Connoisseur's SF

by Tom Boardman

  He did not emerge at once. That would have been an error—and blunderers are not chosen to pilot scout-vessels. Pre-exit rule number one is that air must be tested. What suited that crowd outside would not necessarily agree with him. Anyway, he’d have checked air even if his own mother had been smoking a cigar in the front rank of the audience.

  The Schrieber analyser required four minutes in which to suck a sample through the pilot-tube, take it apart, sneer at the bits, make a bacteria-count and say whether its lord and master could condescend to breathe the stuff.

  While it made up its mind, he sat in patience. Finally the needle on its half-red, half-white dial crawled reluctantly to mid-white. A fast shift would have pronounced the atmosphere socially acceptable. Slowness was the Schrieber’s way of saying that his lungs were about to go slumming. The analyser was and always had been a robotic snob that graded alien atmospheres on the caste system. The best and cleanest air was Brahmin, pure Brahmin. The worst was untouchable.

  Switching it off, he opened the inner and outer airlock doors, sat in the rim with his feet dangling eighty yards above ground-level. From this vantage-point he calmly surveyed the mob, his expression that of one who can spit but not be spat upon. The sixth diabological law states that the higher, the fewer. Proof: the seagull’s tactical advantage over man.

  Being intelligent, those placed by unfortunate circumstances eighty yards deeper in the gravitational field soon appreciated their state of vertical disadvantage. Short of toppling the ship or climbing a polished surface they were impotent to get at him. Not that they wanted to in any inimical way. But desires grow strongest when least possible of satisfaction. So they wanted him down there, face to face, merely because he was out of reach.

  To make matters worse, he turned sideways and lay within the rim, one leg hitched up and hands linked around the knee, then continued looking at them in obvious comfort. They had to stand. And they had to stare upward at the cost of a crick in the neck. Alternatively they could adjust their heads and eyes to a crickless level and endure being looked at while not looking. Altogether, it was a hell of a situation.

  The longer it lasted the less pleasing it became. Some of them shouted at him in squeaky voices. Upon those he bestowed a benign smile. Others gesticulated. He gestured back and the sharpest among them weren’t happy about it. For some strange reason no scientist had bothered to investigate why certain digital motions stimulate especial glands, in any part of the cosmos. Basic diabological training included a course in what was known as signal-deflation whereby the yolk could be removed from an alien ego with one wave of the hand.

  For a while the crowd surged restlessly around nibbling the grey fur on the backs of their fingers, muttering to each other and occasionally throwing sour looks upward. They still kept clear of the danger zone, apparently assuming that the specimen reclining in the lock-rim might have a companion at the controls. Next, they became moody, content to do no more than scowl futilely at the tail-fins.

  That state of affairs lasted until a convoy of heavy vehicles arrived and unloaded troops. The newcomers bore riot-sticks, hand-guns, and wore uniforms the colour of stuff hogs roll in. Forming themselves into three ranks, they turned right at a barked command, marched forward. The crowd opened to make way.

  Expertly they stationed themselves in an armed circle separating the ship from the horde of onlookers. A trio of officers paraded around and examined the tail-fins without going nearer than was necessary. Then they backed off, stared up at the airlock-rim. The subject of their attention gazed back with academic interest.

  The senior of the three officers patted his midriff where his heart was located, bent and patted the ground, forced pacific innocence into his face as again he stared at the arrival high above. The tilt of his head made his hat fall off and in turning to pick it up he trod on it.

  This petty incident seemed to gratify the one eighty yards higher because he chuckled, let go the leg he was nursing, leaned out for a better look at the victim. Red-faced under his fur complexion, the officer once more performed the belly and ground massage. The other understood this time. He gave a nod of gracious assent, disappeared into the lock. A few seconds later a nylon ladder snaked down the ship’s side and the invader descended with monkey-like agility.

  Three things struck the troops and the audience immediately he stood before them, namely, the nakedness of his face and hands, his great size and weight, and the fact that he carried no visible weapons. Strangeness of shape and form was to be expected. After all, they had done some space-roaming themselves and knew of life-forms more outlandish. But what sort of creature has the brains to build a ship and not the sense to carry means of defence?

  They were essentially a logical people.

  The poor saps.

  The officers made no attempt to converse with this specimen from the great unknown. They were not telepathic and space-experience had taught them that mere mouth-noises are useless until one side or the other has learned the meanings thereof. So by signs they conveyed to him their wish to take him to town where he would meet others of their kind more competent to establish contact. They were pretty good at explaining with their hands, as was natural for the only other lifeform that had found new worlds.

  He agreed to this with the same air of a lord consorting with the lower orders that had been apparent from the start. Perhaps he had been unduly influenced by the Schrieber. Again the crowd made way while the guard conducted him to the trucks. He passed through under a thousand eyes, favoured them with deflatory gesture number seventeen, this being a nod that acknowledged their existence and tolerated their vulgar interest in him.

  The trucks trundled away leaving the ship with airlock open, ladder dangling, and the rest of the troops still standing guard around the fins. Nobody failed to notice that touch, either. He hadn’t bothered to prevent access to the vessel. There was nothing to prevent experts looking through it and stealing ideas from another space-going race.

  Nobody of that calibre could be so criminally careless. Therefore it could not be carelessness. Pure logic said the ship’s designs were not worth protecting from the stranger’s viewpoint because they were long out of date. Or else they were unstealable because beyond the comprehension of a lesser people. Who the heck did he think they were? By the Black World of Khas, they’d show him!

  A junior officer climbed the ladder, explored the ship’s interior, came down, reported no more aliens within, not even a pet lansim, not a pretzel. The stranger had come alone. This item of information circulated through the crowd. They did not care for it overmuch. A visit by a fleet of battleships bearing ten thousand they could understand. It would be a show of force worthy of their stature. But the casual arrival of one and only one smacked somewhat of the dumping of a missionary among the heathens of the twin worlds of Morantia.

  Meanwhile the trucks rolled clear of the space-port, speeded up through twenty miles of country, entered a city. Here the leading vehicle parted company from the rest, made for the western suburbs, arrived at a fortress surrounded by huge walls. The stranger dismounted and promptly got tossed into clink.

  The result of that was odd, too. He should have resented incarceration seeing that nobody had yet explained the purpose of it. But he didn’t. Treating the well-clothed bed in his cell as if it were a luxury provided as recognition of his rights, he sprawled on it full length, boots and all, gave a sigh of deep satisfaction and went to sleep. His watch hung close by his ear and compensated for the constant ticking of the auto-pilot without which slumber in space was never complete.

  During the next few hours guards came frequently to look at him and make sure that he wasn’t finagling the locks or disintegrating the bars by means of some alien technique. They had not searched him and accordingly were cautious. But he snored on, dead to the world, oblivious to the ripples of alarm spreading through a spatial empire.

  He was still asleep when Parmith arrived bearing a load of picture-books. Parmith,
elderly and myopic, sat by the bedside and waited until his own eyes became heavy in sympathy and he found himself considering the comfort of the carpet. At that point he decided he must either get to work or lie flat, He prodded the other into wakefulness.

  They started on the books. Ah is for ahmud that plays in the grass. Ay is for aysid that’s kept under glass. Oom is for oom-tuk that’s found in the moon. Uhm is for uhmlak, a clown or buffoon. And so on.

  Stopping only for meals they were at it the full day and progress was fast, Parmith was a first-class tutor, the other an excellent pupil able to pick up with remarkable speed and forget nothing. At the end of the first long session they were able to indulge a brief and simple conversation.

  “I am called Parmith. What are you called?”

  “Wayne Hillder.”

  “Two callings?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are many of you called?”

  “Terrans.”

  “We are called Vards.”

  Talk ceased for lack of enough words and Parmith left. Within nine hours he was back accompanied by Gerka, a younger specimen who specialized in reciting words and phrases again and again until the listener could echo them to perfection. They carried on another four days, working into late evening.

  “You are not a prisoner.”

  “I know,” said Wayne Hillder, blandly self-assured.

  Parmith looked uncertain. “How do you know?”

  “You would not dare to make me one.”

  “Why not?”

  “You do not know enough. Therefore you seek common speech. You must learn from me—and quickly.”

  This being too obvious to contradict, Parmith let it go by and said, “I estimated it would take about ninety days to make you fluent. It looks as if twenty will be sufficient.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if my kind weren’t smart,” Hillder pointed out.

  Gerka registered uneasiness, Parmith was disconcerted.

  “No Vard is being taught by us,” he added for good measure. “Not having got to us yet.”

  Parmith said hurriedly, “We must get on with this task. An important commission is waiting to interview you as soon as you can converse with ease and clarity. We’ll try again this fth-prefix that you haven’t got quite right. Here’s a tongue-twister to practise on. Listen to Gerka.”

  “Fthon deas fthleman fthangafth,” recited Gerka, punishing his bottom lip.

  “Futhong deas—”

  “Fthon,” corrected Gerka. “Fthon deas fthleman fthangafth.”

  “It’s better in a civilized tongue. Wet evenings are gnatless Futhong—”

  “Fthon!” insisted Gerka, playing catapults with his mouth.

  The commission sat in an ornate hall containing semi-circular rows of seats rising in ten tiers. There were four hundred present. The way in which attendants and minor officials fawned around them showed that this was an assembly of great importance.

  It was, too. The four hundred represented the political and military power of a world that had created a spare empire extending through a score of solar systems and controlling twice as many planets. Up to a short time ago they had been to the best of their knowledge and belief the lords of creation. Now there was some doubt about it. They had a serious problem to settle, one that a later Terran historian irreverently described as “a moot point”.

  They ceased talking among themselves when a pair of guards arrived in charge of Hillder, led him to a seat facing the tiers. Four hundred pairs of eyes examined the stranger, some curiously, some doubtfully, some challengingly, many with unconcealed antagonism.

  Sitting down, Hillder looked them over much as one looks into one of the more odorous cages at the zoo. That is to say, with faint distaste. Gently he rubbed the side of his nose with a forefinger and sniffed, Deflatory gesture twenty-two, suitable for use in the presence of massed authority. It brought its carefully calculated reward. Half a dozen of the most bellicose characters glared at him.

  A furry-faced oldster stood up frowning, spoke to Hillder as if reciting a well rehearsed speech. “Hone but a highly intelligent and completely logical species can conquer space. It being self-evident that you are of such a kind, you will appreciate our position. Your very presence compels us to consider the ultimate alternatives of cooperation or competition, peace or war.”

  “There are no two alternatives to anything,” Hillder asserted. “There is black and white and a thousand intermediate shades. There is yes and no and a thousand ifs, buts, or maybes. For example: you could move farther out of reach.”

  Being tidy-minded, they didn’t enjoy watching the thread of their logic being tangled. Neither did they like the resultant knot in the shape of the final suggestion. The oldster’s frown grew deeper, his voice sharper.

  “You should also appreciate your own position. You are one among countless millions. Regardless of whatever may be the strength of your kind you, personally, are helpless. Therefore it is for us to question and for you to answer. If our respective positions were reversed the contrary would be true. That is logical. Are you ready to answer our questions?”

  “I am ready.”

  Some showed surprise at that. Others looked resigned, taking it for granted that he would give all the information he saw fit and suppress the rest.

  Resuming his seat, the oldster signed to the Vard on his left who stood up and asked, “Where is your base-world?”

  “At the moment I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” His expression showed that he had expected awkwardness from the start, “How can you return to it if you don’t know where it is?”

  “When within its radio-sweep I pick up its beacon. I follow that.”

  “Aren’t your space-charts sufficient to enable you to find it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Hillder, “it isn’t tied to a primary. It wanders around.”

  Registering incredulity, the other said, “Do you mean that it is a planet broken loose from a solar system?”

  “Not at all. It’s a scout-base. Surely you know what that is?”

  “I do not,” snapped the interrogator. “What is it?”

  “A tiny, compact world equipped with all the necessary contraptions. An artificial sphere that functions as a frontier outpost.”

  There was a deal of fidgeting and murmuring among the audience as individuals tried to weigh the implications of this news.

  Hiding his thoughts, the questioner continued, “You define it as a frontier outpost. That does not tell us where your home-world is located.”

  “You did not ask about my home-world. You asked about my base-world. I heard you with my own two ears.”

  “Then where is your home-world?”

  “I cannot show you without a chart. Do you have charts of unknown regions?”

  “Yes.” The other smiled like a satisfied cat. With a dramatic flourish he produced them, unrolled them, “We obtained them from your ship.”

  “That was thoughtful of you,” said Hillder, disappointingly pleased. Leaving his seat he placed a fingertip on the topmost chart and said, “There! Good old Earth!” Then he returned and sat down.

  The Vard stared at the designated point, glanced around at his fellows as if about to make a remark, changed his mind and said nothing. Producing a pen he marked the chart, rolled it up with the others.

  “This world you call Earth is the origin and centre of your empire?”

  “Yes.”

  “The mother-planet of your species?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now,” he went on, firmly, “how many of your kind are there?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Don’t you check your own numbers?”

  “We did once upon a time. These days we’re too scattered around.” Hillder pondered a moment, added helpfully, “I can tell you that there are four billions of us spread over three planets in our own solar system. Outside of those the number i
s a guess. We can be divided into the rooted and the rootless and the latter can’t be counted. They won’t let themselves be counted because somebody might want to tax them. Take the grand total as four billions plus.”

  “That tells us nothing,” the other objected. “We don’t know the size of the plus.”

  “Neither do we,” said Hillder, visibly awed at the thought of it. “Sometimes it frightens us.” He surveyed the audience. “If nobody’s ever been scared by a plus now’s the time.”

  Scowling, the questioner tried to get at it another way. “You say you are scattered. Over how many worlds?”

  “Seven-hundred-fourteen at last report. That’s already out of date. Every report is eight to ten planets behind the times.”

  “And you have mastery of that huge number?”

  “Whoever mastered a planet? Why, we haven’t yet dug Into the heart of our own and I doubt that we ever shall.” He shrugged, finished, “No, we just amble around and maul them a bit. Same as you do.”

  “You mean you exploit them?”

  “Put it that way if it makes you happy.”

  “Have you encountered no opposition at any time?”

  “Feeble, friend, feeble,” said Hillder.

  “What did you do about it?”

  “That depended upon circumstances. Some folk we ignored, some we smacked, some we led towards the light.”

  “What light?” asked the other, baffled.

  “That of seeing things our way.”

  It was too much for a paunchy specimen in the third row. Coming to his feet he spoke in acidulated tones. “Do you expect us to see things your way?”

  “Not immediately,” Hillder said.

  “Perhaps you consider us incapable of…”

  The oldster who had first spoken now arose and interjected, “We must proceed with this inquisition logically or not at all. That means one line of questioning at a time and one questioner at a time.” He gestured authoritatively towards the Vard with the charts. “Carry on, Thormin.”