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by Robert Sheckley

  22

  Mishkin lived in a nice little house with a nice little wife, a nice little grape arbour.

  Almost everything he had was nice and little. There were exceptions, of course: specifically, a nice big dog, and a not nice big chair, and a not nice little car. Still, almost everything else was as nice as you could get it and as little as you could hope for.

  One day FUTUREFLASH!

  At first glance he seemed an old man: his white hair, palsied walk, dribbly lower lip, faded eye, and blotched hand all argued that he was on the wrong side of seventy. What a surprise, then, to discover that his actual chronological age was a mere twenty-three.

  "A single event did harrow me thus," quavered the oldster.

  "It must have been exceptionally heavy," Mishkin remarked.

  "It will be," the old man said. "You see, due to a faulty relay in the space-time continuum, I remembered an event that I will only experience in the future. The verb tenses get a little tricky, but I'm sure you know what I mean."

  "I think so," Mishkin said. "But what is or was or will be this experience that you will have and that has already altered you so drastically?"

  "Young man," said the old man, "I was there when Earth fought its last and greatest fight against the Black Hell Creatures from Far Arcturus."

  "Tell me about it," Mishkin said.

  "I was just about to," the old man said and made himself as comfortable as he could, considering the brittleness of his bones.

  23. Earth versus the Black Hell Creatures from Far Arcturus

  Captain John McRoy's Superdreadnaught-class XK-12X spaceship, on picket duty out beyond the Southern Ridge Belt Stars, was the first to pick up the signal that all Terra was soon to know and to dread. But this was at the beginning, and the first hint of anything wrong came when Radioman 2nd Class Rip Halliday came to the captain's cabin with a worried look on his homely, freckled face.

  "Take a pew, Rip," the captain boomed. "Drink? Lee Pan Hao, our friendly Cantonese cook, has brewed up some high-energy cocoa that really does the trick. Or how about some tollhouse cookies made with real Martian chocolate?"

  "No, thanks, Captain, nothing right now."

  "Then slouch back in that easy chair and let's hear what's on your mind."

  Rip Halliday slouched back but with a hint of respectful attentiveness. In that age, when a perfect classlessness was observed by all superiors, the utmost informality prevailed. The system worked because inferiors never presumed above their station and always maintained a perfect measure of respect.

  "Well, sir, I was…"

  "Please, Rip, no «sirs» in this cabin. Just call me John."

  "Well, sir, John, I was doing a routine sweep of the 6B2 radio bands, but this time I was using a zero-beat random selector just to see how it worked. If you remember the Thalberg-Martin equations, sir, they postulate…"

  The captain grinned and held up a broad, muscular pink hand. "Radio's your field, Rip. I'm just an intergalactic truck driver. I've never gotten beyond the sigma series transformations. So put it into plain English — what did you pick up?"

  "A signal," Rip answered promptly. "It came across loud enough to dent my ear before the AFC cut in."

  The captain nodded. "No cause for alarm, is there? I suppose it was a radio star effect?"

  Halliday shook his head. "None in the vicinity."

  "Deflection reading?"

  "Not possible, given our present speed and coordinates."

  "No chance it was a mechanically produced static effect — maybe caused by a concentration of cosmic debris grinding together?"

  "No chance, sir. The configuration pattern is completely different. And what's more, the signal I got was frequency-modulated."

  The captain whistled softly. "No natural discharge could account for that!"

  "No, sir, John. Intelligent life produced those patterns."

  "Um," said the captain.

  "Any chance it might be a ship of ours broadcasting?" Rip asked hopefully.

  The captain shook his head. "The nearest Terran patrol ship is clear on the other side of Fiona II."

  Rip whistled softly. "I was afraid of that!"

  The captain nodded. "It means that we've just contacted alien intelligent life of a type completely unknown to us, and we're closing with them fast.

  "This is Earth's first contact with alien intelligent life," the captain said softly to Rip. "I think you'd better tell Marv Painter that we need a translation of those alien impulses, pronto."

  Rip Halliday's freckles stood out darker against the sudden pallor of his face. "I'm on my way, John. Sir, I mean."

  The door dilated to allow the red-haired radioman to pass. Alone, the captain sat and stared at the stereographs of his wife and three sons. He drank a glass of Gatorade in complete silence. Then he pushed the intercom button.

  He told the crew that, unless proven otherwise, they would proceed upon the assumption that they had contacted alien life of unknown intentions. But he did not tell them about the Rand-Orey equations that predicted an unfriendly first contact at 98.7 per cent probable. His orders were not to disclose this until intention had been indicated clearly. Anticipation of disaster would have impaired the efficiency of the smoothly functioning machine that was the crew.

  Engineer Duff McDermott paced stumpily along the lower catwalk, then stopped to inspect the drive gauges for the twentieth time in an hour. The needles hung placidly in the green, as McDermott knew they would. But he couldn't stop himself from looking at them since he knew that contact moment was only 2.0045 hours away.

  "Waddya think they'll look like?" asked Andy Tompkins, second assistant engineer's mate, his prominent adam's apple bouncing below his good-humoured, absentminded face.

  "Like something out of hell," McDermott replied. He was to remember that answer later and to wonder if there wasn't something to the discredited notion of stress-induced prescience.

  "Marv," the captain asked, "how is it going?"

  "Pretty good," said Marv Painter, the shy, skinny, red-haired cybernetic genius. "We should have an intelligible readout as soon as I splice in this zero-null regenerative impulse rejector into the image repro circuit and cross-tie the translator bank into the computer's second-stage input bank."

  "You mean we'll be able to understand them?" Captain McRoy asked.

  "Shucks, yes. It won't be an exact translation because we don't have a vocab match up. But if we set the computer to sound-match in terms of probabilities of meaning and maintain a constant feedback loop to further refine hierarchic distinctions then we ought to get an accurate analogic reading. But that's just my own haywire idea on it, sir. If you would care to try another approach…"

  "Marv," said McRoy, "the primary law of interplanetary cooperation is, let those who can, do, and let those who can't sit in the parlour with their fingers up their noses and their mouths shut and drink their coffee. I'm just a spaceship driver and you're the cyberneticist around here, and what you say goes as long as you're speaking in terms of your admittedly limited speciality."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cap," said Marv, flashing a smile. "If they worked governments on Earth like you run a ship it'd be clear sailing for the human race."

  "None of that, now," the captain said with gruff, old-fashioned modesty. "I just follow the rules, use plain common sense, temper justice with mercy, and treat every person as an entire world-system and end unto himself despite social differences imposed by a functional ranking system. Is that rig of yours working yet?"

  Marv Painter turned on the set. The video repeater came to life, revealing the interior of an alien spaceship. Within, a creature sat at the controls. He was bipedal; but any resemblance to humanity began and ended there. The creature was jet green, about eight feet tall, and massively constructed. He appeared to have a chitinous exoskeleton.

  Antennae grew from his forehead, and his eyes extended on stalks. He had a large loose mouth behind which could be seen double row
s of pointed white teeth, as on a shark.

  The alien spoke: "Much greetings, inferior, wormlike, barely sentient life forms. I am Thanatos Superbum, Captain-General of the Malachite Brood, Lord of the Vulture Redoubt, Duke Extraordinary to the O'Neills, and various other titles both hereditary and conferred. Down upon your knees, baseborn scum, and make nice to your mental, moral, and physical superior. Give your name, rank, and serial number and explain in twenty words or less why I should not grind your puny bones into pulp. Over."

  "He talks funny," said Engineer McDermott.

  "Funny and mean," said the captain, frowning purposively. "And also weird."

  "A lot of that," said Marv, "is because the computer has to analogize the alien's speech into the nearest Terran idioms, selecting from expressions it has at its disposal in its memory banks. So, of course, it comes out sounding kinda weird."

  "But are the emotional and informational connotations approximately correct?" the captain asked.

  "I'm afraid so," Marv said unhappily.

  "Then it looks like we got a problem on our hands. My first impression is that this alien is unfriendly."

  "That's my impression, too," Marv said unhappily. "Sir, I think he's waiting for an answer."

  "I'll give him one," the captain said, and turned on the microphone. Angry words boiled up in his mind like gas expanding according to Boyle's Law. But he forced himself to activate the Martins-Turner Interpersonal Equations, which were part of the hypno-training of every human beyond Intelligence Level IV. Instantly, the captain was icy calm and capable of objective judgment. He thought, I have heard words which may or may not represent an objective reality. In any event I will not respond emotionally but will try (a) to deal objectively with the situation and (b) to manipulate it (if possible) to the needs of Earth and mankind.

  Thank God for Korzybski! the captain thought. He said into the microphone, "Greetings, Thanatos Superbum. I am in command of this ship. My name is McRoy. I am friendly and peaceable, as are all of my race. I want to make nice with you, and I sincerely hope that you want to make nice with me."

  "Blood, sweat, and sneers!" exclaimed Superbum. "I smell the blood of an Americun! To hell with making nice — not peace but a sword! Let one claw scratch the other. L'audace, toujours l'audace. If at first they don't succumb, trumb, trumb agun."

  "Even allowing for anachronism-generating analogies," the captain said, "this fellow sounds mean, hysterical, and full of trouble." The captain turned on the microphone and asked Superbum if things couldn't be settled peacefully.

  "Peace is for Commie fags," sneered the alien. "But I will make an offer. You may choose to be annihilated at once by the inconceivable force of our deadly ray guns, after which our space fleet will destroy your space fleet, after which we will conquer Earth and implant special radio circuits in the brains of all humans thus rendering them our slaves and subject to various fates worse than death; or you can choose the other alternative."

  "Which is?"

  "Just about the same thing, only we will be nicer about it if you don't resist."

  "Both choices are unacceptable," Captain McRoy said grimly.

  "Then I can only say, watch yourself, break clean in the clinches, and may the best sentient creature win, and guard yourself at all times, stranger, 'cause me and the boys aim to purely kick the shit out of yore bunch and we ain't pertekeler about how we go about it."

  The captain signed off and grimly ordered his men to action stations. He mentally adjusted his skin temperature and adrenalin rate, for he had a feeling that this was going to be a time of hard testing.

  24. Another Level Heard From

  In a place whose location cannot be expressed in space-time equivalencies three beings met. For the purpose of the meeting, they had taken on terraform appearance, though this was not «normal» for any of them. The leader, acknowledged by ethical development, called himself Ka for purposes of reference. A faint nimbus glowed around his heroic body and magnificently sculptured head.

  "There is no need to explain anything," Ka said. "All of us gathered here know that the spacefleets of Earth and Superbum have been destined to clash according to the immutable laws of dualism. We also know that Earth represents a lot of good things that we approve of, whereas Superbum is an incarnate process of evil and a really bad thing.

  I think that it is superfluous to mention that it is vital for our own interests that Earth wins this battle. We are also aware that, as matters stand at present and without our intervention, Earth stands very little chance indeed. Are we all agreed that we need not discuss these matters?"

  The other two beings signified their assent. One of them, De-Ao, said, "I also agree that we need not discuss what is obvious to us. Therefore, the only question that remains is what form our intervention should take and at what moment it should occur."

  The third being, Maening, said, "My analysis agrees with the previously stated analyses. There remains only the question of what we should do, and when, which I need not state since it has been both inferred and stated."

  "I am afraid," said Ka, "that we must not permit ourselves to assist Earth in any way."

  The two looked at him in consternation.

  "Earth must stand on its own," said Ka, "for reasons which become apparent to you if you take a moment to do some tenth level Fournean rationalizing."

  The others did so and came up with an answer identical to Ka's.

  "It is a heavy result," said Maening.

  25. The Emergency Supply Service

  "We supply what you need when you need it," Mr Monitor said.

  "That is exactly the kind of service I need," said Mishkin.

  "Of course you do. Everybody does. In today's world of increasing complications it's really too much to expect people to solve their own problems. They wouldn't have time left to do anything else. People should do their thing. Our thing is supplying what is needed to solve other people's problems. Your thing is presumably something else. We do our thing and you are able to do your thing. That leaves everybody happy."

  "It sounds too good to be true," Mishkin said.

  "It is," Mr Monitor said.

  "The thing I need," Mishkin said, "is a spare engine part, number L-1223A."

  "To hear is to obey. Are you prepared to pay for this thing?"

  "Charge it to my account."

  "You are a customer after my own heart. One spare engine part number L-1223A, coming up."

  Mr Monitor showed Mishkin his write-ups in The New York Times, New York Magazine, and the Village Voice. All of them were raves. What better recommendations could anyone ask? Mr Monitor departed.

  Mishkin sat down on a stump and waited. After a few hours he heard the noise of a motorcycle. He saw a man in a fringed leather jacket and a chamois beanie come riding through the forest. Strapped to the back of the motorcycle was a large parcel.

  Fifty yards from Mishkin the motorcyclist ran across a land mine. The man, the cycle, and the package were blown to bits.

  "Easy come, easy go," Mishkin said.

  26

  Mishkin was clowning along through the forest, digging the sights and smells and sounds, feeling the air, really making it big in a spiritual way. He had a song without words on his lips, and his fingers snapped in time to inconceivable rhythms. It was in this mood that he came across a man leaning against a tree.

  The man's eyes were closed. He didn't seem to be breathing, but he didn't seem to be dead, either. His chest was bare and there was a small bronze plaque on it. The plaque read, TURN ME ON. Above it was a toggle switch.

  Mishkin turned the switch.

  The man's eyes opened immediately. He clutched his forehead and swayed out of control and would have fallen if Mishkin had not caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.

  "Thank you, dear sir," the man said. "My name is perhaps Alex Gonkin and I am much obliged to you; though perhaps it would have been better if you had left me turned off, for now, with my consciousness retu
rned, my fear threatens to overthrow the precarious sanity of my mind."

  "What seems to be the trouble?" Mishkin asked.

  "I heard the voice that said, 'In order to kill him, we must kill all of his hims.' I saw at once that the secret of survival was to conceal the fact that one's self was many. This could be called the first line of defence. The second line of defence was the presence of the selves and their intercommunication. I knew at once that my selves had to be killed simultaneously, or as near to simultaneity as possible, to prevent my selves from learning what was happening and taking appropriate defensive action. Do you follow me?"

  "I think so," Mishkin said.

  "Then you're crazy, and I stand mute. Now we will have a few words from my Accusator."

  The Accusator lowered himself from a tree and stood before Mishkin reproachfully munching an apple.

  "Thou shalt not turn on what has been turned off," said the Accusator.

  "Listen," Mishkin said, "if God hadn't meant this man to be turned on He wouldn't have put a toggle switch on his chest."

  "True… But in His ineffable wisdom God caused the toggle switch to be capable of being turned off."

  "But God also put a plaque on his chest which read TURN ME ON."

  "Exegesis is a dangerous conceit," said the Accusator.

  "I didn't mean to indulge in it," Mishkin said. "But the moral is clear enough to me: namely that people with toggle switches in their chests shouldn't dump on you."

  "What was that?" the Accusator shouted. "What did you say? Are you absolutely out of your mind?"

  "What did I say?" Mishkin asked. "What happened? Where am I?"

  "Your actions will be studied," said the Accusator, "and we will let you know the results of our deliberations."

  27. In the Hall of Distorting Mirrors

  Automatism can be induced in people. Indeed, you might say that automatism is people. We are under the control of our emotions. We float here and there on currents of what we want and what we don't want, what we desire and what desires us.