Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

  “I had to give a lot of them away, and everybody said they were delicious. And really . . . Uh, Mr.—? Mr., uh.

  The little man got unsteadily to his feet. His face was ashen. “This is horrible, horrible.” He stumbled to the door. “You are a fiend. All our work . . . all our plans . . . and you, you . . .” He turned to Coxe. “I hate you. Oh, I hate you.”

  “Now, see here.”

  “. . . Mr. Coxe, you’ll never realize the enormity of your crime. You’ve eaten all of us!” With that, he slammed the door and was gone.

  Coxe went back to the other room.

  “Who was it, honey?”

  “Ah, some nut. Seems he had first claim on the refrigerator.”

  “I’ll bet it was about the fish eggs.”

  “Yeah, he wanted them.”

  “Oh, dear. Do you think he can do anything to us?”

  “I don’t think so, not now. It’s too late,” Coxe concluded. “We ate them all.” END

  GENERAL MAX SHORTER

  To spread Mankind to the stars carries a high cost in lives—and not all of them are human!

  MIRACASTLE: The initial landing had been made on a flat plateau among steep, foreboding mountains which seemed to float through briefly cleared air. In the distance a sharp rock formation stood revealed like an etching: a castle of iron-gray stone whose form had been carved by alien winds and eroded by acid tears from acid clouds.

  Far above was a halo where the sun should be. The sun was an orange star only slightly larger than Sol and as near to Miracastle as Sol to Earth. The orange rays splintered against the fog and gloom was perpetually upon the dark face of existence.

  This was the first two-stage planet man had ever attempted to colonize. Miracastle was so far from Earth that the long ships were destroyed twice to reach it.

  THE technicians came, commanded by General Max Shorter, sixty-three years old. Men wearing the circle whose diameter was etched in ruby steel enclosing a background of gleaming ebon—the emblem was a silver D over a sunburst of hammered gold.

  The surface of Miracastle roiled with unfamiliar storms and tornados and hurricanes. Before these, the films of lichen evaporated into dust, and the sparse and stunted vegetation with ochre foliage turned sear and was powdered by the fury in the air.

  Earth equipment, alien to the orange sun, hammered into the heart of Miracastle. Night and day it converted the pulverized substance of the planet in the white-hot core of its atomic furnaces.

  Acid rivers snapped at the wind and changed to salt deposits and super-heated steam. In the gaseous atmosphere, neutral crystals formed and fell like powdered rain. Miracastle heated and cooled and shivered with the virus of man-made chemical reactions, and the storms screamed and tore at the age-old mountains.

  Inside the eternal, self-renewing Richardson domes, the technicians worked and waited and superintended the computers which controlled the processes raging beyond them.

  The long ship lifted steadily and majestically through the battering storm and the driving rain of dust and crystals. Out beyond the dense space that surrounds all stars, the long ship probed the ever-shifting currents in the four-dimensional universe. The long ship found a low-density flaw, where space could hardly be said to exist at all. The long ship, described mathematically, was half as long as the continuum—the length being inversely proportional and related only to mass. Time was but a moth’s wing between twin cliffs of eternity.

  Inside Miracastle’s orange sun, at its very core, an atom of hydrogen was destroyed completely; and in the inconceivable distance, an atom of hydrogen appeared. The pulsing, steady-state equation of the universe maintained its knife-edge and inevitable thermo-dynamic balance.

  Inside the long ship, a pilot-machine ordered the destruction of a vastly greater collection of matter. The atoms of the ship and the sailors—fixed in relationship, each to each—imploded into nothingness.

  And the long ship and the men aboard it were born again at a low-density area a million light years away—halfway to Earth. Born and were destroyed again, in the blink of an eye.

  Beyond the ship now lay Sol, pulsing in its own warmth and warming its children embedded in the cold and distant texture of the universe. The sailors were ghosts come home.

  Miracastle was alone with her conquerors.

  GENERAL MAX SHORTER, a few weeks later, began writing a diary.

  “I have been Destroyed thirty-seven times during forty years’ service with the long ships,” he wrote. He wrote with a pen, using a metal straight edge as a line rule.

  “I have served faithfully and I believe as well as any man the Corps, the planet and mankind. It is perhaps appropriate at this time, as I approach the end of my long service, to record a few observations which have occurred to me during the course of it as well as to record the day-to-day details of my present command.”

  The general wrote: “A man is given a job to do. And when all is said and done, that is the most important thing in his life: to do his job.”

  It took perhaps ten seconds for the soft knock to penetrate his concentration. He adjusted himself to the moment and closed the diary softly. He deposited it in the upper right-hand drawer of the writing desk and locked the drawer.

  The knock came again.

  He arranged his tie.

  “Come in,” General Shorter said.

  The agitation of the man in the doorway was announced by the paleness of his face.

  “Come in, David,” General Shorter said, rising politely from the writing desk. “Be seated, please.”

  “General, we’ve had a . . . a very unfortunate thing happen on the shift.”

  The general sank back into his chair. Light from the desk lamp framed his expressionless and immobile face, half in light, half in shadow. He fingered the straight-edge on the desk top.

  “Sit down, David, and then tell me about it.”

  Shift-Captain Arnold moved uncertainly.

  “Sit down, sit down,” General Shorter repeated impatiently.

  Captain Arnold seated himself on the edge of the chair.

  “One of the men,” he said, “just committed suicide. He was in charge of the air changing monitor this shift. He went outside without a suit.”

  The general blinked as though to remove an irritation from his eye. His hand lay still and hard upon the straight-edge. “What was his name?” he asked in a voice that was vaguely puzzled.

  “Schuster. Sergeant Schuster, sir.”

  “Yes, I remember him,” the general said. “He came to us about a week before the lift. I think he was from Colorado. He had very broad shoulders. Short and broad. Neat appearing. Uniform always in good order.”

  General Shorter ran his thumb and forefinger up the bridge of his nose and then, with a very small sigh, placed his palm over his eyes.

  “Draw up the report,” he said. “Was there a final message?” The question was uttered without hesitation and was followed by a moment of silence.

  “No, sir.”

  General Shorter’s breath was audible.

  “Please feel free to smoke, David.”

  “Thank you, sir, I don’t smoke.”

  “No, of course not. I’d forgotten.” General Shorter half turned and placed his hands on the desk. He stood under their pressure. “What would you say to a brandy?”

  “I should return to duty, sir.”

  “A few minutes more,” the general said. “The brandy is good.” He moved into the shadow and sorted bottles at his tiny cupboard. “Here.” He held the glass to the light. Amber liquid flowed softly and the general handed across the half-filled glass. “Sit back,” he said. “I’ll join you.”

  Glass in hand, the general stood with his back to the light. He seemed surrounded by cold fire, and the glass sparkled as he lifted it. He sipped. “Try it, it’s good.”

  “It’s very good, sir.”

  FOR a moment neither spoke. Then the general said, “This isn’t my first command, you know. I’ve seen men
die. I’ve had to take chances with them occasionally. You could say, I suppose, that I ordered some men to their deaths. But still, the men came aboard knowing the risks. In the final sense, they, not I, made the decision. I never sent a—”

  The sentence ended as the glass slipped and fell. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the sparkling fragments at his feet. The dark liquid—the light gave it a reddish cast—puddled and flowed and its aroma filled the room. “No, no. Let it be, David. I’ll get it later.”

  The general went to the cupboard and poured into a new glass. Again he was light and shadow. The spilled liquid approached the shadow and was devoured in it as though it had never been, but still the aroma stood on the air.

  The general said: “Imagine, if you can, David, that Earth were attacked, and the attack destroyed many of the military installations. After you struck back, David, what would you do next?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m not a strategist, I’m afraid.”

  “What about your cities? The millions of people trapped without supplies—over-running the countryside, looting, plundering in search of food. Carrying pestilence and disease and terror. What would you do, David?”

  “Well, I guess I’d try to organize some relief organization or something.”

  “But David. Anything you diverted to care for these people would limit your ability to fight back, wouldn’t it? They would be cluttering up all your transportation, frustrating effective retaliation. Your second move would be to take the bombs which destroy people and not property and . . . use them on your own cities.”

  Captain Arnold drained his glass. “That would be. . ..” He did not finish.

  “Insane, David? No. Rational. Field Commanders must be realists. The job comes first. In this case, the job of defeating the enemy. . .. But what does that have to do with us? Nothing, eh? You’re right. Sometimes I like to talk, and I suppose that’s one of my privileges. I’m not the idealist I used to be, I guess. I remember when I was your age. I saw things differently than I do now. What used to seem important no longer does. Each stage of development has its unique biological imperatives: a child, a youth, a mature man, look out on the world from a body held in focus to different chemistries. But the job remains.” General Shorter held up his glass. “Cheers.” He drained it.

  Again there was silence.

  “David, do you think I’m in much trouble?”

  “I’m afraid so, General. The Committee is due to arrive tomorrow.”

  “I know,” the general said. “This suicide isn’t going to help us. Tomorrow. Is it that soon? I thought . . . yes, I guess it is tomorrow. . .. Well, we’ve been here long enough to lose our immunity, so we’ll all catch colds.”

  Captain Arnold stood. “I better get started on my report.”

  “Poor Sergeant Schuster,” General Shorter said. “If anyone’s to blame, it must be me.”

  “He obeyed the orders.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said he obeyed the orders, sir.”

  “Of course he obeyed the orders,” the general said. “What else could he have done?”

  II

  THE long ship hung in orbit above Miracastle and discharged its passengers. The Scout Ball could handle them: saving energy, which along with time itself, is the ultimate precious commodity of the universe governed by the laws of entropy.

  The Scout Ball settled through the dark turbulence undisturbed by the hissing winds. It hovered momentarily in the invisible beacon above the Richardson dome as if both attracted and repelled. It moved horizontally and settled. Suited figures on the surface wrestled with its flexible exit-tube against the storm, fighting to couple it to the lock of the Richardson dome. The exit-tube moved rhythmically until the Scout Ball inched away, drawing it taut. Pumps whirred. The suited figures entered the forward lock of the Scout Ball.

  Inside, General Shorter divested himself of the helmet. The suit hung upon him like ancient, wrinkled skin.

  He asked, “What time is it?”

  Upon being told, he nodded with satisfaction. “Seventeen minutes, total. Good job. Who’s in charge?”

  “A Mr. Tucker, sir.”

  “Tucker? Jim Tucker, by any chance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Shorter grunted. “Served with him once. He’s probably forgotten. . .. That’s all right. I’ll keep the suit on.”

  “I don’t think they’re expecting you with the surface party, General.”

  “Probably not or they’d be here. Earth crew?”

  “They’ve been out ten months or so, sir.”

  “We will have colds, then. Would you take me to Mr. Tucker, please?” To the other suited men he said, “Good, fast job.”

  General Shorter followed the crewman up the spiral staircase and along the corridor. His hand touched a frictionless wall. “New plastic?”

  “This is one of the most recent balls, sir.”

  “How does it handle?”

  “Quite well, sir.”

  “I miss the Model Ten,” he said.

  “There’s only a few left now, I guess.”

  “I haven’t seen one in years.”

  The crewman stopped before a numberless panel. He knocked politely. “Mr. Tucker? I have General Shorter here. He came out with the surface party.”

  Mr. Tucker’s voice, the edge of surprise partly lost through the partition, came: “Just a moment.”

  In silence they waited. General Shorter moved restlessly. Several minutes passed.

  The panel opened.

  MR. TUCKER was a short, rotund man. His close-cropped hair was graying, although his face was unlined, with the smooth complexion of a child. His irises were gray and gold.

  General Shorter stepped forward and introduced himself.

  “Come in.”

  The panel closed.

  The two men stood. General Shorter glanced around for a chair.

  “Small quarters,” Mr. Tucker said. “If you like, sit there. I’ll sit on the bed.”

  They arranged themselves.

  “Perhaps you don’t remember me?” the general said. “We served together—what, ten years ago?—for about two weeks on Avalon, I believe it was.”

  “Yes, I thought that was the case. You have a good memory, General.”

  “Please,” the general said, “just call me Max.”

  Mr. Tucker considered, without committing himself. He proffered a cigar. The general declined.

  Mr. Tucker lighted the cigar carefully, moving the flame several times across the blunt end. He regarded the results without expression. “A cigar should be properly lit, General,” he said.

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so,” the general said. He paused to worry at a wrinkle on his suit. “Good trip out?”

  “Routine.”

  “New ship? I notice this is one of the new Balls.”

  “Mark Six.”

  “Ah, those. I’ve always liked the Mark Six. Solid construction. I’ve been Destroyed maybe half the time in the Mark Sixes. Each one of the Marks has its own personality—I’ve always thought so. I don’t suppose you remember the old Mark Two? That was a long time ago. I’ve been around. We got lost in one once. It picked a pseudo-fault line and . . . well, never mind. Earth the same, I guess?”

  “Hasn’t changed.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll get back,” the general said. The statement seemed to dangle as though it were an unfinished question.

  “The new detectors have put Miracastle on the fringe of things.”

  “I’ve followed the work,” the general said. “I try to keep up. It involves a new concept of mass variation, doesn’t it?”

  “It just about makes it uneconomical to colonize a two-stage planet any more. Or to keep one going.”

  The general’s eyelids flickered. His body moved beneath the wrinkled folds of the surface suit. Cigar smoke curled in the still air.

  Mr. Tucker said, “You must have been aware that it would not have been
a great loss to have evacuated Miracastle.”

  The general shuffled in silence. “Yes, sir, I knew the background. It’s part of my job to know things like that. You’ll find, sir, that I have a strong sense of responsibility. If it’s part of my job, I’ll know about it.”

  General Max Shorter abruptly stood and for a moment was motionless, a man deformed and diminished in stature by the ill-fitting surface suit. Expressionless, he looked down, without psychological advantage, at the seated civilian holding the partially smoked cigar.

  Later the same day, Mr. Tucker and two of the three other members of the Committee donned surface suits and, together with Captain Meford, the cartographer assigned to Miracastle, they boarded the surface scout.

  They arranged themselves in the uncomfortable bucket seats and strapped in.

  “Little early for an easy ride,” Mr. Tucker commented.

  “I’ve been out before,” Captain Meford said laconically. It was his usual manner.

  “How long do you think it will take us to get there?”

  “Between fifteen and twenty minutes, if I don’t hit too much cross wind.”

  Mr. Ryan, one of the other two civilians, commented, “A long time between cigars, eh, Jim?”

  The question was out of place and was ignored without hostility.

  Mr. Ryan twisted uncomfortably. At length he said, apologetically, “Dirty, filthy business. I wish it were over with.”

  “So do I,” Mr. Tucker said.

  Captain Meford activated the ramp and eased the scout out. It was immediately buffeted by the winds.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’ll take a minute. Hold tight.” The scout moved in three dimensions, erratically. “Wow! Let’s set it at about twenty-six inches. Sorry. This will slow us down, but it will ease the bumps on down draft. There. That’s better. We’re okay now, I think. I guess we can settle back.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, they came to what was left of the alien city.

  BACK in the Richardson dome, General Shorter had coffee, in his quarters, with the remaining man on the Committee, a Mr. Flison. They were going through the ritual of conversation.