Worst Contact

by Hank Davis

  “It is, sir.” Larson smiled wryly. Of course the Galactics would long ago have passed the stage of needing such a human ant hill. They would have forgotten the skills required to govern one, just as Larson’s people had forgotten how to chip flint.

  “Well, let’s get down to business.” Hurdgo sucked on his cigar and smacked his lips. “Here’s how it works. We found out a big while back that we can’t go letting any new planet bust its way into space with no warning to anybody. Too much danger. So we set up detectors all over the Galaxy. When they spot the, uh, what-you-call-’ems—vibrations, yes, that’s it, vibrations—the vibrations of a new star drive, they alert the, uh, Coordinating Council and it sends out a ship to contact the new people and tell ’em the score.”

  “Ah, indeed. I suspected as much. We have just invented a faster-than-light engine . . . very primitive, of course, compared to yours. It was being tested when—”

  “Uh-huh. So me and my boys are supposed to give you the once-over and see if you’re all right. Don’t want warlike peoples running around loose, you know. Too much danger.”

  “I assure you—”

  “Yes, yes, pal, it’s OK. You got a good strong world setup and the computer says you’ve stopped making war.” Hurdgo frowned. “I got to admit, you got some funny habits. I don’t really understand everything you do . . . you seem to think funny, not like any other planet I ever heard of. But it’s all right. Everybody to his own ways. You get a clean bill of health.”

  “Suppose . . .” Larson spoke very slowly. “Just suppose we had not been . . . approved—what then? Would you have reformed us?”

  “Reformed? Huh? What d’you mean? We’d have sent a police ship and blown every planet in this system to smithereens. Can’t have people running loose who might start a war.”

  Sweat formed under Larson’s arms and trickled down his ribs. His mouth felt dry. Whole planets.

  But in a million years you would learn to think sub specie aeternitatis. Five billion warlike Earthlings could annihilate fifty billion peaceful Galactics before they were overcome. It was not for him to judge a superman.

  “Hello, there!”

  Husting had to yell to be heard above the racket. But the nearest of the spacemen looked at him and smiled.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Incredible! He had greeted little Joe Husting as a friend. Why—? Wait a minute! Perhaps the sheer brass of it had pleased him. Perhaps no one else had dared speak first to the strangers. And when you only said, “Yes, sir,” to a man, even to a Galactic, you removed him—you might actually make him feel lonely.

  “Uh, like it here?” Husting cursed his tongue, that its glibness should have failed him at this moment of all moments.

  “Sure, sure. Biggest city I ever seen. And draxna, look at what I got!” The spaceman lifted a necklace of red glass sparklers. “Won’t their eyes just bug out when I get home!”

  Someone shoved Husting against the barrier so the wind went from him. He gasped and tried to squirm free.

  “Say, cut that out. You’re hurting the poor guy.” One of the Galactics touched a stud on his belt. Gently but inexorably, the field widened, pushing the crowd back . . . and somehow, somehow Husting was inside it with the seven from the stars.

  “You OK, pal?” Anxious hands lifted him to his feet.

  “I, yeah, sure. Sure, I’m fine!” Husting stood up and grinned at the envious faces ringing him in. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Glad to help you. My name’s Gilgrath. Call me Gil.” Strong fingers squeezed Husting’s shoulder. “And this here is Bronni, and here’s Col, and Jordo, and—”

  “Pleased to meet you,” whispered Husting inadequately. “I’m Joe.”

  “Say, this is all right!” said Gil enthusiastically. “I was wondering what was wrong with you folks.”

  “Wrong?” Husting shook a dazed head, wondering if They were peering into his mind and reading thoughts of which he himself was unaware. Vague memories came back, grave-eyed Anubis weighing the heart of a man.

  “You know,” said Gil. “Standoffish, like.”

  “Yeh,” added Bronni. “Every other new planet we been to, everybody was coming up and saying hello and buying us drinks and—”

  “Parties,” reminded Jordo.

  “Yeh. Man, remember that wing-ding on Alphaz? Remember those girls?” Col rolled his eyes lickerishly.

  “You got a lot of good-looking girls here in New York,” complained Gil. “But we got orders not to offend nobody. Say, do you think one of those girls would mind if I said hello to her?”

  Husting was scarcely able to think; it was the reflex of many years which now spoke for him, rapidly: “You have us all wrong. We’re just scared to talk to you. We thought maybe you didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “And we thought you—Say!” Gil slapped his thigh and broke into a guffaw. “Now ain’t that something? They don’t want to bother us and we don’t want to bother them!”

  “I’ll be rixt!” bellowed Col. “Well, what do you know about that?”

  “Hey, in that case—” began Jordo.

  “Wait, wait!” Husting waved his hands. It was still habit which guided him; his mind was only slowly getting back into gear. “Let me get this straight. You want to do the town, right?”

  “We sure do,” said Col. “It’s mighty lonesome out in space.”

  “Well, look,” chattered Husting, “you’ll never be free of all these crowds, reporters—” (A flashbulb, the tenth or twelfth in these few minutes, dazzled his eyes.) “You won’t be able to let yourselves go while everybody knows you’re Galactics.”

  “On Alphaz—” protested Bronni.

  “This isn’t Alphaz. Now I’ve got an idea. Listen.” Seven dark heads bent down to hear an urgent whisper. “Can you get us away from here? Fly off invisible or something?”

  “Sure,” said Gil. “Hey, how’d you know we can do that?”

  “Never mind. OK, we’ll sneak off to my apartment and send out for some Earthstyle clothes for you, and then—”

  John Joseph O’Reilly, Cardinal Archbishop of New York, had friends in high places as well as in low. He thought it no shame to pull wires and arrange an interview with the chaplain of the spaceship. What he could learn might be of vital importance to the Faith. The priest from the stars arrived, light-screened to evade the curious, and was received in the living room.

  Visible again, Thyrkna proved to be a stocky white-haired man in the usual blue-kirtled uniform. He smiled and shook hands in quite an ordinary manner. At least, thought O’Reilly, these Galactics had during a million years conquered overweening Pride.

  “It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

  “Thanks,” nodded Thyrkna. He looked around the room. “Nice place you got.”

  “Please be seated. May I offer you a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  O’Reilly set forth glasses and a bottle. In a modest way, the Cardinal was a connoisseur, and had chosen the Chambertin-Clos carefully. He tasted the ritual few drops. Whatever minor saint, if any, was concerned with these things had been gracious; the wine was superb. He filled his guest’s glass and then his own.

  “Welcome to Earth,” he smiled.

  “Thanks.” The Galactic tossed his drink off at one gulp. “Aaah! That goes good.”

  The Cardinal winced, but poured again. You couldn’t expect another civilization to have the same tastes. Chinese liked aged eggs while despising cheese . . .

  He sat down and crossed his legs. “I’m not sure what title to use,” he said diffidently.

  “Title? What’s that?”

  “I mean, what does your flock call you?”

  “My flock? Oh, you mean the boys on board? Plain Thyrkna. That’s good enough for me.” The visitor finished his second glass and belched. Well, so would a cultivated Eskimo.

  “I understand there was some difficulty in conveying my request,” said O’Reilly. “Apparently you did not know what our word
chaplain means.”

  “We don’t know every word in your lingo,” admitted Thyrkna. “It works like this. When we come in toward a new planet, we pick up its radio, see?”

  “Oh, yes. Such of it as gets through the ionosphere.”

  Thyrkna blinked. “Huh? I don’t know all the de-tails. You’ll have to talk to one of our tech . . . technicians. Anyway, we got a machine that analyzes the different languages, figures ’em out. Does it in just a few hours, too. Then it puts us all to sleep and teaches us the languages. When we wake up, we’re ready to come down and talk.”

  The Cardinal laughed. “Pardon me, sir. Frankly, I was wondering why the people of your incredibly high civilization should use our worst street dialects. Now I see the reason. I am afraid our programs are not on a very high level. They aim at mass taste, the lowest common denominator—and please excuse my metaphors. Naturally you—But I assure you, we aren’t all that bad. We have hopes for the future. This electronic educator of yours, for instance . . . what it could do to raise the cultural level of the average man surpasses imagination.”

  Thyrkna looked a trifle dazed. “I never seen anybody what talks like you Earthlings. Don’t you ever run out of breath?”

  O’Reilly felt himself reproved. Among the Great Galactics, a silence must be as meaningful as a hundred words, and there were a million years of dignity behind them. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I suppose a lot of our ways must look just as funny to you.” Thyrkna picked up the bottle and poured himself another glassful.

  “What I asked you here for . . . there are many wonderful things you can tell me, but I would like to put you some religious questions.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Thyrkna amiably.

  “My Church has long speculated about this eventuality. The fact that you, too, are human, albeit more advanced than we, is a miraculous revelation of God’s will. But I would like to know something about the precise form of your belief in Him.”

  “What do you mean?” Thyrkna sounded confused. “I’m a, uh, quartermaster. It’s part of my job to kill the rabbits—we can’t afford the space for cattle on board a ship. I feed the gods, that’s all.”

  “The gods!” The Cardinal’s glass crashed on the floor.

  “By the way, what’s the names of your top gods?” inquired Thyrkna. “Be a good idea to kill them a cow or two, as long as we’re here on their planet. Don’t wanna take chances on bad luck.”

  “But . . . you . . . heathen—”

  Thyrkna looked at the clock. “Say, do you have TV?” he asked. “It’s almost time for John’s Other Life. You got some real good TV on this planet.”

  By the dawn’s early light, Joe Husting opened a bleary eye and wished he hadn’t. The apartment was a mess. What happened, anyway?

  Oh, yeah . . . those girls they picked up . . . but had they really emptied all those bottles lying on the floor?

  He groaned and hung onto his head lest it split open. Why had he mixed scotch and stout?

  Thunder lanced through his eardrums. He turned on the sofa and saw Gil emerging from the bedroom. The spaceman was thumping his chest and booming out a song learned last night. “Oh, roly poly—”

  “Cut it out, will you?” groaned Husting.

  “Huh? Man, you’ve had it, ain’t you?” Gil clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Here, just a minute.” He took a vial from his belt. “Take a few drops of this. It’ll fix you up.”

  Somehow Husting got it down. There was a moment of fire and pinwheels, then—

  —he was whole again. It was as if he had just slept ten hours without touching alcohol for the past week.

  Gil returned to the bedroom and started pummeling his companions awake. Husting sat by the window, thinking hard. That hangover cure was worth a hundred million if he could only get the exclusive rights. But no, the technical envoys would show Earth how to make it, along with star ships and invisibility screens and so on. Maybe, though, he could hit the Galactics for what they had with them, and peddle it for a hundred dollars a drop before the full-dress mission arrived.

  Bronni came in, full of cheer. “Say, you’re all right, Joe,” he trumpeted. “Ain’t had such a good time since I was on Alphaz. What’s next, old pal, old pal, old pal?” A meaty hand landed stunningly between Husting’s shoulderblades.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said the Earthman cautiously. “But I’m busy, you know. Got some big deals cooking.”

  “I know,” said Bronni. He winked. “Smart fellow like you. How the hell did you talk that bouncer around? I thought sure he was gonna call the cops.”

  “Oh, I buttered him up and slipped him a ten-spot. Wasn’t hard.”

  “Man!” Bronni whistled in admiration. “I never heard anybody sling the words like you was doing.”

  Gil herded the others out and said he wanted breakfast. Husting led them all to the elevator and out into the street. He was rather short-spoken, having much to think about. They were in a ham-and-eggery before he said: “You spacemen must be pretty smart. Smarter than average, right?”

  “Right,” said Jordo. He winked at the approaching waitress.

  “Lotta things a spaceman’s got to know,” said Col. “The ships do just about run themselves, but still, you can’t let just any knucklehead into the crew.”

  “I see,” murmured Husting. “I thought so.”

  A college education helps the understanding, especially when one is not too blinkered by preconceptions.

  Consider one example: Sir Isaac Newton discovered (a) the three laws of motion, (b) the law of gravitation, (c) the differential calculus, (d) the elements of spectroscopy, (e) a good deal about acoustics, and (f) miscellaneous, besides finding time to serve in half a dozen official and honorary positions. A single man! And for a genius, he was not too exceptional; most gifted Earthmen have contributed to several fields.

  And yet . . . such supreme intellect is not necessary. The most fundamental advances, fire- and tool-making, language and clothing and social organization, were made by apish dim-bulbs. It simply took a long time between discoveries.

  Given a million years, much can happen. Newton founded modern physics in one lifespan. A hundred less talented men, over a thousand-year period, could slowly and painfully have accomplished the same thing.

  The IQ of Earth humanity averages about 100. Our highest geniuses may have rated 200; our lowest morons, as stupid as possible without needing institutional care, may go down to 60. It is only some freak of mutation which has made the Earthman so intelligent; he never actually needed all that brain.

  Now if the Galactic average IQ was around 75, with their very brightest boys going up to, say, 150—

  The waitress yipped and jumped into the air; Bronni grinned shamelessly as she turned to confront him.

  Joe Husting pacified her. After breakfast he took the Galactic emissaries out and sold them the Brooklyn Bridge.

  DODGER FAN

  by Will Stanton

  As every science fiction fan* knows, or think they know, the ideal person to make first contact with extraterrestrials would be a science fiction fan. But these ETs found themselves dealing with a fan of something else entirely.

  ***

  William Frank “Will” Stanton (1918-1996) was a prolific writer of humorous pieces, both fiction and essays, and a frequent contributor to The New Yorker, The Saturday Evening Post, Woman’s Day, Reader’s Digest (for which he was at one time a staff writer), Life, Look, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly, and other such notable publications. He wrote four books, one published posthumously, and hundreds of short stories and articles. One of his most popular articles was “How to Tell a Democrat from a Republican,” in Ladies’ Home Journal, which was read into the Congressional Record and, along with the poem “Dandelions,” and the science fiction story “Barney,” has been included in anthologies for use in classrooms as a learning tool. Another, “A Good Word for November,” was read for several years every November 1
by Jim Mader on radio station WIBA in Madison, Wisconsin. Between 1951 and 1963, he contributed eleven stories to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, of which “Dodger Fan” is a sterling and hilarious example.

  “Some vacation,” Jerome snapped off the TV. “All year I look forward to a little rest and relaxation. And what happens. The first game we lose on an error and a wild pitch—twelve innings. Game two is rained out. Today we get our hits—grand total.”

  Cleo, his wife, unwrapped a fresh stick of gum. “Five hits,” she said. “Campy two, Duke one—”

  “Who cares?” He walked to the window and looked out disgustedly. “You call that baseball?” He picked up his hat and headed for the door. “Some vacation.”

  “Erskine pitches tomorrow,” Cleo said.

  “Tomorrow the President could pitch,” Jerome said. “I wouldn’t be watching.” He left the apartment and headed down the street. After a couple of blocks he hesitated and then stepped back and looked up at the gold sign. He couldn’t remember seeing it before.

  WANT TO VISIT MARS? STEP INSIDE.

  Jerome stepped inside. He hadn’t been going anyplace in particular. The man behind the counter was very friendly.

  “Glad to have you aboard,” he said. “You’re the first to come in all day, and I was beginning to wonder. You see, I took a special course in Earth Psychology, so this is of great interest to me. What prompted you to visit Mars?”

  “I just wanted to get out of town,” Jerome said. “Detroit, Baltimore, Mars—it don’t make any special difference.”

  “I graduated with honors, you know, from the Academy of Earthly Advertising and Customer Response. I was groomed for this job. So naturally your reaction—”

  “If you’ve got a trip to Philly, I’ll take that,” Jerome said. “Anything so I don’t have to hear about that crummy outfit they call a ball club. Mars is OK.”