News From Elsewhere

by Edmuind Cooper

  “Interesting!” Sam removed his spectacles and polished them carefully. “Now just supposing you failed to turn in a report?”

  Ynky was surprised at human stupidity. “But I shall turn in a report. That is what I am here for. Needless to say, it will be entirely impartial and thoroughly scientific.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Sam. “But just assuming—for the sake of argument—that your report didn’t reach headquarters?”

  “A ridiculous assumption.” Ynky yawned. “But in that case, someone would discover the omission eventually, and another lizard would be sent. In a couple of centuries or so. After all, from our point of view the problem is not terribly urgent.”

  Sam Goodwin smiled. “Excuse me a moment.” He disappeared through a door at the back of the cafe. A few seconds later he returned. There was a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. It was pointed at Ynky.

  “Nothing personal,” said Sam. “But as Homo sapiens—of which fraternity I have the honor to be a life member—is a trifle busy just now, it occurs to me that fumigation might inconvenience us a little.”

  Ynky had no experience of the antique weapons of earth. He had, however, grasped the fact that Sam Goodwin seemed a shade antisocial. At the same time that superior sixth sense, which had enabled lizards of Woz to thrive as a species for twenty million strenuous years, rang an alarm bell in the depths of his reptilian brain. Ynky dropped on all fours just as Sam squeezed the trigger.

  The first blast ventilated his top hat in a most alarming manner. And the second blast, which came as he scuttled at speed through the main doorway of the Shady Nook Cafe, gave him the doubtful distinction of being the first lizard of Woz to sport a perforated tail complete with ornamental lead inlay. But he did not stop to admire the result. For Sam had followed him onto the highway, and was inserting fresh shells in his shotgun.

  Ynky scuttled back to his saucer in nothing flat. He rendered it visible once more, and jumped in as Sam’s third blast rattled harmlessly against the hull. Ynky kicked the controls. With a great whoosh, the saucer did a vertical takeoff and shot up to fifty thousand feet at a velocity which did not improve the digestive state of a dozen bananas, oranges, and apples—also six quarts of milk. They seemed to be conspiring toward a minor rebellion in his third stomach.

  Presently the hiccups subsided, and Ynky was able to consider the condition of his tail. Besides being somewhat painful, it was also tattered, the red and purple hues assuming a distinctly unhealthy tonal value. He wiggled it experimentally. A new stab of pain leapfrogged along his spinal cord, but the tail responded. No permanent damage: merely a few embedded souvenirs of American hospitality.

  As an attempt to establish friendly contact with the natives, Ynky’s recent experience—though yielding valuable information concerning the instability of the species—was hardly an unqualified success. He relieved his feelings by stepping savagely on the accelerator, at the same time expressing his opinion of Sam Goodwin and his Shady Nook Cafe in the singularly poetic lizard tongue of Woz.

  By the time he had run out of suitable adjectives, his flying saucer had crossed the rest of the United States, the Pacific Ocean, the Sea of Okhotsk, and was already halfway across the steppes of Central Asia. Pausing for a while to inspect the somewhat different terrain, Ynky was gratified to discover vast tracts of wilderness as yet relatively unspoiled by the hand of Homo sapiens.

  In fact, the only evidence of human stupidity was a symbolic metal snake that rippled lugubriously across the continent for hundreds of miles. Ynky realized, of course, that although mankind had partly emerged from the Stone Age, it had not yet discarded the archaic system of rail transport. But for a lizard whose home planet had developed the more efficient methods of time travel and teleportation, the Trans-Siberian Railway was not without a certain mild historical fascination.

  Somewere between Omsk and Tomsk, Ynky—whose tall had now ceased throbbing—decided to drop down and investigate. At a point where an apparently disused' road intersected the railway, there was a single stone hive, obviously the dwelling of a biped. Here would be an excellent opportunity to reestablish friendly contact for the purpose of culture analysis, while at the same time watching the trains go by.

  Ynky touched his flying saucer down about fifty yards from the house of one Ivan Sergeyevitch Poushov, who had had the honor of being a Stakhanovite crossing keeper of the Soviet Union ever since the nineteen-thirty-six purge had accounted for his predecessor. This time Ynky did not bother to render the saucer invisible. It would be easier to locate if he should again need to depart rapidly.

  Ivan Sergeyevitch had observed the saucer’s arrival with some apprehension. It had not come from the direction of Moscow, but then the ways of the political police are inscrutable. Hastily he polished his shoes, combed his beard, and went out to greet his visitor—at the same time mentally preparing himself to deny everything.

  “Greetings, Comrade,” said Ivan Sergeyevitch, gazing at Ynky and privately marveling at the lengths to which the political police will go in the matter of disguise.

  “Greetings,” responded Ynky cautiously. “I am Ynkwysytyv of Woz.”

  “And I, Excellency, am Poushov of Slobovanutsky Crossing.” Ivan Sergeyevitch hesitated, then added tentatively, “I trust, Comrade, that you will do me the honor of taking a glass of vodka at my unworthy table? We will drink to the health of our heroic collective leadership.”

  “I have no doubt,” retorted Ynky, “that your heroic collective leadership would be much improved by fumigation. Incidentally, we lizards of Woz do not approve of alcohol—except for medical purposes.”

  At which point it began to dawn upon Ivan Sergeyevitch that Ynky might possibly not be a secret agent after all. He was forced to admit that the lizard skin looked genuine enough, and Ynky’s tail possessed an independence of movement that was slightly suggestive of western decadence. But clearly, an error of judgment in this delicate matter might well prove fatal.

  “Excellency,” said Ivan Sergeyevitch, “pardon the stupidity of a politically enlightened though culturally confused crossing keeper, but where is Woz?”

  “In a more select residential area of the galaxy.’* “Permit me to ask,” continued Ivan Sergeyevitch, surprised at his own temerity, “how one gets there?”

  Ynky gave him a superior lizard smile. “One turns sharp left after the Pole Star and continues straight ahead for five hundred light-years.”

  “It is, perhaps, a satellite?”

  “Certainly not!” exclaimed Ynky with indignation. “It is a world of the first magnitude.”

  “No doubt recently liberated by the glorious Red Army?” pursued Ivan Sergeyevitch.

  Ynky shook his head scornfully. “Your mother was an idiot, your father was an imbecile, and you are in a state of intellectual delirium. Fumigation will be an act of mercy.”

  By this time Ivan Sergeyevitch had reached a definite conclusion. This strange visitor could not possibly be a member of the secret police. No M.V.D. agent would ever stoop to wearing a morning hat. His self-confidence returned.

  “Woz is not, then, a Communist state?” he asked. “Blockhead! Why should intelligent lizards descend to Communism?”

  “If it is not a Communist state,” reasoned Ivan Sergeyevitch grimly, “it is therefore a reactionary capitalist fascist democracy. I trust the proletariat is organized?”

  “We have no proletariat.”

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Ivan Sergeyevitch. “You would not liquidate all the workers!”

  “My friend,” said Ynky gently, “there were no workers to liquidate. We use robots.”

  Ivan Sergeyevitch thrust his beard out aggressively. “Barbaric! How long have these unfortunate robots been exploited?”

  “About twenty thousand years.”

  “What sublime endurance!” breathed Ivan Sergeyevitch in awe. “I expect the revolution will be unusually bloody.” Ynky yawned. “Poushov, you bore me. Fumigation of the planet seems to be inevitabl
e. . .. Incidentally, when is the next train due?”

  “Tomorrow, Excellency—or is it the day after? Perhaps you would care to wait. I cannot guarantee that it will stop, you understand.”

  “But I,” said Ynky with a bland smile, “can guarantee that presently everything will stop. Meanwhile, I will pursue my investigations elsewhere. Good morning.”

  “One moment, Excellency. Permit me to present you with a small souvenir of this historic meeting.” Ivan Sergeyevitch ran back into his cottage and returned a couple of minutes later with a small metal box to which a key was fixed. “It is a machine designed to cure fatigue and sleeplessness,” he explained. “Especially for intellectuals such as yourself, Excellency. Many of our prominent party members have given similar models to their closest friends. The results proved highly satisfactory.” Ivan Sergeyevitch gave the key a few turns, then handed the box to Ynky.

  The lizard examined it carefully. “A most interesting example of peasant craftsmanship,” he announced. “I presume it develops psychostatic induction?”

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Ivan Sergeyevitch. “I trust your honor will have a pleasant journey.”

  “Thank you,” said Ynky. “I am almost inclined to change my mind and recommend you for slave labor.” With these expressions of mutual regard, Ivan Sergeyevitch returned to his cottage, and Ynky to his saucer. The crossing keeper watched Ynky’s vertical takeoff with a crafty smile. The mysterious flying machine was impressive, but definitely not to be compared with the wonderful MIGs that Ivan Sergeyevitch had read about. Besides, was not the saucer the product of a capitalistic economy?

  Ivan Sergeyevitch was pleased with his morning’s work on three counts. First, by a process of brilliant deduction, he had eliminated the possibility of Ynky being a member of the secret police. Second, he had unmasked the visitor as a capitalist spy. Third, he had struck a blow for the martyred robots of Woz. For his present to Ynky was an ingenious relic of the scorched-earth program devised by the military genius of the late Comrade Stalin. It had been originally intended for the benefit of occupation forces.

  Ivan Sergeyevitch arrived at an intelligent decision. He would write a report about the incident. This, perhaps, would facilitate his promotion to the coveted post of assistant ticket collector at Tomsk.

  Meanwhile, Ynky had climbed to thirty thousand feet and was proceeding southward in a leisurely fashion at three times the speed of sound. After the desolate stretches of Siberia, he was of a mind to sample terrestrial life in a tropical area. Possibly there would be a more amusing local variation.

  He had crossed Sinkiang, Tibet, Burma, and Siam, and was cruising slowly around the Malay Archipelago to choose an island suitable for investigation. Unfortunately, just as he was over the middle of the South China Sea, Ivan Sergeyevitch’s time bomb—one of the few serviceable ones to be manufactured—blew the flying saucer’s turret off in a most abrupt fashion.

  For Ynky in his confined cabin, the sound effect was like a hundred cymbals being clashed together. But eventually the vibrations died down, and he discovered much to his surprise that although his morning coat was now reduced to a few strands of tattered fiber, he personally was intact. Except for the fact that his tail had turned white with shock.

  It was then that the resourcefulness for which lizards of Woz are justly renowned came to his aid. Ynky saw that the South China Sea was coming up toward him more rapidly than he would have wished, and that presentiy he would be a very wet lizard. He promptly switched on the antigravity beam and the emergency superheated steam rockets. The antigravity beam, being quite disorientated, tipped the saucer upside down, but Ynky hung on by his tail, and with the aid of the steam rockets gained a certain rudimentary control. He promptly headed for the nearest piece of land, which, as it happened, was the tiny jungle island of Komodo.

  By a superb feat of saucer balancing, Ynky managed to crash land in a grove of palm trees. By the time it had stopped raining coconuts, he had recovered from the ordeal sufficiently to wriggle out of the saucer and inspect the damage. Despondently he concluded that the repairs would take at least three days. At the end of which, he promised himself grimly, he would return to Slobovanutsky Crossing and deal with Ivan Sergeyevitch in such a way that he would yearn for the blissful release of fumigation.

  Absorbed as he was in contemplating the damage to the saucer’s turret and the prospect of a just vengeance, Ynky was unaware that he was no longer alone. Finally a discreet breathing on the back of his neck caused him to turn around.

  He was confronted with the most wonderful, the most sylphlike, the most radiantly beautiful female he had ever seen. Her eyes were wide with innocence and deep with mystery. Her lovely sinuous body was a poem in plastic art. She wore a dazzling smile, and the air of one whose gentle form somehow concealed hot, unquenchable fires. Which in a way was true, since she happened to be a carnivorous Komodo dragon.

  “I—I—I.. .” began Ynky in the lizard tongue which is conveniently universal. But then words failed him. He had never seen anything like this on Woz.

  “Are you in trouble?” she asked in a voice that was at once as sweet as a siren and husky with a strange longing.

  ’ “No, dear lady,” said Ynky, pulling himself together. “I am in paradise. . . . Never have I seen such perfection of form! I feel that I have journeyed five hundred light-years just for this moment.”

  The Komodo dragon’s five-foot tail shivered slightly, and she blushed. “I bet you say that to all the lizards.”

  “Angel,” confessed Ynky, remembering the Senior Administrator’s daughter, “it is true that there were others. But they meant nothing. Until now, I have never lived. ... Incidentally, my name is Ynkwysytyv. But you may call me Ynky.”

  She held out her hand, and Ynky was entranced by the razor-sharp talons. “I am a Komodo dragon,” she murmured softly. “But just call me Kanna-Belle.”

  “Kanna-Belle!” exclaimed Ynky in rapture. “What a perfect name.”

  The Komodo dragon blushed once again. “It is unusual, isn’t it?”

  “So tender, so appropriate,” said Ynky.

  The Komodo dragon smiled, displaying rows of flawless teeth. “Oh, well, if you say so.” She turned toward the flying saucer. “Tell me, dear Ynky, what is that peculiar thing?”

  Ynky puffed out his chest and explained his mission.

  “Theoretically,” he concluded, “I should repair the saucer and take my report back to Woz. But, beloved, I can’t possibly recommend fumigation of the planet where we first set eyes on each other.”

  “I should think not,” said the Komodo dragon indignantly. “Especially as I have no desire to emigrate. I am perfectly well adjusted to my present environment, thank you.”

  “But there is my duty to consider,” said Ynky sadly. “Although you may not be aware of it, Kanna-Belle, the lizards of Woz are the most enlightened in the galaxy. Destiny has chosen us for the creation of a galactic empire which will be a monument to the indomitability of the lizard spirit for all time.”

  “How terribly aggressive you are,” said the Komodo dragon demurely. “It frightens me.”

  Ynky, who had completely lost his heart to this adorable creature, threw himself at her feet and said, “Kanna-Belle, I cannot bear to make you unhappy. If only it were possible for me to stay with you in this delicious paradise.”

  The Komodo dragon looked thoughtful. “Perhaps that can be arranged,” she whispered. And her voice held such promise that Ynky forgot all about fumigation and galactic empires.

  He leaped up exultantly. “My darling, why not? We will be inseparable.”

  “Forever,” agreed the Komodo dragon with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “The perfect partnership,” said Ynky. “My brains and your beauty.”

  “Indissolubly united,” smiled Kanna-Belle, coiling her long and magnificent tail. “In life, and also in death. . . . Forgive me for mentioning it, my love, but I am really quite famished.”

  W
hereupon two hundred pounds of muscle uncoiled with the speed of a whiplash and the function of a blackjack. Ynky was permitted one moment of horrified disbelief before his confused brain was efficiently homogenized. He hit the ground with a reproachful sigh.

  The Komodo dragon measured his corpse critically and

  129

  shook her head. Ynky was just a trifle undernourished by Komodo standards.

  “Much better, my love,” she soliloquized sadly, “than a broken heart.... And how noble to perish for an ideal!”

  Then she sat down and systematically ate him.

  And this, my friends, is the true reason why Earth will not be fumigated for at least a couple of centuries, why Sam Goodwin’s Shady Nook Cafe has been remodeled as The Flying Saucer Roadhouse, why Ivan Sergeyevitch Poushov is an assistant ticket collector at Tomsk, and why Kanna-Belle, the Komodo dragon, has a snug circular apartment in the jungle—with atomic air conditioning!

  WELCOME HOME

  The United Nations ship swooped low like a kingfisher over the vast desert, then rose suddenly in a bright arc of ascent as if she had decided that Mars was not worth exploring anyway. But at ten thousand meters the swift climb died into a moment of motionless beauty; and she sat lightly on a tail of green flame, suspended between stars and destination, until imperceptibly the flame shortened and she sank gently toward the arid waste.

  Touch-down was smooth and undramatic. So smooth that it might have been the hundredth touch-down of a regular interplanetary ship handled by a bored and seasoned crew. As it happened, however, this was an occasion—one that would eventually become a date in a history book to plague the memory of small boys—for neither the United Nations ship nor any other terrestrial vehicle had visited the Red Planet before. And her crew were the first human beings to venture farther than the moon.

  They were, however, all fairly experienced space travelers. Colonel Maxim Krenin, the director of the expedition and pilot of the Pax Mundi, had made the Earth-moon shoot five times. He had also made more than a score of lunar test shoots. So had Commander Howard Thrace, the navigator. And besides providing a very notable example of Russo-American technical cooperation, these two were firm personal friends.