Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by G. C. Edmondson

  “We used it, but we were never part of it. When machines fail, their people die. We have no machines.”

  “What would you do if this sun were to nova?”

  “We can serve you. We are not unintelligent.”

  “Willing to work your way around the galaxy, eh? But what if we refused to take you?”

  “The race would go on. Kung Su tells me there is no life on planets of this system, but there are other systems.”

  “You’re whistling in the dark,” Griffin scoffed. “How do you know if any of the Rational People survive?”

  “How far back does your history go?” Joe inquired.

  “It’s hard to say exactly,” Griffin replied. “Our earliest written records date back some seven thousand years.”

  “You are all of one race?”

  “No, you may have noticed Kung Su is slightly different from the rest of us.”

  “Yes, Griffin, I have noticed. When you return ask Kung Su for the legend of creation. More hot water?”

  Joe stirred and Griffin guessed the interview was over. He drank another ritual cup, made his farewells and walked thoughtfully back to camp.

  “Kung,” Griffin asked over coffee next afternoon, “how well up are you on Chinese mythology?”

  “Oh, fair, I guess. It isn’t my held but I remember some of the stories my grandfather used to tell me.”

  “What is your legend of creation?” Griffin persisted.

  “It’s pretty well garbled but I remember something about the Son of Heaven bringing the early settlers from a land of two moons on the back of his fire-breathing dragon. The dragon got sick and died so they couldn’t ever get back to heaven again. There’s a lot of stuff about devils, too.”

  “What about devils?”

  “I don’t remember too well, but they were supposed to do terrible things to you and even to your unborn children if they ever caught you. They must have been pretty stupid though; they couldn’t turn corners. My grandfather’s store had devil screens at all the doors so you had to turn a corner to get in. The first time I saw the lead baffles at the pile chamber doors on this ship it reminded me of home sweet home. By the way, some young men from the village were around today. They want to work passage to the next planet. What do you think?”

  Griffin was silent for a long time.

  “Well, what do you say? We can use some hand labor for the delicate digging. Want to put them on?”

  “Might as well.” Griffin answered. “There’s a streetcar every millennium anyway.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. You sold your birthright to the barbarians.

  THE END

  1956

  Technological Retreat

  G.C. Edmondson is a new writer (this is his debut in F&SF and his second sale anywhere) who has, he tells us, “bummed about Latin America and held the usual unbelievable series of jobs every writer has had at one time or another.” All such jobs are eventually useful to a storyteller, this particular tale evolved from Mr. Edmondson’s experience in the not overpopulated profession of serape-importing. It’s a dry, funny, sad story, logically inevitable and leaving only one question unanswered. What is the age referred to in paragraph three?

  ONCE THERE WERE TWO EXTRAterrestrials, hereafter referred to as ETs. They sat down on a nice looking planet and shifted to visible spectrum right in front of a native.

  The native was a good, solid citizen but not exactly what you’d call a fuddy duddy. There’s television and then all those books the kids bring home. Still, it startled him to see a big, round something materialize out of thin air and a couple of humpbacked entities with faces like catfish come out of it. They were friendly looking catfishes though, so Oliver Jenkins wasn’t frightened.

  Oliver Jenkins was not an ET. He was a rather short and puffy specimen of the dominant race on Sol III and had reached an age where the balance of power has begun an imperceptible shift from gonads to cerebrum. He owed allegiance to the Kiwanis, the Chamber of Commerce, the Republican party, and the United States, though he highly disapproved of the way those idiots in Washington kept meddling with an honest businessman’s right to an honest profit.

  Mr. Jenkins possessed a highly developed sense of community responsibility. He contributed to everything and was a member of a politico-religio-social group whose talisman he proudly dangled from a gold chain transversing his chest. He was in the habit of fingering this talisman, the bleached molar of a local herbivore.

  At the moment, Mr. Jenkins was too startled to finger his talisman. Besides, he’d left it home. No point in wearing it out here where he’d not be meeting any brother herbivores. It got in the way for dry fly casting and loyal herbivore that he was, still, Mr. Jenkins wasn’t going to let anything interfere with the second most important thing in life. Wasn’t, that is, until this big round thing showed up and spooked every rainbow in the pool. He was annoyed with the realization that there’d be no more fishing this morning and doubly annoyed that these two outlanders had made him involuntarily take on a bootful of sparkling, mountain-clear, and icy cold water.

  The taller of the two ETs waved in a friendly way and Jenkins, not to be outdone, waved back. The ET’s mouth moved and an astonishingly loud voice said, “Buenos días; ¿puedo interesarle en algún trato comercial?”

  Jenkins made the local I-do-not-understand gesture and started climbing from the pool. The ET fumbled with a knob at his waist and tried again. “Terribly sorry, old man,” he continued; “must have dropped a decimal point somewhere.” As Jenkins moved closer he could hear an undertone of buzzes and clicks from the ET’s mouth as the English phrases issued from his belt buckle. “Never could learn to set one of these things,” the ET continued conversationally. Jenkins nodded sympathetically. He often had similar troubles with his own appliances.

  “As I was saying—” the ET continued. “Oh, by the way, my name’s Chorl. This is my partner, Tuchi.”

  “Jenkins, Oliver Jenkins. Glad to meet you.” Jenkins extended his hand and it was shaken flaccidly by a clammy finger cluster with an opposed thumb at each end. After a moment’s hesitation Tuchi joined in the native ritual. “Eaut sirtam matcal da mutnemercxe,” he said conversationally. Chorl waggled a deprecatory lip tentacle and adjusted Tuchi’s belt buckle.

  Oliver Jenkins sat on a log and removed his boot. As he poured water from it Chorl whipped a handbook from a pouch. He flipped pages for several seconds before looking at Mr. Jenkins in piscine amazement. “I don’t wish to offend, old man, but the handbook says nothing about intelligent amphibians on this planet.”

  “I’m not an amphibian, I’m an American,” Jenkins answered.

  “But the leg moisteners—how do you breathe?”

  “Through my nose like any sensible man.”

  “Oh.” Chorl twiddled a lip tentacle thoughtfully. “Mr. Jenkins, we’re not scientists. I don’t understand just how you breathe but we’ll let that go. Are you interested in trade?”

  Mr. Jenkins’ nostrils quivered. He could suffer an interruption of the second most important thing in life if it might lead to a little of the first. “Well, I’m not opposed to making an honest profit now and then but . . . According to those stories the kids read, the only thing you fellows’d want would be reactor fuel and you might as well forget about that. Those bureaucrats’ve got it sewed up tight.”

  Chorl buzzed sympathetically. “Frankly, Mr. Jenkins, we couldn’t use your reactor fuel even if you could get it. Oh, no, it isn’t that,” he added as Mr. Jenkins’ throat pouches began palpitating. “We aren’t equipped to process fuel. You must understand, ours is a small enterprise.”

  “I see,” Mr. Jenkins said untruthfully.

  “Specifically, we’re looking for local artifacts—curios—possibly foods if we find them assimilable.”

  “Hmmm . . . Have a cigar.” Mr. Jenkins produced three and tutored the ETs in the intricacies of biting off the end. This entailed some diffi
culty as their dental equipment lacked incisors. The ETs took one puff each and dived into the creek with glottal hoots which their belt buckles did not interpret. Jenkins mentally scratched the pool from his list of trout haunts as they raced up and down like seals in a swimming pool.

  Eventually they emerged and harrumphed, blowing a fine spray from gill slits. “I’m afraid cigars won’t do,” Chorl said.

  “I guess not.” Jenkins agreed sadly. “Well, I don’t have any samples here. Why not come with me—?”

  “I don’t think it wise,” Chorl said hastily. “We might cause excitement.”

  “You going to be here long?”

  “A few days.”

  “I’ll be back this afternoon with a truckload of samples.”

  “Alone?”

  “Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s?”

  Oliver Jenkins spent a hectic four hours in town and rushed back to the ETs after giving wife and employees lame excuses. In his haste he skidded from the dirt road down to the creekbed and banged up a perfectly good left front fender. Chorl and Tuchi pawed through an assortment of samples from bed warmers to halvah. After untranslated clicks and buzzes and an occasional expectoration while food sampling they settled on caviar, roll-mop herrings, smoked oysters and anchovy paste as possible media of exchange.

  “Now, what do you have?” Jenkins demanded.

  Tuchi went to the sphere and emerged with a cone-like affair on a pedestal. He pressed a switch and waves of fluorescence began coruscating over its surface. The two ETs stared glassily and vibrated lip tentacles in unison with the coruscations.

  “I’m afraid not.” Jenkins said.

  Tuchi shrugged the place where his shoulders weren’t and took the cone back inside. He came out with a plastic globe and made illustrative motions. Jenkins smelled cautiously but detected nothing. He bit on the nipple and strangled as a high pressure jet of something like rancid cod liver oil threatened to uproot his tonsils. The ETs exchanged helpless glances as Jenkins lay gagging in the grass.

  They produced other viands but Mr. Jenkins wasn’t having any. “There must be something else,” he protested weakly.

  The ETs buzzed and clicked. Chorl apparently won the argument and turned. “This asymmetrical portion of your vehicle,” he pointed at the dented fender. “It should not be thus?” Jenkins nodded. Chorl produced a tube about like a fountain pen and pointed it at the fender. In a moment he pocketed the tube and put a two thumbed hand behind the fender. With the other hand he smoothed out the dent as if the metal were pie dough. He pointed the tube at the fender again for an instant. Jenkins thumped the fender cautiously. It was solid as ever.

  “How many can you supply me?” he asked.

  A short period ensued in which each party swore the other would drive him to ruin. When both sides were ruined Mr. Jenkins possessed seven hundred forty tubes and an exclusive franchise for Sol III. The ETs owned thirty-eight dollars and eight cents worth of delicatessen. They promised to return next trip and gave Jenkins a talisman to hang beside his magic molar. The talisman would change color when they were ready to meet him at the same spot. The ETs sealed their sphere and went invisible. The native stayed visible and went back to town.

  Oliver Jenkins had sold two tubes with maximum profit and minimum publicity when there came a knock on the door. “Simpson, FBI” the knocker said.

  “I file a return every quarter,” Mr. Jenkins said.

  “Take it up with Internal Revenue. I want to hear about those tools you’re selling.”

  “Guaranteed for sixty-eight years, fifty per cent duty cycle. Maximum capacity eight feet, thirty degree cone of effectiveness. Affects metals only. Use the left hand button to soften, right hand to harden. The dial on the back’s for temper settings if you’re working steel. One thousand dollars.”

  “That isn’t exactly what I wanted to know.”

  “No other information available. Company secret.”

  “Get your coat.”

  “That’s unconstitutional.”

  “So’s spitting on the sidewalk.”

  Brigadier General George S. Carnhouser was not noted for his self-restraint. He had chosen the Army as the field most suited for full development of his lovable, paternalistic personality. At the moment he was reasoning with Mr. Oliver Jenkins.

  “But what if the Russians should get hold of it?” he was saying.

  “I’m not an inventor and I’m not a manufacturer,” Mr. Jenkins said. “I’m in the importing business whenever people let me alone long enough to tend to business.”

  “But think, man, think of the possibilities.” General Carnhouser’s attitude of sweet reasonableness was spoiled by the throbbing veins in his temples.

  “I’m tired of thinking. I’ve told the FBI what they want to know. I’ve broken no law. I demand to be released immediately.”

  “What about import duties?” The general was grasping at straws.

  Mr. Jenkins drew himself up in puffy dignity. He fondled twin talismans and drew strength. “I have made a detailed study,” he said magnificently, “of Schedule A, Statistical Classification of Commodities Imported into the United States with Rates of Duty and Tariff Paragraphs and Code Classification for Countries (Schedule C), United States Customs Districts and Ports (Schedule D), and Flag of Vessel Registry (Schedule J), January 1, 1954 Edition, and approximately eight hundred pages of looseleaf inserts concerning later revisions thereof. In no part do I see any reference specifically prohibiting importation of pocket plasticizers. In no part do I see any scale of import duties for said merchandise. In no part is there any express prohibition of interstellar trade.”

  General Carnhouser’s rebuttal was unprintable. He conceded to Rear Admiral Schifführer, the Lord Nelson of naval intelligence.

  “I pass,” the admiral said.

  “I demand to be released immediately,” Mr. Jenkins said.

  “Why don’t you do something?” the admiral and the general demanded of the CIA man.

  The man from Central Intelligence looked speculatively at the molar dangling from Mr. Jenkins’ gold chain. “I will,” he said.

  The next morning they started again.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” the CIA man began, “we have investigated your entire background and find no irregularities in political opinion, ideological associations, or income tax returns. We want your cooperation.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Does your wife know what goes on at those lodge conventions? I refer specifically to the September, 1951 blowoff in Chicago.”

  “I’ll cooperate,” Mr. Jenkins said. Four hours later the government had seven hundred thirty-eight tubes. Mr. Jenkins had several vague promises and a headache.

  Four days later Simpson knocked on the door again.

  “Now what?” Mr. Jenkins asked.

  “Get your coat,” Simpson said.

  “Again?”

  “Mr. Jenkins,” the CIA man began, “we feel you have been less than frank with us. Approximately eight hours ago a highly placed Soviet official deserted to the west. He intended to live quietly on the proceeds from a new process developed in a Soviet laboratory. He brought a working model.” The CIA man tossed a plasticizer tube on the table. “Now what have you to say?”

  “Hah,” Mr. Jenkins replied. “You’re not cooperating,” the CIA man said.

  “I cooperated and what did I get out of it? My business is going to pot; my wife wants to know what I’m doing leaving the house at all hours with strangers; you’ve confiscated all my stock . . . Go ahead and shoot me. Meanwhile, take that tool and jam it. Maybe it’ll help get the lead out.”

  “May we understand then that you refuse further cooperation?”

  “You may. I hope they bring me something to soften bone next trip.”

  “Aha! So they’re coming back?”

  “Why shouldn’t they? Business is business.”

  “When?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You’d better tell Mrs. Jenkins to get
the guest room ready. Simpson here is going to be living with you for quite a while.”

  Simpson’s unsmiling countenance had graced the Jenkins household for a week. His grim jaws had masticated an incredible quantity of food before the next development came. “I take it as a matter of course that your government doubledomes have been unable to duplicate the plasticizer,” Mr. Jenkins observed sourly over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “I couldn’t say,” Simpson replied. It was becoming apparent that Simpson couldn’t say much of anything. He choked on toast and suddenly snatched the morning paper from Mr. Jenkins’ hands. A quarter-page ad offered the plasticizer to one and all for forty-nine ninety-five (federal tax included).

  “Let’s go,” Simpson said, grabbing for his hat.

  “In my car, I suppose,” Jenkins said resignedly.

  The CIA man and a Treasury man were already closeted with the manager of the Peerless Department Store when they arrived. Simpson barged in anyway with Mr. Jenkins in tow. There was a short and illuminating discussion of the Peerless Department Store’s interpretation of the capital gains clause in 1952 and the manager decided production difficulties and faulty design would make it necessary to withdraw the plasticizer from the market. A whispering campaign was planned to put the blame squarely on Big Business.

  In an hour things were arranged to the satisfaction of everybody but the Peerless Department Store manager and Mr. Jenkins. On the street again Jenkins turned to his shadow with an evil smile. “I see something you don’t see,” he purred. Simpson looked around. An auto supply store was featuring a do-it-yourself body and fender repair kit. The main article of the kit was you-know-what. Mr. Jenkins observed in grim satisfaction that the price was already down to twenty-four ninety-five.

  “I suppose you have an exclusive franchise too?” Mr. Jenkins said to the auto supply manager.

  “No,” the manager said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Ask Simpson. He’s in charge.”

  “I’ll have to call Washington,” Simpson said.