by Hank Davis
“We’ve landed.” Nathen whispered the words.
The wind blew across the open spaces of white concrete and damp soil that was the empty airfield, swaying the wet, shiny grass. The people in the room looked out, listening for the roar of jets, looking for the silver bulk of a spaceship in the sky.
Nathen moved, seating himself at the transmitter, switching it on to warm up, checking and balancing dials. Jacob Luke of the Times moved softly to stand behind his right shoulder, hoping he could be useful. Nathen made a half-motion of his head, as if to glance back at him, unhooked two of the earphone sets hanging on the side of the tall streamlined box that was the automatic translator, plugged them in, and handed one back over his shoulder to the Times man.
The voice began to come from the speaker again.
Hastily, Jacob Luke fitted the earphones over his ears. He fancied he could hear Bud’s voice tremble. For a moment it was just Bud’s voice speaking the alien language, and then, very distant and clear in his earphones, he heard the recorded voice of the linguist say an English word, then a mechanical click and another clear word in the voice of one of the other translators, then another as the alien’s voice flowed from the loud-speaker, the cool single words barely audible, overlapping and blending like translating thought, skipping unfamiliar words yet quite astonishingly clear.
“Radar shows no buildings or civilization near. The atmosphere around us registers as thick as glue. Tremendous gas pressure, low gravity, no light at all. You didn’t describe it like this. Where are you, Joe? This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?” Bud hesitated, was prompted by a deeper official voice, and jerked out the words.
“If it is a trick, we are ready to repel attack.”
The linguist stood listening. He whitened slowly and beckoned the other linguists over to him and whispered to them.
Joseph Nathen looked at them with unwarranted bitter hostility while he picked up the hand mike, plugging it into the translator. “Joe calling,” he said quietly into it in clear, slow English. “No trick. We don’t know where you are. I am trying to get a direction fix from your signal. Describe your surroundings to us if at all possible.”
Nearby, the floodlights blazed steadily on the television platform, ready for the official welcome of the aliens to Earth. The television channels of the world had been alerted to set aside their scheduled programs for an unscheduled great event. In the long room the people waited, listening for the swelling sound of rocket jets.
This time, after the light came on, there was a long delay. The speaker sputtered and sputtered again, building to a steady scratching through which they could barely hear a dim voice. It came through in a few tinny words and then wavered back to inaudibility. The machine translated in their earphones.
“Tried . . . seemed . . . repair . . .” Suddenly it came in clearly. “Can’t tell if the auxiliary blew, too. Will try it. We might pick you up clearly on the next try. I have the volume down. Where is the landing port? Repeat. Where is the landing port? Where are you?”
Nathen put down the hand mike and carefully set a dial on the recording box and flipped a switch, speaking over his shoulder. “This sets it to repeat what I said the last time. It keeps repeating.” Then he sat with unnatural stillness, his head still half turned, as if he had suddenly caught a glimpse of answer and was trying with no success whatever to grasp it.
The green warning light cut in, the recording clicked, and the playback of Bud’s face and voice appeared on the screen. “We heard a few words, Joe, and then the receiver blew again. We’re adjusting a viewing screen to pick up the long waves that go through the murk and convert them to visible light. We’ll be able to see out soon. The engineer says that something is wrong with the stern jets, and the captain has had me broadcast a help call to our nearest space base.” He made the mouth O of a grin. “The message won’t reach it for some years. I trust you, Joe, but get us out of here, will you?—They’re buzzing that the screen is finally ready. Hold everything.”
The screen went gray and the green light went off.
The Times considered the lag required for the help call, the speaking and recording of the message just received, the time needed to reconvert a viewing screen.
“They work fast.” He shifted uneasily and added at random, “Something wrong with the time factor. All wrong. They work too fast.”
The green light came on again immediately. Nathen half-turned to him, sliding his words hastily into the gap of time as the message was recorded and slowed. “They’re close enough for our transmission power to blow their receiver.”
If it was on Earth, why the darkness around the ship? “Maybe they see in the high ultraviolet—the atmosphere is opaque to that band,” the Times suggested hastily as the speaker began to talk in the young extra-Terrestrial’s voice.
That voice was shaking now. “Stand by for the description.”
They tensed, waiting. The Times brought a map of the state before his mind’s eye.
“A half-circle of cliffs around the horizon. A wide muddy lake swarming with swimming things. Huge, strange white foliage all around the ship and incredibly huge, pulpy monsters attacking and eating each other on all sides. We almost landed in the lake, right on the soft edge. The mud can’t hold the ship’s weight, and we’re sinking. The engineer says we might be able to blast free, but the tubes are mud-clogged and might blow up the ship. When can you reach us?”
The Times thought vaguely of the Carboniferous Era. Nathen obviously had seen something he had not.
“Where are they?” the Times asked him quietly.
Nathen pointed to the antenna position indicators. The Times let his eyes follow the converging imaginary lines of focus out the window to the sunlit airfield, the empty airfield, the drying concrete; green waving grass where the lines met.
Where the lines met. The spaceship was there!
The fear of something unknown gripped him suddenly.
The spaceship was broadcasting again. “Where are you? Answer if possible! We are sinking! Where are you?”
He saw that Nathen knew. “What is it?” the Times asked hoarsely. “Are they in another dimension or the past or on another world or what?”
Nathen was smiling bitterly, and Jacob Luke remembered that the young man had a friend in that spaceship. “My guess is that they evolved on a high-gravity planet with a thin atmosphere, near a blue-white star. Sure, they see in the ultraviolet range. Our sun is abnormally small and dim and yellow. Our atmosphere is so thick it screens out ultraviolet.” He laughed harshly. “A good joke on us, the weird place we evolved in, the thing it did to us!”
“Where are you?” called the alien spaceship. “Hurry, please! We’re sinking!”
The decoder slowed his tumbled, frightened words and looked up into the Times face for understanding. “We’ll rescue them,” he said quietly. “You were right about the time factor, right about them moving at a different speed. I misunderstood. This business about squawk coding, speeding for better transmission to counteract beam waver—I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t speed up their broadcasts.”
“They don’t—?”
Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, the Times began to see again the play he had just seen—but the actors were moving at blurring speed, the words jerking out in a fluting, dizzying stream, thoughts and decisions passing with unallowable rapidity, rippling faces in a twisting blur of expressions, doors slamming wildly, shatteringly, as the actors leaped in and out of rooms.
No—faster, faster—he wasn’t visualizing it as rapidly as it was, an hour of talk and action in one almost instantaneous “squawk,” a narrow peak of “noise” interfering with a single word in an Earth broadcast! Faster—faster—it was impossible. Matter could not stand such stress—inertia—momentum—abrupt weight.
It was insane. “Why?” he asked. “How?”
Nathen laughed again harshly, reaching for the mike. “Get them ou
t? There isn’t a lake or river within hundreds of miles from here!” A shiver of unreality went down the Times spine. Automatically and inanely, he found himself delving in his pocket for a cigarette while he tried to grasp what had happened. “Where are they, then? Why can’t we see their spaceship?”
Nathen switched the microphone on in a gesture that showed the bitterness of his disappointment. “We’ll need a magnifying glass for that.
BACKWARDNESS
by Poul Anderson
Earth has been discovered by extraterrestrials who look quite human and seem very friendly. Surely they have a lot to teach us less-advanced humans of Earth. Or maybe we have a few things to teach them . . .
***
Poul Anderson (1926-2001) was one of the most prolific and popular writers in science fiction. He won the Hugo Award seven times and the Nebula Award three times, as well as many other awards, notably including the Grand Master Award of the Science Fiction Writers of America for a lifetime of distinguished achievement. With a degree in physics, and a wide knowledge of other fields of science, he was noted for building stories on a solid foundation of real science, as well as for being one of the most skilled creators of fast-paced adventure stories. He was author of over a hundred science fiction and fantasy novels and story collections, and several hundred short stories, as well as historical novels, mysteries and non-fiction books. He wrote several series, notably the Technic Civilization novels and stories, the Psychotechnic League series, the Harvest of Stars novels, and his Time Patrol series. Lest the new reader think that Anderson only wrote series stories and novels, I’ll also mention some stand-alone novels such as The High Crusade, The Star Fox, Three Hearts and Three Lions, A Midsummer Tempest, The Enemy Stars, Brain Wave, The Corridors of Time, The Boat of a Million Years, and many more. I would say, as I’ve said before, that all are worth seeking out, but then, they were written by Poul Anderson, so that really goes without saying. Now, repeat the above remarks for his stand-alone (and standout) stories. Such as this one.
As a small boy he wanted to be a rocket pilot—and what boy didn’t in those days?—but learned early that he lacked the aptitudes. Later he decided on psychology, and even took a bachelor’s degree cum laude. Then one thing led to another, and Joe Husting ended up as a confidence man. It wasn’t such a bad life; it had challenge and variety as he hunted in New York, and the spoils of a big killing were devoured in Florida, Greenland Resort, or Luna City.
The bar was empty of prospects just now, but he dawdled over his beer and felt no hurry. Spring had reached in and touched even the East Forties. The door stood open to a mild breeze, the long room was cool and dim, a few other men lazed over mid-afternoon drinks and the TV was tuned low. Idly, through cigarette smoke, Joe Husting watched the program.
The Galactics, of course. Their giant spaceship flashed in the screen against wet brown fields a hundred miles from here. Copter view . . . now we pan to a close-up, inside the ring of UN guards, and then back to the sightseers in their thousands. The announcer was talking about how the captain of the ship was at this moment in conference with the Secretary-General, and the crewmen were at liberty on Earth. “They are friendly, folks. I repeat, they are friendly. They will do no harm. They have already exchanged their cargo of U-235 for billions of our own dollars, and they plan to spend those dollars like any friendly tourist. But both the UN Secretariat and the President of the United States have asked us all to remember that these people come from the stars. They have been civilized for a million years. They have powers we haven’t dreamed of. Anyone who harms a Galactic can ruin the greatest—”
Husting’s mind wandered off. A big thing, yes; maybe the biggest thing in all history. Earth a member planet of the Galactic Federation! All the stars open to us! It was good to be alive in this year when anything could happen . . . hm. To start with, you could have some rhinestones put in fancy settings and peddle them as gen-yu-wine Tardenoisian sacred flame-rocks, but that was only the beginning
He grew aware that the muted swish of electrocars and hammering of shoes in the street had intensified. From several blocks away came a positive roar of excitement. What the devil? He left his beer and sauntered to the door and looked out. A shabby man was hurrying toward the crowd. Husting buttonholed him. “What’s going on, pal?”
“Ain’t yuh heard? Galactics! Half a dozen of ’em. Landed in duh street uptown, some kinda flying belt dey got, and went inna Macy’s and bought a million bucks’ wortha stuff! Now they’re strolling down dis-a-way. Lemme go!”
Husting stood for a while, drawing hard on his cigarette. There was a tingle along his spine. Wanderers from the stars, a million-year-old civilization embracing the whole Milky Way! For him actually to see the high ones, maybe even talk to them . . . it would be something to tell his grandchildren about if he ever had any.
He waited, though, till the outer edge of the throng was on him, then pushed with skill and ruthlessness. It took a few sweaty minutes to reach the barrier.
An invisible force-field, holding off New York’s myriads—wise precaution. You could be trampled to death by the best-intentioned mob.
There were seven crewmen from the Galactic ship. They were tall, powerful, as handsome as expected: a mixed breed, with dark hair and full lips and thin aristocratic noses. In a million years you’d expect all the human races to blend into one. They wore shimmering blue tunics and buskins, webby metallic belts in which starlike points of light glittered—and jewelry! My God, they must have bought all the gaudiest junk jewelry Macy’s had to offer, and hung it on muscular necks and thick wrists. Mink and ermine burdened their shoulders, a young fortune in fur. One of them was carefully counting the money he had left, enough to choke an elephant. The others beamed affably into Earth’s milling folk.
Joe Husting hunched his narrow frame against the pressure that was about to flatten him on the force screen. He licked suddenly dry lips, and his heart hammered. Was it possible—could it really happen that he, insignificant he, might speak to the gods from the stars?
Elsewhere in the huge building, politicians, specialists, and vips buzzed like angry bees. They should have been conferring with their opposite numbers from the Galactic mission—clearly, the sole proper way to meet the unprecedented is to set up committees and spend six months deciding on an agenda. But the Secretary-General of the United Nations owned certain prerogatives, and this time he had used them. A private face-to-face conference with Captain Hurdgo could accomplish more in half an hour than the councils of the world in a year.
He leaned forward and offered a box of cigars. “I don’t know if I should,” he added. “Perhaps tobacco doesn’t suit your metabolism?”
“My what?” asked the visitor pleasantly. He was a big man, running a little to fat, with distinguished gray at the temples. It was not so odd that the Galactics should shave their chins and cut their hair in the manner of civilized Earth. That was the most convenient style.
“I mean, we smoke this weed, but it may poison you,” said Larson. “After all, you’re from another planet.”
“Oh, that’s OK,” replied Hurdgo. “Same plants grow on every Earthlike planet, just like the same people and animals. Not much difference. Thanks.” He took a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. “Smells nice.”
“To me, that is the most astonishing thing about it all. I never expected evolution to work identically throughout the universe. Why?”
“Well, it just does.” Captain Hurdgo bit the end off of his cigar and spat it out onto the carpet. “Not on different-type planets from this, of course, but on Earth-type it’s all the same.”
“But why? I mean, what process—it can’t be coincidence!”
Hurdgo shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just a practical spaceman. Never worried about it.” He put the cigar in his mouth and touched the bezel of an ornate finger ring to it. Smoke followed the brief, intense spark.
“That’s a . . . a most ingenious development,” said Larson. Humility
, yes, there was the line for a simple Earthman to take. Earth had come late into the cosmos and might as well admit the fact.
“A what?”
“Your ring. That lighter.”
“Oh, that. Yep. Little atomic-energy gizmo inside.” Hurdgo waved a magnanimous hand. “We’ll send some people to show you how to make our stuff. Lend you machinery till you can start your own factories. We’ll bring you up to date.”
“It—you’re incredibly generous,” said Larson, happy and incredulous.
“Not much trouble to us, and we can trade with you once you’re all set up. The more planets, the better for us.”
“But . . . excuse me, sir, but I bear a heavy responsibility. We have to know the legal requirements for membership in the Galactic Federation. We don’t know anything about your laws, your customs, your—”
“Nothing much to tell,” said Hurdgo. “Every planet can pretty well take care of itself. How the hell you think we could police fifty million Earth-type planets? If you got a gripe, you can take it to the, uh, I dunno what the word would be in English. A board of experts with a computer that handles these things. They’ll charge you for the service—no Galactic taxes, you just pay for what you get, and out of the profits they finance free services like this mission of mine.”
“I see,” nodded Larson. “A Coordinating Council.”
“Yeh, I guess that’s it.”
The Secretary-General shook his head in bewilderment. He had sometimes wondered what civilization would come to be, a million years hence. Now he knew, and it staggered him. An ultimate simplicity, superman disdaining the whole cumbersome apparatus of interstellar government, freed of all restraints save the superman morality, free to think his giant thoughts between the stars!
Hurdgo looked out the window to the arrogant towers of New York. “Biggest city I ever saw,” he remarked, “and I seen a lot of planets. I don’t see how you run it. Must be complicated.”