Patience.
Prayer.
And whatever happened: "Do no harm."
For the next days, months, and years, Dr. Anne Hilton would wrestle with her memories, trying to decide why she had acted as she did that morning. Why get coffee at that particular moment? Why offer to retrieve the diamond shard? And why invite Caleb on that impromptu tour?
The last question had many answers. She had assumed that he wanted a tour, that he was being stubborn about the shard for no other reason. And because he was a Marine, he represented authority, order, and ignorance. She'd already had several collisions with his sort, politicians and other outsiders without enough mental activity to form a worthy thought. Maybe she'd hoped that shocking him would help her mood. She'd assumed that he was a big thoughtless lump of a man, the very worst kind. . . ! Imagine. Stationed here for three days, guarding something wondrous, and precious, yet he didn't have the feeblest grasp of what was happening. . . !
The last scream done, Caleb asked, "Where's its brain?"
She glanced at him, noticing a change in his eyes.
"Doctor?" he asked. "Do you know where it does its thinking?"
She was suddenly tired of dispensing free knowledge, yet something in his voice made her answer. A sip of coffee, an abbreviated gesture. Then she said, "Below the face. Inside what you'd call its chest," and with that she turned away.
She should have watched him.
She could have been more alert, like any good doctor, reading symptoms and predicting the worst.
But an associate was approaching, some nonvital problem needing her best guess. She didn't guess that anything was wrong until she saw her associate's face change. One moment he was smiling. Then he became suddenly confused. Then, horrified. And only after that did she bother to ask herself why that Marine would want to know where to find the brain.
Too late, she wheeled around.
Too late and too slow, she couldn't hope to stop him, or even slow him. Caleb had removed his side arm from its holster, one hand holding the other's wrist, the first shot delivered to the chest's exact center, missing the brain by an inch. Security cameras on all sides recorded the event, in aching detail. The alien managed to lift one limb, two slender fingers reaching for the gun. Perhaps it was defending itself. Or perhaps, as others have argued, it simply was trying to adjust its killer's aim. Either way, the gesture was useless. And Hilton was superfluous. Caleb emptied his clip in short order, achieving a perfectly spaced set of holes. Two bullets managed to do what bits of relativistic dust couldn't, devastating a mind older than civilization. And the eyes, never human yet obviously full of intelligence, stared up at the tent's high ceiling, in thanks, perhaps, seeing whatever it is that only the doomed can see.
There was a trial.
The charge, after all the outcry and legal tap dancing, was reduced to felony destruction of federal property. Caleb offered no coordinated defense. His attorneys tried to argue for some kind of alien mind control, probably wishing for the benefit of the doubt. But Caleb fired them for trying it, then went on the stand to testify on his own behalf. In a quiet, firm voice, he described his upbringing in the Ozarks and the beloved uncle who had helped raised him, taking him hunting and fishing, instructing him in the moral codes of the decent man.
" 'Aim to kill,' he taught me. 'Don't be cruel to any creature, no matter how lowborn.' " Caleb stared at the camera, not a dab of doubt entering his steady voice. "When I see suffering, and when there's no hope, I put an end to it. Because that's what's right." He gave examples of his work: Small game. A lame horse. And dogs, including an arthritic Labrador that he'd raised from a pup. Yet that wasn't nearly enough reason, and he knew it. He paused for a long moment, wiping his forehead with his right palm. Then with a different voice, he said, "I was a senior, in high school, and my uncle got the cancer. In his lungs, his bones. Everywhere." He was quieter, if anything. Firmer. More in control, if that was possible. "It wasn't the cancer that killed him His best shotgun did. His doctor and the sheriff talked it over, deciding that he must have held the twelve gauge up like this, then tripped the trigger like this." An imaginary gun lay in his outstretched arms, the geometry difficult even for a healthy oversized man. For the first time, the voice broke. But not badly and not for long. "People didn't ask questions," Caleb explained, arms dropping. "They knew what my uncle was feeling. What he wanted. They knew how we were, the two of us. And where I come from, decent people treat people just as good as they'd treat a sick farm cat. Dying stinks, but it might as well be done fast. And that's all I've got to say about that."
He was sentenced to five years of hard labor, serving every month without incident, without complaint, obeying the strict rules well enough that the prison guards voted him to be a model citizen of their intense little community.
Released, Caleb returned to Missouri, taking over the daily operations of the impoverished family farm.
Networks and new services pleaded for interviews; none were granted.
Some idiots tried sneaking onto his property. They were met by dogs and a silent ex-Marine—lean as a fence post now—and the famous shotgun always cradled in his wiry long arms.
He never spoke to trespassers.
His dogs made his views known.
Eventually, people tired of running in the woods. Public opinions began to soften. The alien had been dying, it was decided. Nothing good could have been done for it. And if the Marine wasn't right in what he did, at least he'd acted according to his conscience.
Caleb won his privacy.
There were years when no one came uninvited.
Then it was a bright spring day twenty-some years after the killing, and a small convoy drove in past the warning signs, through the tall barbed-wire gates, and right up to the simple farmhouse. As it happened, a Marine colonel had been selected to oversee the operation. Flanked by government people, he met with the middle-aged farmer, and with a crisp no-nonsense voice said, "Pack your bags, soldier. But I'll warn you, you don't need to bring much."
"Where am I going?"
"I'll give you one guess."
Something had happened; that much was obvious. With a tight, irritated voice, Caleb told the colonel, "I want you all off my land. Now."
"Goddamn! You really don't know, do you?" The colonel gave a big laugh, saying, "Nothing else is on the news anymore."
"I don't have a television," said Caleb.
"Or a family anymore. And precious few friends." He spoke as if he'd just read the man's file. Then he pointed skyward, adding, "I just assumed you'd have seen it. After dusk is a good time—"
"I get to bed early," was Caleb's excuse. Then a sudden hard chill struck him. He leaned against his doorjamb, thinking that he understood, the fight suddenly starting to leave him. "There's another sail, isn't there? That's what this is all about."
"One sail? Oh, that's wonderful!" All the government men were giggling. "Make it three hundred and eighteen sails, and that's just today's count!"
"An armada of them," said someone.
"Gorgeous, gorgeous," said another, with feeling.
Caleb tried to gather himself. Then with a calm, almost inaudible voice, he asked, "But what do you want with me?"
"We don't want you," said the quick reply.
No?
"They do." The colonel kept smiling. "They asked specifically for you, soldier."
He knew why. Not a doubt in him.
Caleb muttered, "Just a minute," and dropped back into the house, as if to get ready.
The colonel waited for a couple seconds, then knew better. He burst through the door and tried to guess where Caleb would have gone. Upstairs? No, there was an ominous click from somewhere on his right. Caleb was in a utility room, his shotgun loaded and cocked, the double barrels struggling to reach his long forehead; and the colonel grabbed the gun's hull and trigger, shouting, "No! Wait!" Then half a dozen government men were helping him, dark suits left rumpled and torn. But they wrestled t
he shotgun away from their charge, and the colonel stood over him, asking, "What were you thinking? Why in hell would you—?"
"I killed one of theirs," Caleb said. "Now they want their revenge. Isn't that it?"
"Not close." The colonel was too breathless to put much into his laugh. "In fact, I don't think you could be more wrong, soldier. The last thing they want to kill is you. . . !"
Caleb was packed into a new shuttle and taken to orbit, an ungainly lunar tug carrying him the rest of the way. There was a new moon in a high, safe orbit. One of the sail creatures had captured a modest nickel-iron asteroid and brought it there. Healthy and whole, the creature scarcely resembled its dead brother. Its vast sail was self-repairing, and it possessed an astonishing grace, superseding the most delicate butterfly. Partially folded, riding the captive asteroid, it swallowed the tug, guiding it into a docking facility built recently from the native ores. Other tugs had brought up dignitaries, scientists, and a complete medical team. Everyone had gathered in the central room. As the onetime guard drifted into view, there was applause—polite but not quite enthusiastic—and from some of the faces, envy. Incandescent green envy.
Anne Hilton was among that number.
Old and long retired, she was present at the request of the sail creatures. Caleb didn't recognize her at first glance. She shook his hand, tried smiling, then introduced him to each member of her team. "We're just advisers," she informed him. "Most of the work will be done by our host."
Caleb flinched, just for a moment.
Their "host" didn't resemble the first alien, save for the artificial trappings. Sail creatures were an assemblage of sentient species. Perhaps dozens of them. Caleb had seen photographs of this particular species: fishlike; human-sized; blackish gills flanking an unreadable carpish mouth. It had disgusted him at first glance, and the memory of it disgusted him now.
Dr. Hilton asked, "Would you like to meet her?"
He spoke honestly, saying, "Not particularly."
"But she wants to meet you." A cutting smile, then she promised, "I'll take you to her. Come on."
They had done this before, more than two decades ago. She had taken him to meet an alien, and for at least this moment she could feel superior in the same way. In charge.
There was a narrow tunnel with handholds, toeholds.
Suddenly they were alone, and with a soft, careful voice, Caleb confessed, "I don't understand. Why me?"
"Why not you?" Hilton growled.
"I'm not smart. Or clever. Not compared to everyone else up here, I'm not."
She lifted her eyebrows, watching him.
"These aliens should pick a scientist. Someone who cares about stars and planets. . . ."
"You're going to be young again." Hilton said the words as if delivering a curse. "It'll take her some time to learn our genetics, but she's promised me that she can reverse the aging process. A twenty-year-old body again."
"I know."
"As for being smart," she said, "don't worry. She's going to tease your neurons into dividing, like inside a baby's head. By the time you leave us, you'll be in the top ninety-nine percentile among humans. And as creative as can be."
He nodded, already aware of the general plan.
Then they were near the entrance to her chamber. Hilton stopped, one hand resting on Caleb's nearer arm, a firm and level voice telling him, "I would do anything—almost—for the chance to go where you're going. To live for aeons, to see all those wondrous places!"
In a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, he said, "I'll tell her to take you instead of me."
Hilton knew that he meant it, and she grew even angrier.
Then again, Caleb asked, "Why me?"
"They think they know you, I guess. They've been studying our telecommunications noise for years, and you certainly earned their attention." Her withered face puckered, lasting something sour. "You acted out of a kind of morality. You didn't hesitate, and you didn't make excuses. Then you accepted the hardships of prison, and the hardships that came afterward. Being able to live alone like you did . . . well, that's a rare talent for our species, and it's invaluable. . . ."
He gave a little nod, a sigh.
"These creatures don't treasure intelligence," she exclaimed. "That's something they can grow, in vats. The same with imagination. But there's some quality in you that makes you worth taking. . . ."
A dull ocher button would open the hatch.
Hilton reached for it, and her hand was intercepted, frail bones restrained by an unconscious strength.
Caleb put his face close to hers, and whispered.
"What I did for that alien," he confessed, "I would have done for a dog." She opened her mouth, but said nothing. After a moment, he continued: "Or a bug, or anything."
She stared at him, pulling at her hand until he abruptly let go.
"Time to get this business started," Caleb announced.
With an elbow, he smacked the button. There was a hiss, a little wind blowing as the hatch pulled open, carrying with it the smell of warm water and things unnamed.
He turned and left her.
And she hugged herself as if cold, and she watched him, her mouth open and nothing to say, the ex-Marine growing small with the distance as her bewilderment grew vast and bitter and black.
The Mindworm
C. M. Kornbluth
Here's a classic SF horror story, and one of the classic tales of aliens in hiding among us—except that this is an alien you 'd better not try to find. You'd better hope he doesn't find you, either.
The late C. M. Kornbluth first started selling stories as a teenage prodigy in 1940, making his first sale to Super Science Stories, and writing vast amounts of pulp fiction under many different pseudonyms in the years before World War II, most of it unknown today. Only after the war, in the booming SF scene of the early '50s, did Kornbluth begin to attract some serious attention. As a writer, C. M. Kornbluth first came to widespread prominence with a series of novels written in collaboration with Frederik Pohl, including The Space Merchants (one of the most famous SF novels of the 50s), Gladiator-at-Law, Search the Sky, and Wolfbane; he also produced two fairly routine novels in collaboration with Judith Merill as "Cyril Judd," Outpost Mars and Gunner Cade, that were moderately well-received at the time but are largely forgotten today, as well as several long-forgotten mainstream novels in collaboration with Pohl. As a solo writer—in addition to several mainstream novels under different pseudonyms—he produced three interesting but largely unsuccessful novels (Not This August, The Syndic, and Takeoff) that had little impact on the SF world of the day.
What did have a powerful impact on the SF world, though, was Kornbluth's short fiction. Kornbluth was a master of the short story, working with a sophistication, maturity, elegance, and grace rarely seen in the genre, then or now. He was one of those key authors—one also thinks of Damon Knight, Theodore Sturgeon, Alfred Bester, Algis Budrys, and a few others—who were busy in the '50s redefining what you could do with the instrument known as the science fiction short story, and greatly expanding its range. In the years before his tragically early death in 1958, Kornbluth created some of the best short work of the '50s, including the classic "The Little Black Bag, " "The Marching Morons," "Shark Ship," "Two Dooms, " "Gomez, " "The Last Man Left in the Bar, " "The Advent on Channel Twelve," "Ms. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie," "With These Hands," and dozens of others.
Kornbluth won no major awards during his lifetime, but one story of his, completed from a partial draft by Pohl years after his death, "The Meeting," won a Hugo Award in 1972. Kornbluth's solo short work was collected in The Explorers, A Mile Beyond the Moon, The Marching Morons, Thirteen O'Clock and Other Zero Hours, and The Best of C. M. Kornbluth. Pohl and Kornbluth's collaborative short work has been collected in The Wonder Effect, Critical Mass, Before the Universe, and Our Best. Until recently, I would have said that everything by Kornbluth was long out of print, but, fortunately, NESFA Press published a massive retrospec
tive Kornbluth collection in 1996, His Share of the Glory: The Complete Short Fiction of C. M. Kornbluth (NESFA Press, P.O. Box 809. Framingham, MA 07101-0203), a collection which, true to its name, assembles almost everything Kornbluth ever wrote under his own name, and one which belongs in every serious SF reader's library.
The handsome J. G. and the pretty nurse held out against it as long as they reasonably could, but blue Pacific water, languid tropical nights, the low atoll dreaming on the horizon—and the complete absence of any other nice young people for company on the small, uncomfortable parts boat—did their work. On June 30th they watched through dark glasses as the dazzling thing burst over the fleet and the atoll. Her manicured hand gripped his arm in excitement and terror. Unfelt radiation sleeted through their loins.
A storekeeper-third-class named Bielaski watched the young couple with more interest than he showed in Test Able. After all, he had twenty-five dollars riding on the nurse. That night he lost it to a chief bosun's mate who had backed the j.g.
In the course of time, the careless nurse was discharged under conditions other than honorable. The j.g., who didn't like to put things in writing, phoned her all the way from Manila to say it was a damned shame. When her gratitude gave way to specific inquiry, their overseas connection went bad and he had to hang up.
She had a child, a boy, turned it over to a foundling home, and vanished from his life into a series of good jobs and finally marriage.
The boy grew up stupid, puny and stubborn, greedy and miserable. To the home's hilarious young athletics director he suddenly said: "You hate me. You think I make the rest of the boys look bad."
The athletics director blustered and laughed, and later told the doctor over coffee: "I watch myself around the kids. They're sharp—they catch a look or a gesture and it's like a blow in the face to them, I know that, so I watch myself. So how did he know?"
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