Strangers No More

by Isaac Asimov, Philip José Farmer,Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The little scurrying things had given up; they’d gone back to their places, clustered around the pulsing violet of the Thanksgiving skeleton, each one fitting into place until the Cytha had taken shape again. As if, Duncan told himself, blood and nerve and muscle had come back from a brief vacation to form the beast anew.

  “Mister,” asked the Cytha, “what do we do now?”

  “You should know,” Duncan told it. “You were the one who dug the pit.”

  “I split myself,” the Cytha said. “A part of me dug the pit and the other part that stayed on the surface got me out when the job was done.”

  “Convenient,” grunted Duncan.

  And it was convenient. That was what had happened to the Cytha when he had shot at it—it had split into all its component parts and had got away. And that night beside the waterhole, it had spied on him, again in the form of all its separate parts, from the safety of the thicket.

  “You are caught and so am I,” the Cytha said. “Both of us will die here. It seems a fitting end to our association. Do you not agree with me?”

  “I’ll get you out,” said Duncan wearily. “I have no quarrel with children.”

  He dragged the rifle toward him and unhooked the sling from the stock. Carefully he lowered the gun by the sling, still attached to the barrel, down into the pit.

  The Cytha reared up and grasped it with its forepaws.

  “Easy now,” Duncan cautioned. “You’re heavy. I don’t know if I can hold you.”

  But he needn’t have worried. The little ones were detaching themselves and scrambling up the rifle and the sling. They reached his extended arms and ran up them with scrabbling claws. Little sneering screamers and the comic stilt-birds and the mouse-size kill-devils that snarled at him as they climbed. And the little grinning natives—not babies, scarcely children, but small editions of full-grown humanoids. And the weird donovans scampering happily.

  They came climbing up his arms and across his shoulders and milled about on the ground beside him, waiting for the others.

  And finally the Cytha, not skinned down to the bare bones of its Thanksgiving-turkey-size, but far smaller than it had been, climbed awkwardly up the rifle and the sling to safety.

  Duncan hauled the rifle up and twisted himself into a sitting position.

  The Cytha, he saw, was reassembling.

  He watched in fascination as the restless miniatures of the planet’s life swarmed and seethed like a hive of bees, each one clicking into place to form the entire beast.

  And now the Cytha was complete. Yet small—still small—no more than lion-size.

  “But it is such a little one,” Zikkara had argued with him that morning at the farm. “It is such a young one.”

  Just a young brood, no more than suckling infants—if suckling was the word, or even some kind of wild approximation. And through the months and years, the Cytha would grow, with the growing of its diverse children, until it became a monstrous thing.

  It stood there looking at Duncan and the tree.

  “Now,” said Duncan, “if you’ll push on the tree, I think that between the two of us—”

  “It is too bad,” the Cytha said, and wheeled itself about.

  He watched it go loping off.

  “Hey!” he yelled.

  But it didn’t stop.

  He grabbed up the rifle and had it halfway to his shoulder before he remembered how absolutely futile it was to shoot at the Cytha.

  He let the rifle down.

  “The dirty, ungrateful, double-crossing—”

  He stopped himself. There was no profit in rage. When you were in a jam, you did the best you could. You figured out the problem and you picked the course that seemed best and you didn’t panic at the odds.

  He laid the rifle in his lap and started to hook up the sling and it was not till then that he saw the barrel was packed with sand and dirt.

  He sat numbly for a moment, thinking back to how close he had been to firing at the Cytha, and if that barrel was packed hard enough or deep enough, he might have had an exploding weapon in his hands.

  He had used the rifle as a crowbar, which was no way to use a gun. That was one way, he told himself, that was guaranteed to ruin it.

  Duncan hunted around and found a twig and dug at the clogged muzzle, but the dirt was jammed too firmly in it and he made little progress.

  He dropped the twig and was hunting for another stronger one when he caught the motion in a nearby clump of brush.

  He watched closely for a moment and there was nothing, so he resumed the hunt for a stronger twig. He found one and started poking at the muzzle and there was another flash of motion.

  He twisted around. Not more than twenty feet away, a screamer sat easily on its haunches. Its tongue was lolling out and it had what looked like a grin upon its face.

  And there was another, just at the edge of the clump of brush where he had caught the motion first.

  There were others as well, he knew. He could hear them sliding through the tangle of fallen trees, could sense the soft padding of their feet.

  The executioners, he thought.

  The Cytha certainly had not wasted any time.

  He raised the rifle and rapped the barrel smartly on the fallen tree, trying to dislodge the obstruction in the bore. But it didn’t budge; the barrel still was packed with sand.

  But no matter—he’d have to fire anyhow and take whatever chance there was.

  He shoved the control to automatic and tilted up the muzzle.

  There were six of them now, sitting in a ragged row, grinning at him, not in any hurry. They were sure of him and there was no hurry. He’d still be there when they decided to move in.

  And there were others—on all sides of him.

  Once it started, he wouldn’t have a chance.

  “It’ll be expensive, gents,” he told them.

  And he was astonished at how calm, how coldly objective he could be, now that the chips were down. But that was the way it was, he realized.

  He’d thought, a while ago, how a man might suddenly find himself face to face with an aroused and cooperating planet. Maybe this was it in miniature.

  The Cytha had obviously passed the word along: Man back there needs killing. Go and get him.

  Just like that, for a Cytha would be the power here. A life force, the giver of life, the decider of life, the repository of all animal life on the entire planet.

  There was more than one of them, of course. Probably they had home districts, spheres of influence and responsibility mapped out. And each one would be a power supreme in its own district.

  Momism, he thought with a sour grin. Momism at its absolute peak.

  Nevertheless, he told himself, it wasn’t too bad a system if you wanted to consider it objectively.

  But he was in a poor position to be objective about that or anything else.

  The screamers were inching closer, hitching themselves forward slowly on their bottoms.

  “I’m going to set up a deadline for you critters,” Duncan called out. “Just two feet farther, up to that rock, and I let you have it.”

  He’d get all six of them, of course, but the shots would be the signal for the general rush by all those other animals slinking in the brush.

  If he were free, if he were on his feet, possibly he could beat them off. But pinned as he was, he didn’t have a chance. It would be all over less than a minute after he opened fire. He might, he figured, last as long as that.

  The six inched closer and he raised the rifle.

  But they stopped and moved no farther. Their ears lifted just a little, as if they might be listening, and the grins dropped from their faces. They squirmed uneasily and assumed a look of guilt and, like shadows, they were gone, melting away so swiftly that he scarcely saw them go.

  Duncan sat quietly, listening, but he could hear no sound.

  Reprieve, he thought. But for how long? Something had scared them off, but in a while they might be bac
k. He had to get out of here and he had to make it fast.

  If he could find a longer lever, he could move the tree. There was a branch slanting up from the topside of the fallen tree. It was almost four inches at the butt and it carried its diameter well.

  He slid the knife from his belt and looked at it. Too small, too thin, he thought, to chisel through a four-inch branch, but it was all he had. When a man was desperate enough, though, when his very life depended on it, he would do anything.

  He hitched himself along, sliding toward the point where the branch protruded from the tree. His pinned leg protested with stabs of pain as his body wrenched it around. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself closer. Pain slashed through his leg again and he was still long inches from the branch.

  He tried once more, then gave up. He lay panting on the ground.

  There was just one thing left.

  He’d have to try to hack out a notch in the trunk just above his leg. No, that would be next to impossible, for he’d be cutting into the whorled and twisted grain at the base of the supporting fork.

  Either that or cut off his foot, and that was even more impossible. A man would faint before he got the job done.

  It was useless, he knew. He could do neither one. There was nothing he could do.

  For the first time, he admitted to himself: He would stay here and die. Shotwell, back at the farm, in a day or two might set out hunting for him. But Shotwell would never find him. And anyhow, by nightfall, if not sooner, the screamers would be back.

  He laughed gruffly in his throat—laughing at himself.

  The Cytha had won the hunt hands down. It had used a human weakness to win and then had used that same human weakness to achieve a viciously poetic vengeance.

  After all, what could one expect? One could not equate human ethics with the ethics of the Cytha. Might not human ethics, in certain cases, seem as weird and illogical, as infamous and ungrateful, to an alien?

  He hunted for a twig and began working again to clean the rifle bore.

  A crashing behind him twisted him around and he saw the Cytha. Behind the Cytha stalked a donovan.

  He tossed away the twig and raised the gun.

  “No,” said the Cytha sharply.

  The donovan tramped purposefully forward and Duncan felt the prickling of the skin along his back. It was a frightful thing. Nothing could stand before a donovan. The screamers had turned tail and run when they had heard it a couple of miles or more away.

  The donovan was named for the first known human to be killed by one. That first was only one of many. The roll of donovan-victims ran long, and no wonder, Duncan thought. It was the closest he had ever been to one of the beasts and he felt a coldness creeping over him. It was like an elephant and a tiger and a grizzly bear wrapped in the selfsame hide. It was the most vicious fighting machine that ever had been spawned.

  He lowered the rifle. There would be no point in shooting. In two quick strides, the beast could be upon him.

  The donovan almost stepped on him and he flinched away. Then the great head lowered and gave the fallen tree a butt and the tree bounced for a yard or two. The donovan kept on walking. Its powerfully muscled stern moved into the brush and out of sight.

  “Now we are even,” said the Cytha. “I had to get some help.”

  Duncan grunted. He flexed the leg that had been trapped and he could not feel the foot. Using his rifle as a cane, he pulled himself erect. He tried putting weight on the injured foot and it screamed with pain.

  He braced himself with the rifle and rotated so that he faced the Cytha.

  “Thanks, pal,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

  “You will not hunt me now?”

  Duncan shook his head. “I’m in no shape for hunting. I am heading home.”

  “It was the vua, wasn’t it? That was why you hunted me?”

  “The vua is my livelihood,” said Duncan. “I cannot let you eat it.”

  The Cytha stood silently and Duncan watched it for a moment. Then he wheeled. Using the rifle for a crutch, he started hobbling away.

  The Cytha hurried to catch up with him.

  “Let us make a bargain, mister. I will not eat the vua and you will not hunt me. Is that fair enough?”

  “That is fine with me,” said Duncan. “Let us shake on it.”

  He put down a hand and the Cytha lifted up a paw. They shook, somewhat awkwardly, but very solemnly.

  “Now,” the Cytha said, “I will see you home. The screamers would have you before you got out of the woods.”

  VI

  They halted on a knoll. Below them lay the farm, with the vua rows straight and green in the red soil of the fields.

  “You can make it from here,” the Cytha said. “I am wearing thin. It is an awful effort to keep on being smart. I want to go back to ignorance and comfort.”

  “It was nice knowing you,” Duncan told it politely. “And thanks for sticking with me.”

  He started down the hill, leaning heavily on the rifle-crutch. Then he frowned troubledly and turned back.

  “Look,” he said, “you’ll go back to animal again. Then you will forget. One of these days, you’ll see all that nice, tender vua and—”

  “Very simple,” said the Cytha. “If you find me in the vua, just begin hunting me. With you after me, I will quickly get smart and remember once again and it will be all right.”

  “Sure,” agreed Duncan. “I guess that will work.”

  The Cytha watched him go stumping down the hill.

  Admirable, it thought. Next time I have a brood, I think I’ll raise a dozen like him.

  It turned around and headed for the deeper brush.

  It felt intelligence slipping from it, felt the old, uncaring comfort coming back again. But it glowed with anticipation, seethed with happiness at the big surprise it had in store for its new-found friend.

  Won’t he be happy and surprised when I drop them at his door, it thought.

  Will he be ever pleased!

  ALIEN OFFER

  AL SEVCIK

  “You are General James Rothwell?”

  Rothwell sighed. “Yes, Commander Aku. We have met several times.”

  “Ah, yes. I recognize your insignia. Humans are so alike.” The alien strode importantly across the office, the resilient pads of his broad feet making little plopping sounds on the rug, and seated himself abruptly in the visitor’s chair beside Rothwell’s desk. He gave a sharp cry, and another alien, shorter, but sporting similar, golden fur, stepped into the office and closed the door. Both wore simple, brown uniforms, without ornamentation.

  “I am here,” Aku said, “to tell you something.” He stared impassively at Rothwell for a minute, his fur-covered, almost human face completely expressionless, then his gaze shifted to the window, to the hot runways of New York International Airport and to the immense gray spaceship that, even from the center of the field, loomed above the hangars and passenger buildings. For an instant, a quick, unguessable emotion clouded the wide black eyes and tightened the thin lips, then it was gone.

  Rothwell waited.

  “General, Earth’s children must all be aboard my ships within one week. We will start to load on the sixth day, next Thursday.” He stood.

  Rothwell locked eyes with the alien, and leaned forward, grinding his knuckles into the desk top. “You know that’s impossible. We can’t select 100,000 children from every country and assemble them in only six days.”

  “You will do it.” The alien turned to leave.

  “Commander Aku! Let me remind you . . .”

  Aku spun around, eyes flashing. “General Rothwell! Let me remind you that two weeks ago I didn’t even know Earth existed, and since accidentally happening across your sun system and learning of your trouble I have had my entire trading fleet of a hundred ships in orbit about this planet while all your multitudinous political subdivisions have filled the air with talk and wrangle.

  “I am sorry for Earth, but my
allegiance is to my fleet and I cannot remain longer than seven more days and risk being caught up in your destruction. Now, either you accept my offer to evacuate as many humans as my ships will carry, or you don’t.” He paused. “You are the planet’s evacuation coordinator; you will give me an answer.”

  Rothwell’s arms sagged, he sunk back down into his chair, all pretense gone. Slowly he swung around to face the window and the gray ship, standing like a Gargantuan sundial counting the last days of Earth. He almost whispered. “We are choosing the children. They will be ready in six days.”

  He heard the door open and close. He was alone.

  Five years ago, he thought, we cracked the secret of faster-than-light travel, and since then we’ve built about three dozen exploration ships and sent them out among the stars to see what they could see.

  He stared blankly at the palms of his hands. I wonder what it was we expected to find?

  We found that the galaxy was big, that there were a lot of stars, not so many planets, and practically no other life—at least no intelligence to compare with ours. Then . . . He jabbed a button on his intercom.

  “Ed Philips here. What is it Jim?”

  “Doc, are you sure your boys have hypo’d, couched, and hypno’d the Leo crew with everything you’ve got?”

  The voice on the intercom sighed. “Jim, those guys haven’t got a memory of their own. We know everything about each one of them, from the hurts he got falling off tricycles to the feel of the first girl he kissed. Those men aren’t lying, Jim.”

  “I never thought they were lying, Doc.” Rothwell paused for a minute and studied the long yellow hairs that grew sparsely across the back of his hand, thickened to a dense grove at his wrist, and vanished under the sleeve of his uniform. He looked back at the intercom. “Doc, all I know is that three perfectly normal guys got on board that ship, and when it came back we found a lot of jammed instruments and three men terrified almost to the point of insanity.”

  “Jim, if you’d seen . . .”

  Rothwell interrupted. “I know. Five radio-active planets with the fresh scars of cobalt bombs and the remains of civilizations. Then radar screens erupting crazily with signals from a multi-thousand ship space fleet; vector computers hurriedly plotting and re-plotting the fast-moving trajectory, submitting each time an unvarying answer for the fleet’s destination—our own solar system.” He slapped his hand flat against the desk. “The point is, Doc, it’s not much to go on, and we don’t dare send another ship to check for fear of attracting attention to ourselves. If we could only be sure.”