Earth Is The Strangest Planet

by Robert Silverberg

  They took the boat and the field glasses, and went close in to examine the place. They made out a number of big ants, whose still postures had a certain effect of watching them, dotted about the edge of the rude embarkation jetty. Gerilleau tried ineffectual pistol shots at these. Holroyd thinks he distinguished curious earthworks running between the nearer houses, that may have been the work of the insect conquerors of those human habitations. The explorers pulled past the jetty, and became aware of a human skeleton wearing a loin cloth, and very bright and clean and shining, lying beyond. They came to a pause regarding this… .

  “I ’ave all dose lives to consider,” said Gerilleau suddenly.

  Holroyd turned and stared at the captain, realizing slowly that he referred to the unappetizing mixture of races that constituted his crew.

  “To send a landing party—it is impossible—impossible. They will be poisoned, they will swell, they will swell up and abuse me and die. It is totally impossible. … If we land, I must land alone, alone, in thick boots and with my life in my hand. Perhaps I should live. Or again—I might not land. I do not know. I do not know.”

  Holroyd thought he did, but he said nothing.

  “De whole thing,” said Gerilleau suddenly, “ ’as been got up to make me ridiculous. De whole thing!”

  They paddled about and regarded the clean white skeleton from various points of view, and then they returned to the gunboat. Then Gerilleau’s indecisions became terrible. Steam was got up, and in the afternoon the monitor went on up the river with an air of going to ask somebody something, and by sunset came back again and anchored. A thunderstorm gathered and broke furiously, and then the night became beautifully cool and quiet and everyone slept on deck. Except Gerilleau, who tossed about and muttered. In the dawn he awakened Holroyd.

  “Lord!” said Holroyd, “what now?”

  “I have decided,” said the captain.

  “What—to land?” said Holroyd, sitting up brightly.

  “No!” said the captain, and was for a time very reserved. “I have decided,” he repeated, and Holroyd manifested symptoms of impatience.

  “Well—yes,” said the captain. “/ shall fire de big gun!”

  And he did! Heaven knows what the ants thought of it, but he did. He fired it twice with great sternness and ceremony. All the crew had wadding in their ears, and there was an effect of going into action about the whole affair, and first they hit and wrecked the old sugar mill, and then they smashed the abandoned store behind the jetty. And then Gerilleau experienced the inevitable reaction.

  “It is no good,” he said to Holroyd; “no good at all. No sort of bally good. We must go back—for instructions. Dere will be de devil of a row about his ammunition—oh! de devil of a row! You don’t know, ’Olroyd… .”

  He stood regarding the world in infinite perplexity for a space.

  “But what else was there to do?” he cried.

  In the afternoon the monitor started downstream again, and in the evening a landing party took the body of the lieutenant and buried it on the bank upon which the new ants had not so far appeared… .

  IV

  I heard this story—in a fragmentary state—from Holroyd not three weeks ago.

  These new ants have got into his brain, and he has come back to England with the idea, as he says, of “exciting people” about them “before it is too late.” He said they threaten British Guiana, which cannot be much over a trifle of a thousand miles from their present sphere of activity, and that the Colonial Office ought to get to work upon them at once. He declaims with great passion: “These are intelligent ants. Just think what that means!”

  There can be no doubt they are a serious pest, and that the Brazilian government is well advised in offering a prize of five hundred pounds for some effectual method of extirpation. It is certain, too, that since they first appeared in the hills beyond Badama, about three years ago, they have achieved extraordinary conquests. The whole of the south bank of the Batemo River, for nearly sixty miles, they have in their effectual occupation; they have driven men out completely, occupied plantations and settlements, and boarded and captured at least one ship. It is even said they have in some inexplicable way bridged the very considerable Capuarana arm and pushed many miles towards the Amazon itself. There can be little doubt that they are far more reasonable and with a far better social organization than any previously known ant species; instead of being in-dispersed societies they are organized into what is in effect a single nation; but their peculiar and immediate formidableness lies not so much in this as in the intelligent use they make of poison against their larger enemies. It would seem this poison of theirs is closely akin to snake poison, and it is highly probable they actually manufacture it, and that the larger individuals among them carry the needlelike crystals of it in their attacks upon men.

  Of course, it is extremely difficult to get any detailed information about these new competitors for the sovereignty of the globe. No eyewitnesses of their activity, except for such glimpses as Holroyd’s, have survived the encounter. The most extraordinary legends of their prowess and capacity are in circulation in the region of the upper Amazon, and grow daily as the steady advance of the invader stimulates men’s imaginations through their fears. These strange little creatures are credited not only with the use of .implements and a knowledge of fire and metals and with organized feats of engineering that stagger our northern minds—unused as we are to such feats as that of the Saubas of Rio de Janeiro, who in 1841 drove a tunnel under the Parahyba where it is as wide as the Thames at London Bridge—but with an organized and detailed method of record and communication analogous to our books. So far their action has been a steady progressive settlement, involving the flight or slaughter of every human being in the new areas they invade. They are increasing rapidly in numbers, and Holroyd at least is firmly convinced that they will finally dispossess man over the whole of tropical South America.

  And why should they stop at tropical South America?

  Well, there they are, anyhow. By 1911 or thereabouts, if they go on as they are doing, they ought to strike the Capuarana Extension Railway, and force themselves upon the attention of the European capitalist.

  By 1920 they will be halfway down the Amazon. I fix 1950 or 1960 at the latest for the discovery of Europe.

  THE NIGHT THAT ALL TIME BROKE OUT

  Brian W. Aldiss

  This is not a very serious story. I think H. G. Wells, when he wrote “The Empire of the Ants” really wanted the reader to believe, at least while reading, that such horrors might lurk in the tropics. I think Robert Abernathy would like us to believe in his rotifers, Raymond Gallun in his deep-sea denizens, maybe even Nelson Bond in his giant bird. But, although I am not privy to what was going on in Brian Aldiss’ mind when he wrote “The Night That All Time Broke Out ” I suspect that he never took “time gas” seriously as a likely scientific concept, nor does he really want us to. No, I think that this genial, high-spirited British author, famed for such soaring works of imagination as The Long Afternoon of Earth and Greybeard, was simply having fun, treating himself—and us—to a playful romp, the day he dreamed up time gas and turned it loose.

  * * *

  The dentist bowed her smiling to the door, dialing a cab for her as he went. It alighted on the balcony as she emerged.

  It was a non-automatic type, old-fashioned enough to be considered chic. Fifi Fevertrees smiled dazzlingly at the driver and climbed in.

  “Extra-city service,” she said. “The village of Rouse-ville, off Route Z-Four.”

  “You live in the country, huh?” said the cab driver, sailing up into the pseudo-blue, and steering like a madman with one foot.

  “The country’s okay,” Fifi said defensively. She hesitated and then decided she could allow herself to boast. “Besides, it’s even better now they got the time mains out there. We’re just being connected to the time main at our house—it should be finished when I get home.”

  The cabby
shrugged. “Reckon it’s costly out in the country.”

  “Three payts a basic unit.”

  He whistled significantly.

  She wanted to tell him more, wanted to tell him how excited she was, how she wished Daddy were alive to experience the fun of being on the time main. But it was difficult to say anything with a thumb in her mouth, as she looked into her wrist mirror and probed to see what the dentist had done to her.

  He’d done a good job. The new little pearly tooth was already growing firmly in the pink gum. Fifi decided she had a very sexy mouth, just as Tracey said. And the dentist had removed the old tooth by time gas. So simple. Just a whiff of it and she was back in the day before yesterday, reliving that pleasant little interlude when she had taken coffee with Peggy Hackenson, with not a thought of any pain. Time gas was so smart these days. She positively glowed to think they would have it themselves, on tap all the while.

  The bubble cab soared up and out of one of the dilating ports of the great dome that covered the city. Fifi felt a momentary sorrow at leaving. The cities were so pleasant nowadays that nobody wished to live outside them. Everything was double as expensive outside, too, but fortunately the government paid a hardship allowance for anyone like the Fevertrees, who had to live in the country.

  In a couple of minutes they were sailing down to the ground again. Fifi pinpointed their dairy farm, and the cabby set them neatly down on their landing balcony before holding out his paw for an extortionate number of kilopayts. Only when he had the cash did he lean back and unlock Fifi’s door with one foot. You couldn’t put a thing over these chimp drivers.

  She forgot all about him as she hurried down through the house. This was the day of days! It had taken the builders two months to install the central timing—two weeks longer than they had originally anticipated—and everywhen had been an awful muddle all that time, as the men trundled their pipes and wires through every room. Now all was orderly once more. She positively danced down the stairs to find her husband.

  Tracy Fevertrees was standing in the kitchen, talking to the builder. When his wife burst in, he turned and took her hand, smiling in a way that was merely soothing to her, though it disturbed the slumbers of many a local Rouseville maiden. But his good looks could hardly match her beauty when she was excited, as she was at present.

  “Is it all in working order?” she asked.

  “There is just one last-minute snag,” Mr. Archibald Smith said grudgingly.

  “Oh, there’s always a last-minute snag! We’ve had fifteen of them in the last week, Mr. Smith. What now?”

  “It’s nothing that should affect you here. It’s just that, as you know, we had to pipe the time gas rather a long way to you from the main supply down at Rouseville works, and we seem to have a bit of trouble maintaining pressure. There’s talk of a nasty leak at the main pit in the works, which they’re having a job to plug. But that shouldn’t worry you.”

  “We’ve tested it all out here and it seems to work fine,” Tracey said to his wife. “Come on and I’ll show you!”

  They shook hands with Mr. Smith, who showed a traditional builderly reluctance to leave the site of his labors. Finally he moved off, promising to be back in the morning to pick up a last bag of tools, and Tracey and Fifi were left alone with their new toy.

  Among all the other kitchen equipment, the time panel hardly stood out. It was situated next to the nuclear unit, a discreet little fixture with a dozen small dials and twice that number of toggle switches.

  He pointed out to her how the time pressures had been set: low for corridors and offices, higher for bedrooms, variable for the living room. She rubbed herself against him and made an imitation purr.

  “You are thrilled, aren’t you, honey?” she asked.

  “I keep thinking of the bills we have to pay. And the bills to come—three payts a basic unit—wow!” Then he saw her look of disappointment and added, “But of course I love it, darling. You know I’m going to be delighted.”

  Then they bustled through the house, with the controls on. In the kitchen itself, they set themselves back to a recent early midmorning. They floated in time past at the time of day Fifi favored most for kitchen work, when the breakfast chores were over and it was long before the hour when lunch need be planned and dialed. Fifi and Tracey had selected a morning when she had been feeling particularly calm and well; the entire ambiance of that period swept over them now.

  “Marvelous! Delicious! I can do anything, cook you anything, now!”

  They kissed each other, and ran into the corridor, crying, “Isn’t science wonderful!”

  They stopped abruptly. “Oh no!” Fifi cried.

  The corridor was in perfect order, the drapes in place and gleaming metallically by the two windows, controlling the amount of light that entered, storing the surplus for off-peak hours, the creep-carpet in place and resprayed, carrying them smoothly forward, the paneling all warm and soft to the touch. But they were time-controlled back to three o’clock of an afternoon a month ago, a peaceful time of day—except that a month ago the builders had been at work here.

  “Honey, they’ll ruin the carpet! And I just know the paneling will not go back properly! Oh, Tracey, look— they’ve disconnected the drapes, and Smithy promised not to!”

  He clutched her shoulder. “Honey, everything’s in order, honest!”

  “It’s not! It’s not in order! Look at these dirty old time tubes everywhere, and all these cables hanging about! They’ve ruined our lovely dust-absorbent ceiling—look at the way it’s leaking dirt over everything/”

  “Honey, it’s the time effect!” But he had to admit that he could not credit the perfect corridor his eyes registered; he was carried away like Fifi by his emotions of a month ago when he viewed the place as it had been then, in the hands of Smithy and his terrible men.

  They reached the end of the passage and jumped into the bedroom, escaping into another time zone. Peeping back through the door, Fifi said tearfully, “Gosh, Trace, the power of time! I guess we just have to alter the controls for the corridor, eh?”

  “Sure, we’ll tune in to a year ago, say a nice summer’s afternoon along the passage. You name it, we dial it! That’s the motto of Central Time Board, isn’t it? Anyhow, how do you like the time in here?”

  After gazing round the bedroom, she lowered her long lashes at him, “Mm, sort of relaxed, isn’t it?”

  “Two o’clock in the morning, honey, early spring, and everyone in the whole zone sleeping tight. We aren’t likely to suffer from insomnia now!”

  She came and stood against him, leaning on his chest and looking up at him. “You don’t think that maybe eleven at night would be a more—well, bedroomy time?”

  “You know I prefer the sofa for that sort of thing, honey. Come and sit on it with me and see what you think about the living room.”

  The living room was one flight down, with only the garage and the dairy on the two floors below between them and the ground. It was a fine large room with fine large windows looking over the landscape to the distant dome of the city, and it had a fine large sofa standing in the middle of it.

  They sat down on this voluptuous sofa and, past associations being what they were, commenced to cuddle. After a while Tracey reached down to the floor and pulled up a hand-switcher that was plugged into the wall.

  “We can control our own time from here, without getting up, Fifi! You name the time and we flip back to it.”

  “If you’re thinking of what I think you’re thinking, then we’d better not go back more than ten months because we weren’t married before that.”

  “Now, come on, Mrs. Fevertrees, are you getting old-fashioned or something? You never let that thought bother you before we were married.”

  “I did too!—Though maybe more after than at the time, when I was sort of carried away.”

  He stroked her pretty hair gently. “Tell you what I thought we could try sometime—dial back to when you were twelve. You must have bee
n very sexy in your preteens, and I’d sure as hell love to find out. How about it?” She was about to deliver some conventional female rebuke, but her imagination got the better of her. “We could work back to when we were tots!”

  “Attaboy! You know I have a touch of the Lolita complex!”

  “Trace—we must be careful unless in our excitement we shoot back past the day we were born, or we’ll wind up little blobs of protoplasm or something.”

  “Honey, you read the brochures! When we get up enough pressure to go right past our birth dates, we simply enter the consciousness of our nearest predecessors of the same sex—you your mother, me my father, and then your grandmother and my grandfather. Farther back than that, time pressure in the Rouseville mains won’t let us go.”

  Conversation languished under other interests until Fifi murmured dreamily, “What a heavenly invention time is! Know what, even when we’re old and gray and impotent, we’ll be able to come back and enjoy ourselves as we were when we were young. We’ll dial back to this very instant, won’t we?”

  “Mmmm,” he said. It was a universally shared sentiment.

  That evening, they dined off a huge synthetic lobster. In her excitement over being on the time mains, Fifi had somehow dialed a slightly incorrect mixture—though she swore there was a misprint in the cookbook programming she had fed the kitchputer—and the dish was not all it should be. But they dialed themselves back to the time of one of the first and finest lobsters they had ever eaten together, shortly after their meeting two years before. The remembered taste took off the disappointment of the present taste.

  While they were eating, the pressure went.

  There was no sound. Externally, all was the same. But inside their heads, they felt themselves whirling through the days like leaves blown over a moor. Mealtimes came and went, and the lobster was sickening in their mouths as they seemed to chew in turn turkey, or cheese, or game, or trifle or sponge pudding or ice cream or breakfast cereal. For several mind-wrenching moments they sat there at table, petrified, while hundreds of assorted tastes chased themselves over their taste buds. Tracey jumped up gasping and cut off the time flow entirely at the switch by the door.