Divine Intervention

by Robert Sheckley

  Vargas gave the orders to carry on at best speed.

  The big spaceship drilled onward through the vacuum of space.

  DeepDoze technology let the soldiers pass their time in unconsciousness while the ship ate up the parsecs. The special barbarian shock troops were stacked in hammocks eight or ten high. The sound of ten thousand men snoring was enormous but not unexpected. One man from each squad was detailed to stay awake to brush flies off the sleepers.

  More time passed, and quite a few light years sped by, when a flash of green light from the instrumentation readout telltale told the duty officer that they were nearing the source of the signal.

  He got up and went to the captain’s quarters in the quickest way, by express elevator and pneumo tube.

  Vargas was in deep sleep when a hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Hmmmf?”

  “Planet ahead, sir.”

  “Call me for the next one.”

  “I think you’d better check this out, sir,”

  Vargas got out of bed grumpily and followed the man down to the Communications Area.

  “Something is coming through,” the operator of the Intelligence Scanner said.

  General Vargas looked over his shoulder. “What’ve you got there, son?”

  “I think it’s an intelligent bleep,” the operator said.

  General Vargas blinked several times, but the concept did not come clear. He glared at the operator, sucking his lips angrily until the operator hastily said, “What I’m saying, sir, is that our forward-scanning intelligence-seeking beam has picked up a trace. This may be nothing, of course, but it’s possible that our pattern-matching program has found an intelligent pattern which, of course, argues the presence of intelligent life.”

  “You mean,” Vargas said, “that we are about to discover our first intelligent race out in the galaxy?”

  “That is probably the case, sir.”

  “Great,” Vargas said, and announced to his crew and soldiers that they should wake up and stand by.

  The planet from which the signal had come was a pretty place with an oxygen atmosphere and plenty of water and trees and sunshine. If you wanted some nice-looking real estate, this planet could be a good investment, except that it was a long commute back to Earth. But this was not at all what Vargas and his men had been looking for. The various drone probes sent out from Earth in the last century had already found plenty of real estate. Robot mining in the asteroids had already dropped the price of minerals to unprecedented lows. Even gold was now commonly referred to as yellow tooth-filling material. What the Earthmen wanted was people to conquer, not just another real estate subdivision in deep space.

  The Earth ship went into orbit around the planet. General Vargas ordered down an investigation team, backed up by a battle group, it in turn backed up by the might of the ship, to find the intelligent creatures on this planet, which in the planetary catalog was called Mazzi 32410A.

  A quick aerial survey showed no cities, no towns, not even a hamlet. More detailed aerial surveys failed to show the presence of pastoral hunters or primitive farmers. Not even barefooted fruit gatherers could be found. Yet still the intelligence probe on the ship continued to produce its monotonous beep, sure and unmistakable sign that intelligent life was lurking somewhere around. Vargas put Colonel John Vanderlash in charge of the landing party.

  Colonel John Vanderlash brought along a portable version of the intelligence detector, for it seemed possible that the inhabitants of this planet had concealed themselves in underground cities.

  The portable intelligence beam projector was mounted on an eight-wheeled vehicle capable of going almost anywhere. A signal was soon picked up. Vanderlash, a small man with big shoulders and a pockmarked face, directed his driver to follow it. The crew of the eight-wheeler stood to their guns, since intelligent beings were known to be dangerous. They were ready to retaliate at the first sign of hostile intent, or even sooner.

  They followed the beam signal into an enormous cave. As they moved deeper into it, the signal grew stronger, until it approximated Intelligence Level 5.3, the equivalent of a man thinking about doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. The driver of the foremost assault vehicle shifted to a lower gear. The vehicle crept forward slowly, Colonel Vanderlash standing in the prow. He figured the intelligent beings had to be around here somewhere, probably just around the corner…

  Then the operator announced that the signal was fading.

  “Stop!” Vanderlash said. “We’ve lost them! Back up!”

  The vehicle backed. The signal came back to strength.

  “Stop here!” Vanderlash said, and the eight-wheeler skidded to a stop. They were in the middle of the signal’s field of maximum strength.

  The men stared around them, fingers on triggers, breaths bated.

  “Doesn’t anyone see anything?” Vanderlash asked.

  There was a low mutter of denial among the men. One of them said, “Ain’t nothin’ here but them moths, sir.”

  “Moths?” Vanderlash said. “Moths? Where!”

  “Right ahead of us, sir,” the driver said.

  Vanderlash looked at the moths dancing in the vehicle’s yellow headlight beam. There were a lot of them. They darted and flashed and turned and cavorted and twirled and sashayed and dodged and danced and fluttered and crepusculated and do-so-doed.

  There was a pattern in their movements. As Vanderlash watched, a thought came to him.

  “Point the intelligence beam at them,” he said.

  “At the moths, sir?” the intelligence beam operator asked incredulously.

  “You heard me, trooper. Do what you’re told.”

  The operator did as he was told. The dial on the intelligence machine immediately swung to 7.9, the equivalent of a man trying to remember what a binomial equation was.

  “Either some wise guy aliens are playing tricks on us,” Vanderlash said, “or… or…”

  He turned to his second in command, Major Lash LaRue, who was in the habit of filling in his superior officer’s thoughts for him when Colonel Vanderlash didn’t have time to think them himself.

  “Or,” Major LaRue said, “the moths on this planet have developed a group intelligence.”

  It took the Communications Team less than a week to crack the communications code which the moth entity employed. They would have solved it quicker if any of them had thought to compare the moths’ dot and dash pattern with that of Morse Code.

  “Are you trying to tell me,” Vargas said, “that these alien moths are communicating by Morse Code?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” the communications officer said. “But it’s not my fault, sir. Furthermore, these moths are acting like a single entity.”

  “What did the moth entity say to you?”

  “It said, ‘Take your leader to me.’“

  Vargas nodded. That made sense. Aliens were always saying things like that.

  “What did you tell it?” Vargas asked.

  “I said we’d get back to him.”

  “You did good,” Vargas said. “General Gatt will want to hear about this.”

  “Hot damn,” Gatt said. “Moths, huh? Not exactly what we were looking for, but definitely a beginning. Let’s get down there and talk with this—you couldn’t call him a guy, could you?”

  Down in the cave, Gatt and Vargas were able to communicate with the moth entity with the assistance of the Chief Signalman. It was an eerie moment. The Earthmen’s great battle lanterns cast lurid shadows across the rocky floor. In the cave opening, flickering in a ghostly fashion, the moths spun and fluttered, darted and dived, all cooperating to produce Morse signals.

  “Hello,” Gatt said. “We’re from Earth.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Moth entity said.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “The other creature told me.”

  “What other creature?”

  “I believe he is referring to me,” a voice said from deep in
the cave.

  It startled the Earthmen. Every gun trained on the cave entrance. The soldiers watched, some breathing shallowly and others with bated breath. And then, through the swirling mists and the multicolored brilliance of the searchlights, a figure like that of a small, oddly shaped man stepped into the light.

  The alien was small and skinny and entirely bald. His ears were pointed and he had small antennae growing out of his forehead. Everybody knew at once that he was an alien. If there was any doubt of that, it was soon expunged when he opened his mouth. For out of that rosebud-like orifice came words in recognizably colloquial English, the very best kind.

  Gatt directed the Telegrapher to ask, “First of all, Alien, how come you speak our language?”

  The alien replied, “We have long been in contact with your race, for we are those you refer to as Flying Saucer people. When we first established a presence on your world of Earth a foolish clerical error led us to believe that Morse was your universal language. By the time we discovered our error, Morse was firmly established in our language schools.”

  “Oh. That accounts for it, then,” Gatt said. “It would have been too much of a coincidence for you people to have developed the English language on your own.”

  “I quite agree,” the alien replied.

  “At least we have the language problem out of the way,” Gatt said. “We can’t go on referring to you as ‘The Alien.’ What shall we call you?”

  “My people are called Magellanics in your language,” the Alien said. “And we all have the same last name. So you could either call me Magellanic, which is also the name of my planet, or Hurtevurt, which is my first name.”

  “Hurtevurt Magellanic,” Gatt said. “Quite a mouthful. I suppose there’s an explanation for why you’re called ‘Magellanic.’ I mean we have a word like that in our own language.”

  “We borrowed the word from your language,” Hurtevurt said. “We like the sound of it better than our previous name for the planet, Hzuüutz-kril.”

  “Ah. Makes sense. Now, is this planet your home world? If so, where’s everybody else?”

  “It is not my home world,” Hurtevurt said. “This is a world populated solely by intelligent moths. It is far from my home world.”

  “Whatcha doing here? Exploring or something?”

  “No, General. I was sent here as a Watcher by the members of my underground. I was watching for your great ship.”

  “How’d you know we’d be coming?”

  “We didn’t. We just sent out Watchers in case somebody does come along. You see, my people, the Magellanics, are in a whole lot of trouble.”:

  Gatt turned to Vargas and remarked, “You know, it isn’t enough we are the first Earthmen in history to contact aliens, these have to be aliens with problems, yet.”

  “I don’t think that possibility was ever forecast,” Vargas said.

  “Well,” Gatt said, “we may as well hear this creature’s problems in comfort. This cave is decidedly chilly, and I don’t believe we brought along any refreshment.” He turned to the alien, and, speaking through his Telegrapher, said, “How about coming aboard my ship and we’ll talk it over? I presume you breathe oxygen and drink liquids and all that.”

  “I have long missed your excellent intoxicants,” Hurtevurt said. “Yes, lead the way, my leader.”

  “This is starting out well,” Gatt remarked to Vargas as they started back to the ship.

  When he was comfortable, with a glass of Irish whiskey in his hand, and a Slim Jim to munch on, Hurtevurt said, “Long have we of Planet Magellanic lived as free entities. But now our planet has been conquered by a cruel foe whose customs are not ours.”

  “Somebody took over your planet, did they?” Gatt remarked. “Tell us about it.”

  Hurtevurt struck an orator’s pose and declaimed, “Dank they were and glaucous-eyed, the ugly and bad-smelling Greems who attacked us from a far star-system. They came down in spider-shaped ships, and red ruin followed in their wake. Not content with murder, rapine, and pillage, they humiliated us by making us worship a giant ragwort.”

  “That’s really low,” Vargas said.

  “All in all it’s intolerable. We’d much rather you Earthians took us over.”

  Hurtevurt made an odd smacking sound. Gatt turned to Vargas. “What was that?”

  “It sounded to me like a wet kiss,” Vargas said.

  “That’s disgusting,” Vargas said, “but it shows a good spirit. Want us to take over your planet, huh?”

  “Yes,” the Alien sang, “we want to be ruled by you, nobody else will do, bo bo padoo. Do you like it? It is a song we sing to keep up our courage in the dark times ahead. You must rescue us. Let me show you pictures of the Greems.”

  The pictures, made by a process similar to Polaroid, showed creatures who seemed to be a cross between a spider, a crab, and a wolverine.

  “Hell,” Gatt said, “anyone would want to be rescued from something like that. Tough fighters, are they?”

  “Not at all,” Hurtevurt assured him. “I can assure you that with your brave fighting men and superior weaponry, you will have no trouble defeating them and taking over my planet. It will be easy, for you see, the enemy has withdrawn all of their forces except a local garrison. Once you take them over, the place is yours. And you will find Magellanic is a very good planet, filled with good- looking women who admire military Earthmen, to say nothing of gold and precious things. This, gentlemen, is a planet worth having.”

  Gatt said, “Sounds pretty good, huh, Vargas?”

  “And we would like to formally invest you, General Gatt, with the hereditary kingship of our planet.”

  “Do you hear that?” Gatt said to Vargas. “They want to make me king! But forget about the kingship thing. What’s really important is the fact that we can take over this whole planet for the profit of Earth. And it’ll be one of the easiest wars on record. And what better way of meeting new peoples than by conquering them, eh?”

  “You know something?” Vargas said. “You’ve really got something there.”

  To the Alien, Gatt said, “Okay, son, you’ve got a deal.”

  “That is wonderful,” the Alien said.

  Just then a small dot of light appeared in a corner of the room. It grew, and then it expanded.

  “Well, rats,” said Hurtevurt. “Just what I needed.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the Galactic Effectuator.”

  “Who’s that?” Gatt asked.

  “One of the busybodies from Galactic Central come to tell us how to run our lives.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about Galactic Central.”

  “I can’t tell you the entire history of the galaxy in an hour, can I? Galactic Central is a group of very ancient civilizations at the core of this galaxy, just as the name implies. The Centerians, as they are called, try to maintain the status quo throughout the galaxy. They want to keep things as they used to be. If they had their way, they’d go back to the Golden Age before the Big Bang, when things were really quiet.”

  “They wouldn’t let us help you take back your planet?”

  Hurtevurt shook his head. “The Galactic Arbitrators never okay any change. If they see what you’re up to, they’ll nix it.”

  “Are they powerful enough to do that?”

  “Baby, you’d better believe it,” Hurtevurt said.

  “So the war’s off.”

  “Not necessarily.” Hurtevurt took an object from the pouch attached to his waist and opened it. It was a long pole wound with fine wire. He handed it to Vargas.

  “Wave that at him before he has a chance to deliver his message. He’ll go away and report to his superiors. Galactic Central will figure there was a mistake, since no one would dare zap a Galactic Effectuator. They will send another Effectuator.”

  “So they do send another Effectuator. Am I supposed to zap that one, too?”

  “No. You’re allowed only one mistake by Galactic Central. After th
at, they crush you.”

  “How does zapping the first one help us?”

  “It gives us time. In the time between the first and second Effectuators, you’ll be able to occupy our planet and establish your rule. When the second Effectuator comes and learns the situation, he’ll confirm you in power.”

  “Why would the second Effectuator do that when the first one wouldn’t?”

  “I told you, it’s because Galactic Central tries to preserve any political situation its Effectuators discover. It’s change that Galactic Central is opposed to, not any particular instance of it. Trust me, I know about these things. When he comes in, just wave the rod at him.”

  “We don’t want to kill anyone,” Gatt said. “Unnecessarily, that is.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hurtevurt said. “You can’t kill an Effectuator.”

  And then the Galactic Effectuator appeared before them. He was very tall and seemed to be made entirely of metal. That, and his flat, tinny voice, confirmed Vargas’ suspicion that the Effectuator was a robot.

  “Greetings,” said the Effectuator. “I have come from Galactic Central to bring a message…”

  Gatt gave Vargas a meaningful look.

  “Therefore,” said the Effectuator, “know all men by these presents—”

  “Now?” Vargas asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, now,” Gatt said.

  Vargas waved the pole. The Galactic Effectuator looked startled, then vanished.

  “Where did he go?” Vargas asked the Alien.

  “Into a holding space,” the Alien said. “He’ll reassemble himself there, then report back to Galactic Central.”

  “You’re sure he’s not hurt?”

  “I told you, you can’t hurt an Effectuator because he’s a robot. In fact, only robots are permitted to be Galactic Effectuators.”

  “Why is that?”

  “To ensure that they won’t defend themselves if attacked by barbarians such as yourself.”

  “Well, whatever,” Gatt said. “Let’s get on with business. Where’s this planet of yours we’re going to conquer? Excuse me, I mean liberate.”

  “Take me to your computer,” Hurtevurt said. “I will program him to take us there.”