A Science Fiction Omnibus

by Brian Aldiss

  ‘I wish they were allowed to feed the animals,’ sighed Hawkins. ‘I’m sick of that damned fungus.’

  ‘Let’s recapitulate,’ said the doctor. ‘After all, we’ve nothing else to do. We were taken from our camp by the helicopter – six of us. We were taken to the survey ship – a vessel that seemed in no way superior to our own interstellar ships. You assure us, Hawkins, that the ship used the Ehrenhaft Drive or something so near to it as to be its twin brother…’

  ‘Correct,’ agreed Hawkins.

  ‘On the ship we’re kept in separate cages. There’s no ill treatment, we’re fed and watered at frequent intervals. We land on this strange planet, but we see nothing of it. We’re hustled out of cages like so many cattle into a covered van. We know that we’re being driven somewhere, that’s all. The van stops, the door opens and a couple of these animated beer barrels poke in poles with smaller editions of those fancy nets on the end of them. They catch Clemens and Miss Taylor, drag them out. We never see them again. The rest of us spend the night and the following day and night in individual cages. The next day we’re taken to this… zoo…’

  ‘Do you think they were vivisected?’ asked Fennet. ‘I never liked Clemens, but…’

  ‘I’m afraid they were,’ said Boyle. ‘Our captors must have learned of the difference between the sexes by it. Unluckily there’s no way of determining intelligence by vivisection –’

  ‘The filthy brutes!’ shouted the cadet.

  ‘Easy, son,’ counselled Hawkins. ‘You can’t blame them, you know. We’ve vivisected animals a lot more like us than we are to these things.’

  ‘The problem,’ the doctor went on, ‘is to convince these things – as you call them, Hawkins – that we are rational beings like themselves. How would they define a rational being? How would we define a rational being?’

  ‘Somebody who knows Pythagoras’s Theorem,’ said the cadet sulkily.

  ‘I read somewhere,’ said Hawkins, ‘that the history of Man is the history of the fire-making, tool-using animal…’

  ‘Then make fire,’ suggested the doctor. ‘Make us some tools, and use them.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know that there’s not an artifact among the bunch of us. No false teeth even – not even a metal filling. Even so…’ He paused. ‘When I was a youngster there was, among the cadets in the interstellar ships, a revival of the old arts and crafts. We considered ourselves in a direct line of descent from the old windjammer sailormen, so we learned how to splice rope and wire, how to make sennit and fancy knots and all the rest of it. Then one of us hit on the idea of basketmaking. We were in a passenger ship, and we used to make our baskets secretly, daub them with violent colours and then sell them to passengers as genuine souvenirs from the Lost Planet of Arcturus VI. There was a most distressing scene when the Old Man and the Mate found out…’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Just this. We will demonstrate our manual dexterity by the weaving of baskets – I’ll teach you how.’

  ‘It might work…’ said Boyle slowly. ‘It might just work… On the other hand, don’t forget that certain birds and animals do the same sort of thing. On Earth there’s the beaver, who builds quite cunning dams. There’s the bower bird, who makes a bower for his mate as part of the courtship ritual…’

  The Head Keeper must have known of creatures whose courting habits resembled those of the Terran bower bird. After three days of feverish basketmaking, which consumed all the bedding and stripped the tree ferns, Mary Hart was taken from her cage and put in with the three men. After she had got over her hysterical pleasure at having somebody to talk to again, she was rather indignant.

  It was good, thought Hawkins drowsily, to have Mary with them. A few more days of solitary confinement must surely have driven the girl crazy. Even so, having Mary in the same cage had its drawbacks. He had to keep a watchful eye on young Fennet. He even had to keep a watchful eye on Boyle – the old goat!

  Mary screamed.

  Hawkins jerked into complete wakefulness. He could see the pale form of Mary – on this world it was never completely dark at night – and, on the other side of the cage, the forms of Fennet and Boyle. He got hastily to his feet, stumbled to the girl’s side.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I… I don’t know… Something small, with sharp claws… It ran over me…’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hawkins, ‘that was only Joe.’

  ‘Joe?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know exactly what he – or she – is,’ said the man.

  ‘I think he’s definitely he,’ said the doctor.

  ‘What is Joe?’ she asked again.

  ‘He must be the local equivalent to a mouse,’ said the doctor, ‘although he looks nothing like one. He comes up through the floor somewhere to look for scraps of food. We’re trying to tame him –’

  ‘You encourage the brute?’ she screamed. ‘I demand that you do something about him – at once! Poison him, or trap him. Now!’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘Now!’ she screamed.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Hawkins firmly.

  The capture of Joe proved to be easy. Two flat baskets, hinged like the valves of an oyster shell, under the trap. There was bait inside – a large piece of the fungus. There was a cunningly arranged upright that would fall at the least tug at the bait. Hawkins, lying sleepless on his damp bed, heard the tiny click and thud that told him that the trap had been sprung. He heard Joe’s indignant chitterings, heard the tiny claws scrabbling at the stout basketwork.

  Mary Hart was asleep. He shook her.

  ‘We’ve caught him,’ he said.

  ‘Then kill him,’ she answered drowsily.

  But Joe was not killed. The three men were rather attached to him. With the coming of daylight they transferred him to a cage that Hawkins had fashioned. Even the girl relented when she saw the harmless ball of multicoloured fur bouncing indignantly up and down in its prison. She insisted on feeding the little animal, exclaimed gleefully when the thin tentacles reached out and took the fragment of fungus from her fingers.

  For three days they made much of their pet. On the fourth day beings whom they took to be keepers entered the cage with their nets, immobilized the occupants, and carried off Joe and Hawkins.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s hopeless,’ Boyle said. ‘He’s gone the same way…’

  ‘They’ll have him stuffed and mounted in some museum,’ said Fennet glumly.

  ‘No,’ said the girl. ‘They couldn’t!’

  ‘They could,’ said the doctor.

  Abruptly the hatch at the back of the cage opened.

  Before the three humans could retreat, a voice called, ‘It’s all right, come on out!’

  Hawkins walked into the cage. He was shaved, and the beginnings of a healthy tan had darkened the pallor of his skin. He was wearing a pair of trunks fashioned from some bright red material.

  ‘Come on out,’ he said again. ‘Our hosts have apologized very sincerely, and they have more suitable accommodation prepared for us. Then, as soon as they have a ship ready, we’re to go to pick up the other survivors.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Boyle. ‘Put us in the picture, will you? What made them realize that we were rational beings?’

  Hawkins’ face darkened.

  ‘Only rational beings,’ he said, ‘put other beings in cages.’

  Fulfilment

  A. E. VAN VOGT

  I sit on a hill. I have sat here, it seems to me, for all eternity. Occasionally I realize there must be a reason for my existence. Each time, when this thought comes, I examine the various probabilities, trying to determine what possible motivation I can have for being on the hill. Alone on the hill. Forever on a hill overlooking a long, deep valley.

  The first reason for my presence seems obvious: I can think. Give me a problem. The square root of a very large number? The cube root of a larger one? Ask me to multiply an eighteen-digit p
rime by itself a quadrillion times. Pose me a problem in variable curves. Ask me where an object will be at a given moment at some future date, and let me have one brief opportunity to analyse the problem.

  The solution will take me but an instant of time.

  But no one ever asks me such things. I sit alone on a hill. Sometimes I compute the motion of a falling star. Sometimes I look at a remote planet and follow it in its course for years at a time, using every spatial and time control means to ensure that I never lose sight of it. But these activities seem so useless. They lead nowhere. What possible purpose can there be for me to have the information?

  At such moments I feel that I am incomplete. It almost seems to me that there is something else just beyond the reach of my senses, something for which all this has meaning.

  Each day the sun comes up over the airless horizon of Earth. It is a black starry horizon, which is but a part of the vast, black, star-filled canopy of the heavens.

  It was not always black. I remember a time when the sky was blue. I even predicted that the change would occur. I gave the information to somebody. What puzzles me now is, to whom did I give it?

  It is one of my more amazing recollections, that I should feel so distinctly that somebody wanted this information. And that I gave it and yet cannot remember to whom. When such thoughts occur, I wonder if perhaps part of my memory is missing. Strange to have this feeling so strongly.

  Periodically I have the conviction that I should search for the answer. It would be easy enough for me to do this. In the old days I did not hesitate to send units of myself to the farthest reaches of the planet. I have even extended parts of myself to the stars. Yes, it would be easy.

  But why bother? What is there to search for? I sit alone on a hill, alone on a planet that has grown old and useless.

  It is another day. The sun climbs as usual towards the midday sky, the eternally black, star-filled sky of noon.

  Suddenly, across the valley – on the sun-streaked opposite rim of the valley – there is silvery-fire gleam. A force field materializes out of time and synchronizes itself with the normal time movement of the planet.

  It is no problem at all for me to recognize that it has come from the past. I identify the energy used, define its limitations, logicalize its source. My estimate is that it has come from thousands of years in the planet’s past.

  The exact time is unimportant. There it is: a projection of energy that is already aware of me. It sends an interspatial message to me, and it interests me to discover that I can decipher the communication on the basis of my past knowledge.

  It says: ‘Who are you?’

  I reply: ‘I am the Incomplete One. Please return whence you came. I have now adjusted myself so that I can follow you. I desire to complete myself.’

  All this was a solution at which I arrived in split seconds. I am unable by myself to move through time. Long ago I solved the problem of how to do it and was almost immediately prevented from developing any mechanism that would enable me to make such transitions. I do not recall the details.

  But the energy field on the far side of the valley has the mechanism. By setting up a no-space relationship with it, I can go whenever it does.

  The relationship is set up before it can even guess my intention.

  The entity across that valley does not seem happy at my response. It starts to send another message, then abruptly vanishes. I wonder if perhaps it hoped to catch me off guard.

  Naturally we arrive in its time together.

  Above me, the sky is blue. Across the valley from me – now, partly hidden by trees – is a settlement of small structures surrounding a larger one. I examine these structures as well as I can, and hastily make the necessary adjustments, so that I shall appear inconspicuous in such an environment.

  I sit on the hill and await events.

  As the sun goes down, a faint breeze springs up, and the first stars appear. They look different, seen through a misty atmosphere.

  As darkness creeps over the valley, there is a transformation in the structures on the other side. They begin to glow with light. Windows shine. The large central building becomes bright, then – as the night develops – brilliant with the light that pours through the transparent walls.

  The evening and the night go by uneventfully. And the next day and the day after that.

  Twenty days and nights.

  On the twenty-first day I send a message to the machine on the other side of the valley. I say: ‘There is no reason why you and I cannot share control of this era.’

  The answer comes swiftly: ‘I will share if you will immediately reveal to me all the mechanisms by which you operate.’

  I should like nothing more than to have use of its time-travel devices. But I know better than to reveal that I am unable to build a time machine myself.

  I project: ‘I shall be happy to transmit full information to you. But what reassurance do I have that you will not – with your greater knowledge of this age – use the information against me?’

  The machine counters: ‘What reassurance do I have that you will actually give me full information about yourself?’

  It is impasse. Obviously, neither of us can trust the other.

  The result is no more than I expect. But I have found out at least part of what I want to know. My enemy thinks that I am its superior. Its belief – plus my own knowledge of my capacity – convinces me that its opinion is correct.

  And still I am in no hurry. Again I wait patiently.

  I have previously observed that the space around me is alive with waves – a variety of artificial radiation. Some can be transformed into sound; others to light. I listen to music and voices. I see dramatic shows and scenes of country and city.

  I study the images of human beings, analysing their actions, striving from their movements and the words they speak to evaluate their intelligence and their potentiality.

  My final opinion is not high, and yet I suspect that in their slow fashion these beings built the machine which is now my main opponent. The question that occurs to me is, how can someone create a machine that is superior to himself?

  I begin to have a picture of what this age is like. Mechanical development of all types is in its early stages. I estimate that the computing machine on the other side of the valley has been in existence for only a few years.

  If I could go back before it was constructed, then I might install a mechanism which would enable me now to control it.

  I compute the nature of the mechanism I would install. And activate the control in my own structure.

  Nothing happens.

  It seems to mean that I will not be able to obtain the use of a time-travel device for such a purpose. Obviously, the method by which I will eventually conquer my opponent shall be a future development, and not of the past.

  The fortieth day dawns and moves inexorably towards the noon hour.

  There is a knock on the pseudo-door. I open it and gaze at the human male who stands on the threshold.

  A man walks by on a near-by pathway. I had merely observed the attorney who had come to see me earlier. But I made a direct connexion with the body of this second individual.

  As I had anticipated would happen, it is now I walking along the pathway. I make no attempt to control the movements. This is an exploratory action. But I am enough in phase with his nervous system so that his thoughts come to me as if they were my own.

  He is a clerk working in the book-keeping department, an unsatisfactory status from my point of view. I withdraw contact.

  I make six more attempts, and then I have the body I want. What decides me is when the seventh man – and I – think:

  ‘… Not satisfied with the way the Brain is working. Those analogue devices I installed five months ago haven’t produced the improvements I expected.’

  His name is William Grannitt. He is chief research engineer of the Brain, the man who made the alterations in its structure that enabled it to take control
of itself and its environment; a quiet, capable individual with a shrewd understanding of human nature. I’ll have to be careful what I try to do with him. He knows his purposes, and would be amazed if I tried to alter them. Perhaps I had better just watch his actions.

  After a few minutes in contact with his mind I have a partial picture of the sequence of events, as they must have occurred here in this village five months earlier. A mechanical computing machine – the Brain – was equipped with additional devices, including analogue shapings designed to perform much of the work of the human nervous system. From the engineering point of view, the entire process was intended to be controllable through specific verbal commands, typewritten messages, and at a distance by radio.

  Unfortunately Grannitt did not understand some of the potentials of the nervous system he was attempting to imitate in his designs. The Brain, on the other hand, promptly put them to use.

  Grannitt knew nothing of this. And the Brain, absorbed as it was in its own development, did not utilize its new abilities through the channels he had created for that purpose. Grannitt, accordingly, was on the point of dismantling it and trying again. He did not as yet suspect that the Brain would resist any such action on his part. But he and I – after I have had more time to explore his memory of how the Brain functions – can accomplish his purpose.

  After which I shall be able to take control of this whole time period without fear of meeting anyone who can match my powers. I cannot imagine how it will be done, but I feel that I shall soon be complete.

  Satisfied now that I have made the right connexion, I allow the unit crouching behind the brush to dissipate its energy. In a moment it ceases to exist as an entity.