by Kris Neville
The number of works of fiction staggered the imagination. Writers broke off into “schools”; the “schools” subdivided like amoebae. Little cliques arose, usually geographically circumscribed, to carry the banner “Art pour L’Art.” And they, too, sank into the quagmire, and still the robot presses rolled. There were uncounted millions of volumes: none could or dared make a selection of the fifty, hundred, or even thousand best: there was no vest-pocket bookshelf guaranteed to produce excellence in all affairs human and divine. There were enough books of sheer genius to provide reading fodder for ten lifetimes. New ones were added daily, but who would bother to pull them out, even to scan the title pages?
And last of all there was The Philosophy: generally accepted as the last frontier; the only place where the human mind could escape from the shackles of the presses. But, alas, even it, too, was lost! The Philosophy, along with everything else, was stagnate. Denied the nourishment of creative thought, The Philosophy did nothing more than worry old bones and excavate theories. The only intellectual direction that the thoughtful gentlemen manifested was that curiously futile circling that comes from chasing one’s own tail. But to the bitter end they persisted, carrying their tattered banner forward: “The Last Frontier of Knowledge!”
Edward Barnett knew all this. And he realized, almost from instinct, that there was very little to be done about it. That is not to say there were no “corrective measures,” however; there were. They were almost as numerous as the sands of the shore. Two will serve to illustrate.
There was General Synthesis, familiarly known as GS. But, of course, things had gone too far for synthesis, and any attempt was foredoomed to failure. Any rational effort only dragged the student deeper and deeper into the peat bog of learning. In the absence of a rational method, the GS hit upon what might loosely be called the metaphysical approach. That involved, merely, a direct and intimate communication with the First Being. Having established such a channel, as their logic demonstrated, all things else must necessarily follow. It was fine cough medicine. But only the leaders were ever in on the direct two-way.
There was the “Burn the Books Club” as it was called by the opposition. Basically, the BBC was a political party of little or no consequence but of wide membership. The chief reason for its negligible influence was its diffuse and disunited nature. Its chief precept was: “Let’s turn back the clock to the Golden Days when knowledge, if incorrect, was at least decently and respectably limited.
The question of how far to turn it back gave rise to the disputes. The left said: “Let’s purge all the books and start over from scratch.” The center said: “Let’s purge some, save some.” (But of course there was no general agreement on which ones.) The right said: “Let us not be hasty. Let us take all (or part) of them and bury them in deep vaults so that they will be available, from time to time, for future reference.” These latter gentlemen were known as the “have your cake and eat it too” section.
Such was the state of human affairs. But the state of humans, themselves, was, if possible, even more distressing.
But from the confusion, Edward Barnett could discern one unalterable fact: that civilization and humanity were dying.
The reasons were as simple as reasons can be in affairs human: too many metal servants, too little work, and absolutely no ambition.
The past bequeathed them a self-oiling mechanism to supply their wants; the past forwarded an immensity of knowledge that dragged them under. Every convenience was at hand. So was the period after which there is nothing.
The birthrate cascaded downward. Brutally, there was no longer any need for children.
Now, for the first time, humans could afford to be really selfish. They were. Since they didn’t want to be bothered with children, they weren’t. Fearing overpopulation, they destroyed the birth machines. As the politicians explained: “It is the easiest way to avoid another war.”
The people, of course, after their various fashions, were sublimely happy-
Strangely, however, the energetic Edward Barnett was not.
He would point, with eyes agleam, to the far stars. And his friends would answer: “What for, fur gosh sake? We’ve got everything we want.”
And Edward Barnett would shake his head sadly.
HE READ long and deeply in history, turning dusty pages rapidly, far into the night, seeing marvelous expanses pregnant with emotion unfolding before him. After reviewing thousands and thousands of years, he came to the conclusion that there was something noble about man’s struggle to master the universe. It wasn’t the goal so much as the progressing, not the reward, but the battle. There was, in the past, an amount of love, hate, excitement, glory, pathos, victory and defeat whose worth was impossible to balance against any transitory system. Something was in it too beautiful to be allowed to perish. In short, the future deserved the same glut of living that the past had enjoyed. And obviously, under the present arrangement it wasn’t going to get it.
He formulated his Plan, and he dedicated himself.
People, here and there, were still having children. Chiefly for the novelty of it. But, after a couple of years, the novelty usually wore off, and the children—as in his own case—were turned over to the robots for care and feeding.
He knew, this intelligent Mr. Barnett, that if he asked politely enough, he could usually get custody of the little tykes.
In a very few months he had over a hundred, all less than two years old.
Next he located an isolated island in the warm western ocean. It had been uninhabited for many years. It was a beautiful green gem set in a field of restless azure. Sparkling, diamond-like sand. Natural clearings, rich, black soil. Heavy jungle, hung with fruit. Clear, cool water, purling between mossy banks. Fish and small, harmless animals. Gay plumed birds.
He moved his children there and placed them in custody of a single robot whose speech mechanism he had wrecked with thoroughness.
In eight years there were only forty left. The powerful law of the jungle had taken its toll, even in such a lovely spot. Which, while unfortunate, was necessary; he needed only the physically fit, the strong, the vital, Over sixty had died, for a robot, unspecialized, is a poor doctor. And those who remained were self-dependent; for when a robot divides its impartial attention among many, none come to rely upon it.
When they were entering their eleventh year, he removed the robot and left them to their own devices. Completely unlearned, uncorrupted, and savage.
Getting the ship built was absurdly easy. What remained of the government indifferently authorized him to use whatever robot specialists and however much material that he needed. They neither asked nor cared for what purpose. He prevailed upon several obscure students, flattered that their talents should be recognized, talents that were the results of lifetimes spent burrowing slowly outward through the known, into giving him the necessary technical assistance. Within a year he was prepared for his journey.
Old astronomical tomes revealed his destination: a new world, much like the present one, with no highly advanced life forms, that, while undoubtedly harsher than the present island, would serve to nourish the race of men.
He blanketed the quiet western island with a harmless gas, collected his unconscious charges, placed them in their special room, lowered the temperature, pumped in the suspension gas, and was ready to depart.
He blasted off, to quit forever a world that would eventually be devoid of human life and would finally clank its aimless mechanical way into silence and rust.
The journey took twelve years. He had nothing to do but send the robot in occasionally to inject his children with prepared fluid. After the last injection, he put the robot in the evacuator and forced it out into the cold of space.
EDWARD BARNETT turned for the last time from his children. They, at least, would have an opportunity for a new life. And another race of man would work its slow way, nobly, from age to age.
A future that seemed as real to him as the past, a future filled with hate and
love, victory and defeat, lay before them. He left that future behind him and sat down at the controls.
One of the children, hardier than the rest, had awakened in time to see a white-bearded old man enter a silver—something—that, after a moment, wavered crazily, erupting a rain of fire, danced upward aslant, shattering tree tops, and disappeared in a trail of brilliance.
The child shook his head in mute wonder.
Clear of the atmosphere, Edward Barnett set the controls. Having no place to go, he pointed the nose Outward and twirled the power wheel full open.
Looking back he could see the new world drifting lazily away.
“Another chance,” he muttered to himself. “Beginning all over again. Innocent. As innocent as babes.”
HUNT THE HUNTER
Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals . . . unless it turns out that you are the bait!
“WE’RE somewhat to the south, I think,” Ri said, bending over the crude field map. “That ridge,” he pointed, “on our left, is right here.” He drew a finger down the map. “It was over here,” he moved the finger, “over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.”
Extrone asked, “Is there a pass?”
Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. “I don’t know, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they’re on this side of the ridge, too.”
Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. “I’d hate to lose a day crossing the ridge,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. “Listen!”
“Eh?” Extrone said.
“Hear it? That cough? I think that’s one, from over there. Right up ahead of us.”
Extrone raised his eyebrows.
This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.
“It is!” Ri said. “It’s a farn beast, all right!”
Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. “I’m glad we won’t have to cross the ridge.”
Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll pitch camp right here, then,” Extrone said. “We’ll go after it tomorrow.” He looked at the sky. “Have the bearers hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. “You, there!” he called. “Pitch camp, here!”
He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone’s party as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, “Be quick, now!” And to Mia, “God almighty, he was getting mad.” He ran a hand under his collar. “It’s a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I’d hate to think of making him climb that ridge.”
Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. “It’s that damned pilot’s fault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the other side. I told him so.”
Ri shrugged hopelessly.
Mia said, “I don’t think he even saw a blast area over here. I think he wanted to get us in trouble.”
“There shouldn’t be one. There shouldn’t be a blast area on this side of the ridge, too.”
“That’s what I mean. The pilot don’t like businessmen. He had it in for us.”
Ri cleared his throat nervously. “Maybe you’re right.”
“It’s the Hunting Club he don’t like.”
“I wish to God I’d never heard of a farn beast,” Ri said. “At least, then, I wouldn’t be one of his guides. Why didn’t he hire somebody else?”
MIA looked at his companion. He spat. “What hurts most, he pays us for it. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at less than I pay my secretary.”
“Well, anyway, we won’t have to cross that ridge.”
“Hey, you!” Extrone called.
The two of them turned immediately.
“You two scout ahead,” Extrone said. “See if you can pick up some tracks.”
“Yes, sir,” Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted their shoulder straps and started off.
Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. “Let’s wait here,” Mia said.
“No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.”
They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were not professional guides.
“We don’t want to get too near,” Ri said after toiling through the forest for many minutes. “Without guns, we don’t want to get near enough for the farn beast to charge us.”
They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.
“He’ll want the bearers to hack a path for him,” Mia said. “But we go it alone. Damn him.”
Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. “Hot. By God, it’s hot. I didn’t think it was this hot, the first time we were here.”
Mia said, “The first time, we weren’t guides. We didn’t notice it so much then.”
They fought a few yards more into the forest.
Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay a blast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, but the tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.
“This isn’t ours!” Ri said. “This looks like it was made nearly a year ago!”
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “The military from Xnile?”
“No,” Ri said. “They don’t have any rockets this small. And I don’t think there’s another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one we leased from the Club. Except the one he brought.”
“The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place?” Mia asked. “You think it’s their blast?”
“So?” Ri said. “But who are they?”
IT WAS Mia’s turn to shrug. “Whoever they were, they couldn’t have been hunters. They’d have kept the secret better.”
“We didn’t do so damned well.”
“We didn’t have a chance,” Mia objected. “Everybody and his brother had heard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn’t our fault Extrone found out.”
“I wish we hadn’t shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead of us.”
Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. “We should have shot our pilot, too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who told Extrone we’d hunted this area.”
“I didn’t think a Club pilot would do that.”
“After Extrone said he’d hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going to the alien system? Listen, you don’t know . . . Wait a minute.”
There was perspiration on Ri’s upper lip.
“I didn’t tell Extrone, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Mia said.
Ri’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t say you did.”
“Listen,” Mia said in a hoarse whisper. “I just thought. Listen. To hell with how he found out. Here’s the point. Maybe he’ll shoot us, too, when the hunt’s over.”
Ri licked his lips. “No. He wouldn’t do that. We’re not—not just anybody. He couldn’t kill us like that. Not even him. And besides, why would he want to do that? It wouldn’t do any good to shoot us. Too many people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.”
Mia said, “I hope you’re right.” They stood side by side, studying the blast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, “We better be getting back.”
“What’ll we tell him?”
“That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?”
They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.
“It gets hotter at sunset,” Ri said nervously.
“The breeze dies down.”
“It’s screwy. I didn’t think farn beasts had this wide a range. There must be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.”
“There may be a pass,” Mia said, pushing a vine away.
Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. “I guess that’s it. If there were a lot of them, we’d have heard something before we did. But even so, it’s damned funny, when you think about it.”
>
Mia looked up at the darkening sky. “We better hurry,” he said.
WHEN it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low, obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from the outpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was the blazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly over Extrone’s tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settled into the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by its blasts.
Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spat disgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.
Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-ranking officers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce, the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in and knees almost stiff.
“What in hell do you want?” Extrone asked.
They stopped a respectful distance away. “Sir . . .” one began.
“Haven’t I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game?” Extrone demanded, ominously not raising his voice.
“Sir,” the lead officer said, “it’s another alien ship. It was sighted a few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.”
Extrone’s face looked much too innocent. “How did it get there, gentlemen? Why wasn’t it destroyed?”
“We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.”
“So?” Extrone mocked.
“We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we could locate and destroy it.”
Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turned away, in the direction of a resting bearer. “You!” he said. “Hey! Bring me a drink!” He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. “I’m staying here.”
The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. “But, sir . . .”
Extrone toyed with his beard. “About a year ago, gentlemen, there was an alien ship around here then, wasn’t there? And you destroyed it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.”
“You’ll destroy this one, too,” Extrone said.
“We have a tight patrol, sir. It can’t slip through. But it might try a long range bombardment, sir.”