The Robert Sheckley Megapack

by Robert Sheckley

  The chief thought it over for a little while. Then he shook his head.

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “You are aliens. If you want to do this disgraceful thing, do it. But you shall not profane our religious relics.”

  * * * *

  Donnaught and Fannia staggered to their feet. Fannia was exhausted from fighting in the heavy space armor; he barely made it up.

  “Now,” the chief said, “surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us.”

  The thousands of warriors—possibly millions, because more were arriving every second—shouted their blood-wrath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills, where more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain.

  Fannia’s face contorted. He couldn’t give himself and Donnaught up to the Cascellans. They might be cooked at the next church supper. For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fools suicide all they pleased.

  His mind an angry blank, Fannia staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with a mailed glove.

  The chief went down, and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly, the chief snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. Fannia’s hands closed on the chief’s wrists.

  “Listen to me,” Fannia croaked. “We’re going to take that fuel. If any man makes a move—if anyone kills himself—I’ll kill your chief.”

  The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling wildly in Fannia’s hands, trying to get a knife to his throat, so he could die honorably.

  “Get it,” Fannia told Donnaught, “and hurry it up.”

  The natives were uncertain just what to do. They had their knives poised at their throats, ready to plunge if battle was joined.

  “Don’t do it,” Fannia warned. “I’ll kill the chief and then he’ll never die a warrior’s death.”

  The chief was still trying to kill himself. Desperately, Fannia held on, knowing he had to keep him from suicide in order to hold the threat of death over him.

  “Listen, Chief,” Fannia said, eying the uncertain crowd. “I must have your promise there’ll be no more war between us. Either I get it or I kill you.”

  “Warriors!” the chief roared. “Choose a new ruler. Forget me and do battle!”

  The Cascellans were still uncertain, but knives started to lift.

  “If you do it,” Fannia shouted in despair, “I’ll kill your chief. I’ll kill all of you!”

  That stopped them.

  “I have powerful magic in my ship. I can kill every last man, and then you won’t be able to die a warrior’s death. Or get to heaven!”

  The chief tried to free himself with a mighty surge that almost tore one of his arms free, but Fannia held on, pinning both arms behind his back.

  “Very well,” the chief said, tears springing into his eyes. “A warrior must die by his own hand. You have won, alien.”

  The crowd shouted curses as the Earthmen carried the chief and the cans of fuel back to the ship. They waved their knives and danced up and down in a frenzy of hate.

  “Let’s make it fast,” Fannia said, after Donnaught had fueled the ship.

  He gave the chief a push and leaped in. In a second they were in the air, heading for Thetis and the nearest bar at top speed.

  The natives were hot for blood—their own. Every man of them pledged his life to wiping out the insult to their leader and god, and to their shrine.

  But the aliens were gone. There was nobody to fight.

  THE HOUR OF BATTLE

  “That hand didn’t move, did it?” Edwardson asked, standing at the port, looking at the stars.

  “No,” Morse said. He had been staring fixedly at the Attison Detector for over an hour. Now he blinked three times rapidly, and looked again. “Not a millimeter.”

  “I don’t think it moved either,” Cassel added, from behind the gunfire panel. And that was that. The slender black hand of the indicator rested unwaveringly on zero. The ship’s guns were ready, their black mouths open to the stars. A steady hum filled the room. It came from the Attison Detector, and the sound was reassuring. It reinforced the fact that the Detector was attached to all the other Detectors, forming a gigantic network around Earth.

  “Why in hell don’t they come?” Edwardson asked, still looking at the stars. “Why don’t they hit?”

  “Aah, shut up,” Morse said. He had a tired, glum look. High on his right temple was an old radiation burn, a sunburst of pink scar tissue. From a distance it looked like a decoration.

  “I just wish they’d come,” Edwardson said. He returned from the port to his chair, bending to clear the low metal ceiling. “Don’t you wish they’d come?” Edwardson had the narrow, timid face of a mouse; but a highly intelligent mouse. One that cats did well to avoid.

  “Don’t you?” he repeated.

  The other men didn’t answer. They had settled back to their dreams, staring hypnotically at the Detector face.

  “They’ve had enough time,” Edwardson said, half to himself.

  Cassel yawned and licked his lips. “Anyone want to play some gin?” he asked, stroking his beard. The beard was a memento of his undergraduate days. Cassel maintained he could store almost fifteen minutes’ worth of oxygen in its follicles. He had never stepped into space unhelmeted to prove it.

  Morse looked away, and Edwardson automatically watched the indicator. This routine had been drilled into them, branded into their subconscious. They would as soon have cut their throats as leave the indicator unguarded.

  “Do you think they’ll come soon?” Edwardson asked, his brown rodent’s eyes on the indicator. The men didn’t answer him. After two months together in space their conversational powers were exhausted. They weren’t interested in Cassel’s undergraduate days, or in Morse’s conquests.

  They were bored to death even with their own thoughts and dreams, bored with the attack they expected momentarily.

  “Just one thing I’d like to know,” Edwardson said, slipping with ease into an old conversational gambit. “How far can they do it?”

  They had talked for weeks about the enemy’s telepathic range, but they always returned to it.

  As professional soldiers, they couldn’t help but speculate on the enemy and his weapons. It was their shop talk.

  “Well,” Morse said wearily, “Our Detector network covers the system out beyond Mars’ orbit.”

  “Where we sit,” Cassel said, watching the indicators now that the others were talking.

  “They might not even know we have a detection unit working,” Morse said, as he had said a thousand times.

  “Oh, stop,” Edwardson said, his thin face twisted in scorn. “They’re telepathic. They must have read every bit of stuff in Everset’s mind.”

  “Everset didn’t know we had a detection unit,” Morse said, his eyes returning to the dial. “He was captured before we had it.”

  “Look,” Edwardson said, “They ask him, ‘Boy, what would you do if you knew a telepathic race was coming to take over Earth? How would you guard the planet?’”

  “Idle speculation,” Cassel said. “Maybe Everset didn’t think of this.”

  “He thinks like a man, doesn’t he? Everyone agreed on this defense. Everset would, too.”

  “Syllogistic,” Cassel murmured. “Very shaky.”

  “I sure wish he hadn’t been captured,” Edwardson said.

  “It could have been worse,” Morse put in, his face sadder than ever. “What if they’d captured both of them?”

  “I wish they’d come,” Edwardson said.

  * * * *

  Richard Everset and C. R. Jones had gone on the first interstellar flight. They had found an inhabited planet in the region of Vega. The rest was standard procedure.

  A flip of the coin had decided it. Everset went down in the scouter, maintaining radio contact with Jones, in the ship.

  The recording of that contact was preserved for all Earth to hear.


  “Just met the natives,” Everset said. “Funny-looking bunch. Give you the physical description later.”

  “Are they trying to talk to you?” Jones asked, guiding the ship in a slow spiral over the planet.

  “No. Hold it. Well I’m damned! They’re telepathic! How do you like that?”

  “Great,” Jones said. “Go on.”

  “Hold it. Say, Jonesy, I don’t know as I like these boys. They haven’t got nice minds. Brother!”

  “What is it?” Jones asked, lifting the ship a little higher.

  “Minds! These bastards are power-crazy. Seems they’ve hit all the systems around here, looking for someone to—”

  “Yeh?”

  “I’ve got that a bit wrong,” Everset said pleasantly. “They are not so bad.”

  Jones had a quick mind, a suspicious nature and good reflexes. He set the accelerator for all the G’s he could take, lay down on the floor and said, “Tell me more.”

  “Come on down,” Everset said, in violation of every law of spaceflight. “These guys are all right. As a matter of fact, they’re the most marvelous—”

  That was where the recording ended, because Jones was pinned to the floor by twenty G’s acceleration as he boosted the ship to the level needed for the C-jump.

  He broke three ribs getting home, but he got there.

  A telepathic species was on the march. What was Earth going to do about it?

  A lot of speculation necessarily clothed the bare bones of Jones’ information. Evidently the species could take over a mind with ease. With Everset, it seemed that they had insinuated their thoughts into his, delicately altering his previous convictions. They had possessed him with remarkable ease.

  How about Jones? Why hadn’t they taken him? Was distance a factor? Or hadn’t they been prepared for the suddenness of his departure?

  One thing was certain. Everything Everset knew, the enemy knew. That meant they knew where Earth was, and how defenseless the planet was to their form of attack.

  It could be expected that they were on their way.

  Something was needed to nullify their tremendous advantage. But what sort of something? What armor is there against thought? How do you dodge a wavelength?

  Pouch-eyed scientists gravely consulted their periodic tables.

  And how do you know when a man has been possessed? Although the enemy was clumsy with Everset, would they continue to be clumsy? Wouldn’t they learn?

  Psychologists tore their hair and bewailed the absence of an absolute scale for humanity.

  Of course, something had to be done at once. The answer, from a technological planet, was a technological one. Build a space fleet and equip it with some sort of a detection-fire network.

  This was done in record time. The Attison Detector was developed, a cross between radar and the electroencephalograph. Any alteration from the typical human brain wave pattern of the occupants of a Detector-equipped ship would boost the indicator around the dial. Even a bad dream or a case of indigestion would jar it.

  It seemed probable that any attempt to take over a human mind would disturb something. There had to be a point of interaction, somewhere.

  That was what the Attison Detector was supposed to detect. Maybe it would.

  The spaceships, three men to a ship, dotted space between Earth and Mars, forming a gigantic sphere with Earth in the center.

  Tens of thousands of men crouched behind gunfire panels, watching the dials on the Attison Detector.

  The unmoving dials.

  * * * *

  “Do you think I could fire a couple of bursts?” Edwardson asked, his fingers on the gunfire button. “Just to limber the guns?”

  “Those guns don’t need limbering,” Cassel said, stroking his beard. “Besides, you’d throw the whole fleet into a panic.”

  “Cassel,” Morse said, very quietly. “Get your hand off your beard.”

  “Why should I?” Cassel asked.

  “Because,” Morse answered, almost in a whisper, “I am about to ram it right down your fat throat.”

  Cassel grinned and tightened his fists. “Pleasure,” he said. “I’m tired of looking at that scar of yours.” He stood up.

  “Cut it,” Edwardson said wearily. “Watch the birdie.”

  “No reason to, really,” Morse said, leaning back. “There’s an alarm bell attached.” But he looked at the dial.

  “What if the bell doesn’t work?” Edwardson asked. “What if the dial is jammed? How would you like something cold slithering into your mind?”

  “The dial’ll work,” Cassel said. His eyes shifted from Edwardson’s face to the motionless indicator.

  “I think I’ll sack in,” Edwardson said.

  “Stick around,” Cassel said. “Play you some gin.”

  “All right.” Edwardson found and shuffled the greasy cards, while Morse took a turn glaring at the dial.

  “I sure wish they’d come,” he said.

  “Cut,” Edwardson said, handing the pack to Cassel.

  “I wonder what our friends look like,” Morse said, watching the dial.

  “Probably remarkably like us,” Edwardson said, dealing the cards. Cassel picked them up one by one, slowly, as if he hoped something interesting would be under them.

  “They should have given us another man,” Cassel said. “We could play bridge.”

  “I don’t play bridge,” Edwardson said.

  “You could learn.”

  “Why didn’t we send a task force?” Morse asked. “Why didn’t we bomb their planet?”

  “Don’t be dumb,” Edwardson said. “We’d lose any ship we sent. Probably get them back at us, possessed and firing.”

  “Knock with nine,” Cassel said.

  “I don’t give a good damn if you knock with a thousand,” Edwardson said gaily. “How much do I owe you now?”

  “Three million five hundred and eight thousand and ten. Dollars.”

  “I sure wish they’d come,” Morse said.

  “Want me to write a check?”

  “Take your time. Take until next week.”

  “Someone should reason with the bastards,” Morse said, looking out the port. Cassel immediately looked at the dial.

  “I just thought of something,” Edwardson said.

  “Yeh?”

  “I bet it feels horrible to have your mind grabbed,” Edwardson said. “I bet it’s awful.”

  “You’ll know when it happens,” Cassel said.

  “Did Everset?”

  “Probably. He just couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “My mind feels fine,” Cassel said. “But the first one of you guys starts acting queer—watch out.”

  They all laughed.

  “Well,” Edwardson said, “I’d sure like a chance to reason with them. This is stupid.”

  “Why not?” Cassel asked.

  “You mean go out and meet them?”

  “Sure,” Cassel said. “We’re doing no good sitting here.”

  “I should think we could do something,” Edwardson said slowly. “After all, they’re not invincible. They’re reasoning beings.”

  Morse punched a course on the ship’s tape, then looked up.

  “You think we should contact the command? Tell them what we’re doing?”

  “No!” Cassel said, and Edwardson nodded in agreement. “Red tape. We’ll just go out and see what we can do. If they won’t talk, we’ll blast ’em out of space.”

  “Look!”

  Out of the port they could see the red flare of a reaction engine; the next ship in their sector, speeding forward.

  “They must have got the same idea,” Edwardson said.

  “Let’s get there first,” Cassel said. Morse shoved the accelerator in and they were thrown back in their seats.

  “That dial hasn’t moved yet, has it?” Edwardson asked, over the clamor of the Detector alarm bell.

  “Not a move out of it,” Cassel said, looking at the dial with its indicator slam
med all the way over to the highest notch.

  KEEP YOUR SHAPE

  Pid the Pilot slowed the ship almost to a standstill, and peered anxiously at the green planet below.

  Even without instruments, there was no mistaking it. Third from its sun, it was the only planet in this system capable of sustaining life. Peacefully it swam beneath its gauze of clouds.

  It looked very innocent. And yet, twenty previous Grom expeditions had set out to prepare this planet for invasion—and vanished utterly, without a word.

  Pid hesitated only a moment, before starting irrevocably down. There was no point in hovering and worrying. He and his two crewmen were as ready now as they would ever be. Their compact Displacers were stored in body pouches, inactive but ready.

  Pid wanted to say something to his crew, but wasn’t sure how to put it.

  The crew waited. Ilg the Radioman had sent the final message to the Grom planet. Ger the Detector read sixteen dials at once, and reported, “No sign of alien activity.” His body surfaces flowed carelessly.

  * * * *

  Noticing the flow, Pid knew what to say to his crew. Ever since they had left Grom, shape-discipline had been disgustingly lax. The Invasion Chief had warned him; but still, he had to do something about it. It was his duty, since lower castes such as Radiomen and Detectors were notoriously prone to Shapelessness.

  “A lot of hopes are resting on this expedition,” he began slowly. “We’re a long way from home now.”

  Ger the Detector nodded. Ilg the Radioman flowed out of his prescribed shape and molded himself comfortably to a wall.

  “However,” Pid said sternly, “distance is no excuse for promiscuous Shapelessness.”

  Ilg flowed hastily back into proper Radioman’s shape.

  “Exotic forms will undoubtedly be called for,” Pid went on. “And for that we have a special dispensation. But remember—any shape not assumed strictly in the line of duty is a foul, lawless device of The Shapeless One!”

  Ger’s body surfaces abruptly stopped flowing.

  “That’s all,” Pid said, and flowed into his controls. The ship started down, so smoothly co-ordinated that Pid felt a glow of pride.

  They were good workers, he decided. He just couldn’t expect them to be as shape-conscious as a high-caste Pilot. Even the Invasion Chief had told him that.