Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  ‘Let us suppose,’ he said to Matt, ‘that this joint catches fire. What would you do?’

  ‘Fan it to keep it going,’ retorted Matt, fed up and making no effort to conceal the fact. He returned to the counter with the air of one not inclined to waste words on a congenital halfwit.

  ‘He’d put it out,’ informed the brunette . ‘What else would you expect him to do?’

  ‘Suppose that he couldn’t?’

  ‘He’d call in others to help him.’

  ‘And would they?’

  ‘Of course.’ She surveyed him with a touch of pity. ‘They’d jump at the chance. They’d be planting a nice, big crop of strong obs, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’ He began to feel completely stalled, but made a last desperate shot at the problem. ‘What if the fire were much too big and fast for passers-by to tackle?’

  ‘Seth would summon the fire squad.’

  Defeat receded, triumph replaced it.

  ‘Ah, so there is a fire squad? That’s what I mean by some-thing official. That’s what I’ve been after all along. Quick, tell me where I can find its headquarters.’

  ‘Bottom end of Twelfth Avenue. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thanks!’ He got up in a hurry. ‘See you again sometime.’ Going out fast, he grabbed his bicycle, shoved off from the curb.

  The fire depot proved to be a big place containing four telescopic ladders, a spray tower and two multiple pumps, all motorized on the usual array of fat rubber balls. Inside, Harrison came face to face with a small man wearing immense plus fours.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ asked the small man.

  ‘Yes, the fire chief.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  By now prepared for this sort of thing, Harrison spoke as one would to a child. ‘See here, Mister, this is a fire-fighting outfit. Somebody bosses it. Somebody organizes the whole affair, fills forms, presses buttons, shouts orders, recommends promotions, kicks the shiftless, grabs all the credit, transfers all the blame and generally lords it around. He’s the most important man in the bunch and everybody knows it.’ His forefinger tapped imperatively on the other’s chest. ‘And he is the fellow I’m going to talk to if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Nobody is more important than anyone else. How can he be? I think you’re crazy.’

  ‘You’re welcome to think what you please but I am telling you that—’

  A shrill bell clamoured, cutting off his sentence. Twenty men appeared as if by magic, boarded a ladder and a multiple pump, roared into the street.

  Squat, basin-shaped helmets formed the only article of attire that the crew had in common. Apart from these, they plumbed the depths of sartorial iniquity. The man with the plus fours, having gained the pump in one bold leap, was whirled out standing between a fat fire-fighter wearing a rainbow-hued cummerbund and a thin one sporting a canary yellow kilt. A late-comer decorated with ear-rings resembling little bells hotly pursued the pump, snatched at its tailboard, missed, sourly watched the outfit disappear from sight. He mooched back, swinging his helmet from one hand.

  ‘Just my lousy luck,’ he griped at the gaping Harrison. ‘The sweetest, loveliest call of the year. A big brewery. The sooner they get there the bigger the obs they’ll plant on it.’ Licking his lips at the thought, he sat on a coil of canvas hose. ‘Oh, well, maybe it’s for the good of my health.’

  ‘Tell me something, Harrison probed, ‘How do you earn a living?’

  ‘There’s a dopey question. You can see for yourself. I’m on the fire squad.’

  ‘I know. What I mean is, who pays you?’

  ‘Pays me?’

  ‘Gives you money for all this.’

  ‘You talk mighty peculiar. What is money?’

  Harrison rubbed his cranium to assist the circulation of blood through the brain. What is money? Yeouw! He tried another angle.

  ‘If your wife needs a new coat, how does she get it?’

  ‘Goes to a store that’s carrying fire-obs, of course. She knocks off one or two for them.’

  ‘But what if no clothing store has had a fire?’

  ‘You’re pretty ignorant, brother. Where in this world do you come from?’ His ear-bells swung as he studied the other a moment. ‘Almost all stores have fire-obs. If they’ve any sense they allocate so many per month by way of insurance. They look ahead, just in case, see? They plant obs on us in advance so that when we rush to the rescue we’ve got to wipe out a dollop of theirs before we can plant any new ones of our own. That stops us overdoing it and making hogs of ourselves. Sort of cuts down the stores’ liabilities. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe, but—’

  ‘I get it now,’ interrupted the other, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’re from that spaceship. You’re a lousy Antigand.’

  ‘I’m a Terran,’ informed Harrison with suitable dignity. ‘What’s more, all the folk who originally settled this planet were Terrans.’

  ‘Are you trying to teach me history?’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You’re wrong. There was a five per cent strain of Martian.’

  ‘Even the Martians are descended from Terran stock,’ Harrison riposted.

  ‘So what? That was a devil of a long time ago. Things change, in case you haven’t heard. We’ve no Terrans or Martians on this world except for your crowd which has barged in unasked. We’re all Gands here. And you noseypokes are Antigands.’

  ‘We aren’t anti-anything that I know of. Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘Myob!’ said the other, suddenly determined to refuse further argument. He tossed his helmet to one side, spat on the floor.

  ‘You heard me. Go trundle your scooter.’

  Harrison gave up and did just that. Gloomily he cycled back to the ship.

  His Excellency pinned him with an authoritative optic. ‘So you’re back at last, Mister. How many are coming and at what time?’

  ‘None, sir,’ said Harrison, feeling kind of feeble.

  ‘None?’ August eyebrows lifted querulously. ‘Do you mean that they have refused my invitation?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Come out with it. Mister,’ urged the Ambassador. ‘Don’t stand there gawping as if your push-and-puff contraption has just given birth to a roller-skate. You say they have not refused my invitation—but nobody is coming. What am I supposed to make of that?’

  ‘I didn’t ask anyone.’

  ‘So you didn’t ask?’ Turning, he said to Grayder, Shelton and the others, ‘He didn’t ask!’ His attention came back to Harrison. ‘You forgot all about it, I presume? Intoxicated by liberty and the power of man over machine, you flashed around the town at nothing less than eighteen miles per hour, creating consternation among the citizenry, tossing their traffic laws into the ash-can, putting children and elderly persons in peril of their lives, not even troubling to ring your bell or—’

  ‘I don’t have a bell, sir,’ stated Harrison, inwardly resenting this list of enormities. ‘I have a whistle operated by the rotation of the rear wheel.’

  ‘There!’ said the Ambassador like one abandoning all hope. He sat down and smacked his forehead several times. ‘I am reliably informed that somebody is going to get a bubble-pipe.’ He pointed at Harrison. ‘And now I learn that he possesses a whistle.’

  ‘I designed it myself, sir,’ Harrison said helpfully.

  ‘I’m sure you did. I can imagine it. I would expect it of you.’ The Ambassador took a fresh grip on himself. ‘See here, Mister, I would like you to tell me something in strict confidence, just between the two of us.’ Leaning forward, he put the question in a whisper that ricochetted seven times around the room. ‘Why didn’t you ask anyone?’

  ‘I couldn’t find out who to ask, sir. I did my level best but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. Or they pretended they didn’t.’

  ‘Humph!’ The Ambassador glanced out of the nearest port, consulted his watch. ‘The light is fading already. Night will be upon us pretty soon. It’s
too late for further action.’ An annoyed grunt. ‘Another day gone to pot. Two days here and we’re still fiddling around.’ Then he added with grim resignation. ‘All right, Mister. We’re wasting time anyway so we might as well hear your story in full. Tell us what happened in complete detail. That way, we may be able to dig some sense out of it.’

  Harrison told it, finishing, ‘It seemed to me, sir, that I could carry on for weeks trying to argue it out with people whose brains are oriented east-west while mine points north-south. One can talk with them from now to doomsday, become really friendly and enjoy the conversation—without either side fully understanding what the other is saying.’

  ‘So it appears,’ said the Ambassador dryly. He turned to Grayder. ‘You’ve been around a lot and seen many new worlds in your time. What do you make of all this twaddle, if anything?’

  ‘It’s a problem in semantics,’ diagnosed Grayder, who had been compelled by circumstances to study that subject. ‘One comes across it on many worlds that have been long out of touch, though usually it hasn’t developed far enough to become tough and unsolvable. For instance, the first fellow we met on Basileus said, cordially and in what he imagined to be perfect Terran, “Joy you unboot now!” ’

  ‘Yes? And what did that mean?’

  ‘Come inside, put on your slippers and be happy. In other words, welcome. It wasn’t difficult to understand, Your Excellency, especially when one expects that sort of thing.’ Grayder cast a thoughtful glance at Harrison and continued, ‘Here, the problem seems to have developed to a greater extreme. The language remains fluent and retains enough surface similarities to conceal underlying changes, but basic meanings have been altered, concepts discarded and new ones substituted, thought-forms re-angled and, of course, there is the inevitable impact of locally created slang.’

  ‘Such as “myob”, ’ offered the Ambassador. ‘Now there is a queer word without recognizable Earth-root. I don’t like the sarcastic way they use it. They make it sound downright insulting. Obviously it has some kind of connection with these obs they keep throwing around. It means “my obligation” or something like that, but the real significance eludes me.’

  ‘There is no connection, sir,’ put in Harrison. He hesitated, saw that they were waiting for him to go on. ‘On my way back I met the lady who had directed me to Baines’ place. She asked whether I’d found him and I told her I had. We chatted a short while. I asked her what “myob” meant. She said it was initial-slang.’ He stopped and fidgeted uneasily.

  ‘Keep going,’ urged the Ambassador. ‘After some of the sulphurous comments I’ve heard emerging from the Blieder-room ventilation-shaft, I can stomach anything. What does it mean?’

  ‘M-y-o-b,’ informed Harrison, slightly embarrassed. ‘Mind-your-own-business.’

  ‘Ah!’ The other gained colour. ‘So that is what they’ve been telling me all along?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Evidently they’ve a lot to learn.’ His neck swelled with undiplomatic fury, he smacked a fat hand upon the table and declaimed loudly. ‘And they’re going to learn it!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Harrison, becoming more uneasy and anxious to get out. ‘May I go now and tend to my bicycle?’

  ‘Yes, you may,’ said the Ambassador in the same noisy tones. He performed a couple of meaningless gestures, turned a florid face on Captain Grayder. ‘Bicycle! Does anyone on this vessel own a slingshot?’

  ‘I doubt it, Your Excellency, but I will make http://www.abelard.org/e-f-russell.php - index

  inquiries, if you wish.’

  ‘Don’t be an imbecile,’ ordered the Ambassador. ‘We have our full quota of hollow-heads already.’

  Chapter 4

  Postponed until early morning, the next conference was relatively short and sweet. The Ambassador took a seat, harumphed importantly, straightened his tie, frowned around the table.

  ‘Let us have another look at what we’ve got. We know that this planet’s mules call themselves Gands, don’t take any interest in their Terran origin and insist on referring to us as Antigands. This implies an education and resultant outlook inimical to ourselves. They’ve been trained from childhood to take it for granted that whenever we appeared upon the scene we would prove to be against whatever they are for.’

  ‘And we haven’t the remotest notion of what they are for,’ put in Colonel Shelton, quite unnecessarily. But it served to show that he was among those present, paying attention, and ready to lend the full support of his powerful intellect.

  ‘I am only too aware of our ignorance in that respect,’ said the Ambassador, with a touch of acid. ‘They are maintaining a conspiracy of silence about their prime motivation. We have got to break it somehow.’

  ‘That,’ offered Shelton, unabashed, ‘is the problem.’

  Taking no notice, the Ambassador continued, ‘They have a peculiar, moneyless economic system which, in my opinion, manages to function only because it is afflicted with large surpluses. It won’t survive a day when over-population brings serious shortages. This economic set-up appears to be based on a mixture of co-operative techniques, private enterprise, a kindergarten’s honour system and plain unadorned gimme. That makes it a good deal crazier than the food-in-the-bank system they use on Epsilon’s four outer planets.’

  ‘But it works,’ observed Grayder pointedly.

  ‘After a fashion. That flap-eared engineer’s bicycle works—and so does he while riding it. A motorized job would save him a lot of sweat.’ Highly pleased with this analogy, the Ambassador enjoyed the flavour of it for a few seconds before he continued. ‘This local scheme of economics—if you can call it a scheme—almost certainly is the end-result of the haphazard development of some hick eccentricity imported by the original settlers. It is long overdue for motorizing, so to speak. They know it as well as we do. But they don’t want it because mentally they’re four hundred years behind the times. They are afraid of change, improvement, efficiency—like many backward peoples. Moreover, there’s little doubt that some of them have a vested interest in keeping things exactly as they are.’ He sniffed loudly to express his contempt. ‘They are antagonistic toward us simply because they don’t want to be disturbed.’

  His stare went round the table, daring one of them to remark that this might be as good a reason as any other. They were too disciplined to fall into that trap. None offered a comment and so he went on.

  ‘In due time, after we have gained a proper grip on affairs, we’re going to have a long and tedious task on our hands. We’ll have to overhaul their entire educational system with a view to eliminating anti-Terran prejudices and bringing them up to date on the facts of life. That’s had to be done on several other planets though not to anything like the extent as will be necessary here.’

  ‘We’ll cope,’ promised someone.

  Ignoring him, the Ambassador finished, ‘However, all that is in the future. Our real problem is in the present. It is in our laps right now, namely, where are the reins of power and who is holding them? We must solve that before we can make genuine progress. How are we going to do it?’ Folding hands over his paunch, he added, ‘Get your wits to work and let us have some bright suggestions.’

  Grayder stood up, a big, leather-bound book in his hands. ‘Your Excellency, I don’t think we need exercise our minds about new plans for making contact and gaining essential information. The next move is likely to be imposed upon us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have a good many old-timers in my crew. There are some among the troops as well. Space- lawyers, every one of them.’ He tapped the book significantly. ‘They know Space Regulations as well as I do. Sometimes I think they know too much.’

  ‘And so—?’

  Grayder opened the book. ‘Regulation 127 says that on a hostile world the crew serves on a war-footing until back in free space. On a non-hostile world they serve on a peace-footing.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Regulation
131A says that on a peace-footing the crew—with the exception of a minimum number required to keep the vessel’s services in trim—is entitled to liberty immediately after unloading cargo or within seventy-two Earth-hours of arrival, whichever period is the shorter.’ He glanced up. ‘By mid- day the men will be all set for land-leave and itching to go. There will be trouble if they are not allowed out.’

  ‘Oh, will there?’ The Ambassador smiled lopsidedly. ‘What if we declare this world to be hostile? That will pin their ears back, won’t it?’

  Impassively consulting his book, Grayder said, ‘Regulation 148 says that a hostile world is defined as any planet that systematically opposes Terran citizens by force.’ He turned to the next page. ‘For the purpose of these regulations, force is defined as any course of action calculated to inflict physical injury, regardless of whether or not the said action succeeds in its intent.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ The Ambassador frowned his strong disapproval. ‘A world can be psychologically hostile without resorting to force. We have an example right here. It can’t be called a friendly world.’

  ‘There are no friendly worlds within the meaning of Space Regulations,’ Grayder informed. ‘Every planet falls into one of two classifications: hostile or non-hostile.’ He tapped the bare leather cover. ‘It’s all in the book.’

  ‘We’d be prize fools to let a mere book order us around or allow the crew to boss us, either. Throw it out of the port. Stick it into the disintegrator. Get rid of it any way you like and forget it.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Your Excellency, but I can’t do that.’ Grayder opened the tome at its beginning. ‘Basic regulations 1A, lB and lC include the following: whether in space or on land, a vessel’s personnel remain under direct command of its captain or his nominee who will be guided solely and at all times by Space Regulations and will be responsible only to the Space Committee situated on Terra. The same applies to all troops, officials and civilian passengers aboard a space-traversing vessel, whether said vessel is in flight or grounded, regardless of rank or authority they are subordinate to the captain or his nominee. A nominee is defined as a ship’s first, second or third officer performing the duties of a captain when the latter is incapacitated or absent.’