Worst Contact

by Hank Davis

  Bentley arrived at the feast in a state of near-exhaustion, stooped beneath his essential equipment. Gratefully, he sank to the ground with the villagers and the celebration began.

  First the village women danced a welcoming for him. They made a pretty sight, their orange skin glinting in the firelight, their tails swinging gracefully in unison. Then a village dignitary named Occip came over to him, bearing a full bowl.

  “Stranger,” Occip said, “you are from a distant land and your ways are not our ways. Yet let us be brothers! Partake, therefore, of this food to seal the bond between us, and in the name of all sanctity!”

  Bowing low, he offered the bowl.

  It was an important moment, one of those pivotal occasions that can seal forever the friendship between races or make them eternal enemies. But Bentley was not able to take advantage of it. As tactfully as he could, he refused the symbolic food.

  “But it is purified!” Occip said.

  Bentley explained that, because of a tribal taboo, he could eat only his own food. Occip could not understand that different species have different dietary requirements. For example, Bentley pointed out, the staff of life on Tels IV might well be some strychnine compound. But he did not add that even if he wanted to take the chance, his Protec would never allow it.

  Nonetheless, his refusal alarmed the village. There were hurried conferences among the ghost doctors. Then Rinek came over and sat beside him.

  “Tell me,” Rinek inquired after a while, “what do you think of evil?”

  “Evil is not good,” Bentley said solemnly.

  “Ah!” The ghost doctor pondered that, his tail flicking nervously over the grass. A small green-furred pet, a mog, began to play with his tail. Rinek pushed him away and said, “So you do not like evil.”

  “No.”

  “And you would permit no evil influence around you?”

  “Certainly not,” Bentley said, stifling a yawn. He was growing bored with the ghost doctor’s tortuous examining.

  “In that case, you would have no objection to receiving the sacred and very holy spear that Kran K’leu brought down from the abode of the Small Gods, the brandishing of which confers good upon a man.”

  “I would be pleased to receive it,” said Bentley, heavy-eyed, hoping this would be the last ceremony of the evening.

  Rinek grunted his approval and moved away. The women’s dances came to an end. The ghost doctors began to chant in deep, impressive voices. The bonfire flared high.

  Huascl came forward. His face was now painted in thin black and white stripes. He carried an ancient spear of black wood, its head of shaped volcanic glass, its length intricately although primitively carved.

  Holding the spear aloft, Huascl said, “O Stranger from the Skies, accept from us this spear of sanctity! Kran K’leu gave this lance to Trin, our first father, and bestowed upon it a magical nature and caused it to be a vessel of the spirits of the good. Evil cannot abide the presence of this spear! Take, then, our blessings with it.”

  Bentley heaved himself to his feet. He understood the value of a ceremony like this. His acceptance of the spear should end, once and for all, any doubts as to his spiritual status. Reverently he inclined his head, Huascl came forward, held out the spear and—

  The Protec snapped into action.

  Its operation was simple, in common with many great inventions. When its calculator-component received a danger cue, the Protec threw a force-field around its operator. This field rendered him invulnerable, for it was completely and absolutely impenetrable. But there were certain unavoidable disadvantages.

  If Bentley had had a weak heart, the Protec might have killed him there and then, for its action was electronically sudden, completely unexpected and physically wrenching. One moment, he was standing in front of the great bonfire, his hand held out for the sacred spear. In the next moment, he was plunged into darkness.

  As usual, he felt as though he had been catapulted into a musty, lightless closet, with rubbery walls pressing close on all sides. He cursed the machine’s super-efficiency. The spear had not been a threat; it was part of an important ceremony. But the Protec, with its literal senses, had interpreted it as a possible danger.

  Now, in the darkness, Bentley fumbled for the controls that would release the field. As usual, the force field interfered with his positional sense, a condition that seemed to grow worse with each subsequent use. Carefully he felt his way along his chest, where the button should have been, and located it at last under his right armpit, where it had twisted around to. He released the field.

  The feast had ended abruptly. The natives were standing close together for protection, weapons ready, tails stretched stiffly out. Huascl, caught in the force-field’s range, had been flung twenty feet and was slowly picking himself up.

  The ghost doctors began to chant a purification dirge, for protection against evil spirits. Bentley couldn’t blame them.

  When a Protec force-field goes on, it appears as an opaque black sphere, some ten feet in diameter. If it is struck, it repels with a force equal to the impact. White lines appear in the sphere’s surface, swirl, coalesce, vanish. And as the sphere spins, it screams in a thin, high-pitched wail.

  All in all, it was a sight hardly calculated to win the confidence of a primitive and superstitious people.

  “Sorry,” Bentley said, with a weak smile. There hardly seemed anything else to say.

  Huascl limped back, but kept his distance. “You cannot accept the sacred spear,” he stated.

  “Well, it’s not exactly that,” said Bentley. “It’s just—well, I’ve got this protective device, kind of like a shield, you know? It doesn’t like spears. Couldn’t you offer me a sacred gourd?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Huascl said. “Who ever heard of a sacred gourd?”

  “No, I guess not. But please take my word for it—I’m not evil. Really I’m not. I’ve just got a taboo about spears.”

  The ghost doctors talked among themselves too rapidly for the linguascene to interpret it. It caught only the words “evil”, “destroy”, and “purification.” Bentley decided his forecast didn’t look too favorable.

  After the conference, Huascl came over to him and said, “Some of the others feel that you should be killed at once, before you bring some great unhappiness upon the village. I told them, however, that you cannot be blamed for the many taboos that restrict you. We will pray for you through the night. And perhaps, in the morning, the initiation will be possible.”

  Bentley thanked him. He was shown to a hut and then the Telians left him as quickly as possible. There was an ominous hush over the village; from his doorway, Bentley could see little groups of natives talking earnestly and glancing covertly in his direction.

  It was a poor beginning for cooperation between two races.

  He immediately contacted Professor Sliggert and told him what had happened.

  “Unfortunate,” the professor said. “But primitive people are notoriously treacherous. They might have meant to kill you with the spear instead of actually handing it to you. Let you have it, that is, in the most literal sense.”

  “I’m positive there was no such intention,” Bentley said. “After all, you have to start trusting people sometime.”

  “Not with a billion dollars’ worth of equipment in your charge.”

  “But I’m not going to be able to do anything!” Bentley shouted. “Don’t you understand? They’re suspicious of me already. I wasn’t able to accept their sacred spear. That means I’m very possibly evil. Now what if I can’t pass the initiation ceremony tomorrow? Suppose some idiot starts to pick his teeth with a knife and the Protec saves me? All the favorable first impressions I built up will be lost.”

  “Good will can be regained,” Professor Sliggert said sententiously. “But a billion dollars’ worth of equipment—”

  “—can be salvaged by the next expedition. Look, Professor, give me a break. Isn’t there some way I can control this thing m
anually?”

  “No way at all,” Sliggert replied. “That would defeat the entire purpose of the machine. You might just as well not be wearing it if you’re allowed to rely on your own reflexes rather than electronic impulses.”

  “Then tell me how to take it off.”

  “The same argument holds true—you wouldn’t be protected at all times.”

  “Look,” Bentley protested, “you chose me as a competent explorer. I’m the guy on the spot. I know what the conditions are here. Tell me how to get it off.”

  “No! The Protec must have a full field test. And we want you to come back alive.”

  “That’s another thing,” Bentley said. “These people seem kind of sure they can kill me.”

  “Primitive peoples always overestimate the potency of their strength, weapons, and magic.”

  “I know, I know. But you’re certain there’s no way they can get through the field? Poison, maybe?”

  “Nothing can get through the field,” Sliggert said patiently. “Not even light rays can penetrate. Not even gamma radiation. You are wearing an impregnable fortress, Mr. Bentley. Why can’t you manage to have a little faith in it?”

  “Early models of inventions sometimes need a lot of ironing out,” Bentley grumbled. “But have it your way. Won’t you tell me how to take it off, though, just in case something goes wrong?”

  “I wish you would stop asking me that, Mr. Bentley. You were chosen to give Protec a full field test. That’s just what you are going to do.”

  When Bentley signed oft, it was deep twilight outside and the villagers had returned to their huts. Campfires burned low and he could hear the call of night creatures.

  At that moment, Bentley felt very alien and exceedingly homesick.

  He was tired almost to the point of unconsciousness, but he forced himself to eat some concentrated food and drink a little water. Then he unstrapped the tool kit, the radio, and the canteen, tugged defeatedly at the Protec, and lay down to sleep.

  Just as he dozed off, the Protec went violently into action, nearly snapping his neck out of joint.

  Wearily he fumbled for the controls, located them near his stomach, and turned off the field.

  The hut looked exactly the same. He could find no source of attack.

  Was the Protec losing its grip on reality, he wondered, or had a Telian tried to spear him through the window?

  Then Bentley saw a tiny mog puppy scuttling away frantically, its legs churning up clouds of dust.

  The little beast probably just wanted to get warm, Bentley thought. But of course it was alien. Its potential for danger could not be overlooked by the ever-wary Protec.

  He fell asleep again and immediately began to dream that he was locked in a prison of bright red sponge rubber. He could push the walls out and out and out, but they never yielded, and at last he would have to let go and be gently shoved back to the center of the prison. Over and over, this happened, until suddenly he felt his back wrenched and awoke within the Protec’s lightless field.

  This time he had real difficulty finding the controls. He hunted desperately by feel until the bad air made him gasp in panic. He located the controls at last under his chin, released the field, and began to search groggily for the source of the new attack.

  He found it. A twig had fallen from the thatch roof and had tried to land on him. The Protec, of course, had not allowed it.

  “Aw, come on now,” Bentley groaned aloud. “Let’s use a little judgment.”

  But he was really too tired to care. Fortunately, there were no more assaults that night.

  Huascl came to Bentley’s hut in the morning, looking very solemn and considerably disturbed.

  “There were great sounds from your hut during the night,” the ghost doctor said, “Sounds of torment, as though you were wrestling with a devil.”

  “I’m just a restless sleeper,” Bentley explained.

  Huascl smiled to show that he appreciated the joke. “My friend, did you pray for purification last night and for release from evil?”

  “I certainly did.”

  “And was your prayer granted?”

  “It was,” Bentley said hopefully. “There’s no evil around me. Not a bit.”

  Huascl looked dubious. “But can you be sure? Perhaps you should depart from us in peace. If you cannot be initiated, we shall have to destroy you—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bentley told him. “Let’s get started.”

  “Very well,” Huascl said, and together they left the hut.

  The initiation was to be held in front of the great bonfire in the village square. Messengers had been sent out during the night and ghost doctors from many villages were there. Some had come as far as twenty miles to take part in the rites and to see the alien with their own eyes. The ceremonial drum had been taken from its secret hiding place and was now booming solemnly. The villagers watched, chattered together, laughed. But Bentley could detect an undercurrent of nervousness and strain.

  There was a long series of dances. Bentley twitched worriedly when the last figure started, for the leading dancer was swinging a glass-studded club around his head. Nearer and nearer the dancer whirled, now only a few feet away from him, his club a dazzling streak.

  The villagers watched, fascinated. Bentley shut his eyes, expecting to be plunged momentarily into the darkness of the force-field.

  But the dancer moved away at last and the dance ended with a roar of approval from the villagers.

  Huascl began to speak. Bentley realized with a thrill of relief that this was the end of the ceremony.

  “O brothers,” Huascl said, “this alien has come across the great emptiness to be our brother. Many of his ways are strange and around him there seems to hang a strange hint of evil. And yet who can doubt that he means well? Who can doubt that he is, in essence, a good and honorable person? With this initiation, we purge him of evil and make him one of us.”

  There was dead silence as Huascl walked up to Bentley. “Now,” Huascl said, “you are a ghost doctor and indeed one of us.” He held out his hand.

  Bentley felt his heart leap within him. He had won! He had been accepted! He reached out and clasped Huascl’s hand.

  Or tried to. He didn’t quite make it, for the Protec, ever alert, saved him from the possibly dangerous contact.

  “You damned idiotic gadget!” Bentley bellowed, quickly finding the control and releasing the field.

  He saw at once that the fat was in the fire.

  “Evil!” shrieked the Telians, frenziedly waving their weapons.

  “Evil!” screamed the ghost doctors.

  Bentley turned despairingly to Huascl.

  “Yes,” the young ghost doctor said sadly, “it is true. We had hoped to cure the evil by our ancient ceremonial. But it could not be. This evil must be destroyed! Kill the devil!”

  A shower of spears came at Bentley. The Protec responded instantly.

  Soon it was apparent that an impasse had been reached. Bentley would remain for a few minutes in the field, then override the controls. The Telians, seeing him still unharmed, would renew their barrage and the Protec would instantly go back into action.

  Bentley tried to walk back to his ship. But the Protec went on again each time he shut it off. It would take him a month or two to cover a mile, at that rate, so he stopped trying. He would simply wait the attackers out. After a while, they would find out they couldn’t hurt him and the two races would finally get down to business.

  He tried to relax within the field, but found it impossible. He was hungry and extremely thirsty. And his air was starting to grow stale.

  Then Bentley remembered, with a sense of shock, that air had not gone through the surrounding field the night before. Naturally—nothing could get through. If he wasn’t careful, he could be asphyxiated.

  Even an impregnable fortress could fall, he knew, if the defenders were starved or suffocated out.

  He began to think furiously. How long could the Te
lians keep up the attack? They would have to grow tired sooner or later, wouldn’t they?

  Or would they?

  He waited as long as he could, until the air was all but unbreathable, then overrode the controls. The Telians were sitting on the ground around him. Fires had been lighted and food was cooking. Rinek lazily threw a spear at him and the field went on.

  So, Bentley thought, they had learned. They were going to starve him out.

  He tried to think, but the walls of his dark closet seemed to be pressing against him. He was growing claustrophobic and already his air was stale again.

  He thought for a moment, then overrode the controls. The Telians looked at him coolly. One of them reached for a spear.

  “Wait!” Bentley shouted. At the same moment, he turned on his radio.

  “What do you want?” Rinek asked.

  “Listen to me! It isn’t fair to trap me in the Protec like this!”

  “Eh? What’s going on?” Professor Sliggert asked, through the ear receiver.

  “You Telians know—” Bentley said hoarsely—“you know that you can destroy me by continually activating the Protec. I can’t turn it off! I can’t get out of it!”

  “Ah,” said Professor Sliggert. “I see the difficulty. Yes.”

  “We are sorry,” Huascl apologized. “But evil must be destroyed.”

  “Of course it must,” Bentley said desperately. “But not me. Give me a chance. Professor!”

  “This is indeed a flaw,” Professor Sliggert mused, “and a serious one. Strange, but things like this, of course, can’t show up in the lab, only in a full-scale field test. The fault will be rectified in the new models.”

  “Great! But I’m here now! How do I get this thing off?”

  “I am sorry,” Sliggert said. “I honestly never thought the need would arise. To tell the truth, I designed the harness so that you could not get out of it under any circumstances.”