Walt said, in the same live-and-let live tone, “Bluish-green.” Joe Trobridge opened his mouth. “Or, greenish-blue,” Walt continued, cutting him off. The visitors milled around, noisily.
“How were they dressed?”
Walt pursed his mouth. “I’ll tell ya,” he said. “They were wearing what ya might call like bloomers . . .”
“Bloomers!?”
Emma glanced around nervously. The visitors didn’t seem to like what Walt was telling them. Not at all.
Joe Trobridge pressed close. “Did they say what their purpose was, in visiting the Earth?” he asked, eagerness restored somewhat—but only somewhat.
Walt nodded. “Oh, sure. Told us right away. Come to see if they could warm the baby’s bottle.” Someone in the crowd made a scornful noise. “That was it, y’see . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
The man named Joe Trobridge looked at him, his mouth twisted. “Now, wait a minute,” he said. “Just wait a minute . . .”
Emma took in the scene at a glance. No one would believe them. They’d all go away and never come back and no one would ever visit them again—except the man who delivered the feed and the man who collected the eggs. She looked at the disappointed faces around her, some beginning to show anger, and she got up.
“My husband is joking,” she said, loudly and clearly. “Of course it wasn’t like that.”
Joe turned to her. “Did you see it, too, lady? What happened, then? I mean, really happened? Tell us in your own words. What did they look like?”
Emma considered for a moment. “They were very tall,” she said. “And they had on spacesuits. And their leader spoke to us. He looked just like us, only maybe his head was a bit bigger. He didn’t have no hair. He didn’t really speak English—it was more like tleppathy—”
The people gathered around her closely, their eyes aglow, their faces eager. “Go on,” he said; “go on—”
“His name was . . . Grantha—”
“Grantha,” the people breathed.
“And he said we shouldn’t be afraid, because he came in peace. ‘Earth people,’ he said, ‘we have observed you for a long time and now we feel the time has come to make ourselves known to you. . .
~ * ~
Long Tom nodded. “So that’s the way it was.”
“That’s the way it was,” she said. “More coffee, anybody?”
“You brew a mighty fine cup of coffee, Mrs. Emma Towns up here in Paviour’s Bridge, New York, let me tell the folks on the party line,” Long Tom said. “No sugar, thanks, just cream. Well, say, about this piece of Cloth-Like Substance. It’s absorbent-it’s soft—it doesn’t burn—and. it can’t be analyzed. Now, about how big is this wonderful item which Grantha and his people left behind as a sample of their superior technology and peaceful intentions and which continues to baffle scientists? About how big is it? Just tell us in your own words. . . .”
Emma considered. Joe pursed his lips.
Lou DelBello smiled. “Well, I’ve had the good fortune to see it,” he said, “and—speaking as the father of three—the, uh, best comparison of its size which I could give you, I’d say it’s just about as big as a diaper!”
He guffawed. Joe burst out laughing, as did Si Haffner. Miss Anderson giggled. Long Tom chuckled. Emma and Walt looked nervously at each other, looked anxiously at their oh, so very welcome guests—but only for a moment. Then, reassured, they leaned back and joined in the merriment.
<
~ * ~
C. M. KORNBLUTH
Shortly after he wrote Theory of Rocketry, Cyril Kornbluth died of a sudden heart attack. Kornbluth was still a young man, although he had been writing successfully for most of two decades. As an eager teenager, he sold innumerable stories (often of astonishingly high quality) to various magazines under assorted by-lines. In his mid-twenties he felt (one guesses) that he had advanced enough as a writer to use his own name, and immediately established his status by signing it to three classics which every enthusiast of s.f. must know almost by heart: The Little Black Bag (Astounding, July 1950) The Silly Season (F&SF, Fall 1950) and The Mind-worm (Worlds Beyond, December 1950). He went on from distinguished shorts to distinguished novels (by himself and in collaboration) and became unquestionably one of s.f.’s top creators in the 1950’s, almost uniquely able (perhaps his closest rival was the late Henry Kuttner) to combine scientific and sociological extrapolation, perceptive character study, highly literate prose, and rousing adventurous storytelling, in so perfect a fusion that all of these qualities were present in every paragraph.
In his shorter works, Kornbluth was particularly noted for what might be called not so much future-fiction as fiction of the future. That is, the stories which might appear in a quality magazine twenty years from now, dealing (apparently) only with people, their characters and problems, and not at all with scientific thinking and extrapolation—and yet, by the very nature of character and problem, brilliantly illuminating that segment of the future . . . and a few crannies of the present as well. Among the most notable of these have been The Goodly Creatures (F&SF, December 1952), The Altar at Midnight (Galaxy, November 1952), and now this last story.
(note: All of the stories mentioned above may be found in Kornbluth’s collection the mind-worm. )
THEORY OF ROCKETRY
Mr. Edel taught six English classes that year at Richard M. Nixon High School, and the classes averaged seventy-five pupils each. That was four hundred and fifty boys and girls, but Mr. Edel still tried to have the names down cold by at least the third week of the semester. As English 308 stormed into his room he was aware that he was not succeeding, and that next year he would even stop trying, for in 1978 the classes would average eighty-two pupils instead of seventy-five.
One seat was empty when the chime sounded; Mr. Edel was pleased to notice that he remembered whose it was. The absent pupil was a Miss Kahn, keyed into his memory by "Kahnsti-pated," which perhaps she was, with her small pinched features centered in a tallow acre of face. Miss Kahn slipped in some three seconds late; Edel nodded at his intern, Mrs. Giovino, and Mrs. Giovino coursed down the aisle to question, berate and possibly demerit Miss Kahn. Edel stood up, the Modern Revised Old Testament already open before him.
"You're blessed," he read, "if you're excused for your wrongdoing and your sin is forgiven. You're blessed if God knows that you're not evil and sly any more. I, King David, used to hide my sins from God while I grew old and blustered proudly all day. But all day and all night too your hand was heavy on me, God ..."
It would be the flat, crystal-clear, crystal-blank M.R.O.T. all this week; next week he'd read (with more pleasure) from the Roman Catholic Knox translation; the week after that, from the American Rabbinical Council's crabbed version heavy with footnotes; and the week after that, back to M.R.O.T. Thrice blessed was he this semester that there were no Moslems, Buddhists, militant atheists or miscellaneous cultists to sit and glower through the reading or exercise their legal right to wait it out in the corridor. This semester the classes were All-American: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish—choice of one.
"Amen," chorused the class, and they sat down; two minutes of his fifty-minute hour were gone forever.
Soft spring was outside the windows, and they were restless. Mr. Edel "projected" a little as he told them, "This is the dreaded three-minute impromptu speech for which English Three Oh Eight is notorious, young ladies and gentlemen. The importance of being able to speak clearly on short notice should be obvious to everybody. You'll get nowhere in your military service if you can't give instructions and verbal orders. You'll get less than nowhere in business if you can't convey your ideas crisply and accurately." A happy thought struck him: great chance to implement the Spiritual-Values Directive. He added, "You may be asked to lead in prayer or say grace on short notice." (He'd add that one to his permanent repertoire; it was a natural.) "We are not asking the impossible. Anybody can talk interestingly, easily and naturally for three minutes
if they try. Miss Gerber, will you begin with a little talk on your career plans?"
Miss Gerber ("Grapefruit" was the mnemonic) rose coolly and driveled about the joys of motherhood until Mrs. Giovino passed her card to Edel and called time.
"You spoke freely, Miss Gerber, but perhaps not enough to the point," said Edel. "I'm pleased, though, that you weren't bothered by any foolish shyness. I'm sure everybody I call on will be able to talk right up like you did." (He liked that "like" the way you like biting on a tooth that aches; he'd give them Artificial-Grammar De-emphasis . . .) "Foster, may we hear from you on the subject of your coming summer vacation?" He jotted down a C for the Grapefruit.
Foster ("Fireball") rose and paused an expert moment. Then in a firm and manly voice he started with a little joke ("If I survive English Three Oh Eight . . ."), stated his theme ("A vacation is not a time for idling and wasted opportunity"), developed it ("harvest crew during the day for physical—my Science Search Project during the evenings for mental"), elevated it ("no excuse for neglecting one's regular attendance at one's place of worship") and concluded with a little joke ("should be darned glad to get back to school!").
The speech clocked 2:59. It was masterly; none of the other impromptus heard that morning came close to it.
"And," said Mr. Edel at lunch to his semi-crony Dr. Fugua, biology, "between classes I riffled through the grade cards again and found I'd marked him F. Of course I changed it to A. The question is, why?"
"Because you'd made a mistake," said Fuqua absently. Something was on his mind, thought Edel.
"No, no. Why did I make the mistake?"
"Well, Fured, in The Psychology of Everyday—"
"Roland, please, I know all that. Assume I do. Why do I unconsciously dislike Foster? I should get down on my knees and thank God for Foster."
Fugua shook his head and began to pay attention. "Foster?" he said. "You don't know the half of it. I'm his faculty adviser. Quite a boy, Foster."
"To me just a name, a face, a good recitation every time. You know: seventy-five to a class. What's he up to here at dear old Tricky Dicky?"
"Watch the funny jokes, Edel," said Fuqua, alarmed.
"Sorry. It slipped out. But Foster?"
"Well, he's taking an inhuman pre-engineering schedule. Carrying it with ease. Going out for all the extracurricular stuff the law allows. R.O.T.C. Drill Team, Boxing Squad, Math Club, and there I had to draw the line. He wanted on the Debating Team too. I've seen him upset just once. He came to me last year when the school dentist wanted to pull a bad wisdom tooth he had. He made me make the dentist wait until he had a chance to check the dental requirements of the Air Force Academy. They allow four extractions, so he let the dentist yank it. Fly boy. Off we go into the whatsit. He wants it bad."
"I see. Just a boy with motivation. How long since you've seen one, Roland?"
Dr. Fuqua leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "To hell with Foster, Dave. I'm in trouble. Will you help me?"
"Why, of course, Roland. How much do you need?" Mr. Edel was a bachelor and had found one of the minor joys of that state to be "tiding over" his familied friends.
"Not that kind of trouble, Dave. Not yet. They're sharpening the ax for me. I get a hearing this afternoon."
"Good God! What are you supposed to have done?"
"Everything. Nothing. It's one of those 'best interests' things. Am I taking the Spiritual-Values Directive seriously enough? Am I thinking about patting any adolescent fannies? Exactly why am I in the lowest quarter for my seniority group with respect to voluntary hours of refresher summer courses? Am I happy here?"
Edel said, "These things always start somewhere. Who's out to get you?"
Fuqua took a deep breath and said in a surprisingly small voice, "Me, I suppose."
"Oh?"
Then it came out with a rush. "It was the semester psychometrics. I'd been up all night almost, righting with Beth. She does not understand how to handle a fifteen-year-old boy—never mind. I felt sardonic, so I did something sardonic. And stupid. Don't ever get to feeling sardonic, Dave. I took the psychometric and I checked their little boxes and I told the goddamned truth right down the line. I checked them where I felt like checking them and not where a prudent biology teacher ought to check them."
"You're dead," Mr. Edel said after a pause.
"I thought I could get a bunch of the teachers to say they lie their way through the psychometrics. Start a real stink."
"I'd make a poor ditch digger, Roland, but—if you can get nine others, I'll speak up. No, make that six others. I don't think they could ignore eight of us."
"You're a good man," Dr. Fuqua said. "I'll let you know. There's old McGivern—near retirement. I want to try him." He gulped his coffee and headed across the cafeteria.
Edel sat there, mildly thunderstruck at Fuqua's folly and his own daring. Fuqua had told them the kind of bird he was by checking "Yes" or "No" on the silly-clever statements. He had told them that he liked a drink, that he thought most people were stupider than he, that he talked without thinking first, that he ate too much, that he was lazy, that he had an eye for a pretty ankle—that he was a human being not much better or worse than any other human being. But that wasn't the way to do it, and damned well Fuqua had known it. You simply told yourself firmly, for the duration of the test, "I am a yuk. I have never had an independent thought in my life; independent thinking scares me. I am utterly monogamous and heterosexual. I go bowling with the boys. Television is the greatest of the art forms. I believe in installment purchasing. I am a yuk."
That these parlor games were taken seriously by some people was an inexplicable but inexorable fact of life in the twentieth century. Edel had yukked his way through scholarships, college admissions, faculty appointment and promotions and had never thought the examination worse than a bad cold. Before maturity set in, in the frat house, they had eased his qualms about psychometric testing with the ancient gag "You ain't a man until you've had it three times."
Brave of him, pretty brave at that, to back up Fuqua—if Roland could find six others.
Roland came to him at four o'clock to say he had not even found one other. "I don't suppose— No. I'm not asking you to, Dave. Two—it wouldn't be any good."
He went into the principal's office.
The next day a bright young substitute was teaching biology in his place and his student advisees had been parceled out among other teachers. Mr. Edel found that young Foster had now become his charge.
The seventy-two pupils in his English 114 class sat fascinated and watched the television screen. Dr. Henley Ragen was teaching them Macbeth, was teaching about nine hundred English 114 classes throughout the state Macbeth, and making them like it. The classroom rapport was thick enough to cut and spread with a shingle. The man's good, Edel thought, but that good? How much is feedback from their knowing he's famous for his rapport, how much is awe of his stupendous salary, still nowhere equal to nine hundred teachers' salaries?
Dr. Henley Ragen, el magnifico, portentously turned a page; there was grim poetry in the gesture. He transfixed the classroom (nine hundred classrooms) with Those Eyes. Abruptly he became Macbeth at the Banquet prepared. With nervous hilarity he shouted at his guests, "You know your own degrees; sit down! At first and last, the hearty welcome!" Stockstill at a lectern he darted around the table, bluffly rallying the company, slipped off to chat, grimly merry, with the First Murtherer at the door, returned to the banquet, stood in chilled horror at the Ghost in the chair, croaked, "The table's full."
Mr. Edel studied the faces of his seventy-two English 114ers. They were in hypnotic states of varying depths, except Foster. The Fireball was listening and learning, his good mind giving as well as taking. The intelligent face was alive, the jaw firm, and around him eyes were dull and jaws went slack. Foster could speak and write an English sentence, which perhaps was the great distinguishing mark between him and the rest of English 114. Blurted fragments of thought came from them,
and the thoughts were cliches a hundred times out of a hundred.
Dr. Henley Ragen growled at them, "We are yet but young in deed . . ." and his eyes said the rest, promising horrors to come. He snapped the book shut like a pistol's bang; the 114ers popped out of their trances into dazed attentiveness. "Notebooks!" said Ragen (qua Ragen) and, seventy-two gunfighters quick on the draw, they snapped out books and poised their pens. Ragen spoke for ten minutes about the scene; every so often Those Eyes and an intensification of That Voice cued them to write a word or a phrase, almost without glancing at the paper. (Later each would look at his notes and not be surprised to find them lucid, orderly, even masterful summations of the brief lecture.)
As Dr. Henley Ragen bluffly delivered a sort of benediction from the altar of learning, Mr. Edel thought, Well, they've got the Banquet Scene now; they'll own it forever. The way they own the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales, the "Ode to the West Wind," Arroiusmith. A good deal better than nothing; pauca sed matura. Or so he supposed.
The Best from Fantasy & Science Fiction 8 - [Anthology] Page 16