The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “You’re right,” Charles said. “I guess you’ve made a try or two yourself. But now that there are two of us, what do you suggest? Can you drive a jeep? Can you fire a twin-fifty?”

  The man poked the lump of metal into the heart of the fire again, picked up a black-scaled spear head and began to file an edge into it. “Let’s get down to essentials,” he suggested apologetically. “What is escape? Getting from an undesirable place to a desirable place, opposing and neutralizing things or persons adverse to the change of state in the process. But I’m not being specific, am I? Let’s say, then, escape is getting us from a relatively undesirable place to a relatively desirable place, opposing and neutralizing the aborigines.” He put aside the file and reached for the hone, sleeking it along the bright metal ribbon of the new edge. He looked up with a pleased smile and asked: “How’s that for a plan?”

  “Fine,” Charles muttered. Kennedy beamed proudly as he repeated: “Fine, fine,” and sank to the ground, born down by the almost physical weight of his depression. His hoped-for ally was stark mad.

  XIII

  Kennedy turned out to have been an armorer-artificer of the North American Navy, captured two years ago while deer-hunting too far from the logging-camp road to New Portsmouth. Fed on scraps of gristle, isolated from his kind, beaten when he failed to make his daily task of spear heads and arrow points, he had shyly retreated into beautifully interminable labyrinths of abstraction. Now and then, Charles Orsino got a word or two of sense from him before the rosy clouds closed in. When attempted conversation with the lunatic palled, Charles could watch the aborigines through chinks in the palisade. There were about fifty of them. There would have been more if they hadn’t been given to infanticide—for what reason, Charles could not guess.

  He had been there a week when the boulders were rolled away one morning and he was roughly called out. He said to Kennedy before stooping to crawl through the hole: “Take it easy, friend. I’ll be back, I hope.”

  Kennedy looked up with a puzzled smile: “That’s such a general statement, Charles. Exactly what are you implying—”

  The witch girl was there, flanked by spearmen. She said abruptly: “I have been listening to you. Why are you untrue to your brothers?”

  He gawked. The only thing that seemed to fit was: “That’s such a general statement,” but he didn’t say it.

  “Answer,” one of the spearmen growled.

  “I—I don’t understand. I have no brothers.”

  “Your brothers in Portsmouth, on the sea. Whatever you call them, they are your brothers, all children of the mother called Government. Why are you untrue to them?”

  He began to understand. “They aren’t my brothers. I’m not a child of the government. I’m a child of another mother far away, called Syndic.”

  She looked puzzled—and almost human—for an instant. Then the visor dropped over her face again as she said: “That is true. Now you must teach a certain person the jeep and the guns. Teach her well. See that she gets her hands on the metal and into the grease.” To a spearman she said: “Bring Martha.”

  The spearman brought Martha, who was trying not to cry. She was a half-naked child of ten!

  The witch girl abruptly left them. Her guards took Martha and bewildered Charles to the edge of the village where the jeep and its mounted guns stood behind a silly little museum exhibit rope of vine. Feathers and bones were knotted into the vine. The spearmen treated it as though it were a high-tension transmission line.

  “You break it,” one of them said to Charles. He did, and the spearmen sighed with relief. Martha stopped scowling and stared.

  The spearman said to Charles: “Go ahead and teach her. The firing pins are out of the guns, and if you try to start the jeep you get a spear through you. Now teach her.” He and the rest squatted on the turf around the jeep. The little girl shied violently as he took her hand, and tried to run away. One of the spearmen slung her back into the circle. She brushed against the jeep and froze, white-faced.

  “Martha,” Charles said patiently, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. The guns won’t go off and the jeep won’t move. I’ll teach you how to work them so you can kill everybody you don’t like with the guns and go faster than a deer in the jeep—”

  He was talking into empty air as far as the child was concerned. She was muttering, staring at the arm that had brushed the jeep: “That did it, I guess. There goes the power. May the goddess blast her—no. The power’s out of me now. I felt it go.” She looked up at Charles, quite calmly, and said: “Go on. Show me all about it. Do a good job.”

  “Martha, what are you talking about?”

  “She was afraid of me, my sister, so she’s robbing me of the power. Don’t you know? I guess not. The goddess hates iron and machines. I had the power of the goddess in me, but it’s gone now; I felt it go. Now nobody’ll be afraid of me any more.” Her face contorted and she said: “Show me how you work the guns.”

  * * * *

  He taught her what he could while the circle of spearmen looked on and grinned, cracking raw jokes about the child as anybody anywhere, would about a tyrant deposed. She pretended to ignore them, grimly repeating names after him and imitating his practiced movements in loading drill. She was very bright, Charles realized. When he got a chance he muttered, “I’m sorry about this, Martha. It isn’t my idea.”

  She whispered bleakly: “I know. I liked you. I was sorry when the other outsider took your dinner.” She began to sob uncontrollably. “I’ll never see anything again! Nobody’ll ever be afraid of me again!” She buried her face against Charles’ shoulder.

  He smoothed her tangled hair mechanically and said to the watching, grinning circle: “Look, hasn’t this gone far enough? Haven’t you got what you wanted?”

  The headman stretched and spat. “Guess so,” he said. “Come on, girl.” He yanked Martha from the seat and booted her toward the huts.

  Charles scrambled down just ahead of a spear. He let himself be led back to the smithy block house and shoved through the crawl hole.

  “I was thinking about what you said the other day,” Kennedy beamed, rasping a file over an arrowhead. “When I said that to change one molecule in the past you’d have to change every molecule in the past, and you said, ‘Maybe so.’ I’ve figured that what you were driving at was—”

  “Kennedy,” Charles said, “please shut up just this once. I’ve got to think.”

  “In what sense do you mean that, Charles? Do you mean that you’re a rational animal and therefore that your being rather than essenseis—”

  “Shut up or I’ll pick up a rock and bust your head in with it!” Charles roared. He more than half meant it. Kennedy hunched down before his hearth looking offended and scared. Charles squatted with his head in his hands.

  I have been listening to you.

  Repeated drives of the Government to wipe out the aborigines. Drives that never succeeded.

  I’ll never see anything again.

  The way the witch girl had blasted her rival—but that was suggestion. But—

  I have been listening to you. Why are you untrue to your brothers?

  He’d said nothing like that to anybody, not to her or poor Kennedy.

  He thought vaguely of psi force, a fragment in his memory. An old superstition, like the id-ego-superego triad of the sick-minded psychologists. Like vectors of the mind, exploded nonsense. But—

  I have been listening to you. Why are you untrue to your brothers?

  Charles smacked one fist against the sand floor in impotent rage. He was going as crazy as Kennedy. Did the witch girl—and Martha—have hereditary psi power? He mocked himself savagely: that’s such ageneral question!

  Neurotic adolescent girls in kerosene-lit farmhouses, he thought vaguely. Things that go bump—and crash and blooie and whoo-oo-oo! in the night. Not in electric lit city apartments. Not around fleshed-up middle-aged men and women. You take a hyperthyroid virgin, isolate her from power machinery and ele
ctric fields, put on the pressures that make her feel alone and tense to the bursting point—and naturally enough, something bursts. A chamberpot sails from under the bed and shatters on the skull of stepfather-tyrant. The wide-gilt-framed portrait of thundergod-grandfather falls with a crash. Sure, the nail crystallized and broke—who crystallized it?

  Neurotic adolescent girls speaking in tongues, reading face-down cards and closed books, screaming aloud when sister or mother dies in a railroad wreck fifty miles away, of cancer a hundred miles away, in a bombing overseas.

  Sometimes they made saints of them. Sometimes they burned them. Burned them and then made saints of them.

  A blood-raw hunk of venison came sailing through one of the loopholes and flopped on the sand.

  I was sorry when the other outsider took your dinner.

  Three days ago he’d dozed off while Kennedy broiled the meat over the hearth. When he woke, Kennedy had gobbled it all and was whimpering with apprehension. But he’d done nothing and said nothing; the man wasn’t responsible. He’d said nothing, and yet somehow the child knew about it.

  His days were numbered; soon enough the jeep would be out of gas and the guns would be out of ammo or an unreplaceable part lost or broken. Then, according to the serene logic that ruled the witch girl, he’d be surplus.

  But there was a key to it somehow.

  He got up and slapped Kennedy’s hand away from the venison. “Naughty,” he said, and divided it equally with a broad spearblade.

  “Naughty,” Kennedy said morosely. “The naught-class, the null-class. I’m the null-class. I plus the universe equal one, the universe-class. If you could transpose—but you can’t transpose.” Silently they toasted their venison over the fire.

  * * * *

  It was a moonless night with one great planet, Jupiter he supposed, reigning over the star-powdered sky. Kennedy slept muttering feebly in a corner. The hearthfire was out. It had to be out by dark. The spearmen took no chance of their trying to burn down the place. The village had long since gone to sleep, campfires doused, skin flaps pulled to across the door holes. From the corral one of the spavined, tick-ridden cows mooed uneasily and then fell silent.

  * * * *

  Charles then began the hardest job of his life. He tried to think, straight and uninterrupted, of Martha, the little girl. Some of the things that interrupted him were:

  The remembered smell of fried onions; they didn’t have onions here;

  Salt;

  I wonder how the old 101st Precinct’s getting along;

  That fellow who wanted to get married on a hundred dollars;

  Lee Falcaro, damn her!

  This, is damn foolishness; it can’t possibly work;

  Poor old Kennedy;

  I’ll starve before I eat another mouthful of that greasy deer-meat;

  The Van Dellen kid, I wonder if I could have saved him;

  Reiner’s right; we’ve got to clean up the Government and then try to civilize these people;

  There must be something wrong with my head, I can’t seem to concentrate;

  That terrific third-chukker play in the Finals, my picture all over town;

  Would Uncle Frank laugh at this?

  It was hopeless. He sat bolt upright, his eyes squeezed tensely together, trying to visualize the child and call her and it couldn’t be done. Skittering images of her zipped through his mind, only to be shoved aside. It was damn foolishness, anyway.…

  He unkinked himself, stretched and lay down on the sand floor thinking bitterly: why try? You’ll be dead in a few days or a few weeks; kiss the world good-bye. Back in Syndic Territory, fat, sloppy, happy Syndic Territory, did they know how good they had it? He wished he could tell them to cling to their good life. But Uncle Frank said it didn’t do any good to cling; it was a matter of tension and relaxation. When you stiffen up a way of life and try to fossilize it so it’ll stay that way forever, then you find you’ve lost it.

  Little Martha wouldn’t understand it. Magic, ritual, the power of the goddess, fear of iron, fear of the jeep’s vine enclosure—cursed, no doubt—what went on in such a mind? Could she throw things like a poltergeist-girl? They didn’t have ‘em any more; maybe it had something to do with electric fields or even iron. Or were they all phonies? An upset adolescent girl is a hell of a lot likelier to fake phenomena that produce them. Little Martha hadn’t been faking her despair, though. The witch-girl—her sister, wasn’t she?—didn’t fake her icy calm and power. Martha’d be better off without such stuff—

  “Charles,” a whisper said.

  He muttered stupidly: “My God. She heard me,” and crept to the palisade. Through a chink between the logs she was just visible in the starlight.

  She whispered: “I thought I wasn’t going to see anything or hear anything ever again but I sat up and I heard you calling and you said you wanted to help me if I’d help you so I came as fast as I could without waking anybody up—you did call me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. Martha, do you want to get out of here? Go far away with me?”

  “You bet I do. She’s going to take the power of the goddess out of me and marry me to Dinny, he stinks like a goat and he has a cockeye, and then she’ll kill all our babies. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” She sounded very grim and decided.

  “Can you roll the boulders away from the hole there?” He was thinking vaguely of teleportation; each boulder was a two-man job.

  She said no.

  He snarled: “Then why did you bother to come here?”

  “Don’t talk like that to me,” the child said sharply—and he remembered what she thought she was.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “What I came about,” she said calmly, “was the ex-plosion. Can you make an ex-plosion like you said? Back there at the jeep?”

  What in God’s name was she talking about?

  “Back there,” she said with exaggerated patience, “you was thinking about putting all the cartridges together and blowing up the whole damn shebang. Remember?”

  He did, vaguely. One of a hundred schemes that had drifted through his head.

  “I’d sure like to see that ex-plosion,” she said. “The way she got things figured, I’d almost just as soon get exploded myself as not.”

  “I might blow up the logs here and get out,” he said slowly. “I think you’d be a mighty handy person to have along, too. Can you get me about a hundred of the machine gun cartridges?”

  “They’ll miss ‘em.”

  “Sneak me a few at a time. I’ll empty them, put them together again and you sneak them back.”

  She said, slow and troubled: “She set the power of the goddess to guard them.”

  “Listen to me, Martha,” he said. “I mean listen. You’ll be doing it for me and they told me the power of the goddess doesn’t work on outsiders. Isn’t that right?”

  There was a long pause, and she said at last with a sigh: “I sure wish I could see your eyes, Charles. I’ll try it, but I’m damned if I would if Dinny didn’t stink so bad.” She slipped away and Charles tried to follow her with his mind through the darkness, to the silly little rope of vine with the feathers and bones knotted in it—but he couldn’t. Too tense again.

  Kennedy stirred and muttered complainingly as an icy small breeze cut through the chinks of the palisade, whispering.

  His eyes, tuned to the starlight, picked up Martha bent almost double, creeping toward the smithy-prison. She wore a belt of fifty-caliber cartridges around her neck like a stole. Looked like about a dozen of them. He hastily scooped out a bowl of clean sand and whispered: “Any trouble?”

  He couldn’t see the grin on her face, but knew it was there. “It was easy,” she bragged. “One bad minute and then I checked with you and it was okay.”

  “Good kid. Pull the cartridges out of the links the way I showed you and pass them through.”

  She did. It was a tight squeeze.

  He fingered one of the cartridges. The bullet
fitted nicely into the socket of an arrowhead. He jammed the bullet in and wrenched at the arrowhead with thumb and forefinger—all he could get onto it. The brass neck began to spread. He dumped the powder into his little basin in the sand and reseated the bullet.

  Charles shifted hands on the second cartridge. On the third he realized that he could put the point of the bullet on a hearth-stone and press on the neck with both thumbs. It went faster then; in perhaps an hour he was passing the re-assembled cartridges back through the palisade.

  “Time for another load?” he asked.

  “Nope,” the girl said. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Good kid.”

  She giggled. “It’s going to be a hell of a big bang, ain’t it, Charles?”

  XIV

  “Leave the fire alone,” Charles said sharply to Kennedy. The little man was going to douse it for the night.

  There was a flash of terrified sense: “They beat you. If the fire’s on after dark they beat you. Fire and dark are equal and opposite.” He began to smile. “Fire is the negative of dark. You just change the sign, in effect rotate it through 180 degrees. But to rotate it through 180 degrees you have to first rotate it through one degree. And to rotate it through one degree you first have to rotate it through half a degree.” He was beaming now, having forgotten all about the fire. Charles banked it with utmost care, heaping a couple of flat stones for a chimney that would preserve the life of one glowing coal invisibly.

  He stretched out on the sand, one hand on the little heap beneath which five pounds of smokeless powder was buried. Kennedy continued to drone out his power-series happily.

  Through the chinks in the palisade a man’s profile showed against the twilight. “Shut up,” he said.

  Kennedy shivering, rolled over and muttered to himself. The spearman laughed and went on.

  Charles hardly saw him. His whole mind was concentrated on the spark beneath the improvised chimney. He had left such a spark seven nights running. Only twice had it lived more than an hour. Tonight—tonight, it had to last. Tonight was the last night of the witch-girl’s monthly courses, and during them she lost—or thought she lost, which was the same thing—the power of the goddess.