by Kris Neville
“Hello, Flight One. We can approach you to a thousand meters.”
MARTE helped him into his suit.
Her fingers fluttered nervously. “Three days, Johnny. Three days! It’s not bad luck to say it anymore. Only three more days and we’ll be Home!”
Johnny Nine worked the hermetically sealed helmet swivel. His movements were stiff.
“Three days.”
“And then—”
“Marte, I love you.”
“Of course you do, but say it again.”
“I love you, Marte.”
He kissed her lightly.
“I love you too,” she told him.
The passengers all gathered around him at the air lock. He looked at them, saw each of their faces, knew them as friends.
Over to one side was a long, rude box. Newly made. Sam spoke to him from the muted memory of the dead; the memory not of Sam alone, but of nineteen generations.
Marte, standing at Johnny Nine’s side, clinging to his arm, looked up at him, and smiled. She was beautiful with the innocence of youth, and her smile was that of a girl who has never seen her dreams crushed.
He tried to think of something to say.
Finally, in desperation, he said:
“I won’t be gone long.”
He reached up and flipped his helmet forward. He buckled it in place with stiff fingers and stepped into the airlock. The door clanged shut behind him.
The outer door opened into space and he popped away from the Ship, borne outward by the air pressure.
It was silent.
He could tell by the way the Ship appeared and disappeared that he was spinning end over end. There was no gravity, even this close to the Ship’s artificial fields.
It was the first time any of his generation had been in free space.
It was awkward. He floundered.
He could see the pilot ship lying off there to his left. Above him.
Below him.
He tried to do something about that, fumbled for the blast studs, found them, pushed one.
It was like guiding a very small rocket that has very powerful trigger jets.
It seemed to take an eternity to bring himself under control.
But he drew nearer the pilot ship.
He pushed a stud.
The ship loomed large; it hit him. He tried to twist as he had read it should be done, to place his feet against the ship’s plates.
Got them there . . . and drifted away.
He realized that he had forgotten to switch on the magnetic shoe plates.
He magnetized his plates, gritted his teeth, pushed a stud.
He hit the ship. Hard. Rolled.
There. He was all right now.
He walked toward the open port. It was a peculiar process. First he cut off the left magnet, lifted his left foot, then . . .
HE was inside. Inside the spaceport of the pilot ship. The outer door swung closed.
Darkness. Then they switched on a light.
After what seemed a long time, there was enough air around him that he could hear it his from the vent through his built in outer pickup.
The inner door opened.
He stepped into the ship proper.
There was a group of friendly Earth-faces waiting for him. They were smiling.
His muscles were knotted with tension. He fumbled with his helmet. He couldn’t hold his hands still. They slipped. He twisted at the helmet, futilely.
One of the Earthmen stepped forward to help.
Then. It was off.
And with that, he knew that he was Home. He felt the tension flow away to be replaced by a singing excitement, an excitement so intense as to be almost unbearable.
Something had to give.
. . . Suddenly he thought of how he must have looked, crossing to the pilot ship—how awkward he must have seemed to the trained spacemen around him.
He started to laugh, explosively. At himself. Twisting awkwardly in space. It was funny.
He laughed, and he didn’t care what the Earthmen thought, seeing him laugh. Even if they thought he had gone crazy, he didn’t care.
That was the first thing he did. Laugh.
After that . . .
At first he could not understand what was wrong. The laughter died; it sputtered and died in a strangled gasp.
Then he thought he had eaten fire, and his throat and lungs were raw.
Johnny Nine swayed on his feet. The magnetized soles kept him erect. The Earth-faces spun dizzily around him. He reached for his helmet, instinctively, reached and missed, reached again.
He clawed frantically at his helmet, and everything around him turned black.
The helmet fell in place with a loud clang of steel on steel.
HE was unconscious only five minutes, but, as consciousness flowed back, he felt his head hammer with sharp pains, and lights danced before his eyes. He was afraid he was going to be sick inside the space suit.
It was fifteen minutes before he was recovered enough to listen to what they had to tell him.
An Earth doctor, the pilot ship’s surgeon, made it very plain.
“. . . Twenty-one generations is a long time,” the doctor had told him, “for an animal that can adapt itself as easily as man . . .”
Johnny Nine could complete the rest of it: Sometime, long ago, perhaps as early as the Second Generation, perhaps at the time of the Great Sickness, the terrarium had been thrown out of balance. And, as the balance continued to shift, man continued to adapt.
Until—
He could hear them, around him, talking quietly.
“We haven’t told your Ship, yet. We thought you’d better do that.”
“Yes,” Johnny Nine choked.
The Earthmen fell silent, ringing him in.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them Earth’s air is poison, and her water, and her land.” His voice was hollow. “I’ll tell them that.”
He staggered toward the space port, blindly.
“We’re sorry.”
Johnny Nine looked at them, the ring of friendly, kindly, sad faces.
“So—are—we,” he said very slowly.
He stepped into the lock, and, when the outer door opened, he popped away from the pilot ship.
He floated toward the Ship that was Home.
How am I going to tell them? he asked himself. How am I going to tell them?
And Marte? Tell her that she will never feel the free wind on her face?
Johnny Nine floated awkwardly away from the pilot ship.
THE END
TAKE TWO QUIGGIES
Careful scrutiny of assembled data on the animals so far collected for our Bureau of Imaginary Zoology indicates that none of them—hurkles, gnurrs or golen, to refresh your memory—is wholly suitable as a household pet. Kris Neville has remedied this sad lack in giving us the quiggie (the Empiriyed spelling; in Dobu, the beast is called a kwiggi), advertised as an ideal pet for families large or small. The quiggie is a loutish little animal about the size of a cat, green in color, a docile biped with a pronged tail and silken hair. While cute and appealing, it’s about as well co-ordinated as a drunk on roller skates. Only one thing wrong about the quiggie as pet: it’s an integral part of the culture of Dobu, which is not the culture of richer, warmer planets. . . .
“BAD NEWS,” said the man from the Culture Team.
The plenipotentiary from Dobu, one Smith by name, looked hurt. He twisted his scrawny neck around to hide his disappointment and shrugged his thin shoulders to show that it really didn’t matter. “Ah-so?”
“Sorry, old man,” the man from the Culture Team said. “It amounts to about limited quarantine.”
The Dobun made a weak gesture with his meatless arm.
“It could be worse,” the man from the Culture Team said.
Mr. Smith nodded sadly.
“Don’t blame us,” the man from the Culture Team said. “I mean, the Culture Team. As near as we can
see, you wouldn’t louse up our culture if you brought in half your population tomorrow. But of course . . .” He shrugged.
“Thank you,” the Dobun said humbly.
“It’s the papers, really,” the other said. “I suppose you’ve seen them? Damn’ shame about the Starflight thing, and all that. But that’s the way it is. We know it was a—ah—misunderstanding. But once the papers got hold of it . . . Well, what I mean is, they’re still hot under the collar, y’know. But we don’t blame you—in Culture.”
“Thank you,” the Dobun said again.
“So. For a little while—until the papers simmer down, I mean—we’ll have to keep you pretty much on your own planet. But there’ll be trade—limited, that is—conducted from your unpopulated Valten 6—a way-station sort of thing. We’ll even furnish you a ship to shuttle the cargos to and from Dobu. But that’s about the size of it. Sorry.”
“I appreciate it,” the Dobun said apologetically; he looked glum.
“Maybe a year. No more, at the most. Won’t be too bad; you got along before we discovered you, y’know. You’ll make out.”
“Ah . . . Trade?” Mr. Smith asked anxiously.
“Oh, quite. Of course, we couldn’t, say, ship you any war potentials: but aside from that—” He made a sweeping gesture implying there was a wide, unexcluded field remaining.
“We haven’t warred for a hundred years. Five hundred years,” Mr. Smith said. “We Dobuns are peaceful.”
The man from the Culture Team studied the emaciated Dobun and nodded. “I know. Culture knows. I jolly well suspect State knows. But the newspapers haven’t heard—or, if they have—don’t believe—and we can’t very well go against them, what?”
“No,” Mr. Smith said uncertainly. “No. Of course not.”
“Fine. That’s cleared up, then . . . Now, about this trading. We’ll help all we can. Count on us. Just steer clear of stuff you could make war with us with, and State’ll approve it.”
The Dobun sighed.
The man from the Culture Team looked blandly around the office; he ruffled a paper. “I say?”
“Yes?”
“If it’s all one to you—well, I mean, if it doesn’t matter (no reason why it should, y’know?), I’d like to mention the firm of Jason and Son. Most reputable—ah—and respected firm in our System. Just mention it, that is. Can’t recommend, of course: I’m a deuced official and all that. It’s all one to me, but I just thought I’d mention it, what?”
“All right,” the Dobun said. “I’ll see them.”
“Fine. I think you’ll find—ah—that State will—that is, Jason and Son has worked on these matters before—quarantines, I mean—and they know how to put an agreement through State without a lot of red tape another trading company would have to go through.”
“Ah—yes,” said Mr. Smith.
The man from the Culture Team nodded happily; business done, he felt expansive. “You wouldn’t believe,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I mean: it sure takes all kinds, and you wouldn’t believe the Cultures we run into. All kinds.” He shook his head in some secret disapproval. “Cultures based on ritual. Cultures based on suspicion. Cultures—would you believe it?—based on suicide.”
“Ah . . .?”
“Yes, it takes all kinds. You really meet some queer ones in this job.” He hesitated, peering across his desk at Mr. Smith, making it perfectly obvious that he thought he was seeing one of the queerest right now. “Why,” he continued, “there’s even a culture based on lying.” He leaned back in his chair and grew reflective. “Very dependable, though. You can discount all they say.” He snapped forward again. “Well! It takes all kinds to make a universe—know what I mean?”
The Dobun stood up and cleared his throat.
“Well—ah—I thank you, for what you did. I appreciate it, I mean,” Mr. Smith said.
The man from the Culture Team waved his hand to signify that it was all in a day’s work. “Oh?” he said. “Uh—before you go. I say, if it’s not too much bother, you might tell Mr. Jason that I—ah—casually mentioned his firm.”
“I will,” Mr. Smith said.
Mr. Smith explained to Mr. Jason that the Dobuns were a poor people; that they had, in short, very little to offer aside from a few hand made trinkets—poor things—a few art pieces: nothing to compete with the superb machine-made multiplicity of conveniences he saw around him. He stared out the window in wonder, even as he spoke, at the parade of passing air cars.
“We’ve never,” he said, “accumulated a superabundance of things. But our few poor wants—humble as they are—sometimes tax our strength. As you can see—” he smiled humbly—“we are not a strong, active people. Perhaps worst we need power: things to plant our fields, and—”
Mr. Jason cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, what with the quarantine, we couldn’t consider giving you power sources. But—” He coughed.
“Well,” the Dobun said. He paused, as if trying to imagine something else his people might need.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Jason, “I might suggest—ah—I understand it’s cold on Dobu?”
“Why, yes,” said the Dobun. “It is.”
“Well,” Mr. Jason said. “I may have the very things for you. Wool articles. Wearing apparel. Warm, soft, cozy.”
“Ah . . .”
“It’s all one to me,” Mr. Jason said. “I’m trying to oblige you. Fact is, the power equipment would be cheaper: but we can’t do business selfish like that, now, can we: want to give you the best I can: hang the cost. You’d be surprised what wool brings on the market: fantastic sums, yes, sir.” He looked at Mr. Smith and was relieved to find that he didn’t give any indication of knowing what it brought on the market. “Oh, very, very dear. But I do business with satisfied customers: that’s the only way, huh?”
“Well . . .”
“And it’s not easy to find something State’ll okay. Lots of things you can use to make war with. Lots of things. All kinds, in fact . . . Now, our job is to find what you need, what’s good for you; and then—if it’ll pass State, why, we’ll get it for you. Hang the cost, I say!”
“Well . . .”
“Wool. My God, man! Do you know how bad you need wool? People freezing on your planet every winter for the lack of it.”
“On Dobu we . . .”
“See! It’s essential: can’t live without it.” He leaned sharply forward and fixed Mr. Smith with a glare. “You,” he said slowly, “need wool.” The effect was hvpnotic.
“Well . . .”
“Fine!” Mr. Jason said. “Now. What do we need from you?” His eyes became beady in an instant. “You’ve brought samples, of course?”
“We have so little . . .”
“Oh, come, now,” Mr. Jason interrupted. “No apologies. Of course, we can make almost anything right here. Turn out fine ‘handmades’ by the dozens on our machines. But we’re easy to trade with. We like to help—ah—those less fortunate. It’s a duty. The responsibility of our unique position; our fine civilization. Yes, sir, the most advanced people have responsibilities, I can tell you. And it’s not so easy, sometimes. But we lean over backwards to do right.”
“These things—” Mr. Smith began. He bent over an array of baggage. “These things, here. I brought them with me, to show you . . .”
As he bent over, he inadvertently brushed the catch of a wire cage. The door popped open. Out came the animal that was inside.
“What’s that?” Mr. Jason jabbed a finger at the creature.
“That? Oh.” Mr. Smith noticed the animal and reached out toward it. “Oh. That. The customs man sent it along to me. It has nothing to do with our trade. It shouldn’t have come off the ship at all.”
“What is it?”
“It’s,” said Mr. Smith, “a kwiggi.”
The kwiggi eluded his fingers as he reached for it, and in the process it imitated a drunken sailor tangled in the rigging. It backed up, into a chair, and then it leaped aw
ay, in surprise at the sudden contact. It made motions for all the world like trying to scratch its right elbow with its right hand. No luck.
Mr. Smith reached out again. It dived quickly and playfully to the left and banged its head with a sharp thwack into Mr. Jason’s desk. It sat down and rubbed its head with both hands.
“Hummm,” said the Great Entrepreneur of Jason and Son, who had been watching with interest while the animal disported itself. “Hummm. A kwiggi?”
“Yes,” admitted Mr. Smith as he picked the animal up and returned it to the cage.
“What’s the good of it?” Mr. Jason asked; and his eyes were narrowed for an instant into greedy slits.
“We eat them,” Mr. Smith said apologetically.
“Well!” Mr. Jason said. “You eat them, eh?”
“That’s what we do. I brought along a pair for my food while I was away from home.”
“I—see.” Mr. Jason considered. “Then you’ve already eaten the other one?”
“Oh, dear me, no. These are breeding stock. I eat the offspring . . . The other one’s in a separate cage back on the ship.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Jason, experiencing the thrill of a financial brain wave. He tugged his chin out of place with his left hand. What cute pets, he thought. What cute pets.
“Hummm, ah.” Mr. Jason walked to the cage and looked down, at the kwiggi. “Hummm.” He rubbed his chin. “Humm.”
“Oh,” Mr. Smith said, “you wouldn’t be interested in kwiggis. You wouldn’t want them. Now this article . . .”
“Wait. Let me see. I could . . . Well, maybe I’m acting quick—but—after all: a man acts quick in this line—has to—has to, to keep ahead. Look. I might be interested in some of these. Couldn’t give you much for them, of course. As you said yourself, they’re utterly worthless. But still, I say,” he tugged at his chin again, “I just might be interested in them.”