by Eando Binder
Jon almost had to laugh as he set a course for Rhea. It was known that the little worldlet, a wild and harsh place, had a total population of about 4,000, divided between two native races of people. A war between two “nations” of 2,000 each! It would be more like stopping two gangs of men from fighting.
But as Jon drew near the tiny world, he saw gigantic flashes of light below. They couldn’t have atomic bombs, for only big worlds could make them, but they must have devised some powerful bombs and guns. And as Jon trained his binoculars down, he was startled to see two vast armies battling. Encased in some sort of shining armor, it looked as if perhaps a million soldiers were fighting.
Jon was both puzzled and alarmed. This was bigger than he thought. This could not be native Rhean armies, in such numbers. Therefore, some other world had sent its fighting men. Was that the answer?
By map, Jon located the main city of the Rhean Green People. It was a small but quite modern city.
As Jon came down for a landing, a watchful rocketship sped to him, flashing the red signal, meaning—Halt!
Jon snapped on his radio, and spoke commandingly. “Let me through. Can’t you see this is a Space Patrol ship? Let me through.”
An apologetic reply came from the other ship. “Sorry! Thought you were an enemy. Please go on.”
The Space Patrol was respected all through the Solar System.
Jon landed at the main spaceport and was soon ushered before the head of the Green People, known as Leader Groz. He was a tall, thin creature, quite similar to an Earthman, except that he had bright green skin and long green hair.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jon began sharply. “You are carrying on war with the other native race of your world, the Blue People. You know the penalties, according to Interplanetary Law. I have to arrest you. Also the leader of the Blue People. And the war must be halted immediately. If you have any differences, they must be carried before the Interplanetary Court of Appeals.”
“I know all that,” returned Leader Groz.
Jon was nettled. “What’s more, you have apparently drawn in the support of some other world, probably Iapetus, to build up a huge army. That is an even worse crime—”
“Wait,” said Groz, lifting a hand. “We have not brought in the soldiers of any other world.”
Jon stared. “Then where did you and the Blue People get so many fighting men? According to the last census, you’d both be lucky to put an army of 1,000 men on the field. And I saw more than a million battling!”
Groz shook his head. “This will be hard to explain—” He broke off and then said calmly. “But you can’t arrest me.”
Jon was really angry now. “You defy the Space Patrol? And the anti-war laws? Article Three, Section 27, Clause Five, of the Proclamation of Peace says that any planet, nation, race, or group which fires upon any other such group, with intent of war, is guilty.”
“Yes,” Groz returned easily. “But Section 42 states that war shall be defined to exist only when a warring group has caused one or more deaths.”
“Well?” snapped Jon. “By now you’ve killed plenty of the Blue People, if your war has been going on for a week or more.”
Groz spoke gently. “We have not killed one soul of the Blue People. And they have not killed one of us!”
At this point, Jon was utterly confused.
“You’re carrying on a war, involving a million men, and there hasn’t been one casualty? It’s impossible!”
To answer, Groz turned and tuned a television screen. “This television screen will pick up a scene directly at the heart of the battle,” he said. And Jon saw the scene of two armies struggling. Men in shiny green armor were attacking a position held by men in shiny blue armor. The men in blue wheeled up a huge gun and fired. The men in green were blown to bits.
“I’ve just seen a hundred of your men destroyed,” said Jon, shaken. “War is a hideous thing. That’s why it was outlawed. And yet you try to tell me there are no casualties.”
But Groz was tuning his television carefully till it showed several of the green soldiers in close-up. “Look!” he said. “Look closely at these warriors of ours.”
Jon looked—and gasped. They were not men wearing shining armor. They were…
“Robots!” breathed Jon. “Made out of wires and wheels. You mean your whole army, and that of the Blue People, is composed of robots?”
Groz nodded. “We have not put one living soldier in the battle at all. We are fighting this war with our robots.”
“But why?” Jon was bewildered. “What’s the sense and meaning of it all?”
“Let me explain,” said Leader Groz. “Some time ago, there was trouble between the Green People and the Blue People. The Blue People sent hunters to our forests and illegally shot our animals. In retaliation, we hunted animals in their territory. Soon we were angry enough to make war on each other. But we realized we could not carry on war without breaking the Interplanetary Law. So we agreed to build robots and fight a proxy war. Each of us would use our factories to turn out robots as fast as we could, and pit them against each other. Whichever side won the war with its robots would have defeated the other side. Yet without one life being lost! You see, we couldn’t afford to lose lives anyway. Our races are so small, only 2,000 each, that each life to us is highly important.”
Jon was amazed. “A war between robots! It’s almost like a football game, sending two teams of powerful bruisers against each other, to see who wins.” Jon grinned.
Groz led the way to another room in which a dozen Green Men sat at complicated control boards with flashing pilot lights and many switches and dials.
“Those are my generals,” explained Groz. “Each of them handles his army of robots by remote control. It’s a game of wits, you see. The Blue Generals are doing the same thing, back home in their city.”
One Green general turned with disgusted face, as a red light flashed on his board. “Blast it all!” he grunted. “Just lost 200 men on the Right Sector!” Then he shrugged. “Oh well, they’re only robots, not men. The factory will give me 200 more tomorrow to throw into the battle.”
Groz turned smilingly to Jon. “So you see, Lieutenant, there has not been one living casualty. Therefore, according to your own anti-war law, this is not a war at all!”
Jon had to laugh. “It’s a good joke on me, and on the Space Patrol. But you’re right. I can’t arrest you at all.” His face went stern. “But remember, Leader Groz, if one man dies through this, it will be war! Play your game, but don’t risk lives.”
“The war will be over soon,” Groz nodded. “After all, our factories cannot turn out robots forever, at such a furious rate. I hate to say it, but I think…”
At that moment, an attendant called Groz over to his television screen. In the screen shone the frowning face of the leader of the Blue People.
“Groz,” he barked. “I think our war of robots has reached a stalemate. Shall we call it a draw?”
“Agreed!” returned Groz. “We will cease hostilities in five minutes. And look—how about you and your generals coming over for a big celebration tonight?”
Groz invited Jon, too. But Jon was sorry he stayed. All he heard, for endless hours, was a constant argument between the Green and Blue generals, as to which had won which individual battle most cleverly with his robot soldiers.
When Jon left, he couldn’t decide whether the Rheans had been silly fools to carry on their ridiculous war-game. Or whether they had been wise beyond telling in carrying out their war without risking a single life.
TINY TERROR
Lieutenant Jon Jarl yawned sleepily. Time to turn in. He checked the robot pilot and prepared to roll into his bunk, in one corner of his small rocketship. It was a long-cruise between Mars and Jupiter, and he was only half way, passing high over the asteroids, which winked and spun by through the starboard window.
Jon had just stretched out in luxurious comfort when his radio signal buzzed, indicating that someon
e was trying to make contact with him.
“Drat!” Jon growled as he heaved himself up and snapped on the radio. “Can’t they let me get a decent sleep?”
His grumbling stopped as a faint, high-pitched voice came from the speaker.
“Attention! Can anybody hear me? Attention! Urgent! Please answer!”
It was not Earth language. The words were spoken in that strange ancient tongue known as Solarian, which for some reason had spread all through the nine planets ages ago, possibly when the once-great Martians explored space.
Jon answered in the same tongue. “Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol,” he snapped, still a bit angry at being disturbed. “Where are you calling from? What’s wrong?”
The faint voice, sounding like the squeaking of an intelligent mouse, became eager. “Thank Tor! Somebody hears us. This is Asteroid Vlink. We are being invaded! Need help!”
Then, as though the other’s transmitter had burned out, there was silence.
Invasion! Jon dashed to his controls, no longer apathetic. With powerful bursts of his nose rockets, he slowed his ship and turned for Asteroid Vlink. In the old Solarian listing, it was a tiny body on the outer fringes of the asteroid belt. As Jon approached, he estimated its size as no more than 5 miles in diameter. A midget world. Who lived on it? Jon consulted his space guide and frowned. It was listed as being uninhabited!
Was this some practical joke? Jon reached the tiny asteroid and then turned level to skim over its surface. Perhaps some space hermit or prospector had made his abode here.
The miniature world had an equally miniature topography. The highest “mountains” were 100 feet high. The tallest trees reached a foot high, the forests looking more like fields of grain.
* * * *
Jon cruised for hours, seeing not the least sign of habitation. Not even a cave. He tried the radio again, but silence greeted him. Puzzled, and with anger growing within him, Jon finally landed the ship, and stepped out in his spacesuit. The air was too thin for his earthly lungs.
Jon went forward on foot, thinking perhaps he had missed seeing his mysterious caller from his ship. At times he shouted, his voice ringing out mechanically from his helmet voice box. Mocking silence was his only answer.
“Somebody played a joke on me,” Jon finally mumbled. “Sent me a fake call to rush to this barren little world. If I ever get my hands on the guy—”
He left the threat unfinished. Drowsiness overwhelmed him again. It was too long a trek back to his ship, so Jon threw himself down on the ground, set his heat unit up, and sank into sleep. He wouldn’t do such a thing on most worlds, but on this uninhabited little asteroid, what danger could there be?
* * * *
Jon awoke, his mind blank. Above he saw the fiery pinpoints of the asteroids, and then he remembered. He sat up—or he tried to. Something held him down! Jon strained his arms. They refused to budge. His legs also seemed paralyzed.
And then, most amazing of all, Jon felt himself moving. Lying on his back, he was being carried along by—something! What? He strained and managed to twist his head to the side. What he saw brought a gasp from his lips.
“It’s a dream, of course,” he told himself. “Because I’m tied to a flat cart and being dragged by a hundred little men no bigger than mice. What a dream!”
Only it wasn’t a dream. Jon realized that when he was drawn down the street of a city. A city whose tallest building was three feet high! People looked down at his face from upper windows—with awe and astonishment. Naturally, to them, Jon was a tremendous “giant.”
His muscles stiff and sore, Jon suddenly roared out in the Solarian tongue, “Let me go, you little insects! Untie me! What’s this all about?”
Jon now felt something crawling along his chest. A tiny man appeared before his nose, standing on the glassine face plate of Jon’s helmet. The man looked scared to death, as if at any moment he might bolt and run.
“Listen, O Giant,” he said in a quavering voice. “We will release you if you promise not to hurt us, and to help us.”
Jon agreed, and when the thongs that held him to the cart were cut, he sat up. He saw himself surrounded by hundreds of the tiny folk, all staring at him half in fear and half in hope.
So this was the answer to the mystery. No wonder this world had seemed uninhabited, when its people were so small a man would have to kneel to see them. And their city, no bigger than a basketball court, could easily be missed as one flew over.
Jon held the little man in the palm of his hand, close to his face. “But still, we sent exploration parties here at times. Why didn’t you people let them know you existed?”
“We tried,” returned the mite. “But our shouts were never heard as they walked by. And one night, one explorer blundered through our city, trampling half of it flat, without knowing what he was doing. After that, we were glad when they went away.”
“I don’t blame you,” grinned Jon. “As for radio, I suppose your transmitters are so small and weak that they could reach out only to a ship passing close, like mine was. But tell me, why did you call for help?”
The little man’s face turned grave. “Our enemy, the hill tribe, has been attacking. They wish to take over our city. Can you help us defeat them, O Giant?”
“Hmm,” Jon mused to himself. “Two tiny races fighting each other, and I’m supposed to stop their war. This ought to be easy.”
At that moment, an alarm bell clanged, and the little man ran nimbly up Jon’s arm to take a perch on his shoulder. “The enemy is attacking again! Go and meet them. I’ll direct you.”
Jon arose and took a step. The only place he could put his foot was into a small park. There was a crunch and the little man groaned. “There go all the statues and park trees! Step more carefully, will you?”
“I’ll try,” returned Jon, but his next few steps each left an imprint of destruction behind, though Jon was cartful not to crush any of the tiny folk themselves.
“Oh, heavens!” groaned the little guide on his shoulder. “Get out of the city before you wreck it.”
At last Jon reached the open ground beyond the city, and the enemy was ahead—a horde of tiny men riding on four-footed mounts. At sight of the “giant” they fell back in momentary panic. But then, with a courage out of all proportion to their size, they stopped and opened fire at Jon.
Jon laughed. What could their tiny weapons do to him? But his laugh turned to ejaculations of pain. They shot tiny bullets and arrows. Some worked through to his skin, like needles. He felt as if a swarm of bees was stinging him relentlessly.
“Get after them!” the little man on his shoulder was shouting. “Crush them! Step on them! Smash them flat!”
“I can’t do that,” Jon muttered back. “I can’t take lives. But I’ll rout them simply by advancing.”
Like a giant, Jon stumped forward at the enemy army, his great feet threatening them and making them scurry back. But they left a pile of abandoned supply carts which Jon did not see—and he tripped. He fell flat with a ground-shaking thump. Stunned, he heard derisive laughter from the enemy. At this point, Jon felt like seven kinds of a fool. And he thought he was going to have an easy time fighting this little war!
Stung, in more ways than one, Jon leaped up, chasing the enemy army—now in full retreat. He picked out the invaders’ chief and reached down to pluck him off his mount.
“Call off your war!” he roared at the squirming little man. “Or, so help me, I’ll stamp your homes into the ground!”
It worked.
“Peace!” the little man cried. “We only want peace!”
* * * *
Jon Jarl stayed only long enough to witness a formal signing of a peace treaty, and then dashed for his ship.
He reached it, gasping for breath, and tumbled through the airlock. When took unfastened his helmet and shrugged off his spacesuit, he surveyed its riddled fabric.
“The little imps,” he mused. “Their weapons made tiny holes, enough to e
nable the air slowly to leak out. If the skirmish had lasted another minute or so, they would have defeated me!”
MENACE OF THE METAL MEN
Lieutenant Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol landed his rocketship on Asteroid X-888. Before him lay the estate of James Van Asto, wealthy retired financier. Jon saw shady lanes of trees, a sparkling swimming pool, and a huge marble mansion. Asto’s home was sumptuous to the last word, like any such estate on Earth. The only difference was that here, on Asteroid X-888, air had to be artificially created. A compact atomic pumping station supplied the so-called “heavy” air which gave the tiny asteroid an atmosphere that did not leak away into space too rapidly.
There were many such asteroid estates scattered through the thousands of small planetoids. And Jon somewhat hated his present assignment, visiting one after another to see that all was well. It was something like the “beat” of a policeman on Earth, down a city street, only here Jon passed from asteroid to asteroid.
At the door, Jon’s knock was answered by the butler, who gleamed brightly in the sun like metal. He was metal. He was a robot.
Jon was not surprised. All wealthy people had robots for servants. Robots could perform all the duties a human could, and usually better. Also they lasted a lifetime. They required no food, running on an atomic battery good for 50 years.
“Hello, Tin Face,” Jon said. He greeted all robots the same way. “Is your master in?”
Jon waited for the mechanical man to bow with a creak and usher him in, as such servants usually do. But to his surprise this robot stood stiffly, blocking the way, as he rumbled out in a scratchy voice, “Go away. Nobody allowed inside.”
“What?” Jon frowned. Something was amiss. “Out of my way, Tin Face!”
Jon stepped forward. But a steel hand raised to his chest and Jon flew backwards head over heels a dozen feet. Robots had twice the strength of any man living!
Jon picked himself up, amazed. The biggest mystery of all was that any robot could act this way against a human. Their rudimentary metal brains were always equipped with a “governor” that made them short-circuit if they made any hostile move against a human being.