“Then how in hell do you expect to get home in three months?”
“Is three months between time, not three months pass time. Wery different things,” said Quang Dal, “Between time is from little conwenience I tell you before about. With it, can take trip maybe two hundred years and still not be away from family too long. Wery fine conwenience.”
“Two hundred years!” gasped Potsy.
“Is one other thing which you mistake for faster-than-light drive. Old galactic peoples like Centaurians live thirty-five, maybe forty thousands Earth years. Would not be socialized to tell poor Earth two-legged stander-uppers they live and die same thing like I get up and go bed. Is not well-wishing to make other entities unhappy. Would not tell you this, only I think you unhappier if I do not explain. So sorry.”
Flip stood rigid, his brain freezing as the cold and horrid truth began to seep in.
“Then the second button . . .”
“Is biggest conwenience. Faster-than-light drive impossible, but not time travel. Push second button, whole ship come back nineteen years, nine months. Could make it exactly same time of same year we leave Earth when we reach Alpha Centauri, but I like better awaken at time of sewening, so I set controls for June.”
His voice was drowsier.
“You will wake me in June, kindly? Until, I take small nap—only twenty years. Apologizing that you cannot do likewise.”
Quang Dal’s voice was almost inaudible as he withdrew his voice tube from the grille.
“Is wishing well with a wengeance,” he said, too conditioned to politeness to let weariness excuse him from the ritual of farewell. “Note, please—I love you.”
EMERGENCY RATIONS
There’s more than one way to skin a cat when you’re hungry, the aliens thought. Or, more aptly, skin a defenseless, unsuspecting human . . .
“THE obvious base for offensive operations is this deserted little system here.”
Kat Zul, the Supreme Commander of the Royal Zardonian fleet stabbed one tentacle at a point on the star map.
“Once we are established there, the whole Solar flank lies open to us. We can raid here—and here—and here—” he indicated sector after sector, “and they will never be able to assemble enough ships in one spot to stop us. What do you think, Sire?”
The Gollen patted his corpulent belly. “There will be good eating. Mind you save the fattest for the royal kitchen.” Orange saliva drooled from the corners of both his mouths. “Roasted haunch of human three times a day. How delightful! Remind me to invite you in for dinner some night after you get back.”
“Thank you, Sire. I will order reconnaissance patrols out at once. If all is clear we can begin construction of a base within the month. Once our heavy armament is installed, we will be impregnable. You will eat well then, O Mighty One!”
The Gollen of Zardon burped happily, closed his eye, and dreamed of dinner.
A week later a fast courier came screaming back with news of trouble. The Supreme Commander took one good look at the report, grabbed the photographs that came with it, and rushed in to see the Gollen.
“The system is already occupied, Sire! By humans!”
“Fine, send me a brace of plump ones at once.”
“Your forgiveness, Highness, but that is impossible. We can’t get at them. They have erected a space station, a heavy Z type with protective screens that can stop anything we throw at them. I have blockading squadrons around it now, but we must act quickly. They got an appeal for help off before we were able to blanket their transmitter.”
The Gollen paled to a light mauve. “In that case,” he said softly, “I shall have you for dinner. If the humans gain control of that system, our whole flank lies open to them!”
“There is yet hope, Sire,” said Kat Zul quickly. “The space station is only partially completed and, as far as we can determine, occupied only by a construction crew. None of its defensive armament has been installed yet. Once they drop their screen, we have them. We can fortify the station ourselves, and control of the system will be ours.”
The Gollen reached into a silver bowl filled with wiggling guba, selected an especially fat one, and bit off its head with his lower mouth.
“Why should they?” he said with his upper one.
“Should they what?”
“Drop their protective screens. Their power piles can keep them energized for the next hundred years.”
“Ah, Highness, but screen generators are tricky things. They require constant attention. When no humans are alive to tend them, they will shut off automatically. And within two months there will be no humans left alive. They will all have starved to death. We captured their supply ship yesterday.”
“I don’t like it. In the first place, a starved human is an inedible human, and in the second, their relief fleet won’t take more than a month to get there. I believe you were talking in terms of two months. You’ll have to do better than that, Kat Zul, or you’ll be fricasee by evening!”
AS the stew pot came nearer, Kat Zul thought faster. He barely beat the deadline.
“In this life, Highness,” he said pontifically, “it is either eat, or be eaten.”
“This is obvious,” said the Gollen, “and since for you to eat me would be lese majesty, the second half of your truism is more appropriate to the present occasion.
Cook!”
“You don’t understand,” said Kat Zul in desperation. “In this case we can eat by being ready to be eaten.” He retreated around the table. “Listen, please! The robot supply ship we captured was loaded with food. If we wait another two weeks, the humans in the space station will be getting terribly hungry.”
“Pm getting mighty hungry right now,” said the Gollen. “But I’ll listen. Go ahead.”
“Among the food on the supply ship we found several hundred cans containing strange clawed creatures in a nutrient solution. They’re alive!”
“So?”
“So we’ll remove all the food from the ship except those cans. Then we will open them carefully and remove the animals inside. Next we will replace them with ourselves and have the cans resealed.”
“What!”
“A stroke of sheer genius, Highness! In each of the cans will be one of my best fighting men. We will put the robot supply ship back on course and chase it to the space station, firing near-misses all the way. When they see it coming with us in pursuit, the humans will open their screens enough to let it through. Once they’ve checked it carefully with their scanners, they’ll bring it into the station and unload it at once. They’ll be so hungry that the first thing they’ll go for will be the food. But when they open the cans, instead of finding little live animals, out will spring my warriors. Ah, Sire, there will be a fine slitting of throats. With the screens shut off, we can arm the station at once, and when the human fleet comes.” He laughed exultantly and clicked his razor-sharp forward mandibles together like castanets.
“As you say, Kat Zul, a stroke of sheer genius,” said the Gollen. “Have you selected your personal can yet?”
The fleet commander’s olfactory feelers stood straight out. “Me? To tell you the truth, Highness, I hadn’t planned on being one of the raiding party. The fact is that I suffer from a touch of claustrophobia and—”
“Would you rather stay for dinner?”
“Well, Sire “Cook!”
“On second thought . . .”
* * *
“HEY, Mac.”
“Yeah?”
“What’n the hell’s lobster?”
“Beats me. Why?”
“Somebody sure fouled up back at base. There’s about a thousand cans of it on the supply ship—and nothing else.”
“Well, open one and find out. I’m hungry!”
“Who isn’t. But they’re alive. It says so on the can. They’re packed away in some sort of nutrient solution.”
“So they’re alive. There’s a law says you can’t take them out and kill them?”
&nbs
p; “There’s a picture on the can.”
“So?”
“They got big claws. Looks like they could take a man’s finger off with one good bite. Whatta they mean sending stuff like that out?”
“Look, Pinky, I’m busy. Do what you want but don’t bother me. I got to nurse this generator. If it flickers just once, we’re done for. Now beat it!”
“O.K. I’ll go open one up and see what happens.”
THERE was silence broken only by a chomping of jaws. The eating was good. Kat Zul, the Supreme Commander of the Royal Zardonian fleet, rested motionless at the far end of the table in the place of honor, his belly distended and his eye closed.
At the other end of the table, two hungry mouths opened simultaneously.
“More!”
Pinky beamed cheerfully, picked up the platter on which Kat Zul rested, and passed it down to the two hungry electronics men.
“Help yourselves, boys. There’s lot’s more where that came from.” He took another piece himself. “This sure beats chicken. The way these things are built, there’s enough legs for everybody.” He pushed his white chef’s cap back on his perspiring forehead and surveyed the little group of technicians and construction men happily. This was a red letter day. Nobody had ever asked for seconds on his cooking before.
“Pinky.”
“Yes, Mac?”
“What do you call these things again?”
“Lobsters. They sure don’t look like the pictures on the cans, though. Guess the guy that made up the label was one of these here abstractionists. You know, those characters that don’t paint a thing like it is, but like it would be if it was.”
“Yeah,” said Mac, “Sure.” He noticed a bandage on Pinky’s right forefinger. “I see ya got nipped after all.”
Pinky held his finger up and inspected it with interest. “Sure was a mean cut, almost to the bone it was. And that reminds me, when’s one of you mechanical wizards going to fix my can opener for me? For a month I’ve been after you and all I get is promises.”
“Tomorrow, first thing,” said Mac.
“Tomorrow, always tomorrow,” said Pinky. “Look at that finger. That ain’t no bite; it got ripped on the edge of a can. I didn’t take no chances on being bitten. I was all set to open the first can when I got to looking at the picture on the label, and the more I locked at it, the less I liked the idea of having something like that running around my galley alive. So ya know what I did?”
“No,” said Mac patiently, tearing another leg off the carcass of Kat Zul and munching on it appreciatively.
“Well, you know I mostly cook by intuition.”
A collective groan went up from his listeners. Every time Pinky had an inspiration, it usually involved a handful or so of curry powder.
“But this time I decided to go by the book. The recipe said to boil vigorously for twenty minutes, so I did. Once the kettle got boiling good, I tossed in a dozen, can and all. I figured they would cook as well inside the container as outside, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about their claws. They was alive all right, too. You should have heard them batting around inside those cans for the first couple of minutes.”
Mac shivered uncomfortably. “Don’t seem human somehow to make critters suffer so. Next time you’d better open the cans and kill them first. If you’re scared, call me and I’ll come down and do the job for you.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Pinky. “Them things can’t feel nothing. They ain’t got no nervous systems. It says so in the cookbook.”
“If that’s what it says,” said Mac, “I guess it’s so. Just keep dishing them out the way you did tonight and I’ll be happy.” He loosened his belt, leaned back, and sighed contentedly.
Pinky wasn’t listening. He could hardly wait until time came to prepare breakfast. He made a mental note to get a larger boiling pot.
THE WALL AROUND THE WORLD
It was black, shiny, a thousand feet high. Inside, of course, was the world. Outside? Porgie rode his broomstick and wondered . . .
THE Wall that went all the way around the World had always been there, so nobody paid much attention to it—except Porgie.
Porgie was going to find out what was on the other side of it—assuming there was another side—or break his neck trying. He was going on fourteen, an age that tends to view the word impossible as a meaningless term invented by adults for their own peculiar purposes. But he recognized that there were certain practical difficulties involved in scaling a glassy-smooth surface that rose over a thousand feet straight up. That’s why he spent a lot of time watching the eagles.
This morning, as usual, he was late for school. He lost time finding a spot for his broomstick in the crowded rack in the school yard, and it was exactly six minutes after the hour as he slipped guiltily into the classroom.
For a moment, he thought he was safe. Old Mr. Wickens had his back to him and was chalking a pentagram on the blackboard.
But just as Porgie started to slide into his seat, the schoolmaster turned and drawled, “I see Mr. Shirey has finally decided to join us.”
THE class laughed, and Porgie flushed.
“What’s your excuse this time, Mr. Shirey?”
“I was watching an eagle,” said Porgie lamely.
“How nice for the eagle. And what was he doing that was of such great interest?”
“He was riding up on the wind. His wings weren’t flapping or anything. He was over the box canyon that runs into the East wall, where the wind hits the Wall and goes up. The eagle just floated in circles, going higher all the time. You know, Mr. Wickens, I’ll bet if you caught a whole bunch of eagles and tied ropes to them, they could lift you right up to the top of the wall!”
“That,” said Mr. Wickens, “is possible—if you could catch the eagles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll continue with the lecture. When invoking Elementals of the Fifth Order, care must be taken to . . .”
Porgie glazed his eyes and began to think up ways and means to catch some eagles.
The next period, Mr. Wickens gave them a problem in Practical Astrology. Porgie chewed his pencil and tried to work on it, but couldn’t concentrate. Nothing came out right—and when he found he had accidentally transposed a couple of signs of the zodiac at the very beginning, he gave up and began to draw plans for eaglestraps. He tried one, decided it wouldn’t work, started another—
“Porgie!”
He jumped. Mr. Wickens, instead of being in front of the class, was standing right beside him. The schoolmaster reached down, picked up the paper Porgie had been drawing on, and looked at it. Then he grabbed Porgie by the arm and jerked him from his seat.
“Go to my study!”
As Porgie went out the door, he heard Mr. Wickens say, “The class is dismissed until I return!” There was a sudden rush of large, medium, and small-sized boys out of the classroom. Down the corridor to the front door they pelted, and out into the bright sunshine. As they ran past Porgie, his cousin Homer skidded to a stop and accidentally on purpose jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Homer, usually called “Bull Pup” by the kids because of his squat build and pugnacious face, was a year older than Porgie and took his seniority seriously.
“Wait’ll I tell Dad about this. You’ll catch it tonight!” He gave Porgie another jab and then ran out into the schoolyard to take command of a game of Warlock.
MR. Wickens unlocked the door to his study and motioned Porgie inside. Then he shut and locked it carefully behind him. He sat down in the high-backed chair behind his desk and folded his hands.
Porgie stood silently, hanging his head, filled with that helpless guilty anger that comes from conflict with superior authority.
“What were you doing instead of “your lesson?” Mr. Wickens demanded.
Porgie didn’t answer.
Mr. Wickens narrowed his eyes. The large hazel switch that rested on top of the bookcase beside the stuffed owl lifted lightly into the air, drifted across the room, and dropped into hi
s hand.
“Well?” he said, tapping the switch on the desk.
“Eagle traps,” admitted Porgie. “I was drawing eagle traps. I couldn’t help it. The Wall made me do it.”
“Proceed.”
Porgie hesitated for a moment. The switch tapped. Porgie burst out, “I want to see what’s on the other side! There’s no magic that will get me over, so I’ve got to find something else!”
Tap went the switch. “Something else?”
“If a magic way was in the old books, somebody would have found it already!”
Mr. Wickens rose to his feet and stabbed one bony finger accusingly at Porgie. “Doubt is the mother of damnation!”
Porgie dropped his eyes to the floor and wished he was someplace else.
“I see doubt in you. Doubt is evil, Porgie, evil! There are ways permitted to men and ways forbidden. You stand on the brink of the fatal choice. Beware that the Black Man does not come for you as he did for your father before you. Now, bend over!” Porgie bent. He wished he’d worn a heavier pair of pants.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” said Porgie sadly. Mr. Wickens raised the switch over his head. Porgie waited. The switch slammed—but on the desk.
“Straighten up,” Mr. Wickens said wearily. He sat down again. “I’ve tried pounding things into your head and I’ve tried pounding things on your bottom, and one end is as insensitive as the other. Porgie, can’t you understand that you aren’t supposed to try and find out new things? The Books contain everything there is to know. Year by year, what is written in them becomes clearer to us.”
HE pointed out the window at the distant towering face of the Wall that went around the World. “Don’t worry about what is on the other side of that! It may be a place of angels or a place of demons—the Books do not tell us. But no man will know until he is ready for that knowledge. Our broomsticks won’t climb that high, our charms aren’t strong enough. We need more skill at magic, more understanding of the strange unseen forces that surround us. In my grandfather’s time, the best of the broomsticks wouldn’t climb over a hundred feet in the air. But the Adepts in the Great Tower worked and worked until now, when the clouds are low, we can ride right up among them. Someday we will be able to soar all the way to the top of the Wall—”
Collected Fiction Page 14