Star Science Fiction 5 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Frederik Pohl

  Stephenson nodded. “That makes sense. Look—I’ve thought of something, too. And it’s the kind of plan that can be talked about. Maybe it’s the same one you’ve got— I don’t know. But I’ll outline it anyway.”

  Henry Walters smiled slightly, but he nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. We fight. We give them back tit for tat. We’ll keep them off balance, and meanwhile we’ll get the government in on it. It’ll snarl us up in legislation and investigations from here to breakfast, but, in the end, we’ll win. Maybe win some juicy government contracts while we’re at it. How’s that?”

  Henry Walters smiled. It was a neutral smile. Let Stephenson parade his pipe-dreams for the rest of the morning, if he wanted to.

  Stephenson grinned. He was a fleshy man, and the grin was fleshy.

  “Henry, did you know that the tips of your ears get red when you lie? Did you know that you consider tolerating an untruth a lie? Did you know that you have a compulsion toward truth and infallibility? Did you know that you would like to be God?”

  “What?”

  Stephenson grinned inexorably.

  “Your background—your parents, your environment— were all rigid. You were taught right and wrong. When you tried to disguise wrong, you always gave yourself away—because you knew right. And you knew you should be punished for your wrong. Did you know that? Easyphrase knows that. Easyphrase has quite a library.”

  “Steve.. . .” Henry Walters said slowly, “How long have you been an Easyphrase client?”

  “Since last night. Not client. Major stockholder. I’ve sold our stock to them. Ours. Not just mine. It wasn’t hard, once I was told how to unlock your directorate.”

  “Steve... .”

  “And now that we know for sure you didn’t intend to fight, we know for sure that you intended to join us and bore from within. So I’m not at all sorry I’m doing this to you.”

  Henry Walters broke the lances of his eyes on Stephenson’s artificial armor.

  He took a deep breath.

  “We’re liquidating our furnishings,” Stephenson told him. “Please get out from behind that desk.”

  He took another breath. Then he laughed. He looked at Stephenson, and saw him frowning at the laughter.

  “Okay, Steve,” he said.

  It was going to be a tough haul. Easyphrase would have their eye on him night and day. But they couldn’t liquidate his mind. Okay.

  So he couldn’t be God anymore.

  He wondered how he would do as Lucifer.

  <>

  * * * *

  DIPLOMATIC COOP

  by Daniel F. Galouye

  Daniel Galouye has had many fine science-fiction stories published, and the best of them have showed a single pattern. He is good at all kinds of science-fiction, but he is at his flavorful peak when he takes a standard science-fiction gimmick and stands it on its head. Everyone knows scores of stories in which aliens from outer space conquer Earth. It takes a Galouye to seek out the mirthful other side of the coin—where Earth sends out missions to the aliens, pleading to be conquered.

  “But we’re not Malarkans!” Secretary of Commerce Munsford’s hands executed an impatient gesture that was lost in the vast office.

  The official behind the desk scrutinized Munsford and the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs. “Malarkans are always playing tricks like this.”

  The Secretary of Commerce straightened with constraint, forcing an exaggerated degree of dignity that was complemented by his thin gray hair. “This is no trick, sir.”

  “We’re Solarians,” explained Bradley Edgerton, righteously taking exception. “To be more exact, we’re—”

  “You look like Malarkans to me,” the official grumbled unbudgingly as a weight on his desk levitated and thumped itself back down to emphasize his skepticism. The humans tried not to stare. He was full of tricks like that. “It’d be just like them to try to kick off a wild vataar hunt for some imaginary world.”

  “To be more exact,” the Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs continued doggedly, “we’re Solcensirians—a composite word for we who inhabit three systems, Sol, Centauri and Sirius. We have until very recently been unaware of the Greater Galactic Community.”

  The official leaned back, his bulging, many-faceted eyes staring through the distant wall. One of the tendril-like growths on his forehead vacillated. It was a summons. At once an assistant materialized beside the desk.

  “Run a check on three systems called Sol, Centauri and Sirius,” the official ordered. “I want complete data on position and date of initial contact.” The assistant nodded and vanished.

  Edgerton gripped the desk. “But you won’t find them listed! That’s why we’re here. We want to get registered for trading privileges.”

  “Toveen tells us we have a wealth of raw materials that’s in extreme demand,” Edgerton added eagerly. “And there’s so much we can gain from contact.”

  He stared through the wall that became transparent under the imperceptible pressure of a glance. And, visibly awed, he surveyed the towering spires and curving ramps and vast precincts of Megalopolis—a city that, made even the most advanced Solcensirian metropolis look like a hick town.

  The official glanced up questioningly. “Who’s Toveen?”

  Munsford relaxed, satisfied that finally the conversation had taken direction. “Toveen is an independent trader. He plotted a new course through one of our systems and encountered a Centaurian ship.”

  “He told us about the Community,” Edgerton continued, “and placed his High Galactic linguistic assimilator at our disposal. He also brought us here in his ship.”

  Munsford spread his hands impatiently. “Now will you register us?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” the official said sharply. “This is only the Racial Traits Division of the Department of Galactic Coordination. You’ll have to go to the Bureau of Trade Compacts, I suppose.”

  * * * *

  Megalopolis was vast and wonderful and completely covered the surface of Centralia—a stark edifice of colossal proportions symbolizing the triumph of Galactic Man over his stellar environment. It was a place that accommodated the representatives of a thousand diverse races. It was a wonderland of fantastic color and crisp efficiency, of sprawling parks and magnificent fountains, tall buildings and grandiose statues—all products of a technology that meager Solcensirian science couldn’t even conceive.

  To Munsford, it was a composite of awe-inspiring might and polish. It left him numb.

  Edgerton, chin in hand, was staring sullenly out the window of the surface car as it glided effortlessly over the elevated, high-speed ramp.

  “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere, Andrew,” he sighed. “Knocking around from office to office, trying to find the right door to get our foot into—”

  The Secretary of Commerce gripped the other’s shoulder. “We’re going to succeed,” he said with determination. “We’ve got to. There are ten billion people back home, all waiting for the bright new era to start.”

  Edgerton laughed mirthlessly. He ran a hand over his bald head, shining in the warm, friendly glow of Centralia’s vivid orange sun. “Funny. That’s how I look at it, too. We’re like a tribe of prespace savages just come into contact with civilization and patiently waiting for all the marvels of science and culture to descend upon them.”

  Then he stared soberly at Munsford. “Suppose we’re not accepted?”

  The driver, a loosely dressed man with baggy, faded clothes and a cherry-red face that abounded with exotic features, turned half around.

  “You’ll be accepted—if that’s what you want,” he prophesied.

  Munsford leaned forward. “But suppose we can’t qualify, Toveen? What if they won’t have us?”

  Toveen laughed. “They’ll register you when they find out about all that carbon and silicon.”

  “I suppose,” Munsford agreed, “itis just a matter of finding the right office to get the ball rolling.
”

  The driver sent the vehicle in a tight climb up a ramp that spiraled endlessly around a towering needle of a building. He braked it in front of an imposing high-level entrance.

  “I think this is the Bureau of Trade Compacts.” He followed them out and punched the autocontrol stud, sending the car off to park itself. “Wait here; I’ll make certain.”

  Toveen disappeared through the arched entrance and Munsford and Edgerton moved closer to the gleaming metal wall so they wouldn’t obstruct traffic boarding the mobile pedestrian strip.

  The strip, the Secretary of Commerce marveled, was an incredible triumph of mechanical science. Although it was unbroken and endless, it somehow slowed almost to a stop before the entrance, yet maintained undiminished speed approaching and receding from the building.

  His gaze left the strip and wandered fascinated upward along the ramps and spires and lofty buildings that obscured the sky and plunged the streets below into dense shadows.

  The Secretary of Interplanetary Affairs nudged him. He looked around, suddenly aware that he had been gawking like a back-planet bumpkin. He shrank self-consciously before the amused stares of several Megalopolitans.

  Edgerton gestured awkwardly toward the audience they had attracted. “We must be acting like satellite dwellers on their first trip to New Terra.”

  “As Solcensirian diplomats,” Munsford agreed, “I suppose we ought to do a better job of shaking the hayseed out of our hair.”

  He wondered whether their cutaway coats, striped trousers and suede gloves, in contrast to the colorful and imaginative clothes of those all around them, weren’t contributing to their outlandish appearance.

  Edgerton glanced down at his cane and spats. “Let’s face it, Andrew,” he said dispiritedly. “It’s going to be difficult to maintain any appreciable degree of dignity on Centralia.”

  “Someday we’ll belong here, Bradley,” Munsford promised. “Someday Solcensirian representatives will circulate in Megalopolis with as much sophisticated indifference as the next Galactic citizen.”

  There was a rending crash.

  Munsford stared down over the edge of the landing terrace. Two passenger cars had collided on a ramp far below and had left a jumbled, twisted wreckage commingled with the almost-mutilated bodies of their occupants.

  Traffic ground to a halt as an official vehicle swooped down from the heights and disgorged men and equipment. Crushed bodies were taken from the crumpled steel and laid on stretchers. The litters were covered with dome-shaped metal lids; dials were twisted momentarily, then the lids were removed.

  Dazed casualties rose from the stretchers and walked unsteadily over to a waiting convalescent car.

  “God!” Munsford marveled. “We couldn’t achieve that degree of medical technology in another ten thousand years!”

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Credit check, please.”

  He turned. Facing him was a uniformed man with chitinous skin and curiously misplaced arms that seemed more like prehensile flippers.

  “I beg your pardon,” Munsford said densely.

  “Credit check—to see that no counterfeit certificates are in circulation,” the official explained, giving him a quick flash of a badge. “I’m a spot-check investigator for the Department of Authentic Monies.”

  “Oh.” Munsford feigned comprehension. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got to inspect your currency. Let’s see your credits.”

  He backed off a step. A device resembling a check-canceler on spindly legs materialized on the landing before him.

  Munsford and Edgerton emptied their billfolds and handed over the credits Toveen had advanced them.

  The inspector fed the bills into one end of the device. It clicked, mumbled and flipped them out the other, stacking and wrapping them. He handed the packages to the Solcensirian delegates. The machine purred gently, flashed a green light and vanished.

  “Everything’s in order,” the official offered as he stepped onto the pedestrian strip. “Enjoy your stay.”

  The mobile sidewalk whisked him out of sight.

  “Say!” Munsford exclaimed. “You don’t suppose. . .?”

  He looked suspiciously down at his packet of credits.

  But Edgerton had already unwrapped his bundle. Discarding dignity for the moment, he swore and exhibited the sickeningly blank sheets of white paper.

  Toveen strode from the building. He saw their expressions and glanced knowingly at the worthless slips. “Boys, you’ve been taken good.”

  “Thief!” Edgerton shouted. “Police!”

  “Won’t do you any good,” Toveen said. “They’ll just politely explain that civil protection doesn’t extend to nonregistrants. Come on, this is the Trade Compacts Building.”

  * * * *

  The clerk across the counter could hardly be called even humanoid. His predominant features were somewhat saurian, including reptilian eyes and thick-scaled hide.

  “That’s correct,” he verified. “The Bureau of Trade Compacts supervises intercourse between the various systems and clusters.”

  Edgerton was visibly relieved. “Then we do have the right place.”

  He laid his cane and gloves on the counter. “Mr. Munsford and I represent a tri-stellar system composed of five worlds rich in vast reserves of silicon, carbon, potassium and ferric compounds. Among our exportable products are. . . .” He quickly warmed up to his subject.

  Munsford, meanwhile, reflected with some concern over his disappointing experience with crime in Megalopolis. But then he chided himself on his gullibility. Of course he shouldn’t have been carried completely away with the shining veneer of the Galactic Community.

  So crime hadn’t been entirely weeded out of the ultimate culture. So vestiges of it still existed. So what? From a universal standpoint, crime was nothing more than the prerogative of devious individual activity—nonconformity. And, as such, it must be an inevitable concomitant of intelligence.

  Having thus rationalized the anachronism of vice in Utopia, Munsford found it easier to realign his philosophical sights on the finer facets of Galactic civilization —undreamed of science and technology, marvels of transportation and communication, the incredible degree of medical advance and—

  “Yes, we’re quite proud of our cultural level,” the clerk suddenly interrupted Munsford’s thoughts. Munsford gulped. The clerk looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But you were beaming out, and I was carried away with the intensity of your thought pattern. . . . Now, Mr. Edgerton, what were you saying?”

  Munsford stared respectfully at the saurian, wondering how many Galactic races were telephatic. Then, as he studied the clerk more closely, it suddenly occurred to him that beneath the alien features he could sense the presence of incredible wisdom such as would accrue only to a species marvelously long-lived.

  “All Galactic species are long-lived,” the Saurian explained. “But our longevity isn’t inherent. The life-span of the average newly-contacted candidate culture, we find, can be artificially increased at least ten times.”

  Munsford felt humble and awed before the revelation. For himself, who had already lived the greater part of his life, it would probably mean little. But for his grandchildren—for the billions of young and newborn. . . .

  “To begin with,” the clerk was telling Edgerton, “I must point out that all cargo will be subject to assessment in the amount of fifty-six per cent of value payable in Galactic currency or seventy-one per cent in commodities deliverable.”

  Munsford started. “Fifty-six per cent! Seventy-one percent! That’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”

  “Come now, sir. It costs a great deal to coordinate the life-stream of Galactic commerce, to administer the needs of ten thousand cultures.”

  The Secretary of Commerce relaxed submissively. Of course, it must be expensive to run the Galaxy. Actually, it was ridiculous to think that he should have overlooked the possible existence of trade taxes and tariffs and charges for gove
rnmental services. Lord knows the costs were high enough for the administration of Solcensirian affairs!

  The clerk rubbed his claws together. “Now, if you’ll let me see your certificates of registration and incorporation we’ll set the wheels in motion.”

  Munsford backed off. “But that’s what we’re here for— to register and become incorporated into the Community!”

  The saurian straightened indignantly. “I’m sorry,” he snapped. “There’s been a misunderstanding. We can’t process any compacts until you’re officially registered.”

  Irritated, Edgerton fidgeted. “Look—we’ve been to five offices already!”