To Be Continued

by Silverberg, Robert

  About half an hour before blast-off, Willendorf came to me. “Sir, Alaree’s down below,” he said. “He wants to come up and see you. He looks very troubled, sir.”

  I frowned. Probably the alien still wanted to go back with us. Well, it was cruel to deny the request, but I wasn’t going to risk that fine. I intended to make that clear to him.

  “Send him up,” I said.

  A moment later Alaree came stumbling into my cabin. Before he could speak I said, “I told you before—I can’t take you off this planet, Alaree. I’m sorry about it.”

  He looked up pitiably and said, “You mustn’t leave me!” He was trembling uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong, Alaree?” I asked.

  He stared intensely at me for a long moment, mastering himself, trying to arrange what he wanted to tell me into a coherent argument. Finally he said, “They would not take me back. I am alone.”

  “Who wouldn’t take you back, Alaree?”

  “They. Last night, Alaree came for me, to take me back. They are a we—an entity, a oneness. You cannot understand. When they saw what I had become, they cast me out.”

  I shook my head dizzily. “What do you mean?”

  “You taught me…to become an I,” he said, moistening his lips. “Before, I was part of we—they. I learned your ways from you, and now there is no room for me here. They have cut me off. When the final break comes, I will not be able to stay on this world.”

  Sweat was pouring down his pale face, and he was breathing harder. “It will come any minute. They are gathering strength for it. But I am I,” he said triumphantly. He shook violently and gasped for breath.

  I understood now. They were all Alaree. It was one planet-wide, self-aware corporate entity, composed of any number of individual cells. He had been one of them—but he had learned independence.

  Then he had returned to the group—but he carried with him the seeds of individualism, the deadly, contagious germ we Terrans spread everywhere. Individualism would be fatal to such a group mind; it was cutting him loose to save itself. Just as diseased cells must be excised for the good of the entire body, Alaree was inexorably being cut off from his fellows lest he destroy the bond that made them one.

  I watched him as he sobbed weakly on my acceleration cradle. “They…are…cutting…me…loose…now!”

  He writhed horribly for a brief moment, and then relaxed and sat up on the edge of the cradle. “It is over,” he said calmly. “I am fully independent.”

  I saw a stark aloneness reflected in his eyes, and behind that a gentle indictment of me for having done this to him. This world, I realized, was no place for Earthmen. What had happened was our fault—mine more than anyone else’s.

  “Will you take me with you?” he asked again. “If I stay here, Alaree will kill me.”

  I scowled wretchedly for a moment, fighting a brief battle within myself, and then I looked up. There was only one thing to do—and I was sure, once I explained on Earth, that I would not suffer for it.

  I took his hand. It was cold and limp; whatever he had just been through, it must have been hell. “Yes,” I said softly. “You can come with us.”

  And so Alaree joined the crew of the Aaron Burr. I told them about it just before blast-off, and they welcomed him aboard in traditional manner.

  We gave the sad-eyed little alien a cabin near the cargo hold, and he established himself quite comfortably. He had no personal possessions—”It is not their custom.” he said—and promised that he’d keep the cabin clean.

  He had brought with him a rough-edged, violet fruit that he said was his staple food. I turned it over to Kechnie for synthesizing, and we blasted off.

  Alaree was right at home aboard the Burr. He spent much time with me—asking questions.

  “Tell me about Earth,” Alaree would ask. The alien wanted desperately to know what sort of a world he was going to.

  He would listen gravely while I explained. I told him of cities and wars and spaceships, and he nodded sagely, trying to fit the concepts into a mind only newly liberated from the gestalt. I knew he could comprehend only a fraction of what I was saying, but I enjoyed telling him. It made me feel as if Earth were coming closer that much faster, simply to talk about it.

  And he went around begging everyone, “Tell me about Earth.” They enjoyed telling him, too—for a while.

  Then it began to get a little tiresome. We had grown accustomed to Alaree’s presence on the ship, flopping around the corridors doing whatever menial job he had been assigned to. But—although I had told the men why I had brought him with us, and though we all pitied the poor lonely creature and admired his struggle to survive as an individual entity—we were slowly coming to the realization that Alaree was something of a nuisance aboard ship.

  Especially later, when he began to change.

  Willendorf noticed it first, twelve days out from Alaree’s planet. “Alaree’s been acting pretty strange these days, sir,” he told me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you spotted it, sir? He’s been moping around like a lost soul—very quiet and withdrawn, like.”

  “Is he eating well?”

  Willendorf chuckled loudly. “I’ll say he is! Kechnie made up some synthetics based on the piece of fruit he brought with him, and he’s been stuffing himself wildly. He’s gained ten pounds since he came on ship. No, it’s not lack of food!”

  “I guess not,” I said. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I feel responsible for his being here, and I want him to come through the voyage in good health.”

  After that, I began to observe Alaree more closely myself, and I detected the change in his personality too. He was no longer the cheerful, childlike being who delighted in pouring out questions in endless profusion. Now he was moody, silent, always brooding, and hard to approach.

  On the sixteenth day out—and by now I was worried seriously about him—a new manifestation appeared. I was in the hallway, heading from my cabin to the chartroom, when Alaree stepped out of an alcove. He reached up, grasped my uniform lapel, and, maintaining his silence, drew my head down and stared pleadingly into my eyes.

  Too astonished to say anything, I returned his gaze for nearly thirty seconds. I peered into his transparent pupils, wondering what he was up to. After a good while had passed, he released me, and I saw something like a tear trickle down his cheek.

  “What’s the trouble, Alaree?”

  He shook his head mournfully and shuffled away.

  I got reports from the crewmen that day and next that he had been doing this regularly for the past eighteen hours—waylaying crewmen, staring long and deep at them as if trying to express some unspeakable sadness, and walking away. He had approached almost everyone on the ship.

  I wondered now how wise it had been to allow an extraterrestrial, no matter how friendly, to enter the ship. There was no telling what this latest action meant.

  I started to form a theory. I suspected what he was aiming at, and the realization chilled me. But once I reached my conclusion, there was nothing I could do but wait for confirmation.

  On the nineteenth day, Alaree again met me in the corridor. This time our encounter was more brief. He plucked me by the sleeve, shook his head sadly and shrugged his shoulders, and walked away.

  That night, he took to his cabin, and by morning he was dead. He had apparently died peacefully in his sleep.

  “I guess we’ll never understand him, poor fellow,” Willendorf said, after we had committed the body to space. “You think he had too much to eat, sir?”

  “No,” I said. “It wasn’t that. He was lonely, that’s all. He didn’t belong here, among us.”

  “But you said he had broken away from that group-mind,” Willendorf objected.

  I shook my head. “Not really. That group-mind arose out of some deep psychological and physiological needs of those people. You can’t just declare your independence and be able to exist as an individual from then on if you’
re part of that group-entity. Alaree had grasped the concept intellectually, to some extent, but he wasn’t suited for life away from the corporate mind, no matter how much he wanted to be.”

  “He couldn’t stand alone?”

  “Not after his people had evolved that gestalt setup. He learned independence from us,” I said. “But he couldn’t live with us, really. He needed to be part of a whole. He found out his mistake after he came aboard and tried to remedy things.”

  I saw Willendorf pale. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You know what I mean. When he came up to us and stared soulfully into our eyes. He was trying to form a new gestalt—out of us! Somehow he was trying to link us together, the way his people had been linked.”

  “He couldn’t do it, though,” Willendorf said fervently.

  “Of course not. Human beings don’t have whatever need it is that forced those people to merge. He found that out, after a while, when he failed to get anywhere with us.”

  “He just couldn’t do it,” Willendorf repeated.

  “No. And then he ran out of strength,” I said somberly, feeling the heavy weight of my guilt. “He was like an organ removed from a living body. It can exist for a little while by itself, but not indefinitely. He failed to find a new source of life—and he died.” I stared bitterly at my fingertips.

  “What do we call it in my medical report?” asked Ship Surgeon Thomas, who had been silent up till then. “How can we explain what he died from?”

  “Call it—malnutrition,” I said.

  The Artifact Business

  I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in ancient civilizations and their artifacts. From childhood on I haunted the museums of New York City, at first primarily to see the dinosaurs, and then, a little later, to stare at the Sumerian and Babylonian and Egyptian relics, the Roman mosaics, the Mexican codices, the Pueblo pots. I dreamed of visiting the ruins of the lost cultures that had produced those artifacts—and, as soon as I was able to do it, off I went, year after year, to Pompeii and Chichen Itza and Rome and the Pueblo country. The distant past had the same sort of appeal for me that the distant future did; and for a considerable period of my writing career—the decade from 1961 to 1970—I was more prolific in the field of archaeological popularizations than I was as a science-fiction writer.

  The story here, which reflects this early and lifelong interest in archaeology, is one that I wrote in May, 1956, during my senior year at Columbia. It wandered around unsuccessfully to several of the top-paying magazines and eventually was bought by the gentle, somewhat bumbling Hans Stefan Santesson, who had just become editor of Leo Margulies’ Fantastic Universe and who had a considerable interest in archaeology himself. Hans ran it in his April, 1957 issue.

  ~

  The Voltuscian was a small, withered humanoid whose crimson throat-appendages quivered nervously, as if the thought of doing archaeological fieldwork excited him unbearably. He gestured to me anxiously with one of his four crooked arms, urging me onward over the level silt.

  “This way, friend. Over here is the Emperor’s grave.”

  “I’m coming, Dolbak.” I trudged forward, feeling the weight of the spade and the knapsack over my shoulder. I caught up with him a few moments later.

  He was standing near a rounded hump in the ground, pointing downward. “This is it,” he said happily. “I have saved it for you.”

  I fished in my pocket, pulled out a tinkling heap of arrow-shaped coins, and handed him one. The Voltuscian, nodding his thanks effusively, ran around behind me to help me unload.

  Taking the spade from him, I thrust it into the ground and began to dig. The thrill of discovery started to tingle in me, as it does always when I begin a new excavation. I suppose that is the archaeologist’s greatest joy, that moment of apprehension as the spade first bites into the ground. I dug rapidly and smoothly, following Dolbak’s guidance.

  “There it is,” he said reverently. “And a beauty it is, too. Oh, Jarrell-sir, how happy I am for you!”

  I leaned on my spade to recover my wind before bending to look. I mopped away beads of perspiration, and thought of the great Schliemann laboring in the stifling heat of Hissarlik to uncover the ruins of Troy. Schliemann has long been one of my heroes—along with the other archaeologists who did the pioneer work in the fertile soil of Mother Earth.

  Wearily, I stooped to one knee and fumbled in the fine sand of the Voltuscian plain, groping for the bright object that lay revealed. I worked it loose from its covering of silt and studied it.

  “Amulet,” I said after a while. “Third Period; unspecified protective charm. Studded with emerald-cut gobrovirs of the finest water.” The analysis complete, I turned to Dolbak and grasped his hand warmly. “How can I thank you, Dolbak?”

  He shrugged. “Not necessary.” Glancing at the amulet, he said, “It will fetch a high price. Some woman of Earth will wear it proudly.”

  “Ah—yes,” I said, a trifle bitterly. Dolbak had touched on the source of my deep frustration and sorrow.

  This perversion of archaeology into a source for trinkets and bits of frippery to adorn rich men’s homes and wives had always rankled me. Although I have never seen Earth, I like to believe I work in the great tradition of Schliemann and Evans, whose greatest finds were to be seen in the galleries of the British Museum and the Ashmolean, not dangling on the painted bosom of some too-rich wench who has succumbed to the current passion for antiquity.

  When the Revival came, when everyone’s interest suddenly turned on the ancient world and the treasures that lay in the ground, I felt deep satisfaction—my chosen profession, I thought, now was one that had value to society as well as private worth. How wrong I was! I took this job in the hope that it would provide me with the needed cash to bring me to Earth—but instead I became nothing more than the hired lackey of a dealer in women’s fashions, and Earth’s unreachable museums lie inch-deep in dust.

  I sighed and returned my attention to the excavation. The amulet lay there, flawless in its perfection, a marvelous relic of the great race that once inhabited Voltus. Masking my sadness, I reached down with both hands and lovingly plucked the amulet from the grave in which it had rested so many thousands of years.

  I felt a sudden impulse to tip Dolbak again. The withered alien accepted the coins gratefully, but with a certain reserve that made me feel that perhaps this whole business seemed as sordid to him as it did to me.

  “It’s been a good day’s work,” I told him. “Let’s go back, now. We’ll get this assayed and I’ll give you your commission, eh, old fellow?”

  “That will be very good, sir,” he said mildly, and assisted me in donning my gear once again.

  We crossed the plain and entered the Terran outpost in silence. As we made our way through the winding streets to the assay office, hordes of the four-armed, purple-hued Voltuscian children approached us clamorously, offering us things for sale, things they had made themselves. Some of their work was quite lovely; the Voltuscians seem to have a remarkable aptitude for handicrafting. But I brushed them all away. I have made it a rule to ignore them, no matter how delightful a spun-glass fingerbowl they may have, how airy and delicate an ivory carving. Such things, being contemporary, have no market value on Earth, and a man of my limited means must avoid luxuries of this sort.

  The assay office was still open, and, as we approached, I saw two or three men standing outside, each with his Voltuscian guide.

  “Hello, Jarrell,” said a tall man raucously.

  I winced. He was David Sturges, one of the least scrupulous of the many Company archaeologists on Voltus—a man who thought nothing of breaking into the most sacred shrines of the planet and committing irreparable damage for the sake of ripping loose a single marketable item.

  “Hello, Sturges,” I said shortly.

  “Have a good day, old man? Find anything worth poisoning you for?”

  I grinned feebly and nodded. “Nice amulet of the Third Period. I’m plann
ing on handing it in immediately, but if you prefer I won’t. I’ll take it home and leave it on my table tonight. That way you won’t wreck the place looking for it.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Sturges said. “I came up with a neat cache of enameled skulls today—a dozen, of the Expansion Era, set with platinum scrollwork.” He pointed to his alien guide, a dour-looking Voltuscian named Qabur. “My boy found them for me. Wonderful fellow, Qabur. He can home in on a cache as if he’s got radar in his nose.”

  I began to frame a reply in praise of my own guide when Zweig, the assayer, stepped to the front of his office and looked out. “Well, who’s next? You, Jarrell?”

  “Yes, sir.” I picked up my spade and followed him inside. He slouched behind his desk and looked up wearily.

  “What do you have to report, Jarrell?”

  I drew the amulet out of my knapsack and handed it across the desk. He examined it studiously, noticing the way the light glinted off the facets of the inset gobrovirs. “Not bad,” he said.

  “It’s a rather fine piece, isn’t it?”

  “Not bad,” he repeated. “Seventy-five dollars, I’d say.”

  “What? I’d figured that piece for at least five hundred! Come on, Zweig, be reasonable. Look at the quality of those gobrovirs!”

  “Very nice,” he admitted. “But you have to understand that the gobrovir, while attractive, is intrinsically not a very valuable gem. And I must consider the intrinsic value as well as the historical, you know.”

  I frowned. Now would come the long speech about supply and demand, the scarcity of gems, the cost of shipping the amulet back to Earth, marketing, on and on, on and on. I spoke before he had the chance. “I won’t haggle, Zweig. Give me a hundred and fifty or I’ll keep the thing myself.”

  He grinned slyly. “What would you do with it? Donate it to the British Museum?”

  The remark stung. I looked at him sadly, and he said, “I’ll give you a hundred.”