The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “Neither did I,” she said slowly. “Something is rotten in the Matriarchy, and it isn’t the customary scent of senile decay peculiar to dictatorships. The biology of the Martians demands a dictatorship, what with their weird reproductive methods. Unless there were a strong and centralized authority they’d slump back into barbarism after a few thousand years of unrestricted matings. Here’s one dictator who’s loved by the dictatees.”

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “To change the subject, I have the place and time for tomorrow’s party. The lady is—I knew you couldn’t tell one from another—director of a munitions and fabrication syndicate.”

  “Thanks,” he said vaguely, taking the memo. “That’s the perfect spot of irony to top off the evening—in fact this whole damned mission that failed.”

  * * * *

  He went to the party with Dr. Carewe, both thoroughly wrapped up in fur and wool against the Martian indoors ten-below temperature. And they carried thermos flasks full of hot coffee for an occasional warming nip in a dark corner. Anything but that would be unmannerly.

  His hostess presented Weems to her husband-brother-nephew, an example of the ungodly family relationships into which their anatomy naturally led. The creature was very much smaller than the female, and spoke only Martian, which the Earthman could not handle except sparingly. He got the idea that they were talking about auriferous sand, but how they got onto the subject he did not understand. He excused himself as quickly as he could and retreated for some of the steaming coffee.

  “Earthman, of course!” said a hearty voice.

  He turned to see a curious, stubby person, quite human in his appearance, but with a somehow distorted look—as though he had been squeezed in a hydraulic press. And the person wore elaborately ornamental trappings of a blackish-silver metal.

  “You must be a Jovian,” he said, corking the thermos. “I’ve never seen one of your people before. You’re more—ah—human than these others.”

  “So they say. And you’re the first Earthman I’ve ever seen. You’re very—ah—long.” They both laughed; then the Jovian introduced himself as a pilot on the regular Io-Mars freighters. He waved off Weems’ introduction. “Don’t bother, Weems,” he said. “I know of you.”

  “Indeed?” There was a pause. With the diplomatic instinct to avoid embarrassment whenever possible, the Earthman asked, “Why don’t your people appear more often on Earth? You could chuck some of that osmium you have to wear here on Mars.”

  “This?” the Jovian gestured at his trappings. “A mere drop in the bucket. I have a hundredweight in each shoe. But the reason is that the Earth is relatively undeveloped in its space culture—though, of course, much better developed than Jupiter. There are so few of us—fifty million on the whole planet.” He shrugged whimsically. “We’re growing, of course. There was a polygamy decree a few years ago—did you hear of it?”

  “No—I’m sorry to say I know nothing at all about your planet. I’m in the diplomatic service. Studying Venus, mostly.”

  “So? Perhaps you are the wrong man to come to, then. We know nothing about these matters. Is there a person more appropriate to whom I ought to broach the idea of a rapprochement between our two worlds?”

  Weems was rocked back on his heels. Unheard of! Diplomacy as casual as this was tantamount to an interplanetary incident. The Jovian continued as casually as before, “You see, we’ve no navy and don’t need space rights. It’s strictly commercial, so we haven’t got any Foreign Office. We hardly trade at all with Venus and Earth, and our Mars relations are settled by treaty once every four of Mars’ years.”

  “Excuse me,” said Weems abruptly. He had just caught a high sign from Dr. Carewe, who was holding a flimsy like a dead rat. He sidled over to her inconspicuously.

  “Well—what turned up?”

  “The chip,” she said breathlessly, “has been knocked off. I just got this from our Embassy—by messenger. It’s a copy of the note the Earth F.O. just sent to Venus. The Earth F.O. not only assures Venus that not only does Earth impeach the Venus F.O. but that she is prepared to put its jurisdiction to trial.” She handed him the flimsy.

  He scanned it almost unbelievingly. “The so-and-sos,” he commented inaudibly. “That about fixes our little red wagon, Doc. Though we have an ally. Jupiter wants its place in the sun.”

  As the woman stared with amazement, he introduced the Jovian to her and explained the situation. The squat man listened with increasing anxiety as he dilated on the relations that would exist between the two worlds.

  “Will we really,” he asked at length, “need all those men—actually twenty-five on our end!—to handle a little thing like a military alliance?”

  “Lord, yes!” breathed Weems. “Code clerks, secretaries, subsecretaries, second-subsecretaries—lots more.”

  “May I ask,” said the woman, “why this sudden interest in protocol and procedure has come up on Jupiter?”

  The Jovian looked a little embarrassed. “It’s a matter of pride,” he explained. “The three other planets have their own secret codes and messages. We’re the only planet that hasn’t got sealed diplomatic pouches absolutely inviolable in any jurisdiction! And so our Executive Committee decided that if it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for us.”

  “I see,” said Weems thoughtfully. “But how is it that you, the A pilot on a freighter, are their Plenipotentiary without even identification?”

  “As a matter of fact,” confessed the Jovian with some hesitation, “I was given a note, but it seems to be lost. Do things like that really matter?”

  “They do,” said Weems solemnly. “But you were saying—?”

  “Yes. They chose a freight pilot to avoid taking a man off real work. It’s our principle of the economization of kinesis. Without its operation we’d have all sorts of superfluous men who did only half a man’s work. And do not forget that to a people of only fifty million that is no small matter. We need every man, all the time.”

  “As to the treaty necessary,” said the woman, “would you prefer it to be secret or published?”

  “Secret,” promptly replied the Jovian. “It’ll be more fun that way.”

  Up dashed a very young subattaché from the Earth Embassy. “Excuse me,” he shrilled, his voice breaking. “But you have to come at once. It’s important as—as the very devil, sir, if you will excuse—” He found himself addressing empty air and an amused Jovian. The two Earth people had flown to their sand car. They had been awaiting the summons.

  The ambassador was waiting for them, grim and white. He was no fool, this ambassador; his punishment for that was the dusty job on Mars instead of an office on Terra. He had just removed the earphone clamps, they saw; the diplomatic receiver set was on his desk.

  Without waiting for a question from them he said, “The good word is—ultimatum.”

  “God!” said Dr. Carewe, her old face quite white.

  “When?” snapped Weems, taking out pencil and paper.

  “Note delivered to Venus F.O.—that’s the note from Earth—and ten minutes or so later lynching of Venusians on the staff of the Earth Embassy by an outraged populace. Foolish defense by Earthmen attached to the Embassy. Several of them killed. Stronger note from Earth. Why didn’t Venus F.O. notify immediately and offer indemnification? Very strong reply from Venus F.O.—chip on the shoulder. Earth knocks off chip. That’s the last you saw at your party. Then ultimatum from Venus giving Earth twelve dicenes to apologize profoundly and offer an indemnity in good faith.”

  “And when is the time up?”

  “The twelve dicenes will come to an end”—the ambassador consulted his watch—“about forty-eight hours from now.”

  There was a long pause, broken at last by a muffled groan from the ambassador. “Damn it—oh, damn it!” he wailed. “Why do the idiots have to fight? There’s trade enough for ever
ybody, isn’t there?”

  “And, of course,” said Weems, “Earth will never back down. Not in a million years. They’re built like that. And if they did back down, Venus would be sure of herself and force a war.”

  “Well,” said the woman quietly, “are you just going to sit here?”

  “Suggestions are in order,” said the young man unhappily.

  “You’ll have to work like hell to stave this off,” warned the woman.

  “Ready and willing, Doctor. Tell me what to do.”

  * * * *

  Considering that the art of diplomacy is, ultimately reduced, the system found most practical in actual use when stalling for time to rush ahead with military expansion, it is not very remarkable that the two roving delegates did what they did with such neatness. The system was there for them to use.

  Use it they did, to the fullest extent. They shot ethers through to most of the crowned heads of the inner planet; radioed Earth confidentially meanwhile to stand by for the answers from Venus; contacted the Martian Protocol Division regarding an alliance for trade purposes alone.

  They were so thoroughly efficient in their functioning that after ten hours of this the bureau chiefs back on Earth fell to their knees and prayed for a letup of this lunatic barrage of red tape that came, unasked-for and unanswerable, from a minor embassy on Mars.

  Venus was bally well baffled. At first they made some pretense of replying stiffly to the muted threats from the Embassy on Mars, then gave up and hung onto the ropes, trying to decode the weird messages. It must be code, they decided. How could a message like “Advise your F.O. investigate frog ponds for specious abnormalities” be anything but an uncrackable cipher? They set their experts to work. The experts decided that the message meant: “All Earthmen on Venus are advised to sabotage production machinery and destroy records.” But they were as wrong as they could be, for the message meant just what it said. Its value was on its face.

  The consulate and the staff were drafted by the Embassy to aid in the good work of confusion; the ambassador himself sat for ten hours writing out messages which bore absolutely no relation to each other or the world at large. And if you think that sounds easy—try it!

  Meanwhile the inseparables, Mr. Weems and Dr. Carewe, had been separated. The woman was gathering data from Martian libraries and Weems was paying social calls at the palace, interviewing secretaries without number. Meanwhile, authentic, distressing news releases kept rushing to him, causing him great pain. The first thing after the ultimatum he heard had called in all spacers except those related to navigation—fueling stations, etc. Venus retaliated in kind, and furthermore towed out the gigantic battle islands used to fuel fighting ships. Earth retaliated in kind, and furthermore began skirmishing war games around midway between Terra and Luna.

  By the time the ten hours of lunatic messages were elapsed, the two great fleets of Earth and Venus were face to face midway between the planets, waiting for orders from the home planets to fire when ready.

  “For the love of Heaven,” he pleaded with a secretary to the Karfiness, “they won’t even wait for the ultimatum to elapse. There’s going to be a space war in two hours if I don’t get to see Her Serene Tentaculosity!” The title he bestowed upon her was sheer whimsy; he wasn’t half as upset as he was supposed to be. It was all for effect. He rushed away, distraught, with the information that he couldn’t possibly see the Karfiness, and aware that the munitions interests of Mars would by now be rubbing their chelae with glee.

  He reached a phone and rang up the ambassador. “Okay,” he informed him. “Stop short!”

  The ambassador, badly overworked and upset, stopped short with the messages. Venus and Earth were baffled again, this time because there was nothing to be baffled by. The strange silence that had fallen on the F.O.s was alarming in its implications. The diplomatic mind had already adjusted itself to the abnormal condition; restoration of normality created almost unbearable strain. Messages rushed to the Embassy; the ambassador left them severely alone and went to bed. From that moment anybody who touched a transmitter would be held for treason, he informed his staff. It was as though the Mars Embassy had been blown out of the ground.

  “They are now,” brooded Weems, “ready for anything. Let us hope that Venus hasn’t lost her common sense along with her temper.”

  With that he set himself to the hardest job of all—waiting. He got a couple of hours of sleep, on the edge of a volcano, not knowing whether the lined-up Venus fleet would fire on the opposite Earth fleet before he woke. If it did, it would be all over before he really got started.

  * * * *

  Even Weems hadn’t imagined how well his plan was taking root. Back on Earth the whole F.O. had gone yellow, trembling at the gills lest they should actually have to fight. And it was perfectly obvious that they would, for when planetary integrity directs, no mere individual might stand in the way.

  There was a great dearth of news; there had been for the past few hours of the crisis. Since that God-awful business from the Mars Embassy stopped and the entire staff there had—presumably—been shot in the back while hard at work fabricating incredible dispatches, there was a mighty and sullen silence over the air, ether and subetheric channels of communication.

  On Venus things were pretty bad, too. A lot of Earthmen had been interned and the whole planet was sitting on edge waiting for something to happen. It did happen, with superb precision, after exactly seven hours of silence and inactivity.

  There was a frantic call from, of all Godforsaken places, Jupiter. Jupiter claimed that the whole business was a feint, and that the major part of the Earth fleet was even now descending on the Jovians to pillage and slay.

  The official broadcast—not a beam dispatch—from Jupiter stated this. Earth promptly denied everything, in a stiff-necked communiqué.

  Venus grinned out of the corner of her mouth. In an answering communiqué she stated that since Venus was invariably to be found on the side of the underdog, the Venus Grand Fleet would depart immediately for Jupiter to engage the enemy of her good friends, the Jovians.

  Earth, to demonstrate her good faith, withdrew her own fleet from anywhere near the neighborhood of Jupiter, going clear around to the other side of the Sun for maneuvers.

  Lovers of peace drew great, relieved sighs. The face-to-face had been broken up. The ultimatum had been forgotten in Earth’s righteous stand that she had not invaded Jupiter nor intended to. This made Venus look and feel silly. This made the crisis collapse as though it had never been there at all.

  And just after the Venus fleet had reported to its own home F.O.—this was three hours after the ultimatum had elapsed without being noticed by anybody—there were several people in the Earth Embassy on Mars acting hilariously. There was a Jovian who gurgled over and over:

  “I didn’t know it would be this much fun! We’d have gotten into the game years ago if we’d known.”

  “And I,” said the ambassador, “have the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve given a pretty headache to the best code experts in the system. And all by the simple expedient of sending a code message that means just what it says.”

  “And I,” said Weems, upending a glass, “have aided the cause of peace between the planets. If I can get to the Karfiness and let her know that she’s being played for a sucker by the munitions people—”

  “Let it come later,” said Dr. Carewe. “I wish I could live another eighty years to read about it in the history books. But it really doesn’t matter, because they’ll say something like this:

  “‘Toward the end of this year there arose a crisis between Earth and Venus, seemingly over matters of trade. It actually reached a point of ultimatums and reprisals. Fortunately the brilliant, calm and efficient work of the Hon. Secretary of Recession, Jowett Osgood, saved the day. He contracted a defensive alliance with Jupiter, the combined might of the Earth-Jovian fleet cr
ushing any idea of victory that may have been the goal of the Venusians.’”

  Dr. Carewe laughed loudly and raucously as she refilled her glass.

  THE GOLDEN ROAD

  Originally published in Stirring Science Stories, March 1942.

  Out of the myth of night and language there come strange tales told over wine. There is a man known as The Three-Cornered Scar who frequents a village spot famed for its wine and raconteurs, both of which are above the average.

  The Three-Cornered Scar favored us by a visit to my table and ordering, during the course of his story, five half-bottles of house red to my account. The wine is drunk up and the story told.

  1

  Colt was tired. He was so bone-broke weary that he came near to wishing he was dead. It would have been easy to die in the snow; heaps in the way seemed to beg for the print of his body. He skirted crevasses that were like wide and hungry mouths.

  This was Central Asia, High Pamir, a good thousand miles from any permanent habitation of the human race. The nomadic Kirghiz population had been drained away to the Eastern front, civil and military authorities likewise. Colt himself was the tragic, far-strayed end of the First Kuen-Lung Oil Prospecting Expedition, undertaken by a handful of American volunteers on behalf of the Chungking government.

  Estimating generously, his assets were five more days of scanty eating. And an eternity of sleep under the glaring stars of the plateau?…

  He had struck, somehow, an easier way across the snow-covered, rocky wastes. There was a route to follow, a winding, mazy route that skirted the Alai Range’s jagged foothills and slipped through Tengis-Bai Pass. Old memories of maps and trails swirled through Colt’s tired head; he bore north for no better reason than that he could guide himself by Polaris, low on the horizon. Colt was headed, with a laugh and a curse, for Bokhara.

  Colt marched through the first watch of the night, before the smiting cold of space descended on this roof of the world; then he would sleep, twitching with frost. He would wake eight hours later, a stone, a block of wood, to unkink his wretched muscles, shoulder his pack, and march under the naked, brassy sun.