by Hal Clement
They passed into the corridor. “That might work,” mused the doctor. “There is only the one elevator, and no other entrances to the roof, from below, anyway. But we’d want as many hours as we could get, and I should think they could burn out the elevator door in a few minutes.”
They entered the room in which they slept. “That could be prevented by simply leaving that door open when the elevator was up and going into action at that time,” contributed Leo as they pulled off their boots. “Then they couldn’t get at either the elevator or its door.”
“How about the other men?” asked Little. “It will be difficult to tell them all about the geletane, and how to avoid its effects. What will—”
“Stop worrying about it,” interrupted Arthur. He had lain down with the pack for a pillow, moved it to a more comfortable spot, noticed the ease with which it moved and, with a horrible suspicion in his mind, looked into the kit box inside. “The communicator is gone.”
Possibly the guards in the corridor and on the roof were laughing, if their unhuman cerebral processes had ever evolved an emotion akin to humor. Certainly, they were pleased with themselves.
“You loon,” growled Leo. “Why did you have to celebrate finishing the thing by tearing outside to tell us? It would have been simpler just to step outside our door and hand it to a guard.”
The night had not passed too peacefully, in spite of Little’s advice to save recriminations until morning. Relations between the twins were slightly strained. The sunlight coming through the window revealed only too clearly on Leo’s face that expression of smug, “I wouldn’t do such a thing” superiority that tends to drive repentant sinners to homicide.
“The meeting will please come to order,” interrupted the doctor. “Leo, lay off Arthur. If it will make you any happier, Art, I’ll tell you that if neither of you boys had spilled the beans in a day or two, I should have done so myself—carefully, of course. It was better for it to happen naturally. Now sit around, and wear a disgusted expression for the benefit of the guards if you like, and listen. This will take some time.
“In the first place, I suppose you’ve realized by now that we were captured simply for observation purposes; the pentapods hoped to learn about our weapons and science from our efforts to escape. They have, we must admit, been rather successful. Our activities have probably been evident to them from the first, but they waited until the communicator was completed before taking it, naturally. That habit of theirs struck me when the Vegans first described the way in which their plans were never interfered with until nearly mature.
“There was also the question of the surprising ease with which they were able to divine our feelings and intentions. It took me longer to discover the reason for that; but information supplied by the Vegans again provided the key.
“Their language is not verbal. None of us has yet heard them utter a vocal sound. We couldn’t understand how they communicated, but to the Vegans it was so evident as to be unworthy of comment—their captors’ language was of the same type as their own, visual rather than audible, a sign language in which the thousands of mobile spines with which their bodies are covered replaced the two antennae of a Vegan. It was so complex that the Vegans couldn’t begin to learn it, but the method was obvious to them.
“That, to me, gave a nearly complete picture not only of their language, but of their thought; not only of the way they exchanged ideas, but of the very nature of those ideas.
“You have heard, no doubt, that thoughts may be considered as unuttered words. Of course, we do think in visual images, too, but logical reasoning, in human minds at least, takes the form of an unuttered conversation with oneself. Think through the proof of a theorem in grade-school geometry, if you don’t believe it. With creatures like the Vegans, an analogous process takes place; they think in terms of the visible symbols of their language. The language, as you know, is slow—takes much longer to get ideas across. Also, it takes longer for a Vegan to comprehend something, though they certainly can’t be called stupid.
“The same thing should happen, and does happen, with our captors. They think and talk immeasurably faster than we do; and their thoughts are not in arbitrary word or picture symbols, but in attitudes. Watching them, I have come to the conclusion that they don’t have a language as we understand it at all; the motions and patterns of the spines, which convey thought from one to another, are as unconscious and natural as expressions on our faces. The difference being that their ‘faces’ cover most of their bodies, and have a far greater capacity for expression. The result is that they have as easy a time learning to interpret expressions and bodily attitudes of other creatures, as we would have learning a simple verbal tongue. What the psychologists call attitude—or expression, to us—is the key to their whole mental activity. Until we understood that, we had no chance of using their own methods to defeat them, or even of understanding the methods.
“When Albee and the others made that break, you noticed that the pentapods wasted no time in pursuing a man who was even slightly out of reach; they were able to reason with extreme rapidity even in a situation like that, and realized that they couldn’t catch him. A man would have tried, at least.
“Like everything else, this high-speed communication has its disadvantages. These creatures could never have invented the telephone, any more than the Vegans could; and they’d have had the same difficulty with gadgets such as the telegraph. I don’t know anything about their written language, but it must be ideographic and contain, unless I underestimate their capacity for bringing order out of chaos, a perfectly appalling number of symbols. Who could make up a dot-and-dash code for that? The Orientals of Earth had the same trouble. That would interfere with the ‘evolution’ of communication devices.
“Their long-distance communication, therefore, must be purely visual transmission. We have seen the television screens in their office downstairs—ten feet square, enough to picture any of the creatures full length. I’m sure that they can’t broadcast their vision for two reasons: the Vegans say the ship always returns unexpectedly, and preparations are never made a few hours in advance of its arrival—as they would be if they could broadcast news of their approach. Also, there is no sign anywhere on this building of a beam-type second-order projector, or even the loop of a general field broadcaster such as Art was making. The images are transmitted by wire, and only inside this building. That was the reason, Art, that I insisted on your making a visual transmitter. They would have no desire to copy a telephone unit. They have it now; they’ll have a full-size visual before that ship leaves; and their communications room is right below here, and should contain emergency accumulators in case the regular power goes.
“When the ship leaves, we wait a day. Then we collect the kitchen refuse, which Denham is accumulating, and pile it into the elevator to take outside—Leo, get that happy expression off your face—making the load big enough so that none of the guards can ride with us, though they don’t usually these days anyway. Just before we go, the stove will break down, and Denham will come kicking about it. Arthur will go back, tinker with the stove, remove the geletane tank now clamped to it and replace it with another, and toss the ‘used’ tank in with the rest of the waste. The elevator will descend one floor, and we will emerge with the tank open. We will run toward the office, which is just down the hall, in order to avert the effects of the geletane by activity; we will hold handkerchiefs over our faces to let the guards know we have gas, and hold their breaths. Two of us will enter the communication office, while the third will remain outside to destroy the door control. He can spend the rest of his time welding the door shut, until that welder gives out.
“The guards and operators inside should be under the influence of the gas by then, and will be thrown out before the welding starts. The two of us who are inside will keep exercising until the ventilators clear the air in the room; then we can use the vision transmitter to our heart’s content, until the starfish can bring up heavy tools
and burn through the door. There are a dozen Union bases within five hundred parsecs, even I know; and five minutes should be ample to contact one of them and give our situation.
“Art, did you really think I hoped to get anywhere with that pint-sized thing you built? The pentapods have us here so that we can build equipment for them; I decided that turn about was fair play. I only hope those infernally quick minds of theirs don’t grasp the fact that two can play at one game. In case they should, I think we had better start working with Magill on whatever plan he has evolved; that will keep us occupied, reduce the chance of our betraying our secret, and may prove a valuable second string to the bow if our plan falls through. Let’s have breakfast.”
Little had spoken lightly of “working in” with Magill on whatever plan of escape that worthy might have evolved; at breakfast he discovered that no less than four lines of attack were being developed simultaneously. The quartermaster was hoping that one of them would go undiscovered long enough to reach a climax. He had not divided the men into separate groups for each job; the idea was to confuse the guards by having everybody work on all the plans at once. Confusion had certainly resulted, though none of the pentapods showed the symptoms. Little, first making sure that his own private plan would not be affected by any of the others, plunged joyfully into the conflicting tasks of (1) finding and using one or more of the aircraft which Magill was positive were stored beneath the roof; (2) getting an armed party of human beings into the interstellar flier of the pentapods; (3) carrying out the original Vegan plan of flooding the building with ultraviolet light without at the same time forcing out the men; and (4) locating an arsenal of the pentapods and simply clearing a section of the building by brute force. Magill intended to use whichever of these plans first attained practicability.
Four days were spent in this fashion. Work at least prevented them from being as boring as the preceding three, though little or no progress was made. On the morning of the fifth day, however, just after the morning meal, an event occurred which opened a fifth line of procedure, and almost caused Magill to abandon the others.
One of the men had gone out onto the roof; and the others were attracted by his cry. Little, following the others to the edge of the roof, looked over; and was rewarded with a clear view of nothing at all. The line of pentapods which had been loading supplies into the vast cruiser was not to be seen, and the vessel’s ports were closed. The men watched silently and expectantly, reasonably sure of what was to happen.
Perhaps ten minutes passed without a word being spoken; then, without sound or ceremony, the tremendous cylinder of metal drifted lightly upward. The men followed it for a short distance with their eyes; they might have watched longer, if their attention had not been distracted by an object revealed by the cruiser’s departure.
Just beyond the depression in the soil left by the great ship there appeared a second, much smaller, silvery metal torpedo; and a howl of surprise burst from almost every human throat on the rooftop. It was the Gomeisa, her ports open, apparently unharmed, and—apparently deserted.
For several seconds after that involuntary expression of astonishment there was dead silence; then Magill spoke.
“This puts a new light on the situation. Don’t do anything rash until we decide just how this affects our position; our plans will certainly need modification. I’ll be in the market for ideas all morning; we’ll have a general discussion meeting after dinner,” He turned away from the edge and walked back toward the doorway.
Denham had long since been coached in his part; he played it without a hitch. The load of refuse and the tank of geletane were tossed into the elevator; the three men followed. No guards entered; since the departure of their ship they had concentrated on guarding the lower doors rather than preventing the prisoners from wandering about the fort. Little slid the door of the cage closed and touched the button next to the top, and Arthur took the welder from his pocket.
Slow as it was, the car took but a few seconds to reach the next level. It stopped; Little looked at his companions and slid open the door, at the same instant opening the valve of his gas tank. The three dashed into the corridor and toward the office, handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths and noses.
Two pentapods stood at the open door of the communication room. They swept instantly toward the approaching men, but must have conversed with others inside the room even in that time, for three more emerged after them.
Fast as the men were running, the gas diffused ahead of them; and the rearmost guards, who were moving more slowly than the others, were paradoxically the first to go down under the invisible attack. The others heard them fall, deduced the cause, presumably held their breath—and dropped as though shot. The men hurtled into the room, Little still leading, and found it empty. Evidently the communication officers had joined the guards and, confident of their ability to overcome three human beings, had not even sounded an alarm.
Leo Dennis leaped toward a mass of equipment that was all too plainly of recent installation; Little reversed his motion, snatched the welder from Arthur’s hand, and darted back through the door.
“I’ll look after this end,” he said, “and saturate the air in the corridor while I’m at it. I’m more used to gas and can probably avoid its effects longer than you, Art.” He slid the metal portal shut with a clang, tossed the still-open gas cylinder across the hall, and set to work with the welder. He jumped up and down, kicking, dancing, and waving his free arm as he worked; but the hand holding the torch remained steady.
Reluctantly, the metal of door and frame fused and flowed under the heat. The tiny lever that had actuated the opening mechanism dripped away. Slowly a glowing line of red marked the edge of the door and extended around it, a line that did not cease its slow growth as a dozen guards raced around a corner and collapsed as one the moment they paused to take in the situation. One, at least, must have been far enough behind to signal to others; seconds later, another group, clad in transparent, baggy air suits, sped into sight. At almost the same instant the little torch expired.
Little straightened, dropping the instrument, and saw the approaching guards. He turned to run toward the elevator, and saw another group rapidly approaching from that direction. Knowing the futility of the attempt, he tried to dodge past them; one swerved, reached, and an instant later he was pinned motionless as he had been once before in the first break for freedom. But he was still in the region of geletane-impregnated air.
Dr. Little opened his eyes with that peculiar feeling of having done the same thing before. This time memory returned almost instantly; he struggled to his feet, helped by the men clustered around him. He was on the roof of the fort, where a stiff breeze had cleared the last of the gas from his lungs and cell walls. No guards were in evidence.
“How did it go?” he asked, seeing the grinning features of the Dennis brothers beside him. “Did you get through?”
“We did. It took them nearly an hour to get heavy tools and cut in—after all we had control of their local ‘telephone’ central. They must have called their own ship back at once; it came in ten minutes ago, and they’re rushing stuff aboard. I think they’re going to abandon this place before help arrives for us. The Ardomese I talked to promised a squadron in fifteen hours.
“I wish that starfish ship had been farther away—we might have been able to take some prisoners of our own. But I’m afraid they’ll have time to clear out.”
“You’re not annoyed, are you?” asked Little. “After all, they didn’t hurt you fellows when they found you in the communication room. I think they’re rather good sports, myself. After all, they’ve been risking all along the chance that we might do just what we did; they haven’t hurt anyone; and the Gomeisa is not seriously damaged.”
“Nevertheless, they committed an act of war against the Union,” cut in Magill, “and they have stolen a lot of valuable information. The Gomeisa carried stuff that could make them dangerous enemies.”
“They have
had plenty of time to duplicate that armament, and unquestionably have done so,” returned Little, “but they seem to have no intention of staying and using it on our ships. I think their curiosity was purely academic; perhaps this was all a game to them. In any case, I can’t make myself feel anger toward them. I’m curious, myself, and personally I rather like the creatures. You can make yourself do the same, Keys; the whole thing is only a question of attitude.” The doctor traded knowing winks with the Dennis brothers.
THE END.
1944
TECHNICAL ERROR
The ship had been built by aliens—and though the basic principles of engineering held, their “knowhow” methods were utterly—disastrously!—different.
SEVEN spacesuited human beings stood motionless, at the edge of the little valley. Around them was a bare, jagged plain of basalt, lit sharply by the distant sun and unwavering stars; a dozen miles behind, hidden by the abrupt curvature of the asteroid’s surface, was a half-fused heap of metal that had brought them here; and in front of them, almost at their feet, in the shallow groove scraped by a meteor ages before, was an object which caused more than one of those men to doubt his sanity.
Before them lay the ship whose heat-ruined wreckage had been left behind them only minutes ago—perfectly whole in every part. Seven pairs of eyes swept it from end to end, picking out and recognizing each line. Driving and steering jet pits at each end; six bulging observation ports around its middle; rows of smaller ports, their transparent panes gleaming, obviously intact, in the sun-light; the silvery, prolate hull itself—all forced themselves on the minds that sought desperately to reject them as impossibilities. The Giansar was gone—they had fled from the threat of its disordered atomic engines, watched it glow and melt and finally cool again, a nearly formless heap of slag. So what was this?