by Larry Niven
“Dead. He didn’t know about electric fences.”
A voice from the hall, Handel’s voice, bellowed, “Mr. Sinclair! Are you all right in there?”
“I have a guest,” Sinc called out. “He has a gun.”
“What do we do?”
“Don’t do anything,” Sinc called to him. And then he started to laugh. He was losing his human contours, “relaxing” because I already knew what he was.
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” he chuckled. “He tracked me all that way to die on an electric fence!” His chuckles cut off like a broken tape, making me wonder how real they were, how real his laughter could be with his no doubt weird breathing system. “The current couldn’t kill him, of course. It must have shorted his airmaker and blown the battery.”
“The spiked coffee was for him,” I guessed. “He said he could be killed by organic poisons. He meant alcohol.”
“Obviously. And all I did was give you a free drink,” he chuckled.
“I’ve been pretty gullible. I believed what your women told me.”
“They didn’t know.” He did a pretty accurate double take. “You thought…Cheseborough, have I made rude comments about your sex life?”
“No. Why?”
“Then you can leave mine alone.”
He had to be kidding. No he didn’t; he could take any shape he liked. Wow, I thought. Sinc’s really gone native. Maybe he was laughing, or thought he was.
Sinc moved slowly toward me. I backed away, holding the useless gun.
“You realize what happens now?”
I took a guess. “Same thing that happened to Domingo’s body. All your embarrassing bodies.”
“Exactly. Our species is known for its enormous appetite.” He moved toward me, the squirt gun forgotten in his right hand. His muscles had sagged and smoothed. Now he was like the first step in making a clay model of a man. But his mouth was growing larger, and his teeth were two sharp-edged horseshoes.
I fired once more.
Something smashed heavily against the door. Sinc didn’t hear it. Sinc was melting, losing all form as he tried to wrap himself around his agony. From the fragments of his shattered plastic squirt gun, rubbing alcohol poured over what had been his hand and dripped to the floor.
The door boomed again. Something splintered.
Sinc’s hand was bubbling, boiling. Sinc, screaming, was flowing out of his slacks and smoking jacket. And I…I snapped out of whatever force was holding me rooted, and I picked up the silver thermos and poured hot spiked coffee over whatever it was that writhed on the floor.
Sinc bubbled all over. White metal machinery extruded itself from the mass and lay on the rug.
The door crackled and gave. By then I was against the wall, ready to shoot anything that looked my way. Handel burst into the room and stopped dead.
He stood there in the doorway, while the stars grew old and went out. Nothing, I felt, could have torn his eyes from that twitching, bubbling mass. Gradually the mass stopped moving…and Handel gulped, got his throat working, shrieked, and ran from the room.
I heard the meaty thud as he collided with a guard, and I heard him babbling, “Don’t go in there! Don’t…oh, don’t…” and then a sob, and the sound of uneven running feet.
I went into the bedroom and out the window. The grounds still blazed with light, but I saw no motion. Anyway, there was nothing out there but dogs and men.
• • •
• • •
The long lens gave a good view through the observation port. Rick saw: half a dozen large masses, many more small ones and a myriad of tiny glinting points, all enmeshed in pearly fog. He heard Baker’s voice behind him. “Duck’s-eye view of a shotgun blast.”
LUCIFER’S HAMMER, 1977
PASSERBY
This story was sparked by an insurance advertisement.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
It was noon of a hot blue day. The park was lively with raised voices and bright clothing, children and adults and the geriatrics generation, of which I have the honor to be a member. I had come early enough to claim a bench, and was old and feeble enough to hold it.
I had brought a sandwich lunch in a Baggy. I ate slowly, saving out an orange and a second sac of beer for later. The populace danced before me, never dreaming that I was watching.
The afternoon sun burned warm on my scalp. A lizardlike torpor stole over me, so that the sound of adult voices and children’s screaming-for-the-hell-of-it dimmed and faded.
But I heard the footsteps. They jarred the earth.
I opened my eyes and saw the rammer.
He was six feet tall and massively built. He wore a scarf and a pair of blue balloon pants, not too far out of style, but they didn’t match. What they exposed of his skin was loose on him, as if he had shrunk within it. Indeed, he looked like a giraffe wearing an elephant’s skin.
He walked without springs. His feet slapped hard into the gravel with all his weight behind them. Small wonder I had heard him coming. By now everyone in sight was either looking at him, or turning to see what everyone was looking at. Except the children, who had already lost interest.
To me he was irresistible.
There are the casual peoplewatchers who watch their neighbors in restaurants or monorail stations when they have nothing else to do. They develop their own amateurish technique, and they don’t know what to look for, and they usually get caught. But I’m not that kind of peoplewatcher.
There are the fanatics, the dedicated ones, who learn their technique in a closed-circuit 3V class. They hold lifetime subscriptions to Face In The Crowd and Eyes Of The City, the hobby magazines. They write letters to the editor telling how they spotted Secretary-General Haruman in a drug store and he looked unhappy.
That’s me.
And here I was not twenty yards from a rammer, a man from the stars.
He had to be that. His taste in clothing was odd, and his carelessly draped skin was alien. His legs had not yet learned to cushion his weight against Earth’s heavier gravity. He projected an indefinable combination of discomfort and self-consciousness and interest and surprise and pleasure, that silently shouted: Tourist!
His eyes, looking out from behind the ill-fitting mask of his face, were bright and blue and happy. Our staring rudeness was noticed, but did not affect his almost religious joy. Nor did his feet, though they must have hurt. His smile was dreamy and very strange. Lift the corners of a spaniel’s mouth with your forefingers, and you’d see such a smile.
He drew in life from the sky and the grass and the voices and the growing things. I watched his face and tried to read it. Was he the priest of some new Earth-worshipping religion? No. Probably he was seeing Earth for the first time: tuning his bio-rhythms to Earth for the first time, feeling Earthweight settle over and into his bones, watching suns rise twenty-four hours apart, until his very genes told him he was home.
It made his day when he saw the boy.
The boy was around ten, a handsome child, naked and tanned all over. (When I was growing up, even the infants wore clothing in public.) I had not noticed him until now, and he in turn had not noticed the rammer. He knelt on the path that passed my bench, his back toward me. I could not see what he was doing; but he was very intent and serious about it.
By now most of the passerby had turned away, from disinterest or an overdose of good manners. I watched the rammer watching the boy. I watched through half-closed eyes, practicing my famous imitation of an old man asleep in the sun. The Heisenberg Principle implies that no people watcher should allow himself to be caught at it.
The boy stooped suddenly, then rose with his hands cupped. Moving with exaggerated care, he turned from the gravel path and crossed the grass toward a dark old oak.
The rammer’s eyes went big and round. All his pleasure gave way to horror, and then the horror drained away and left nothing. The star man’s eyes turned up in his he
ad, his slack face went even slacker, and his knees began to buckle.
Stiff as I am these days, I reached him. I slid an admittedly bony shoulder under his armpit before he could fall. All the mass of him came gratefully down on me.
I should have folded like an accordion. Somehow I got the rammer to the bench before I had to let go of him. To an astonished matron I wheezed, “Get a doctor!”
She nodded briskly and waddled away. I turned back to the rammer.
Sick eyes looked up at me from under straight black bangs. The rammer’s face was oddly tanned: dark where the sun could reach, white as milk where folded skin cast shadows. His chest and arms were like that too. Where the skin was pale it had paled further with shock. “No need for doctor,” he whispered. “Not sick. Something I saw.”
“Sure. Put your head between your legs. It’ll keep you from fainting.” I opened my remaining beer sac.
“I will be all right in a moment,” he said from between his knees. He spoke the tongue oddly, and his weakness slurred it further. “It was the shock of what I saw.”
“Here?”
“Yes. No. Not completely…” He stopped to shift mental gears, and I handed him the beer. He looked at it as if wondering which end to suck on, found the nipple, raised the sac and half-drained it in one desperate draught.
“What was it you saw?” I asked.
He had to finish swallowing. “I saw an alien spacecraft. Without the spacecraft it would have meant nothing.”
“What kind of ship? Smithpeople? Monks?” These are the only known spacegoing races, aside from ourselves. I’d never seen one of their ships; but they sometimes docked in the Léshy worlds.
The rammer’s eyes narrowed in his quilted face. “I see. You think I speak of some registered alien ship in a human spaceport.” His voice was no longer slurred; he picked his words with apparent care. “I was halfway between the Horvendile and Koschei systems, shipwrecked at the edge of lightspeed, waiting to die. And I saw a golden giant walking among the stars.”
“A humanoid? Not a ship?”
“I…thought it was a ship. I can’t prove it.”
“Mmm.”
“Let me tell you. I was a year and a half out from Horvendile, bound for Koschei. It would have been my first trip home in thirty-one years…”
Flying a ramship under sail is like flying a spiderweb.
Even with the web retracted, a ramship is a flimsy beast. Cargo holds, external cargo netting and hooks, pilot cabin and life support system, and the insystem fusion motor are all contained in a rigid pod just three hundred feet long. All else is balloons and webbing.
At takeoff the balloons are filled with hydrogen fuel for the insystem fusion motor. By the time the ship reaches ramscoop speed the fuel is half gone, replaced by low-pressure gas. The balloons are retained as meteor shielding.
The ramscoop web is superconducting wire, thin as spiderweb, tens of thousands of miles of it. Coiled for takeoff, it forms a roll no bigger than the main pod. Put a uniform negative charge on it and it spreads to form a hoop two hundred miles across. It ripples at first under the differentiating fields…
Interstellar hydrogen, thin as nothing, enters the mouth of the ramscoop web. An atom to a cubic centimeter. Differentiating fields compress it along the axis, compress it until it undergoes fusion. It burns in a narrow blue flame, yellow-tinged at the edges. The electromagnetic fields in the fusion flame begin to support the ramscoop web. Mighty forces add, making web and flame and incoming hydrogen one interlocking whole.
A rigid pod, invisibly small, rides the flank of a wispy cylinder of webbing two hundred miles across. A tiny spider on an enormous web.
Time slows down, distances compress at the higher velocities. Hydrogen flows faster through the web; the ramscoop fields increase in power, the web becomes more rigid, more stable.
A ship should not need supervision as it approaches the midpoint turnover.
“I was halfway to Koschei,” said the rammer, “carrying the usual cargo: genetically altered seeds, machine prototypes, spices, and three corpsicles: passengers frozen for storage. We carry anything that cannot be sent by message laser.
“I still don’t know what went wrong. I was asleep. I had been asleep for months, with a current pulsing through my brain. Perhaps a piece of meteoric iron entered the ramscoop. Perhaps the hydrogen grew thin for an hour, then thickened too fast. Perhaps we entered a sharply bounded OH+ region. In any case, something twisted the ramscoop field, and the web collapsed.
“I was wakened too late. The web had roman-candled, and was trailing the ship like a parachute that will not open. Wires must have touched, for much of the web was vaporized.
“It was my death,” said the rammer. “Without the ramscoop web I was falling helplessly. I would enter the system of Koschei months too early, moving at nearly lightspeed, a dangerous missile. For my honor I must inform Koschei by laser, that I might be shot down before I arrive.”
“Take it easy,” I soothed him. His jaw had clenched, and the muscles that tightened in his face patterned the skin like a jigsaw puzzle. “Relax. It’s all over. Smell the grass; you’re on Earth now.”
“I wept helplessly at first, though we consider weeping unmanly…” The rammer looked around him as if coming awake. “You are right. If I took off my shoes, would the law take offense?”
“No.”
He took his shoes off and wiggled his toes in the grass. His feet were too small for him, and his toes were long and agile, almost prehensile.
No doctor had appeared yet. Probably the matronly woman had simply walked away to avoid being involved. In any case, the rammer’s strength had returned.
He said, “On Koschei we tend to large girth. Gravity pulls less heavily at the meat of us. To qualify as a rammer I sweated away half my body weight, so that the unneeded two hundred earth weight pounds of me could be replaced by payload cargo.”
“You must have wanted the stars badly.”
“Yes. I was simultaneously learning disciplines whose very names most people can neither pronounce nor spell.” The rammer pulled at his chin. The quilted skin stretched incredibly, and did not snap back immediately when he let go. “I cut my weight by half, yet my feet hurt when I walk the Earth. My skin has not yet shrunk to fit my smaller mass. Perhaps you noticed.”
“What did you do about Koschei?”
“I sent the message. It would precede me to Koschei by just two ship’s-months.”
“Then?”
“I thought to wait it out, to use what time was left to me. My taped library was adequate…but even in the face of death, I grew bored.
“After all, I had seen the stars before. Ahead they were blue-white and thickly clustered. To the side they were orange and red and somewhat sparse. Behind was black space, empty but for a handful of dying embers. Doppler shift made my velocity more than obvious. But there was no sense of motion, of going somewhere.
“A month and a half of this, and I was ready to go back to sleep.
“When the collision alarm went off, I tried to ignore it. My death was already certain. But the noise bothered me, and I went to the control room to shut it off. I saw then that a respectable mass was approaching, aimed dangerously, from behind.
“From behind! It was moving faster than my own ship! I searched among the sparse crimson dots with my scope at top magnification. Presently I found a golden man walking toward me.
“My first thought was that I had gone mad. My second was that my God had come for me. Then, as the intruder grew in the scope screen, I saw that it was not quite human.
“Somehow that made it better. A golden man walking between the stars was impossible. A golden alien was a lesser impossibility. At least I could examine it sanely.
“I found the alien larger than I had thought, much larger than human.
“It was a biped, definitely humanoid, with two arms and legs and a well-defined head. Its skin glowed like molten gold, all over, for it was hairle
ss and without scales. Between its legs was nothing but smooth skin. Its feet were strange, without toes, and the knee and elbow joints were bulbous and knobby—”
“Were you really thinking in big expansive words like that?”
“I really was. I wanted to forget that I was terrified.”
“Oh.”
“The intruder was nearing fast. Three times I lowered the magnification. Each time I saw him more clearly. His hands were three-fingered, with a long middle finger and two thumbs. The knees and elbows were too far down the limbs, but seemed quite flexible. The eyes—”
“Flexible? You saw them move?”
The rammer became agitated. He stuttered; he had to stop to gain control of himself. When he spoke again he seemed to force the words through his throat.
“I…decided that the intruder was not actually walking. But as it approached my ship, it seemed to be walking on empty space.”
“Like a robot?”
“Like a not-quite-man. Like a Monk, perhaps, if we could see beneath the garment worn by Monk ambassadors.”
“But—”
“Think of a man-sized humanoid.” The rammer would not let me interrupt. “Think of him as belonging to a civilization advanced beyond our own. If his civilization had the power, and if he had the power within his civilization, and if he were very egotistical, then perhaps,” said the rammer, “perhaps he might command that a spacecraft be built in his own image.
“That is the way I thought of the intruder, in the ten minutes it took the intruder to reach me. I could not believe that a humanoid with smooth, molten gold skin would evolve in vacuum, nor that he could walk on emptiness. The humanoid shape is for gravity, for planets.
“Where does engineering become art? Once our ground-bound automobiles looked like spacecraft. An advanced spacecraft might be made to look like a given man, and move like him, yet still have the capabilities of a spacecraft. The man himself would ride inside. If a king or millionaire could cause this to be done, why, then he would stride like a god across the stars.”