Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley

by Robert Sheckley

  “I know,” Ger said, after the creature had moved away. “I’ll disguise myself as a Man, walk through the gate to the reactor room, and activate my Displacer.”

  “You can’t speak their language,” Pid pointed out.

  “I won’t speak at all. I’ll ignore them. Look.” Quickly Ger shaped himself into a Man.

  “That’s not bad,” Pid said.

  Ger tried a few practice steps, copying the bumpy walk of the Man.

  “But I’m afraid it won’t work,” Pid said.

  “It’s perfectly logical,” Ger pointed out.

  “I know. Therefore the other expeditions must have tried it. And none of them came back.”

  There was no arguing that. Ger flowed back into the shape of a log. “What, then?” he asked.

  “Let me think,” Pid said.

  Another creature lurched past, on four legs instead of two. Pid recognized it as a Dog, a pet of Man. He watched it carefully.

  The Dog ambled to the gate, head down, in no particular hurry. It walked through, unchallenged, and lay down in the grass.

  “Hmm,” Pid said.

  They watched. One of the Men walked past, and touched the Dog on the head. The Dog stuck out its tongue, and rolled over on its side.

  “I can do that,” Ger said excitedly. He started to flow into the shape of a Dog.

  “No, wait,” Pid said. “We’ll spend the rest of the day thinking it over. This is too important to rush into.”

  Ger subsided sulkily.

  “Come on, let’s move back,” Pid said. He and Ger started into the woods. Then he remembered Ilg.

  “Ilg?” he called softly.

  There was no answer.

  “Ilg!”

  “What? Oh, yes,” an oak tree said, and melted into a bush. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “We’re moving back,” Pid said. “Were you, by any chance, Thinking?”

  “Oh, no,” Ilg assured him. “Just resting.”

  Pid let it go at that. There was too much else to worry about.

  They discussed it for the rest of the day, hidden in the deepest part of the woods. The only alternatives seemed to be Man or Dog. A Tree couldn’t walk past the gates, since that was not in the nature of Trees. Nor could anything else, and escape notice.

  Going as a Man seemed too risky. They decided that Ger would sally out in the morning as a Dog.

  “Now get some sleep,” Pid said.

  Obediently his two crewmen flattened out, going immediately Shapeless. But Pid had a more difficult time.

  Everything looked too easy. Why wasn’t the atomic installation better guarded? Certainly the Men must have learned something from the expeditions they had captured in the past. Or had they killed them without asking any questions?

  You couldn’t tell what an alien would do.

  Was that open gate a trap?

  Wearily he flowed into a comfortable position on the lumpy ground. Then he pulled himself together hastily.

  He had gone Shapeless!

  Comfort had nothing to do with duty, he reminded himself, and firmly took a Pilot’s Shape.

  But Pilot’s Shape wasn’t constructed for sleeping on damp, bumpy ground. Pid spent a restless night, thinking of ships, and wishing he were flying one.

  Pid awoke in the morning tired and ill-tempered. He nudged Ger.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

  Ger flowed gaily to his feet.

  “Come on, Ilg,” Pid said angrily, looking around. “Wake up.”

  There was no reply.

  “Ilg!” he called.

  Still there was no reply.

  “Help me look for him,” Pid said to Ger. “He must be around here somewhere.”

  Together they tested every bush, tree, log, and shrub in the vicinity. But none of them was Ilg.

  Pid began to feel a cold panic run through him. What could have happened to the Radioman?

  “Perhaps he decided to go through the gate on his own,” Ger suggested.

  Pid considered the possibility. It seemed unlikely. Ilg had never shown much initiative. He had always been content to follow orders.

  They waited. But midday came, and there was still no sign of Ilg.

  “We can’t wait any longer,” Pid said, and they started through the woods. Pid wondered if Ilg had tried to get through the gates on his own. Those quiet types often concealed a foolhardy streak.

  But there was nothing to show that Ilg had been successful. He would have to assume that the Radioman was dead, or captured by the Men.

  That left two of them to activate a Displacer.

  And still he didn’t know what had happened to the other expeditions.

  At the edge of the woods, Ger turned himself into a facsimile of a Dog. Pid inspected him carefully.

  “A little less tail,” he said.

  Ger shortened his tail.

  “More ears.”

  Ger lengthened his ears.

  “Now even them up.” He inspected the finished product. As far as he could tell, Ger was perfect, from the tip of his tail to his wet, black nose.

  “Good luck,” Pid said.

  “Thanks.” Cautiously Ger moved out of the woods, walking in the lurching style of Dogs and Men. At the gate the guard called to him. Pid held his breath.

  Ger walked past the Man, ignoring him. The Man started to walk over, and Ger broke into a run.

  Pid shaped a pair of strong legs for himself, ready to dash if Ger was caught.

  But the guard turned back to his gate. Ger stopped running immediately, and strolled quietly toward the main gate.

  Pid dissolved his legs with a sigh of relief.

  But the main door was closed! Pid hoped the Radioman wouldn’t try to open it. That was not in the nature of Dogs.

  Another Dog came running toward Ger. Ger backed away from him. The Dog approached and sniffed. Ger sniffed back.

  Then both of them ran around the building.

  That was clever, Pid thought. There was bound to be a door in the rear.

  He glanced up at the afternoon sun. As soon as the Displacer was activated, the Glom armies would begin to pour through. By the time the Men recovered from the shock, a million or more Glom troops would be here. With more following.

  The day passed slowly, and nothing happened.

  Nervously Pid watched the front of the plant. It shouldn’t be taking so long, if Ger were successful.

  Late into the night he waited. Men walked in and out of the installation, and Dogs barked around the gates. But Ger did not appear.

  Ger had failed. Ilg was gone. Only he was left.

  And still he didn’t know what had happened.

  By morning, Pid was in complete despair. He knew that the twenty-first Glom expedition to this planet was near the point of complete failure. Now it was all up to him.

  He decided to sally out boldly in the shape of a Man. It was the only possibility left.

  He saw that workers were arriving in great numbers, rushing through the gates. Pid wondered if he should try to mingle with them, or wait until there was less commotion. He decided to take advantage of the apparent confusion, and started to shape himself into a Man.

  A Dog walked past the woods where he was hiding.

  “Hello,” the Dog said.

  It was Ger!

  “What happened?” Pid asked, with a sigh of relief. “Why were you so long? Couldn’t you get in?”

  “I don’t know,” Ger said, wagging his tail. “I didn’t try.”

  Pid was speechless.

  “I went hunting,” Ger said complacently. “This form is ideal for hunting, you know. I went out the rear gate with another Dog.”

  “But the expedition—your duty—”

  “I changed my mind,” Ger told him. “You know, Pilot, I never wanted to be a Detector.”

  “But you were born a Detector!”

  “That’s true,” Ger said. “But it doesn’t help. I always wanted to be a Hunter
.”

  Pid shook his entire body in annoyance. “You can’t,” he said, very slowly, as one would explain to a Glomling. “The Hunter Shape is forbidden to you.”

  “Not here it isn’t,” Ger said, still wagging his tail.

  “Let’s have no more of this.” Pid said angrily. “Get into that installation and set up your Displacer. I’ll try to overlook this heresy.”

  “I won’t,” Ger said. “I don’t want the Glom here. They’d ruin it for the rest of us.”

  “He’s right,” an oak tree said.

  “Ilg!” Pid gasped. “Where are you?”

  Branches stirred. “I’m right here,” Ilg said. “I’ve been Thinking.”

  “But—your caste—”

  “Pilot,” Ger said sadly, “Why don’t you wake up? Most of the people on Glom are miserable. Only custom makes us take the caste-shape of our ancestors.”

  “Pilot,” Ilg said, “All Glom are born Shapeless!”

  “And being born Shapeless, all Glom should have Freedom of Shape,” Ger said.

  “Exactly,” Ilg said. “But he’ll never understand. Now excuse me. I want to Think.” And the oak tree was silent.

  Pid laughed humorlessly. “The Men will kill you off,” he said. “Just as they killed off the rest of the expeditions.”

  “No one from Glom has been killed,” Ger told him. “The other expeditions are right here.”

  “Alive?”

  “Certainly. The Men don’t even know we exist. That Dog I was hunting with is a Glom from the nineteenth expedition. There are hundreds of us here, Pilot. We like it.”

  Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in caste-consciousness. But this—this was preposterous!

  This planet’s secret menace was—freedom!

  “Join us, Pilot,” Ger said. “We’ve got a paradise here. Do you know how many species there are on this planet? An uncountable number! There’s a shape to suit every need!”

  Pid shook his head. There was no shape to suit his need. He was a Pilot.

  But Men were unaware of the presence of the Glom. Getting near the reactor would be simple!

  “The Glom Supreme Council will take care of all of you,” he snarled, and shaped himself into a Dog. “I’m going to set up the Displacer myself.”

  He studied himself for a moment, bared his teeth at Ger, and loped toward the gate.

  The Men at the gate didn’t even look at him. He slipped through the main door of the building behind a man, and loped down a corridor.

  The Displacer in his body pouch pulsed and tugged, leading him toward the reactor room.

  He sprinted up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. There were footsteps around the bend, and Pid knew instinctively that Dogs were not allowed inside the building.

  He looked around desperately for a hiding place, but the corridor was bare. However, there were several overhead lights in the ceiling.

  Pid leaped, and glued himself to the ceiling. He shaped himself into a lighting fixture, and hoped that the Men wouldn’t try to find out why he wasn’t shining.

  Men passed, running.

  Pid changed himself into a facsimile of a Man, and hurried on.

  He had to get closer.

  Another Man came down the corridor. He looked sharply at Pid, started to speak, and then sprinted away.

  Pid didn’t know what was wrong, but he broke into a full sprint. The Displacer in his body pouch throbbed and pulsed, telling him he had almost reached the critical distance.

  Suddenly a terrible doubt assailed his mind. All the expeditions had deserted! Every single Glom!

  He slowed slightly.

  Freedom of Shape ... that was a strange notion. A disturbing notion.

  And obviously a device of The Shapeless One, he told himself, and rushed on.

  At the end of the corridor was a gigantic bolted door. Pid stared at it.

  Footsteps hammered down the corridor, and Men were shouting.

  What was wrong? How had they detected him? Quickly he examined himself, and ran his fingers across his face.

  He had forgotten to mold any features.

  In despair he pulled at the door. He took the tiny Displacer out of his pouch, but the pulse beat wasn’t quite strong enough. He had to get closer to the reactor.

  He studied the door. There was a tiny crack running under it. Pid went quickly Shapeless and flowed under, barely squeezing the Displacer through.

  Inside the room he found another bolt on the inside of the door. He jammed it into place, and looked around for something to prop against the door.

  It was a tiny room. On one side was a lead door, leading toward the reactor. There was a small window on another side, and that was all.

  Pid looked at the Displacer. The pulse beat was right. At last he was close enough. Here the Displacer could work, drawing and altering the energy from the reactor. All he had to do was activate it.

  But they had all deserted, every one of them.

  Pid hesitated. All Glom are born Shapeless. That was true. Glom children were amorphous, until old enough to be instructed in the caste-shape of their ancestors. But Freedom of Shape?

  Pid considered the possibilities. To be able to take on any shape he wanted, without interference! On this paradise planet he could fulfill any ambition, become anything, do anything.

  Nor would he be lonely. There were other Glom here as well, enjoying the benefits of Freedom of Shape.

  The Men were beginning to break down the door. Pid was still uncertain.

  What should he do? Freedom ...

  But not for him, he thought bitterly. It was easy enough to be a Hunter or a Thinker. But he was a Pilot. Piloting was his life and love. How could he do that here?

  Of course, the Men had ships. He could turn into a Man, find a ship ...

  Never. Easy enough to become a Tree or a Dog. He could never pass successfully as a Man.

  The door was beginning to splinter from repeated blows.

  Pid walked to the window to take a last look at the planet before activating the Displacer.

  He looked—and almost collapsed from shock.

  It was really true! He hadn’t fully understood what Ger had meant when he said that there were species on this planet to satisfy every need. Every need! Even his!

  Here he could satisfy a longing of the Pilot Caste that went even deeper than Piloting.

  He looked again, then smashed the Displacer to the floor. The door burst open, and in the same instant he flung himself through the window.

  The Men raced to the window and stared out. But they were unable to understand what they saw.

  There was only a great white bird out there, flapping awkwardly but with increasing strength, trying to overtake a flight of birds in the distance.

  SPECIALIST

  THE PHOTON storm struck without warning, pouncing upon the Ship from behind a bank of giant red stars. Eye barely had time to flash a last-second warning through Talker before it was upon them.

  It was Talker’s third journey into deep space, and his first light-pressure storm. He felt a sudden pang of fear as the Ship yawed violently, caught the force of the wavefront, and careened end for end. Then the fear was gone, replaced by a strong pulse of excitement.

  Why should he be afraid, he asked himself—hadn’t he been trained for just this sort of emergency?

  He had been talking to Feeder when the storm hit, but he cut off the conversation abruptly. He hoped Feeder would be all right. It was the youngster’s first deep-space trip.

  The wirelike filaments that made up most of Talker’s body were extended throughout the Ship. Quickly he withdrew all except the ones linking him to Eye, Engine, and the Walls. This was strictly their job now. The rest of the Crew would have to shift for themselves until the storm was over.

  Eye had flattened his disklike body against a Wall, and had one seeing organ extended outside the Ship. For greater concentration, the rest of his seeing o
rgans were collapsed, clustered against his body.

  Through Eye’s seeing organ, Talker watched the storm. He translated Eye’s purely visual image into a direction for Engine, who shoved the Ship around to meet the waves. At appreciably the same time, Talker translated direction into velocity for the Walls who stiffened to meet the shocks.

  The coordination was swift and sure—Eye measuring the waves, Talker relaying the messages to Engine and Walls, Engine driving the ship nose-first into the waves, and Walls bracing to meet the shock.

  Talker forgot any fear he might have had in the swiftly functioning teamwork. He had no time to think. As the Ship’s communication system, he had to translate and flash his messages at top speed, coordinating information and directing action.

  In a matter of minutes, the storm was over.

  “All right,” Talker said. “Let’s see if there was any damage.” His filaments had become tangled during the storm, but he untwisted and extended them through the Ship, plugging everyone into circuit. “Engine?”

  “I’m fine,” Engine said. The tremendous old fellow had dampened his plates during the storm, easing down the atomic explosions in his stomach. No storm could catch an experienced spacer like Engine unaware.

  “Walls?”

  The Walls reported one by one, and this took a long time. There were almost a thousand of them, thin, rectangular fellows making up the entire skin of the Ship. Naturally, they had reinforced their edges during the storm, giving the whole Ship resiliency. But one or two were dented badly.

  Doctor announced that he was all right. He removed Talker’s filament from his head, taking himself out of circuit, and went to work on the dented Walls. Made mostly of hands, Doctor had clung to an Accumulator during the storm.

  “Let’s go a little faster now,” Talker said, remembering that there still was the problem of determining where they were. He opened the circuit to the four Accumulators. “How are you?” he asked.

  There was no answer. The Accumulators were asleep. They had had their receptors open during the storm and were bloated on energy. Talker twitched his filaments around them, but they didn’t stir.

  “Let me,” Feeder said. Feeder had taken quite a beating before planting his suction cups to a Wall, but his cockiness was intact. He was the only member of the Crew who never needed Doctor’s attention; his body was quite capable of repairing itself.