Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  The thing that was eating stopped eating and threw back its head and opened its mouth, and the green stuff dripped from its jaws.

  It made a very loud sound.

  Sam was very happy. Sam made a loud sound, too.

  Sam moved in, and it backed away, still making sounds.

  Sam wanted bad to touch it.

  He got ready, tensing his muscles, and sprang.

  Sam caught it around the neck, and Sam held on to it. It thrashed about, but Sam was very strong, and he didn’t let it get away.

  It tried to put its long teeth into one of his arms, but Sam wouldn’t let it because he was afraid it might hurt him, worse than the brush had scratched him, worse than that.

  For a long time Sam held it while it fought and snarled, and he ran his fingers through its fur, and that felt good to him. Sam made noises of pleasure, and petted it, and liked to feel it warm in his arms against him. It was furry like he was furry. But he knew that he was more like the ugly ones than he was like the furry things.

  So Sam let it go, and it ran away, and Sam felt very sad again, and very puzzled, too.

  Sam sat down on the ground and looked at the thing that lay on the ground, not moving, half eaten up.

  Sam squirmed over, alongside of it, and petted it, but it wasn’t any fun because it was still and cold.

  Sam finally took his strong hands and tore out some of the greenish meat.

  Sam tasted it, and it was good, better even than the round, red things.

  He ate until he couldn’t eat any more, and then he coiled up against what was left of the body that had fed him and slept for a long time, happy.

  Sam was hungry again. He had moved on into the woods, and he was hungry again.

  He knew he was hungry when he saw one of the furry things like he had eaten of, ahead of him, eating of the low-hanging leaves.

  Sam knew that if he walked up to it, it would run; knew that if he wanted it to lie down so he could eat of it, he would have to make it lie down, or it would run away.

  Sam was afraid he couldn’t get close enough because there was an open space, a wide open space between them, and if he tried to cross it, it would see him and run away.

  Sam wrinkled his brow.

  Then Sam picked up a hard thing that lay on the ground, a big, hard thing, that was heavy.

  Sam knew he could hit the alive thing before him with it, and when he did, he would knock it down, like he had knocked one of the ugly ones down, in his room there, against the Dome, when it had brought him his good-tasting things.

  Sam threw the rock.

  Sam heard it hit, and Sam was right behind it. He pounced on the live thing that lay kicking, rushed and fell on it, and it squealed and squealed and Sam knew that it was afraid.

  Sam dug his hands into it, and it squealed some more.

  After a time, it stopped squealing, and Sam ate, ate of the warm meat.

  When he finished eating, he thought about what had happened, and he decided that alive things don’t like to be made not-alive things.

  And he thought he ought to remember that: for if he didn’t like something, he might want to do something to the thing he didn’t like that it wouldn’t like to have done to it.

  Sam squatted on the hill and looked down on the Dome. It was a very tall and very steep hill, and the Dome lay down at the bottom of it, and Sam looked down on the Dome.

  He crouched very low so they wouldn’t see him. He could see some of them in the black, shiny things on the outside of the Dome.

  But he knew they weren’t waiting for a long-tailed thing.

  A long-tailed thing was very big and very pretty, and it made a loud sound like thunder-rumble. Only it just came once in a great while, and it stopped on the big, level place there. The black, shiny things would take stuff out of it and put stuff into it, and then, after a while, it would give a big sound, and its tail would lick out and out—the most pretty tail—and it would jump up into the air, and go up and up until it was just a little speck, just like one of those other specks up there. Sam thought maybe that’s what stars were, long-tailed things, far, far away.

  But they weren’t waiting for a long-tailed thing today. They were still looking for Sam, and if they found him, they would bring him back, and then they would put him in the room again, on the outside of the Dome, there, where they could watch him.

  There had never been anything but the room. Ever since he could know, he had always lived in the room. At first he was very little—so little that he could hardly know at all; and even before that, he thought; as if he had started to be alive there.

  And they always watched him. (And when he didn’t feel good, they would do things to make him feel better.) It was very strange, somehow: why they wanted to do all the things they did; as if they were all there just because he was, and for no other reason, and the only thing they wanted to do was watch him.

  Sam didn’t like that, not at all, because they were ugly, and they would never pet him and hold him like he wanted to be petted and held.

  Sam was very still, watching.

  He didn’t like them. He wanted to do something to hurt them, because he didn’t like them; do something like he did to things he wanted to eat of, make them not-alive, because things that are alive don’t want to be made not-alive; he wanted to make die soft, ugly things not-alive. Because they never petted him, never once petted him as long as he could remember.

  Sam thought and thought about it, sitting there, very low to the ground, watching the Dome, and he finally thought of something he might do to them that they wouldn’t like.

  For he knew that they always put on the black, shiny things when they came out of the Dome, into his air, even into-his air there in the room. And he thought (for he was cleverer than they thought he was) that the soft, ugly things put on the black, shiny things when they came out into his air because they didn’t like his air just like he didn’t like their air. (He had smelled it once, when some of it had leaked into his room; it was hotter than anything he had ever felt, and it made him very sick, and it hurt his eyes so he knew that he didn’t like their air, not at all.)

  And maybe that was why they had the Dome, so they wouldn’t have to live in his air.

  And if they didn’t like his air, maybe—

  Sam was excited. He was so excited that he wanted to jump up and down, but he was afraid to, because they might see him and then come and get him and take him back to his room.

  Maybe, Sam thought, his air would make them not-alive. They wouldn’t like that.

  Sam crept down off the hill and then, when he was out of sight of the Dome he jumped up and down, and squealed little squeals of happiness.

  After ten periods of the light, Sam was back again. The eleventh period was just beginning, and the bluish sun was purpling the horizon, way out over the mountains beyond the Dome.

  And he looked down at the Dome and he smiled to himself and he felt very happy. It had been hard to do, but he felt very happy because it was done. He sat there on the top of the hill, looking down at the Dome, lying there under him, and he felt Very happy.

  It was a big, heavy thing, very big and very heavy.

  It had been a long way away from the Dome, and he had had to move it at night (so they wouldn’t see him) all the way to the top of the hill.

  He had used big sticks that he had found in the woods to move it, and he was very strong, very strong indeed, stronger than they thought, and he had moved it, and now he was ready.

  Sam had worked hard, almost all of the ten dark periods. He stood looking down on the Dome. (And he would break it with the big, hard thing like he had broken the barrier, once, with the table.)

  It had been hard to roll, but he knew there was just a little more to do, now, and he put a stick under the big, heavy thing and he pried and pried, with all his might, until the big, heavy thing finally teetered on the ridge and then—

  It began to roll.

  Slowly at first, and the
n faster and faster as it headed down the steep slope toward the Dome, faster and faster and faster.

  It hit the Dome.

  It was very hard, and it hit the Dome.

  Nothing happened at first, and Sam felt very bad indeed.

  Then he could see, in the dim mists of morning, a dent in the Dome, a dent that the big, heavy thing had made, and he thought it made a crack, too, over to one side, away from the dent, made a long, straight crack, as if it was a place not as strong as the rest that had cracked.

  Three black, shiny things came out after a while.

  Only three.

  Sam thought that maybe that was all of them, that the rest were all not-alive.

  There were only three, and Sam was stronger than they thought he was, and Sam would hunt them down, like he hunted things down that he wanted to eat of.

  He began to clamber down the hill (and he was faster than they thought he was.)

  He caught the first of the black, shiny ones and threw it to the ground; he pounded at the barrier (through which he could, see the ugly, white face) until it broke.

  Then he started off after the other two.

  The last one, Sam took his time with. After he had peeled the black, shiny thing off, he shook the not-alive thing that had been inside; all sorts of funny stuff fell out and lay around Sam on the ground.

  At last he threw the limp, white, ugly thing away and looked at all the other stuff.

  And one of the things stared to move. It fluttered and moved in the mild breeze. Sam thought maybe it was alive, and he ran after it and caught it.

  But it was not-alive, and Sam turned it over and over in his hands. It was very light and very thin. Sam could almost see through it. Sam looked closely at it; wrinkled his brow and looked hard at the funny, black marks on it.

  Dear Bertha,

  The monster has been gone for nearly three Earth weeks. And, to tell the truth, I’m rather glad. I expect we’ll close out this Experimental Station now and catch the rocket after next for home. So I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought.

  After today, we are even going to stop looking for him. But since the whole purpose of the Station has merely been to mutate a human embryo and raise it to adulthood in an alien environment, I think we’ve done all that’s expected of us. In fact, succeeded quite well.

  We have, during the

  Sam shook it very hard, but the black marks didn’t come off.

  Sam thought, then, that it might be good to eat. But he found out it wasn’t.

  1961

  CLOSING TIME

  If you will grant the gentleman one simple little premise, he can mount a most persuasive argument for the nonexistence of intelligent life anywhere in the universe besides that on Earth.

  CHARLEY’S BAR AND GRILL was a businessman’s bar in a University town. Students who came in occasionally were not encouraged by the service to return. Charley felt that die town should have at least one gathering place where a man could relax from the cares of the day, meet his equals, and discuss, without contradiction, affairs of state. Cigars were smoked as often as cigarettes; professorial pipes were not uncommon.

  Charley ran a quiet bar. In die lulls of conversation, the ornamental clock could be heard, tick-tock, telling the w ay toward eternity.

  Each man knew his neighbor in Charley’s Bar, and Charley knew them all. More likely than not, he would have their drinks poured before they were comfortably seated. He cashed their personal checks and extended them credit.

  Talk was always the order of the evening and the essence of the mutual contract. Low talk, soft talk, seldom solving any of life’s riddles, intently propounded. The bar was the social bridge between the University and die business community There, the leaders met, worked out their conflicts of interest over a congenial glass, and departed friends.

  At this bar, on this night, there were three friends and a stranger. Because of the recent publicity on flying saucers, talk swung to the possibility of intelligent life on other planets.

  The stranger, who introduced himself as Ed Trevalyn, entered the conversation. The atmosphere encouraged such intrusions and forgave them.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that one should be able logically to answer the question once and for all: to prove it one way or the other. By logical deduction.”

  This was regarded by the three businessmen as an arrant piece of nonsense. Mr. Earles, the stockbroker, drained his glass and signaled for a refill. He rose to the bait.

  “You could,” he said, “easily prove that intelligent life existed. You could produce it. Here is a man, let us say, from Mars. He walks in the door; he convinces us of his origin.”

  “That,” said Mr. Trevalyn, “would be difficult to do, particularly if he looked like us.”

  They all paused to speculate.

  “But it could be done,” said Mr. Cowles, editor of the local paper.

  “If he had some kind of proof,” said Mr. Trevalyn. “Some kind of irrefutable proof. But what kind would we accept?”

  But Mr. Earles was not to be diverted from his premise. He interrupted: “But the reverse. Now, how could you prove that? That out of all the billions of stars in die universe that none could contain intelligent life? I mean, really prove. Certainly it seems likely that somewhere—”

  “Forgive me,” said Mr. Trevalyn. “I recognize the problem. But I believe I can prove to you logically—or rather, granting one questionable premise, I could prove to you logically—that we are die only intelligent life in the universe.”

  After a moment, Mr. Thorne, die insurance agent, said, “I’ll stake a drink on that.”

  “And I,” said Mr. Earles.

  “And I,” said Mr. Cowles.

  The clock ticked away, tick-tock, while Charley silently polished the bar. “You’re on,” said Mr. Trevalyn, lighting a cigar. “Now, bear with me for a moment—”

  The three businessmen turned in unison to nod at die door. Entering was a newcomer whom they had seen before but not met. Charley said, “Good evening, Dr. Ashenback.”

  “Will you grant that intelligent life, if it has anything in common, has in common the characteristic of curiosity?”

  The three men, feeling perhaps that this was the single premise they had promised to grant, thought for a moment.

  “Go on,” said Mr. Earles.

  “Good. Now, intelligent life is curious and likes to tinker. If a thing is possible to do, somewhere, sometime, someone will do it. Out of die aeons of time which have gone before us—out of the billions, literally billions of places life could flourish—somewhere, sometime, if a thing were possible to do it would have been done.”

  Mr. Towne, out of instinct, half formed a protest.

  Mr. Cowles, however, was anticipating what would follow. “What you’re going to say is, that if travel between stars were possible, quickly and economically, it would have been done, and having been done, would have been taught—so that all intelligent life eventually would come into the knowledge. So that long ago we should have been visited and invited into the Community . . . But there are a number of logical objections, sir. The universe is truly immense—our racial history is but the wink of an eye. Earth could go overlooked for a millennium, even if the rest of the universe were literally crawling with life.” He sat back, pleased with himself.

  “No,” said Mr. Trevalyn, “this is not my line of thought. Gentlemen, you’re familiar with the first law of thermodynamics?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Earles: “Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.”

  At this point, Dr. Ashenback, sitting a few stools away, joined them and introduced himself around. He was, he explained, an exchange Professor from Princeton. He had stopped in for a short drink while waiting for the completion of an experiment. He was brought up to date on the discussion.

  The three businessmen, feeling that in the professor they had found an ally, asked if he would like to be included in the wager.

  Dr. Ashenbac
k glanced at the clock on the wall, performed a complicated mental computation, and said, “I suppose I’ve time for one more. Count me in.”

  “Please continue,” Mr. Towne told Mr. Trevalyn.

  “Now I come to my doubtful premise,” said Mr. Trevalyn.

  The businessmen were disappointed: having already conceded much without argument.

  “Let us assume,” said Mr. Trevalyn, “that energy could be destroyed. That it’s within the limits of feasibility.”

  “Preposterous,” said Dr. Ashenback.

  “Oh, this I admit. But grant it for the sake of argument.”

  This did not go down well, so Mr. Trevalyn continued quickly:

  “Good. Now, we’ve agreed that if a thing could be done, somewhere, somehow, intelligent life would do it. This means if it were possible to destroy energy, someone would already have done so. Somewhere in the universe, someone would have destroyed a little particle or wave or whatever of energy at some time: would have taken all the energy out of some particle at one time.”

  Dr. Ashenback ordered another drink. The three businessmen waited his response.

  “If,” Dr. Ashenback said, “you froze a particle of matter to absolute zero—stopped it dead in its tracks, so to speak—the-particle would still have the energy of the earth spinning around the sun—of the sun around the galaxy—of the galaxy around the nebula—or is that vice versa?—of the nebula around the . . . You see my point. Only something outside of the space-time continuum could actually remove all energy from a particle. It would require something with a fixed reference point.”

  In exasperation, Mr. Trevalyn drained his glass and banged it down impatiently. “You’re not playing the game,” he said accusingly. “You’ve promised to grant me a premise.”

  “But it’s preposterous,” said Dr. Ashenback.

  “I’m not sure,” said Mr. Cowles, “that we should accept a preposterous premise. It makes it too easy. You could, for example, take as a premise that if there were intelligent life, it would broadcast radio waves to all other planets . . .”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Trevalyn. “I shall not go on.”