Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  This time Rozz looks down the line and nods. Once.

  Miller is excited. He looks at his watch, thinking hard. It's close to noon. "Eat with me?" he writes. "Miller." Then he waits, watching the frame travel to the end. To him.

  But the Cetian doesn't respond. He seems to read it, yes, but then there's the horn and he's walking down the aisle, down past Miller and gone. Jacob wants to finish the frame on the table. Maybe Rozz didn't understand? thinks Miller. Maybe I should have told him where? Still optimistic, he hurries back to his corner and gets a certain book —a recently published guide to Cetian myths and legends —plus his lunch pail. But when he's up front, trotting toward the time clock, he discovers the Cetian sitting snugly between the foreman and another one of the poker players.

  Disappointment starts to nag at him.

  He punches out and returns. The three figures are sharing a stack of lumber. The humans eat from pails — sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs and sweating pop cans within easy reach. Rozz has a crumpled grocery sack behind him and a cellophane bag of unshelled, unsalted peanuts in one hand. No one is talking, but the humans watch the peanuts being flipped up into the mouth two at a time. Rozz doesn't chew; he only swallows. His pace is amazing. The foreman shakes his head and smiles. Miller settles at the poker table, barely hungry but pretending to chew on his sandwich. While he watches.

  He feels cheated.

  Coming here this morning, he had expectations. They'd been building since last week's announcement. It was the prospect of a friend— someone he could respect, and converse with, and learn from. Not another sweatshop goon full of harsh talk and ugly humor. But someone of culture, of learning. Someone who had been to odd and wondrous places beyond human reach. Someone he could share breaks with, and lunchtime, the two of them talking and talking and talking—

  Miller bristles, thinking he might have been wrong.

  He sets down his lunch-meat sandwich, his stomach churning and his breath tasting foul. The foreman asks Rozz, "So how do you do it?" and Miller waits. "Like I've seen on TV—?"

  "A gizzard," Rozz answers, his tone matter-of-fact. Patient. "You know, like a chicken's gizzard? It's lined with rocks that grind up the shells, and I shit out what my body can't use."

  "Huh," says the foreman. "Huh!"

  "Do you want to see it?"

  "What? Your gizzard?" The foreman halfway shudders, surprised.

  "You've seen 'em, Pete," says the other man. "They do it on TV."

  Rozz unbuttons the blue cotton shirt, exposing the white chest with its narrow, widely spaced ribs. Maybe he's smiling. Miller shifts on the hard wooden seat and watches, his thoughts jumbled. A look of utter calm comes into Rozz's face, and the whiteness weakens like milk being flooded with water. A large yellow heart, six chambers and a tangle of thick arteries and veins, is set within the long pale ribs. The gizzard is the darker bundle of round muscle beneath the heart. Miller recognizes it from all the science articles. He feels an urge to stand and point out organs, lecturing. "This is where the peanuts are now." But Rozz himself points, telling them the same thing. Then, as if to display his talents, the gizzard contracts with a sudden violence. Shells crumble and the two men give a little jump, then they shake their heads and laugh, looking at one another as if to congratulate themselves on their courage.

  "All right," says Pete, the foreman. "With rocks, you say?"

  Rozz turns white again, and he smiles again. "Here. Watch this." He reaches into the grocery sack and retrieves a single black walnut, rough against the smooth skin of the hand. "Watch," he cautions. The nut vanishes into his mouth, and he swallows in a theoretical way; and with Miller eating again, unnoticed and still glowering at all of them, the walnut shatters somewhere inside the Cetian's belly. It's like a little explosion. The men jump and then giggle, then turn and look around the plant, hunting for someone to show the marvel they've just found.

  Rozz is moved off the line after lunch. The foreman wants him up front, up in Assembly, which is pretty much the easiest department. It's where the foreman spends most of his day. What's going on? Miller wonders. He feels betrayed and rather jealous. And maybe foolish, too. All the time he'd been building this image of the Cetians, and all the time he'd been so blind. The Cetians fit into all kinds of places, with anyone. It never occurred to him that they actually enjoyed it! Now the blood roars in his head and his fingers shake. He can scarcely think, barely able to do his job. Jacob glares at him several times, shaking his head but too weary to shout. Miller counts the minutes till afternoon break, the halfway point, because everything afterward will be quick. The day and the craziness will be over soon after break. Then he'll have time to go home and collect himself, to sleep and relax and get it all straight in his head.

  When the break horn sounds, Miller decides a Coke would taste good.

  By the time he's up front, the poker players are at it. Rozz is among them. Miller pauses and stands nearby, just watching, and then something unexpected occurs to him. Why not? he asks himself. It's an open game, isn't it? There's an empty seat. Miller takes it and looks straight across at the Cetian, waiting, feeling tight inside while he watches the white hands shuffling the deck like a pro.

  How does he do it? Miller wonders. Did he practice before coming here? Or does he just pick it up along the way? Card games. The language. All of it. The humans watch Miller while Rozz deals. Miller isn't sure how to bet. He throws a nickel into the pot, takes three cards, and loses with a pair of fours. The foreman wins, grinning at Miller and sweeping up the coins. He says, "So what's the occasion? Thought you'd be social for a change?"

  Miller doesn't know what he's thinking. He opens his mouth as if to answer, but nothing comes to mind.

  The foreman is amused. Still smiling, he turns to another man and asks, "Have you seen what the new guy can do, Ed? Have you?"

  "What do you mean?" Ed works in the paint department—an ancient simpleton with a partial beard and spooked eyes. He glances at Rozz, unsure of himself. "What can he do?" he manages. "Tell me."

  "Would you?" says the foreman. "You mind?"

  Rozz shrugs. No, he doesn't mind. His skin immediately turns black, like coal. Someone up on the stacks yells, "Hey, he looks like Jacob! Don't he?"

  A lot of them laugh.

  The foreman laughs. "But it's the other thing I wanted."

  "God, I don't want to see!" Ed shivers. "Why the fuck would anyone do that to himself? I mean… Jesus… !"

  "For camouflage," Miller responds. He says, "They do it so they can hide," and nods, glad to have spoken. To throw in his knowledge.

  But no one is listening to him. Except Ed. And Ed doesn't like what he hears. "So how come he's not colored? You know. Green and all? Those fucking lizards are green and brown and shit. Right?"

  "Cetians are color-blind." Miller smiles. He's sorting his next hand without looking at his cards, telling everyone, "They see the world in black and white and gray. Like cheap TV."

  Only Ed listens, his mouth opened and his expression befuddled. The rest of the table, Rozz included, studies the cards and Ed and the little piles of change out in front of them. They aren't going to let him take part in this. Not if they can help it. Someone up on the stacks says something, probably about Miller, and he hears men chuckling. It was funny to them. He can imagine what they just said.

  Nickels are tossed into the pot.

  Miller glances at his cards once, then catches Rozz staring at him. The square eyes are cold and a little bit unnerving. He shifts his weight, feeling the hard wood against his butt. There's more betting and he loses again. Rozz wins. Reaching for the pot, he makes the skin of his hands turn transparent. Everyone can see his colorless meat and the fine yellow bones, and almost everyone laughs. Except for Miller and Ed. "Would you fucking stop that?" says Ed. "Goddamn, you're nuts. Can all of you… you people do that? Can you?"

  "You should have seen him at lunch," the foreman confides. "We looked in on Rozz's heart, didn't we?" Everyone nods. P
oker has been temporarily forgotten. "And his gizzard. And his guts."

  "I don't want to see any guts," says Ed, emphatic. He waves his large calloused hands, telling the Cetian, "I don't even like thinking about that stuff."

  Rozz shrugs.

  The foreman says, "Do it in the face. Can you do it there?" He asks, "Can you make your face go clear?"

  "Sure." Rozz seems unperturbed. Amused, even.

  Ed says, "No, no, no! I can't stand this shit."

  The foreman waves to the men on the stacks. "Come on over. Old Rozz is going to give us a show."

  They drop from the stacks, giggling and trotting over and forming a clumsy horseshoe around the poker table. Miller doesn't know what to do. He feels small and absolutely unnoticed, picking at his cards and trying to focus on their blurred figures.

  People start to applaud.

  He jerks and looks. He has to look. He's startled by the yellow skull—eye sockets cubic and the tongue curled against the mouth's roof and pale muscles making the small jaw move, Rozz saying, "Look, Ma. No face!"

  The men start to howl. Someone says, "What's the matter, Ed? Hey! You don't look so good!"

  Ed's face has turned pale. His hands push the coins and cards away from him. "I can't take it," he squeals. "You guys-!"

  "What's wrong, Ed?"

  "Why the hell does he have to do that? Why?" he wondered. "I don't see why he's got to turn to glass!"

  Miller knows. He touches Ed and says, "It's because of sex," with a very serious, utterly sober voice.

  The table becomes quiet.

  Rozz turns white again, watching Miller.

  Ed turns his head and looks lost. "What do you mean? What's sex got to do with it?"

  No one admits they're listening, but no one makes a sound. Not the foreman. Not any of them. Miller says, "It's like with birds. Birds have bright plumage so they can show potential mates they're healthy. Strong. Virile. Cetians do the same thing by making themselves transparent. It's a very private thing." And he pauses. "Normally. It's to show their mate that they don't have internal parasites. No diseases. Nothing bad or out of place." He breathes and puts his own cards on top of the mess, feeling every eye and relishing the attention. These stupid jerks, he's thinking. And he means all of them. He glares at Rozz as if accusing him of some failure, some wicked crime, and he crosses his arms on his chest and says nothing more.

  Says Rozz, "What do you know?"

  Eyes shift to the Cetian.

  "He's right, you know." Rozz nods, telling them, "When I go to bed with a girl, I really undress."

  A few men laugh, uneasily.

  Rozz grabs the scattered cards, arranging and then shuffling the deck. Everyone takes back their old bets. Rozz deals. When he starts to throw in a nickel, by accident, he knocks other coins to the floor. So he bends and vanishes under the table for a moment. The men are glaring at Miller. One of them says, "Professor Perfect," and several of them are laughing.

  Rozz returns. The hand is finished in tense silence. Miller wins sixty-five cents with three aces, but he doesn't care. It means nothing. He's halfway tempted to leave the pot, proving his scorn for everyone. The alien is manipulating the crowd, he senses. But not me! The horn sounds, and everyone is standing. Miller starts to pocket his winnings regardless, and there comes a sudden stillness. What's happening? He notices how everyone else is looking at the floor, at his feet, and he looks down and spots a single card on the floor. A fourth ace right beneath his seat.

  Says the foreman, "What's this?"

  Miller looks at the smiling alien.

  "What're you doing?" asks the foreman. "Cheating us for change?"

  They're all watching him, waiting, their expressions stern and maybe angry. Maybe not. He's having trouble reading their faces. "I didn't do this," he argues. "I mean, you can't really believe… !"

  Rozz shakes his head as if supremely disappointed.

  "It's you!" shouts Miller. "You put that there, didn't you?"

  "Did I?" asks Rozz.

  Miller moves toward him. "When you went under the table, you did it! Didn't you?"

  "Gosh," says the foreman. "That's a pretty strong accusation, Miller. I hope you can back it up."

  "Someone must have seen him do it." Miller pivots, wanting a witness to step forward. "Who saw him put the card there — ?"

  Nobody says, "Me."

  Miller faces the Cetian again, waiting for a moment. Then he leaps. He shoves a handful of nickels into the bastard's face, right at its beaked mouth, shouting, "They're yours, goddamn you! You eat them! Now!" He says, "Line your goddamn gizzard with these, you shit!"

  The men pull him off Rozz.

  The foreman and another fellow, stern-faced and certain, march him into the little glass-walled office where the plant manager holds court. He isn't here just now. The other man goes to find him. The foreman shakes his head and says nothing. His arms are crossed on his chest.

  "I didn't do it," Miller manages to say.

  "I know," says the foreman. "We all know that. Rozz was just having fun with you. It was just a joke, you idiot."

  Miller can barely hear him. He's looking out into the plant, into Assembly. A group of men are standing in a circle, talking to Rozz. He's so far away that he looks human. The jeans, the shirt, the seed cap. Even his motions are true. It occurs to Miller that the alien is genuinely fitting into this place. All the Cetians fit in. To them this isn't a chore, it's a joy. They wear humanity like you would a new suit—

  "What's happening out there?" asks the foreman.

  Miller can't tell for certain.

  "Stay here. I'll be back." He shuts the door and stalks out into the plant. The men don't see him approaching. They're engrossed with whatever Rozz is telling them, both of Rozz's hands above his head, eyes wide, the hands implying some epic tale of great drama and worth.

  The foreman breaks it up.

  Miller watches everyone get back to work. He sees Rozz talking to the foreman and glancing toward the office. Then the foreman returns. "He gave me a message. He wants you to know something."

  Miller asks, "What?"

  "He said he's been sizing you up — "

  "Yeah?"

  " — and he doesn't like your insides."

  Miller has no response. He presses his face to the glass and sighs, feeling nothing, his thoughts jumbled and slow. What I'll have to do first, he thinks, is get my stuff out of that corner. The books and the rest of it that I want. Then he remembers the quotes on the walls and wishes there was some way he could take them, too. But there's not, of course. They're there. That's where they'll have to stay.

  GODSPEED

  Charles Sheffield

  The Genizee came.

  Two weeks later, the Genizee went.

  The aliens are the most self-sacrificing and noble saviors of humanity that anyone could imagine; or else they are the sneakiest and most evil species in the galaxy, following a diabolical agenda that no human is able to fathom.

  Which?

  Marcus Aurelius Jackson, a millionaire, a madman, a genius, and my long-time partner in science and short-time partner in crime, says the Genizee are villains. Everyone else on Earth says that they are heroes. Me, I just don't know.

  Not yet. But thanks to Marcus, I will know. Soon. In the worst case, it may be for just a fraction of a second, before the end.

  It sounds crazy to say it, but although I think of myself as sane and rational while Marcus is a lunatic who may cause my death and the death of everyone on Earth, I'm as bad in some ways as he is—because I can hardly wait to learn the answer. That question—Which?—has been sitting in my mind for four months going on forever, like an internal and eternal itch that can't be scratched.

  I sit here, waiting for the re-appearance of the television cameras or the end of the world, and I want toknow .

  In my case it is more than a theoretical issue. I was in the middle of the problem long before the arrival of the Genizee—before their existence
was even suspected. More than that, according to the aliens, I and Marcus Aurelius Jackson are the reason that they came to the solar system—came, just in time to kill the dream.

  In my case, it was a dream. In Marcus's case, it was an obsession. I argue that there is an important difference between the two, though perhaps no else would agree.

  Let me go back to the period BG—Before Genizee.

  Before the aliens popped out of nowhere, most people thought that the world's space programs were going well. The United States had the Farside lunar base close to self-supporting, with a ninety-nine percent closed recycling of food, water, and supplies. Only the most complicated equipment was fabricated and shipped up from Earth. The Soviets had their permanent Mars colony, at last, after three abortive tries and the loss of one hundred and forty-seven people. The C-J consortium had a mixed Chinese and Japanese expedition wandering the asteroid belt, and another approaching the Jovian moons. ESA had their own explorer—unmanned, this one—heading out for a second Grand Tour with smart probes of the outer planet atmospheres.

  This is truly the Golden Age of space exploration, said the media.

  Big deal.

  Don't be surprised when I tell you that although space funding paid my salary, not one of the developments that I mentioned occupied my working attention for more than one minute a week. Marcus and I fumed at the self-congratulatory speeches from the politicians of all countries, and wept when the “great accomplishments” in space were touted by the world's media.

  Couldn't they see—couldn’t everyone see, as we saw so clearly—that even when the Moon and all the planets were explored and colonized, we would still be playing in our own backyard?

  If humans were serious about exploring space, the solar system wouldn't do. We had to go to the stars, and we had to find a way to get there in a reasonable time. The fastest ship in existence, the Caltech/NASA Rocket Propulsion Lab's Continuous Electric Propulsion Planetary Probe (Starseed for short) was now heading for the inner edge of the Oort Cloud, but it would not arrive there for another ten years. That, measured in terms of my own life span, was surely not a reasonable time. And when it got there, three thousand astronomical units from the Sun, it would still be traveling at only one percent of lightspeed, and be only one hundredth of the way to the nearest star. Tau Ceti, our best bet for a close star with useful planets, would be a millennial journey for the RPL probe. Despite its name, the Starseed and its relatives were not and would never be the answer. They could not bring the stars within reach of humanity.