“It’s a tough break,” the boy said sympathetically. “Personally, I want to be a spaceship test pilot. At my age, this is the only way I can get in flying hours. Do you think he’ll let me fly the ship?”
I snapped off the intercom. I should have felt wonderful. Two full-time Spies were watching me. It meant I was really someone, someone to be watched.
But the truth was, my Spies were only a girl and a twelve-year-old boy. They must have been scraping bottom when they sent those two.
My government was still ignoring me, in its own fashion.
~ * ~
We managed well on the rest of the flight. Young Roy, as the lad was called, took over the piloting of the ship, and his dog sat alertly in the co-pilot’s seat. Mavis continued to cook and keep house. I spent my time patching seams. We were as happy a group of Spies and Suspect as you could find.
We found an uninhabited Earth-type planet. Mavis liked it because it was small and rather cute, with the green fields and gloomy forests she had read about in her poetry books. Young Roy liked the clear lakes, and the mountains, which were just the right height for a boy to climb.
We landed, and began to settle.
Young Roy found an immediate interest in the animals I animated from the Freezer. He appointed himself guardian of cows and horses, protector of ducks and geese, defender of pigs and chickens. This kept him so busy that his reports to the Senate became fewer and fewer, and finally stopped altogether.
You really couldn’t expect more from a Spy of his age.
And after I had set up the domes and force-seeded a few acres, Mavis and I took long walks in the gloomy forest, and in the bright green and yellow fields that bordered it.
One day we packed a picnic lunch and ate on the edge of a little waterfall. Mavis’ unbound hair spread lightly over her shoulders, and there was a distant enchanted look in her blue eyes. All in all, she seemed extremely un-Spylike, and I had to remind myself over and over of our respective roles.
“Bill,” she said after a while.
“Yes?” I said.
“Nothing.” She tugged at a blade of grass.
I couldn’t figure that one out. But her hand strayed somewhere near mine. Our fingertips touched, and clung.
We were silent for a long time. Never had I been so happy. “Bill?”
“Yes?”
“Bill dear, could you ever-”
What she was going to say, and what I might have answered, I will never know. At that moment our silence was shattered by the roar of jets. Down from the sky dropped a spaceship.
~ * ~
Ed Wallace, the pilot, was a white-haired old man in a slouch hat and a stained trench coat. He was a salesman for Clear-Flo, an outfit that cleansed water on a planetary basis. Since I had no need for his services, he thanked me, and left.
But he didn’t get very far. His engines turned over once, and stopped with a frightening finality.
I looked over his drive mechanism, and found that a sphinx valve had blown. It would take me a month to make him a new one with hand tools.
“This is terribly awkward,” he murmured. “I suppose I’ll have to stay here.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
He looked at his ship regretfully. “Can’t understand how it happened,” he said.
“Maybe you weakened the valve when you cut it with a hacksaw,” I said, and walked off. I had seen the telltale marks.
Mr. Wallace pretended not to hear me. That evening I overheard his report on the interstellar radio, which functioned perfectly. His home office, interestingly enough, was not Clear-Flo, but Central Intelligence.
~ * ~
Mr. Wallace made a good vegetable farmer, even though he spent most of his time sneaking around with camera and notebook. His presence spurred Young Roy to greater efforts. Mavis and I stopped walking in the gloomy forest, and there didn’t seem time to return to the yellow and green fields, to finish some unfinished sentences.
But our little settlement prospered. We had other visitors. A man and his wife from Regional Intelligence dropped by, posing as itinerant fruit pickers. They were followed by two girl photographers, secret representatives of the Executive Information Bureau, and then there was a young newspaper man, who was actually from the Idaho Council of Spatial Morals.
Every single one of them blew a sphinx valve when it came time to leave.
I didn’t know whether to feel proud or ashamed. A half-dozen agents were watching me—but every one of them was a second rater. And invariably, after a few weeks on my planet, they became involved in farmwork and their Spying efforts dwindled to nothing.
I had bitter moments. I pictured myself as a testing ground for novices, something to cut their teeth on. I was the Suspect they gave to Spies who were too old or too young, inefficient, scatter-brained, or just plain incompetent. I saw myself as a sort of half-pay retirement plan Suspect, a substitute for a pension.
But it didn’t bother me too much. I did have a position, although it was a little difficult to define. I was happier than I had ever been on Earth, and my Spies were pleasant and cooperative people.
Our little colony was happy and secure.
I thought it could go on forever.
~ * ~
Then, one fateful night, there was unusual activity. Some important message seemed to be coming in, and all radios were on. I had to ask a few Spies to share sets, to keep from burning out my generator.
Finally all radios were turned off, and the Spies held conferences. I heard them whispering into the small hours. The next morning, they were all assembled in the living room, and their faces were long and somber. Mavis stepped forward as spokeswoman.
“Something terrible has happened,” she said to me. “But first, we have something to reveal to you. Bill, none of us are what we seemed. We are all Spies for the government.”
“Huh?” I said, not wanting to hurt any feelings.
“It’s true,” she said. “We’ve been Spying on you, Bill.”
“Huh?” I said again. “Even you?”
“Even me,” Mavis said unhappily.
“And now it’s all over,” Young Roy blurted out.
That shook me. “Why?” I asked.
They looked at each other. Finally Mr. Wallace, bending the rim of his hat back and forth in his callused hands, said, “Bill, a resurvey has just shown that this sector of space is not owned by the United States.”
“What country does own it?” I asked.
“Be calm,” Mavis said. “Try to understand. This entire sector was overlooked in the international survey, and now it can’t be claimed by any country. As the first to settle here, this planet, and several million miles of space surrounding it, belong to you, Bill.”
I was too stunned to speak.
“Under the circumstances,” Mavis continued, “we have no authorization to be here. So we’re leaving immediately.”
“But you can’t!” I cried. “I haven’t repaired your sphinx valves!”
“All Spies carry spare sphinx valves and hacksaw blades,” she said gently.
~ * ~
Watching them troop out to their ships I pictured the solitude ahead of me. I would have no government to watch over me. No longer would I hear footsteps in the night, turn, and see the dedicated face of a Spy behind me. No longer would the whirr of an old camera soothe me at work, nor the buzz of a defective recorder lull me to sleep.
And yet, I felt even sorrier for them. Those poor, earnest, clumsy, bungling Spies were returning to a fast, efficient, competitive world. Where would they find another Suspect like me, or another place like my planet?
“Goodbye Bill,” Mavis said, offering me her hand.
I watched her walk to Mr. Wallace’s ship. It was only then that I realized that she was no longer my Spy.
“Mavis!” I cried, running after her. She hurried toward the ship. I caught her by the arm. “Wait. There was something I started to say in the ship. I wanted to say it again
on the picnic.”
She tried to pull away from me. In most unromantic tones I croaked, “Mavis, I love you.”
She was in my arms. We kissed, and I told her that her home was here, on this planet with its gloomy forests and yellow and green fields. Here with me.
She was too happy to speak.
With Mavis staying, Young Roy reconsidered. Mr. Wallace’s vegetables were just ripening, and he wanted to tend them. And everyone else had some chore or other that he couldn’t drop.
So here I am—ruler, king, dictator, president, whatever I want to call myself. Spies are beginning to pour in now from every country—not only America.
To feed all my subjects, I’ll soon have to import food. But the other rulers are beginning to refuse me aid. They think I’ve bribed their Spies to desert.
I haven’t, I swear it. They just come.
I can’t resign, because I own this place. And I haven’t the heart to send them away. I’m at the end of my rope.
With my entire population consisting of former government Spies, you’d think I’d have an easy time forming a government of my own. But no, they’re completely uncooperative. I’m the absolute ruler of a planet of farmers, dairymen, shepherds and cattle raisers, so I guess we won’t starve after all. But that’s not the point. The point is: how in hell am I supposed to rule?
Not a single one of these people will Spy for me.
<
~ * ~
PUNCH
BY FREDERIK POHL
Mr. Pohl’s gleaming accomplishments are listed earlier in this book, apropos of his rather solemn story, “The Fiend.” Pohl’s “Punch,” which indeed packs a punch, displays another facet of his talent, a facet The Hartford Courant recognized when it said of him: “He has the rare gift of combining fantasy and science fiction with cutting satire and humor—with a wonderful result.”
~ * ~
THE FELLOW was over seven feet tall and when he stepped on Buffie’s flagstone walk one of the stones split with a dust of crushed rock. “Too bad,” he said sadly, “I apologize very much. Wait.”
Buffie was glad to wait, because Buffie recognized his visitor at once. The fellow flickered, disappeared and in a moment was there again, now about five feet two. He blinked with pink pupils. “I materialize so badly,” he apologized. “But I will make amends. May I? Let me see. Would you like the secret of transmutation? A cure for simple virus diseases? A list of twelve growth stocks with spectacular growth certainties inherent in our development program for your planet Earth?”
Buffie said he would take the list of growth stocks, hugging himself and fighting terribly to keep a straight face. “My name is Charlton Buffie,” he said, extending a hand gladly. The alien took it curiously, and shook it, and it was like shaking hands with a shadow.
“You will call me ‘Punch,’ please,” he said. “It is not my name but it will do, because after all this projection of my real self is only a sort of puppet. Have you a pencil?” And he rattled off the names of 12 issues Buffie had never heard of.
That did not matter in the least. Buffie knew that when the aliens gave you something it was money in the bank. Look what they had given the human race. Faster-than-light space ships, power sources from hitherto non-radioactive elements like silicon, weapons of great force and metalworking processes of great suppleness.
Buffie thought of ducking into the house for a quick phone call to his broker, but instead he invited Punch to look around his apple orchard. Make the most of every moment, he said to himself, every moment with one of these guys is worth ten thousand dollars. “I would enjoy your apples awfully,” said Punch, but he seemed disappointed. “Do I have it wrong? Don’t you and certain friends plan a sporting day, as Senator Wenzel advised me?”
“Oh, sure! Certainly. Good old Walt told you about it, did he? Yes.” That was the thing about the aliens, they liked to poke around in human affairs. They said when they came to Earth that they wanted to help us, and all they asked of us in return was that they be permitted to study our ways. It was nice of them to be so interested, and it was nice of Walt Wenzel, Buffie thought, to send the alien to him. “We’re going after mallard, down to Little Egg, some of the boys and me. There’s Chuck—he’s the mayor here, and Jer—Second National Bank, you know, and Padre--”
“That is it!” cried Punch. “To see you shoot the mallard.” He pulled out an Esso road map, overtraced with golden raised lines, and asked Buffie to point out where Little Egg was. “I cannot focus well enough to stay in a moving vehicle,” he said, blinking in a regretful way. “Still, I can meet you there. If, that is, you wish--”
“I do! I do! I do!” Buffie was painfully exact in pointing out the place. Punch’s lips moved silently, translating the golden lines into polar space-time coordinates, and he vanished just as the station wagon with the rest of the boys came roaring into the carriage drive with a hydramatic spatter of gravel.
~ * ~
The boys were extremely impressed. Padre had seen one of the aliens once, at a distance, drawing pictures of the skaters in Rockefeller Center, but that was the closest any of them had come. “God! What luck.” “Did you get a super-hairpin from him, Buffie?” “Or a recipe for a nyew, smyooth martini with dust on it?” “Not Buffie, fellows! He probably held out for something real good, like six new ways to-Oh, excuse me, Padre.” “But seriously, Buffie, these people are unpredictably generous. Look how they built that dam in Egypt! Has this Punch given you anything?”
Buffie grinned wisely as they drove along, their shotguns firmly held between their knees. “Damn it,” he said mildly, “I forgot to bring cigarettes. Let’s stop at the Blue Jay Diner for a minute.” The cigarette machine at the Blue Jay was out of sight of the parking lot, and so was the phone booth.
It was too bad, he reflected, to have to share everything with the boys, but on the other hand he already had his growth stocks. Anyway there was plenty for everyone. Every nation on Earth had its silicon-drive spaceships now, fleets of them milling about on maneuvers all over the Solar System. With help from the star-people, an American expedition had staked out enormous radium beds on Callisto, the Venezuelans had a diamond mountain on Mercury, the Soviets owned a swamp of purest penicillin near the South Pole of Venus. And individuals had done very well, too. A ticket-taker at Steeplechase Park explained to the aliens why the air jets blew up ladies’ skirts, and they tipped him with a design for a springless safety pin that was earning him a million dollars a month in royalties. An usherette at La Scala became the cosmetic queen of Europe for showing three of them to their seats. They gave her a simple painless eye dye, and now 99 percent of Milan’s women had bright blue eyes from her salon.
All they wanted to do was help. They said they came from a planet very far away and they were lonely and they wanted to help us make the jump into space. It would be fun, they promised, and would help to end poverty and war between nations, and they would have company in the void between the stars. Politely and deferentially they gave away secrets worth trillions, and humanity burst with a shower of gold into the age of plenty.
~ * ~
Punch was there before them, inspecting the case of bourbon hidden in their blind. “I am delighted to meet you, Chuck, Jer, Bud, Padre and of course Buffie,” he said. “It is kind of you to take a stranger along on your fun. I regret I have only some eleven minutes to stay.”
Eleven minutes! The boys scowled apprehensively at Buffie. Punch said, in his wistful voice, “If you will allow me to give you a memento, perhaps you would like to know that three grams of common table salt in a quart of Crisco, exposed for nine minutes to the radiations from one of our silicon reactors, will infallibly remove warts.” They all scribbled, silently planning a partnership corporation, and Punch pointed out to the bay where some tiny dots rose and fell with the waves. “Are those not the mallards you wish to shoot?”
“That’s right,” said Buffie glumly. “Say, you know what I was thinking? I was thinking—
that transmutation you mentioned before—I wonder-”
“And are these the weapons with which you kill the birds?” He examined Padre’s ancient over-and-under with the silver chasing. “Extremely lovely,” he said. “Will you shoot?”
“Oh, not now,” said Buffie, scandalized. “We can’t do that. About that transmutation-”
“It is extremely fascinating,” said the star-man, looking at them with his mild pink pupils and returning the gun. “Well. I may tell you, I think, what we have not announced. A surprise. We are soon to be present in the flesh, or near, at any rate.”
“Near?” Buffie looked at the boys and the boys looked at him; there had been no suggestion of this in the papers and it almost took their minds off the fact that Punch was leaving. He nodded violently, like the flickering of a bad fluorescent lamp.
The Playboy Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy Page 28