by Hank Davis
Then there was nothing save the priest standing there, his face ashen, his eyes resolute, his eyebrows singed, chanting psalms in a shaking voice.
I have come to Venice. My scrip is filled with sigils with which I can work wonders. No men can work such wonders as I can. But I use them not. I labor daily, nightly, hourly, minute by minute, trying to find the key to the cipher which will yield the wisdom the Power possessed and desired to give to men. Ah, Johannus! I have those sigils and I can work wonders, but when I have used them they will be gone and I shall be powerless. I had such a chance at wisdom as never man possessed before, and it is gone! Yet I shall spend years—aye!—all the rest of my life, seeking the true meaning of what the Power spoke! I am the only man in all the world who ever spoke daily, for weeks on end, with a Prince of Powers of Darkness, and was accepted by him as a friend to such a degree as to encompass his own destruction. It must be true that I have wisdom written down! But how shall I find instructions for mystery in such metaphors as—to choose a fragment by chance—“Plates of two dissimilar metals, immersed in an acid, generate a force for which men have not yet a name, yet which is the basis of true civilization. Such plates—”
I grow mad with disappointment, Johannus! Why did he not speak clearly? Yet I will find out the secret.
Memorandum from Professor McFarland,
Physics Department, Haverford University,
to Professor Charles, Latin, the same faculty:
Dear Professor Charles:
My reaction is, Damnation! Where is the rest of this stuff??
McFarland.
EARLY MODEL
by Robert Sheckley
Not only did the planetary scout have the job of making friendly contact with low-tech but intelligent aliens, he had also been picked to test a new device. In many space opera yarns, new devices often work perfectly as soon as a technical genius throws them together. But this is a Robert Sheckley story and it ain’t gonna happen like that.
***
Robert Sheckley (1928-2005) seemed to explode into print in the early 1950s with stories in nearly every science fiction magazine on the newsstands. Actually, the explosion was bigger than most realized, since he was simultaneously writing even more stories under a number of pseudonyms. His forte was humor, wild and unpredictable, often absurdist, much like the work of Douglas Adams three decades later. His work has been compared to the Marx Brothers by Harlan Ellison®, to Voltaire by both Brian W. Aldiss and J.G. Ballard, and Neil Gaiman has called Sheckley “Probably the best short-story writer during the 50s to the mid-1960s working in any field.” Several of his stories sardonically dealt with the topic of first contact between humans and aliens, so I had to do some serious mulling before picking this one, which I encountered while still a rotten teenager, and is still remembered fondly now that I’m a rotten old geezer.
The landing was almost a catastrophe. Bentley knew his coordination was impaired by the bulky weight on his back; he didn’t realize how much until, at a crucial moment, he stabbed the wrong button. The ship began to drop like a stone. At the last moment, he overcompensated, scorching a black hole into the plain below him. His ship touched, teetered for a moment, then sickeningly came to rest.
Bentley had effected mankind’s first landing on Tels IV.
His immediate reaction was to pour himself a sizable drink of strictly medicinal scotch.
When that was out of the way, he turned on his radio. The receiver was imbedded in his ear, where it itched, and the microphone was a surgically implanted lump in his throat. The portable sub-space set was self-tuning, which was all to the good, since Bentley knew nothing about narrowcasting on so tight a beam over so great a distance.
“All’s well,” he told Professor Sliggert over the radio. “It’s an Earthtype planet, just as the survey reports said. The ship is intact. And I’m happy to report that I did not break my neck in the landing.”
“Of course not,” Sliggert said, his voice thin and emotionless through the tiny receiver. “What about the Protec? How does it feel? Have you become used to it yet?”
Bentley said, “Nope. It still feels like a monkey on my back.”
“Well, you’ll adjust,” Sliggert assured him. “The Institute sends its congratulations and I believe the government is awarding you a medal of some sort. Remember, the thing now is to fraternize with the aborigines, and if possible to establish a trade agreement of some sort, any sort. As a precedent. We need this planet, Bentley.”
“I know.”
“Good luck. Report whenever you have a chance.”
“I’ll do that,” Bentley promised and signed off.
He tried to stand up, but didn’t make it on the first attempt. Then, using the handholds that had been conveniently spaced above the control board, he managed to stagger erect. Now he appreciated the toll that no-weight extracts from a man’s muscles. He wished he had done his exercises more faithfully on the long trip out from Earth.
Bentley was a big, jaunty young man, over six feet tall, widely and solidly constructed. On Earth, he had weighed two hundred pounds and had moved with an athlete’s grace. But ever since leaving Earth, he’d had the added encumbrance of seventy-three pounds strapped irrevocably and immovably to his back. Under the circumstances, his movements resembled those of a very old elephant wearing tight shoes.
He moved his shoulders under the wide plastic straps, grimaced, and walked to a starboard porthole. In the distance, perhaps half a mile away, he could see a village, low and brown on the horizon. There were dots on the plain moving toward him. The villagers apparently had decided to discover what strange object had fallen from the skies breathing fire and making an uncanny noise.
“Good show,” Bentley said to himself. Contact would have been difficult, if these aliens had shown no curiosity. This eventuality had been considered by the Earth Interstellar Exploration Institute, but no solution had been found. Therefore it had been struck from the list of possibilities.
The villagers were drawing closer. Bentley decided it was time to get ready. He opened a locker and took out his linguascene, which, with some difficulty, he strapped to his chest. On one hip, he fastened a large canteen of water. On the other hip went a package of concentrated food. Across his stomach, he put a package of assorted tools. Strapped to one leg was the radio. Strapped to the other was a medicine kit.
Thus equipped, Bentley was carrying a total of one hundred forty-eight pounds, every ounce of it declared essential for an extraterrestrial explorer.
The fact that he lurched rather than walked was considered unimportant.
The natives had reached the ship now and were gathering around it, commenting disparagingly. They were bipeds. They had short thick tails and their features were human, but nightmare human. Their coloring was a vivid orange.
Bentley also noticed that they were armed. He could see knives, spears, lances, stone hammers, and flint axes. At the sight of this armament, a satisfied smile broke over his face. Here was the justification for his discomfort, the reason for the unwieldy seventy-three pounds which had remained on his back ever since leaving Earth.
It didn’t matter what weapons these aboriginals had, right up to the nuclear level. They couldn’t hurt him.
That’s what Professor Sliggert, head of the Institute, inventor of the Protec, had told him.
Bentley opened the port. A cry of astonishment came from the Telians. His linguascene, after a few seconds’ initial hesitation, translated the cries as, “Oh! Ah! How strange! Unbelievable! Ridiculous! Shockingly improper!”
Bentley descended the ladder on the ship’s side, carefully balancing his one hundred forty-eight pounds of excess weight. The natives formed a semicircle around him, their weapons ready.
He advanced on them. They shrank back. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “I come as a friend.” The linguascene barked out the harsh consonants of the Telian language.
They didn’t seem to believe him. Spears were poised and one Telian, la
rger than the others and wearing a colorful headdress, held a hatchet in readiness.
Bentley felt the slightest tremor run through him. He was invulnerable, of course. There was nothing they could do to him as long as he wore the Protec. Nothing! Professor Sliggert had been certain of it.
Before takeoff, Professor Sliggert had strapped the Protec to Bentley’s back, adjusted the straps and stepped back to admire his brainchild.
“Perfect,” he had announced with quiet pride.
Bentley had shrugged his shoulders under the weight. “Kind of heavy, isn’t it?”
“But what can we do?” Sliggert asked him. “This is the first of its kind, the prototype. I have used every weight-saving device possible—transistors, light alloys, printed circuits, pencil-power packs, and all the rest. Unfortunately, early models of any invention are invariably bulky.”
“Seems as though you could have streamlined it a bit,” Bentley objected, peering over his shoulder.
“Streamlining comes much later. First must be concentration, then compaction, then group-function, and finally styling. It’s always been that way and it will always be. Take the typewriter. Now it is simply a keyboard, almost as flat as a briefcase. But the prototype typewriter worked with foot pedals and required the combined strength of several men to lift. Take the hearing aid, which actually shrank pounds through the various stages of its development. Take the linguascene, which began as a very massive, complicated electronic calculator weighing several tons—”
“Okay,” Bentley broke in. “If this is the best you could make it, good enough. How do I get out of it?”
Professor Sliggert smiled.
Bentley reached around. He couldn’t find a buckle. He pulled ineffectually at the shoulder straps, but could find no way of undoing them. Nor could he squirm out. It was like being in a new and fiendishly efficient straitjacket.
“Come on, Professor, how do I get it off?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Huh?”
“The Protec is uncomfortable, is it not?” Sliggert asked. “You would rather not wear it?”
“You’re damned right.”
“Of course. Did you know that in wartime, on the battlefield, soldiers have a habit of discarding essential equipment because it is bulky or uncomfortable? But we can’t take chances on you. You are going to an alien planet, Mr. Bentley. You will be exposed to wholly unknown dangers. It is necessary that you be protected at all times.”
“I know that,” Bentley said. “I’ve got enough sense to figure out when to wear this thing.”
“But do you? We selected you for attributes such as resourcefulness, stamina, physical strength—and, of course, a certain amount of intelligence. But—”
“Thanks!”
“But those qualities do not make you prone to caution. Suppose you found the natives seemingly friendly and decided to discard the heavy, uncomfortable Protec? What would happen if you had misjudged their attitude? This is very easy to do on Earth; think how much easier it will be on an alien planet!”
“I can take care of myself,” Bentley said.
Sliggert nodded grimly. “That is what Atwood said when he left for Durabella II and we have never heard from him again. Nor have we heard from Blake, or Smythe, or Korishell. Can you turn a knife-thrust from the rear? Have you eyes in the back of your head? No, Mr. Bentley, you haven’t—but the Protec has!”
“Look,” Bentley had said, “believe it or not, I’m a responsible adult. I will wear the Protec at all times when on the surface of an alien planet. Now tell me how to get it off.”
“You don’t seem to realize something, Bentley. If only your life were at stake, we would let you take what risks seemed reasonable to you. But we are also risking several billion dollars’ worth of spaceship and equipment. Moreover, this is the Protec’s field test. The only way to be sure of the results is to have you wear it all the time. The only way to ensure that is by not telling you how to remove it. We want results. You are going to stay alive whether you like it or not.”
Bentley had thought it over and agreed grudgingly. “I guess I might be tempted to take it off, if the natives were really friendly.”
“You will be spared that temptation. Now do you understand how it works?”
“Sure,” Bentley said. “But will it really do all you say?”
“It passed the lab tests perfectly.”
“I’d hate to have some little thing go wrong. Suppose it pops a fuse or blows a wire?”
“That is one of the reasons for its bulk,” Sliggert explained patiently. “Triple everything. We are taking no chance of mechanical failure.”
“And the power supply?”
“Good for a century or better at full load. The Protec is perfect, Bentley! After this field test, I have no doubt it will become standard equipment for all extraterrestrial explorers.” Professor Sliggert permitted himself a faint smile of pride.
“All right,” Bentley had said, moving his shoulders under the wide plastic straps. “I’ll get used to it.”
But he hadn’t. A man just doesn’t get used to a seventy three-pound monkey on his back.
The Telians didn’t know what to make of Bentley. They argued for several minutes, while the explorer kept a strained smile on his face. Then one Telian stepped forward. He was taller than the others and wore a distinctive headdress made of glass, bones and bits of rather garishly painted wood.
“My friends,” the Telian said, “there is an evil here which I, Rinek, can sense.”
Another Telian wearing a similar headdress stepped forward and said, “It is not well for a ghost doctor to speak of such things.”
“Of course not,” Rinek admitted. “It is not well to speak of evil in the presence of evil, for evil then grows strong. But a ghost doctor’s work is the detection and avoidance of evil. In this work, we must persevere, no matter what the risk.”
Several other men in the distinctive headdress, the ghost doctors, had come forward now. Bentley decided that they were the Telian equivalent of priests and probably wielded considerable political power as well.
“I don’t think he’s evil,” a young and cheerful-looking ghost doctor named Huascl said.
“Of course he is. Just look at him.”
“Appearances prove nothing, as we know from the time the good spirit Ahut M’Kandi appeared in the form of a—”
“No lectures, Huascl. All of us know the parables of Lalland. The point is, can we take a chance?”
Huascl turned to Bentley. “Are you evil?” the Telian asked earnestly.
“No,” Bentley said. He had been puzzled at first by the Telians’ intense preoccupation with his spiritual status. They hadn’t even asked him where he’d come from, or how, or why. But then, it was not so strange. If an alien had landed on Earth during certain periods of religious zeal, the first question asked might have been, “Are you a creature of God or of Satan?”
“He says he’s not evil,” Huascl said.
“How would he know?”
“If he doesn’t, who does?”
“Once the great spirit G’tal presented a wise man with three kdal and said to him—”
And on it went. Bentley found his legs beginning to bend under the weight of all his equipment. The linguascene was no longer able to keep pace with the shrill theological discussion that raged around him. His status seemed to depend upon two or three disputed points, none of which the ghost doctors wanted to talk about, since to talk about evil was in itself dangerous.
To make matters more complicated, there was a schism over the concept of the penetrability of evil, the younger ghost doctors holding to one side, the older to the other. The factions accused each other of rankest heresy, but Bentley couldn’t figure out who believed what or which interpretation aided him.
When the sun drooped low over the grassy plain, the battle still raged. Then, suddenly, the ghost doctors reached an agreement, although Bentley couldn’t decide why or on
what basis.
Huascl stepped forward as spokesman for the younger ghost doctors.
“Stranger,” he declared, “we have decided not to kill you.”
Bentley suppressed a smile. That was just like a primitive people, granting life to an invulnerable being!
“Not yet, anyhow,” Huascl amended quickly, catching a frown upon Rinek and the older ghost doctors. “It depends entirely upon you. We will go to the village and purify ourselves and we will feast. Then we will initiate you into the society of ghost doctors. No evil thing can become a ghost doctor; it is expressly forbidden. In this manner, we will detect your true nature.”
“I am deeply grateful,” Bentley said.
“But if you are evil, we are pledged to destroy evil. And if we must, we can!”
The assembled Telians cheered his speech and began at once the mile trek to the village. Now that a status had been assigned Bentley, even tentatively, the natives were completely friendly. They chatted amiably with him about crops, droughts, and famines.
Bentley staggered along under his equipment, tired, but inwardly elated. This was really a coup! As an initiate, a priest, he would have an unsurpassed opportunity to gather anthropological data, to establish trade, to pave the way for the future development of Tels IV.
All he had to do was pass the initiation tests. And not get killed, of course, he reminded himself, smiling.
It was funny how positive the ghost doctors had been that they could kill him.
The village consisted of two dozen huts arranged in a rough circle. Beside each mud-and-thatch hut was a small vegetable garden, and sometimes a pen for the Telian version of cattle. There were small green-furred animals roaming between the huts, which the Telians treated as pets. The grassy central area was common ground. Here was the community well and here were the shrines to various gods and devils. In this area, lighted by a great bonfire, a feast had been laid out by the village women.