Earth Is The Strangest Planet

by Robert Silverberg

  He had been pushing against the resisting rock for three hours now and his leg-muscles felt like hot pokers. In a few minutes he would have to turn back, if he wanted to leave himself a margin of safety. But he had been getting Ytt traces for an hour now, and they seemed to be getting stronger as he followed the probable course of the drift. The mother lode had to be a rich one—if he could only find it!

  It was time to start the long uphill return. Pete jerked a rock for a last test. He’d mark the spot and take up the search tomorrow. The test bulb flashed and he held the transparency against it.

  His body tensed and his heart began to thud heavily. He blinked and looked again—it was there! The tantalum lines burned through the weaker traces with a harsh brilliance. His hand was shaking as he jerked open his knee pocket. He had a comparison film from the White Owl claim, the richest in the territory. There wasn’t the slightest doubt— his was the richer ore!

  He took the half-crystals out of their cushioned pouch and gently placed the B crystal in the hole he had made when he removed the sample rock. No one else could ever find this spot without the other half of the same crystal, ground accurately to a single ultra-shortwave frequency. If half A was used to key the frequency of a signal generator, side B bounced back an echo of the same wave-length that would be picked up by a delicate receiver. In this way the crystal both marked the claim and enabled Pete to find his way back to it.

  He carefully stowed the A crystal in its cushioned compartment and started the long trek back to the surface. Walking was almost impossible; the old crystal in his walkthrough was deviating so far that he could scarcely push through the gluey earth. He could feel the imponderable mass of the half-mile of rock over his head, waiting to imprison him in its eternal grip. The only way to the surface was to follow the long hogback of granite until it finally cleared the surface.

  The crystal had been in continuous use now for over five hours. If he could only turn it off for a while, the whole unit would have a chance to cool down. His hand shook as he fumbled with his pack straps—he forced himself to slow down and do the job properly.

  He turned the hand neutralizer to full power and held the glowing rod at arm’s length before him. Out of the haze there suddenly materialized an eighteen-foot boulder of limestone, adjusted now to his own penetrating frequency. Gravity gripped the gigantic rock and it slowly sank. When it had cleared the level of the granite ledge, he turned off the neutralizer. There was a heavy crunch as the molecules of the boulder welded themselves firmly to those of the surrounding rock. Pete stepped into the artificial bubble he had formed in the rock and turned off his walk-through.

  With a suddenness that never ceased to amaze him, his hazy surroundings became solid walls of rock. His helmet light splashed off the sides of the little chamber, a bubble with no exit, one-half mile below the freezing Alaskan wastes.

  With a grunt of relief, Pete slipped out of his heavy pack and stretched his aching muscles. He had to conserve oxygen; that was the reason he had picked this particular spot. His artificial cave cut through a vein of RbO, rubidium oxide. It was a cheap and plentiful mineral, not worth mining this far north, but still the rock diver’s best friend.

  Pete rummaged in the pack for the airmaker and fastened its power pack to his belt. He thumbed the unit on and plunged the contact points into the RbO vein. The silent flash illuminating the chamber glinted on the white snow that was beginning to fall. The flakes of oxygen released by the airmaker melted before they touched the floor. The underground room was getting a life-giving atmosphere of its own. With air around him, he could open his faceplate and get some chow out of his pack.

  He cautiously cracked the helmet valve and sniffed. The air was good, although pressure was low—around twelve pounds. The oxygen concentration was a little too high; he giggled happily with a mild oxygen jag. Pete hummed tunelessly as he tore the cardboard wrapper from a ration pack.

  Cool water from the canteen washed down the tasteless hardtack, but he smiled, thinking of thick, juicy steaks. The claim would be assayed and mine owners’ eyes would bulge when they read the report. Then they would come to him. Dignified, sincere men clutching contracts in their well-manicured hands. He would sell to the highest bidder, the entire claim; let someone else do all the work for a change. They would level and surface this granite ridge and big pressure trucks would plow through the earth, bringing miners to and from the underground diggings. He relaxed against the curved wall of the bubble, smiling. He could see himself, bathed, shaven and manicured, walking into the Miners’ Rest… .

  The daydream vanished as two men in bulging sub-suits stepped through the rock wall. Their figures were transparent; their feet sank into the ground with each step. Both men suddenly jumped into the air; at mid-arc they switched off their walk-throughs. The figures gained solidity and landed heavily on the floor. They opened their faceplates and sniffed the air.

  The shorter man smiled. “It sure smells nice in here, right, Mo?”

  Mo was having trouble getting his helmet off; his voice rumbled out through the folds of cloth. “Right, Algie.” The helmet came free with a snap.

  Pete’s eyes widened at the sight, and Algie smiled a humorless grin. “Mo ain’t much to look at, but you could learn to like him.”

  Mo was a giant, seven feet from his boots to the crown of his bullet-shaped head, shaved smooth and glistening with sweat. He must have been born ugly, and Time had not improved him. His nose was flattened, one ear was little more than a rag, and a thick mass of white scar-tissue drew up his upper lip. Two yellow teeth gleamed through the opening.

  Pete slowly closed his canteen and stowed it in the pack. They might be honest rock divers, but they didn’t look it. “Anything I can do for you guys?” he asked.

  “No, thanks, pal,” said the short one, “we was just going by and saw the flash of your airmaker. We thought maybe it was one of our pals, so we come over to see. Rock diving sure is a lousy racket these days, ain’t it?” As he talked, the little man’s eyes flicked casually around the room, taking in everything. With a wheeze, Mo sat down against the wall.

  “You’re right,” said Pete carefully. “I haven’t had a strike in months. You guys newcomers? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the camp.”

  Algie did not reply. He was staring intently at Pete’s bulging sample case.

  He snapped open a huge clasp knife. “What you got in the sample case, Mac?”

  “Just some low-grade ore I picked up. Going to have it assayed, but I doubt if it’s even worth carrying. I’ll show you.”

  Pete stood up and walked toward the case. As he passed in front of Algie, he bent swiftly, grabbed the knife hand and jabbed his knee viciously into the short man’s stomach. Algie jackknifed and Pete chopped his neck sharply with the edge of his palm. He didn’t wait to see him fall but dived towards the pack.

  He pulled his Army .45 with one hand and scooped out the signal crystal with the other, raising his steel-shod boot to stamp the crystal to powder.

  His heel never came down. A gigantic fist gripped his ankle, stopping Pete’s whole bulk in midair. He tried to bring the gun around, but a hand as large as a ham clutched his wrist. He screamed as the bones grated together. The automatic dropped from his nerveless fingers.

  He hung head down for five minutes while Mo pleaded with the unconscious Algie to tell him what to do. Algie regain consciousness and sat up cursing and rubbing his neck. He told Mo what to do and sat there smiling until Pete lost consciousness.

  Slap-slap, slap-slap; his head rocked back and forth in time to the blows. He couldn’t stop them, they jarred his head, shook his entire body. From very far away he heard Algie’s voice.

  “That’s enough. Mo, that’s enough. He’s coming around now.”

  Pete braced himself painfully against the wall and wiped the blood out of his eyes. The short man’s face swam into his vision.

  “Mac, you’re giving too much trouble. We’re going to take your
crystal and find your strike, and if it’s as good as the samples you got there, I’m going to be very happy and celebrate by killing you real slow. If we don’t find it, you get killed slower. You get yours either way. Nobody ever hits Algie, don’t you know that?”

  They turned on Pete’s walk-through and half carried, half dragged him through the wall. About twenty feet away they emerged in another artificial bubble, much larger than his own. It was almost filled by the metallic bulk of an atomic tractor.

  Mo pushed him to the floor and kicked his walk-through into a useless ruin. The giant stepped over Pete’s body and lumbered across the room. As he swung himself aboard the tractor, Algie switched on the large walk-through unit. Pete saw Algie’s mouth open with silent laughter as the ghostly machine lurched forward and drove into the wall.

  Pete turned and pawed through the crushed remains of his walk-through. Completely useless. They had done a thorough job, and there was nothing else in this globular tomb that could help him out. His sub-rock radio was in his own bubble; with that he could call the Army base and have a patrol here in twenty minutes. But there was a little matter of twenty feet of rock between the radio and himself.

  His light swung up and down the wall. That three-foot vein of RbO must be the same one that ran through his own chamber.

  He grabbed his belt. The airmaker was still there! He pressed the points to the wall and watched the silver snow spring out. Pieces of rock fell loose as he worked in a circle. If the power pack held out—and if they didn’t come back too soon—

  With each flash of the airmaker an inch-thick slab of rock crumbled away. The accumulators took 3.7 seconds to recharge; then the white flash would leap out and blast loose another mass of rubble. He worked furiously with his left hand to clear away the shattered rock.

  Blast with the right arm—push with the left—blast and push—blast and push. He laughed and sobbed at the same time, warm tears running down his cheeks. He had forgotten the tremendous amounts of oxygen he was releasing. The walls reeled drunkenly around him.

  Stopping just long enough to seal his helmet, Pete turned back to the wall of his makeshift tunnel. He blasted and struggled with the resisting rock, trying to ignore his throbbing head. He lay on his side, pushing the broken stones behind him, packing them solid with his feet.

  He had left the large bubble behind and was sealed into his own tiny chamber far under the earth. He could feel the weight of a half-mile of solid rock pushing down on him, crushing the breath from his lungs. If the airmaker died now, he would lie there and rot in this hand-hewn tomb! Pete tried to push the thought from his mind—to concentrate only on blasting his way through the earth.

  Time seemed to stand still as he struggled on through an eternity of effort. His arms worked like pistons while his bloody fingers scrabbled at the corroded rock.

  He dropped his arms for a few precious moments while his burning lungs pumped air. The weakened rock before him crumbled and blew away with an explosive sound. The air whistled through the ragged opening. The pressure in the two chambers was equalizing—he had holed through!

  He was blasting at the edges of the hole with the weakened airmaker when the legs walked up next to him. Algie’s face pushed through the low rock ceiling, a ferocious scowl on its features. There was no room to materialize; all the impotent Algie could do was to shake his fist at—and through—Pete’s face.

  A monstrous crunching came from the loose rubble behind him; the rock fell away and Mo pushed through. Pete couldn’t turn to fight, but he landed one shoe on the giant’s shapeless nose before monster hands clutched his ankles.

  He was dragged through the rocky tube like a child, hauled back to the bigger cavern. When Mo dropped him he just slid to the floor and lay there gasping. … He had been so close.

  Algie bent over him. “You’re too smart, Mac. I’m going to shoot you now, so you don’t give me no more trouble.” He pulled Pete’s .45 out of his pocket, grabbed it by the slide and charged it. “By the way, we found your strike. It’s going to make me richer’n hell. Glad, Mac?”

  Algie squeezed the trigger and a hammer-blow struck Pete’s thigh. The little man stood over Pete, grinning.

  “I’m going to give you all these slugs where they won’t kill you—not right away. Ready for the next one, Mac?” Pete pushed up onto one elbow and pressed his hand against the muzzle of the gun. Algie’s grin widened. “Fine, stop the bullet with your hand!”

  He squeezed the trigger; the gun clicked sharply. A ludicrous expression of amazement came over his face.

  Pete rose up and pressed the airmaker against Algie’s faceplate. The expression was still there when his head exploded into frosty ribbons.

  Pete dived on the gun, charged it out of the half-cocked position and swung around. Algie had been smart, but not smart enough to know that the muzzle of a regulation .45 acts as a safety. When you press against it the barrel is pushed back into half-cock position and can’t be fired until the slide is worked to recharge it.

  Mo came stumbling across the room, his jaw gaping in amazement. Swinging around on his good leg, Pete waved the gun at him. “Hold it right there, Mo. You’re going to help me get back to town.”

  The giant didn’t hear him; there was room in his mind for only one thought.

  “You killed Algie—you killed Algie!”

  Pete fired the clip before the big man dropped.

  He turned from the dying man with a shudder. It had been self-defense, but that thought didn’t help the sick feeling in his stomach. He twisted his belt around his leg to stop the blood and applied a sterile bandage from the tractor’s first-aid kit.

  The tractor would get him back; he would let the Army take care of the mess here. He pushed into the driver’s seat and kicked the engine into life. The cat’s walk-through operated perfectly; the machine crawled steadily toward the surface. Pete rested his wounded leg on the cowling and let the earth flow smoothly past and through him.

  It was still snowing when the tractor broke through to the surface.

  OR ALL THE SEAS WITH OYSTERS

  Avram Davidson

  Does anyone actually buy paper clips? Rubber bands? Pencils? Safety pins? Why bother? The things are always there when you need them—a little heap of clips in the desk drawer, a handful of safety pins in the kitchen catchall bowl. Somehow the supply is inexhaustible; not only are such objects always around, but you sometimes suspect that there are more of them this week than there were the last. Puzzling indeed, until Avram Davidson, the sly and erudite author of The Phoenix and the Mirror, Peregrine Primus, and other wonders, solved the mystery in this Hugo-winning short story.

  * * *

  When the man came into the F & O Bike Shop, Oscar greeted him with a hearty “Hi, there!” Then, as he looked closer at the middle-aged visitor with the eyeglasses and business suit, his forehead creased and he began to snap his thick fingers.

  “Oh, say, I know you,” he muttered. “Mr.—um—name’s on the tip of my tongue, doggone it… .” Oscar was a barrel-chested fellow. He had orange hair.

  “Why, sure you do,” the man said. There was a Lion’s emblem in his lapel. “Remember, you sold me a girl’s bicycle with gears, for my daughter? We got to talking about that red French racing bike your partner was working on—” Oscar slapped his big hand down on the cash register. He raised his head and rolled his eyes up. “Mr. Whatney!” Mr. Whatney beamed. “Oh, sure. Gee, how could I forget? And we went across the street afterward and had a couple a beers. Well, how you been, Mr. Whatney? I guess the bike—it was an English model, wasn’t it? Yeah. It must of given satisfaction or you would of been back, huh?”

  Mr. Whatney said the bicycle was fine, just fine. Then he said, “I understand there’s been a change, though. You’re all by yourself now. Your partner …”

  Oscar looked down, pushed his lower lip out, nodded. “You heard, huh? Ee-up. I’m all by myself now. Over three months now.”

  The partnership had come to
an end three months ago, but it had been faltering long before then. Ferd liked books, long-playing records and high-level conversation. Oscar liked beer, bowling and women. Any woman. Any time.

  The shop was located near the park; it did a big trade in renting bicycles to picnickers. If a woman was barely old enough to be called a woman, and not quite old enough to be called an old woman, or if she was anywhere in between, and if she was alone, Oscar would ask, “How does that machine feel to you? All right?”

  “Why … I guess so.”

  Taking another bicycle, Oscar would say, “Well, I’ll just ride along a little bit with you, to make sure. Be right back, Ferd.” Ferd always nodded gloomily. He knew that Oscar would not be right back. Later, Oscar would say, “Hope you made out in the shop as good as I did in the park.”

  “Leaving me all alone here all that time,” Ferd grumbled. And Oscar usually flared up. “Okay, then, next time you go and leave me stay here. See if I begrudge you a little fun.” But he knew, of course, that Ferd—tall, thin, popeyed Ferd—would never go. “Do you good,” Oscar said, slapping his sternum. “Put hair on your chest.”

  Ferd muttered that he had all the hair on his chest that he needed. He would glance down covertly at his lower arms; they were thick with long black hair, though his upper arms were slick and white. It was already like that when he was in high school, and some of the others would laugh at him—call him “Ferdie the Birdie.” They knew it bothered him, but they did it anyway. How was it possible—he wondered then; he still did now—for people deliberately to hurt someone else who hadn’t hurt them? How was it possible?