including brai
n surgery. The incurable we export to a lonely planet reserved exclusively for them. There they can fight it out between themselves.”

  “What a waste of a world,” opined the warder. In casual manner he drew his gun, pointed it at the wall and pressed the button. Nothing happened. “Empty,” he said. Taylor made no remark.

  “No use you snatching it. No use you running for it. The armored doors, multiple locks and loaded guns are all outside.”

  “I’d have to get rid of these manacles before I could start something with any hope of success,” Taylor pointed out. “Are you open to bribery?”

  “With what? You have nothing save the clothes you’re wearing. And even those will be burned after you’re dead.”

  “All right, forget it.” Taylor rattled his irons loudly and looked disgusted. “You haven’t yet told me how I’m to die.”

  “Oh, you’ll be strangled in public,” informed the warder. He smacked his lips for no apparent reason. “All executions take place in the presence of the populace. It is not enough that justice be done, it must also be seen to be done. So everybody sees it. And it has an excellent disciplinary effect.” Again the lip-smacking. “It is quite a spectacle.”

  “I’m sure it must be.”

  “You will be made to kneel with your back to a post, your arms and ankles tied behind it,” explained the warder in tutorial manner. “There is a hole drilled through the post at the level of your neck. A loop of cord goes round your neck, through the hole and around a stick on the other side. The executioner twists the stick, thereby tightening the loop quickly or slowly according to his mood.”

  “I suppose that when he feels really artistic he prolongs the agony quite a piece by slackening and retightening the loop a few times?” Taylor ventured.

  “No, no, he is not permitted to do that,” assured the warden, blind to the sarcasm. “Not in a final execution. That method is used only to extract confessions from the stubborn. We are a fair-minded and tender-hearted people, see?”

  “You’re a great comfort to me,” said Taylor.

  “So you will be handled swiftly and efficiently. I have witnessed many executions and have yet to see a sloppy, badly performed one. The body heaves and strains against its bonds, the eyes stick out, the tongue protrudes and turns black and complete collapse follows. The effect is invariably the same and is a tribute to the executioner’s skill. Really you have nothing to worry about, nothing at all.”

  “Looks like I haven’t, the way you put it,” observed Taylor dryly. “I’m right on top of the world without anything to lose except my breath.” He brooded a bit, then asked, “When am I due for the noose?”

  “Immediately after you’ve finished your game,” the warder informed.

  Taylor eyed him blankly. “Game? What game? What do you mean?”

  “It is conventional to allow a condemned man a last game against a skilled player chosen by us. When the game ends he is taken away and strangled.”

  “Win or lose?”

  “The result makes no difference. He is executed regardless of whether he is the winner or the loser.”

  “Sounds crazy to me,” said Taylor frowning.

  “It would, being an alien,” replied the warder. “But surely you’ll agree that a person facing death is entitled to a little bit of consideration if only the privilege of putting up a last-minute fight for his life.”

  “A pretty useless fight.”

  “That may be. But every minute of delay is precious to the one concerned.” The warder rubbed hands together appreciatively. “I can tell you that nothing is more exciting, more thrilling than a person’s death-match against a clever player.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. You see, he cannot possibly play in normal manner. For one thing, his mind is obsessed by his impending fate while his opponent is bothered by no such burden. For another, he dare not let the other win—and he dare not let him lose, either. He has to concentrate all his faculties on preventing a decisive result and prolonging the game as much as possible. And, of course, all the time he is mentally and morally handicapped by the knowledge that the end is bound to come.”

  “Bet it gives you a heck of a kick,” said Taylor.

  The warder sucked his lips before smacking them. “Many a felon have I watched playing in a cold sweat with the ingenuity of desperation. Then at last the final move. He has fainted and rolled off his chair. We’ve carried him out as limp as an empty sack. He has come to his senses on his knees facing a crowd waiting for the first twist.”

  “It isn’t worth the bother,” decided Taylor. “No player can last long.”

  “Usually they don’t but I’ve known exceptions, tough and expert gamesters who’ve managed to postpone death for four or five days. There was one fellow, a professional alizik player, who naturally chose his own game and contrived to avoid a decision for sixteen days. He was so good it was a pity he had to die. A lot of video-watchers were sorry when the end came.”

  “Oh, so you put these death-matches on the video?”

  “It’s the most popular show. Pins them in their chairs, I can tell you.”

  “Hm-m-m!” Taylor thought a bit, asked, “Suppose this video-star had been able to keep the game on the boil for a year or more, would he have been allowed to do so?”

  “Of course. Nobody can be put to death until he has completed his last game. You could call it a superstition, I suppose. What’s more, the rule is that he gets well fed while playing. If he wishes he can eat like a king. All the same, they rarely eat much. ’ ’ “Don’t they?”

  “No—they’re so nervous that their stomachs refuse to hold a square meal. Occasionally one of them is actually sick in the middle of a game. When I see one do that I know he won’t last another day.”

  “You’ve had plenty of fun in your time,” Taylor offered.

  “Quite often,” the warder admitted. “But not always. Bad players bore me beyond description. They give the video-watchers the gripes. They start a game, fumble it right away, go to the strangling post and that’s the end of them. The greatest pleasure for all is when some character makes a battle of it.”

  “Fat chance I’ve got. I know no Gombarian games and you people know no Terran ones.”

  “Any game can be learned in short time and the choice is yours. Naturally you won’t be permitted to pick one that involves letting you loose in a field without your irons. It has to be something that can be played in this cell. Want some good advice?”

  “Give.”

  “This evening an official will arrange to arrange the contest after which he will find you a suitable partner. Don’t ask to be taught one of our games. No matter how clever you may try to be your opponent will be better because he’ll be handling the familiar while you’re coping with the strange. Select one of your own planet’s games and thus give yourself an advantage.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion. It might do me some good if defeat meant death—but victory meant life.”

  “I’ve told you already that the result makes no difference.”

  “There you are then. Some choice, huh?”

  “You can choose between death in the morning and death the morning after or even the one after that.” Getting up from the bench, the warder walked out, closed the grille, said through the bars, “Anyway, I’ll bring you a book giving full details of our indoor games. You’ll have plenty of time to read it before the official arrives.”

  “Nice of you,” said Taylor. “But I think you’re wasting your time.”

  Left alone, Wayne Taylor let his thoughts mill around. They weren’t pleasant ones. Space scouts belonged to a high-risk profession and none knew it better than themselves. Each and every one cheerfully accepted the dangers on the ages-old principle that it always happens to the other fellow, never to oneself. But now it had happened and to him. He ran a forefinger around the inside of his collar which felt a little tight.

  When he’d, dived through the clouds with two air-machine
s blasting fire to port and starboard he had pressed alarm button D. This caused his transmitter to start flashing a brief but complicated number giving his co-ordinates and defining the planet as enemy territory.

  Earlier and many thousands of miles out in space he had reported his intention of making an emergency landing and identified the chosen world with the same coordinates. Button D, therefore, would confirm his first message and add serious doubts about his fate. He estimated that between the time he’d pressed the button and the time he had landed the alarm-signal should have been transmitted at least forty times.

  Immediately after the landing he’d switched the delayed-action charge and taken to his heels. The planes were still buzzing around. One of them swooped low over the grounded ship just as it blew up. It disintegrated in the blast. The other one gained altitude and circled overhead, directing the search. To judge by the speed with which troops arrived he must have had the misfortune to have dumped himself in a military area full of uniformed goons eager for blood. All the same, he’d kept them on the run for six hours and covered twenty miles before they got him. They’d expressed their disapproval with fists and feet.

  Right now there was no way of telling whether Terran listening-posts had picked up his repeated D-alarm. Odds were vastly in favor of it since it was a top priority channel on which was kept a round-the-clock watch. He didn’t doubt for a moment that, having received the message, they’d do something about it.

  The trouble was that whatever they did would come too late. In this very sector patrolled the Macklin, Terra’s latest, biggest, most powerful battleship. If the Macklin happened to be on the prowl, and at her nearest routine point, it would take her ten months to reach Gombar at maximum velocity. If she had returned to port, temporarily replaced by an older and slower vessel, the delay might last two years.

  Two years was two years too long. Ten months was too long. He could not wait ten weeks. In fact it was highly probable that he hadn’t got ten days. Oh, time, time, how impossible it is to stretch it for a man or compress it for a ship.

  The warder reappeared, shoved a book between the bars. “Here you are. You have learned enough to understand it.”