Chapters 4
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1 01 - Not In the Rules 34:07
Story one of four science fiction stories by Mac Reynolds.
S.F.
Stories by MacRiddles Story 1. Not in the Rules This story was first published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, April, 1951. I got the bad news as soon as we landed on Mars. The minute I got off the spacer, the little yellow Marty was standing there with the yellow envelope. He said, Gladiator Jack Dempsey. I admitted it, and he handed me the envelope. Made me feel kind of good, as though I was somebody important, which I'm not. I'd been taking plenty of guff on the trip, not only from Susie, but from Alger Wilde, who was also along. Yeah, between them they'd ridden me as well as the liner, all the way from Terra. I handed the morty a copeck and put the yellow envelope in my pocket, as though I was used to getting spacegrams.
I said to Susie, Let's hit the chow line. I don't usually talk that fancy, but I was trying to impress her with my knowledge of antique phrases. Both Susie and Alger Wilde are students of ancient times, and love to lord their conversation with such stuff. Susie said, Sure, Jack. Come on, Alger. Which wasn't what I'd meant at all. And then she said, Aren't you going to open that spacegram, Jack? It might be important. Probably is, I said carelessly, but it can wait, whatever it is. And it did. I opened it after we'd ordered at the spaceport restaurant. I should have waited until after I'd eaten, but I couldn't know that until I read. Spacer transporting gladiator Earth-Mars for interplanetary games lost.
You have been appointed emergency replacement representing Earth. Good luck.
I gulped. If you don't know all about the interplanetary meet which is held every decade, then maybe you don't know why I gulped. If you do, you do. It's tough enough being a gladiator on Terra, but at least you have a chance of coming out alive. You've even got a chance of winning. But at the interplanetary meet, who ever heard of a Terran coming out in one piece? Not to speak of winning. Sure, I'm a gladiator, but I've always been strictly a second raider. In fact, some of the sportswriters call me a third raider. Anyway, I've always worked in the smaller meets, where the gladiators, even when they lose, usually get off with their lives. In the small-town stuff, they don't kill expensive gladiators, if they can help it.
My head was doing double-flips trying to figure out some way of making myself scarce, when Susie said, "'What is it, Jack?' Like a fool, I handed the message to her, and she and Alger read it together. Susie's eyes widened, and she started to say something, worriedly, but Alger stuck out his hand and said, "'Congratulations, Jack. I knew you had great things in you.' Now they'll be coming out—that is, just think, one of the three gladiators representing Terra. What an honor! I was sunk. The interplanetary meet was just three days off, and I had three days to live.
I wouldn't have been on Mars in the first place if it hadn't been for an argument I had with Susie back on Terra just before she was scheduled to blast off from Mars to cover the interplanetary games. Susie is a sports reporter, see? She covers the meets from the women's angle. What she really wanted to do was write books about primitive culture, and what I wanted her to do was spend the rest of her life being my wife. Neither of us seem to have too much of a chance of making good. As usual, Susie was giving me curt, if you'll pardon my language. "'I don't know why I'd bother with you, Jack,' she said, scowling. "'You've had the book a week and don't know a thing about it. You're nothing but a drip, a square.' "'Listen,' I said resentfully.
"'Don't use those mythological terms on me. Last time it took me all day to look them up. Besides, I try, don't I?' My manager's going crazy because I've been spending so much time reading instead of training for my next meet. You get the idea. The girl was just gone on the ancients. She wouldn't have tolerated me for an hour if I hadn't been willing to let her cram her nonsense into me at every opportunity.
How long do you expect to be on Mars? I asked her. She shrugged. Perhaps three months. Terra time. Three months! She patted my hand. Don't worry about me, Jack. I'm taking along an extensive microfilm library dealing with the literature and drama of twentieth-century North America. As you undoubtedly know, it reached its height in the comic books and cartoon movies of the time. Besides, she went on, Alger Wilde will be there covering the meat from the society angle. He'll be good company. Alger is quite an authority on prehistoric literature. And also on today's women," I yelped. You didn't tell me that Macron was going to be on Mars with you. She held her hands over her ears and said indignantly, Please, Jack, save your vulgarities for the games.
I'm going with you," I grated. I don't trust that guy with my woman. She flared up at that. Your woman? Let me tell you, Jack Dempsey, when you begin to display the cultural achievements of Alger Wilde, you may begin—just begin, mind you—to think of me as your woman, as you so crudely put it. Meanwhile, I have no desire to link myself with an ignoramus. Besides, I'm beginning to believe that you have no interest in cultural pursuits. You merely deceived me these past months with pretended—' Ah, Susie,' I began.
I had trouble enough raising credits for my fare, but more still getting last-minute reservations on the crowded excursion liner to Mars. It took some string-pulling on my manager's part to get me the tickets. Nobody who can raise the credits would dream of missing the interplanetary meet. And every spacer to Mars was packed. Susie was surprised when I stepped up to her table in the spacer's lounge. At least her eyebrows raised. The little minx was as pretty as a Venusian rose orchid. She was sitting with Alger Wilde, a macaron from the word Glorm. Hi, I said. Using a prehistoric formal salutation in hopes of pleasing her with my knowledge of olden times. "'By Jove!' Alger Wild exclaimed. "'If it isn't Jack Dempsey!' He added smirking.
Pardon the expression. Jove was an ancient deity. I sometimes slip and use such terms." "'Did he think I was stupid? Hadn't I been reading up on all that stuff for months?' I sat down, casually, in an empty acceleration chair. Of course, I said, an Egyptian god, also known as Jupiter by their neighbors the Aztecs, and by the name of Zeus by the Chinese. And that's the way it was all the way to Mars. I tried to hang on and stick it out with them, but I came in a bad third. I was fighting out of my class. In fact— Just before we arrived on Mars Susie made it plain that she thought I might as well give up my attempts to become cultured. She said I just didn't assimilate this stuff, that it didn't come off on me.
I could read the whole libraries of the ancient classics and recall none of the significance of what I'd read. In short, I wasn't doing so good with Susie. Well, three days after getting the telegram I met the other two gladiators from Terra in our dressing room at the arena. They weren't much happier about the meat than I was. It's one of the occupational hazards of our trade. If you get too good, you'll probably be chosen as Terra representative to the interplanetary meat, and your chances of surviving are almost nil. Of course the pay is high. and your survivors get a big chunk of credits, but it's a chilly prospect at best. The other two were pretty well armored, and had chosen spears as weapons, but I left off all armor and took a short sword.
I planned on moving fast, and the less weight I carried the better. When the various preliminaries were over and the crowd shouting for the main event, we trotted out to the field, joined the gladiators from the other planets and paraded toward the stand at which the judges and diplomats were seated. There was a mob of these, each with his assistants and secretaries. You could bet that little that happened would miss them. After all, on this meet hung the destinies of planets. Thousands of spectators from every planet and every principal satellite in the system stared down from their arena seats. I knew that the majority of them had expended a fortune in transport from their homes and for tickets to the meet.
But why not? It was the equivalent of having a box seat at a full-scale war of the type held in legendary times. Certainly the ultimate effect was as great or greater. Each spectator knew that upon the manner in which their planet's representatives fought this day, their fates depended. The planets have long since abolished war, but they put great store by these interplanetary meats. The theory is, why fight a war and kill off billions of population when you can figure out before the fighting ever takes place who'd win? It's the natural, ultimate development of diplomacy. Everything is settled by the diplomats without resorting to armed conflict. Suppose, for instance, that Mars decided to assume domination of Terra.
She notes, as do the Terran diplomats, that, at the interplanetary meet, the Martian gladiators wiped up on those from Terra. Obviously, if the same fighting would take place on a gigantic scale, the same thing would result. So why fight the war? Terra simply accepts the domination. Of course, it's all done in very diplomatic language so that nobody loses face, but the results are the same. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised that one of the other planets hasn't already taken over Terra. The most recent addition to the League of Solar System Planets, we're by far the weakest. Probably our strongest defense has been the fact that several different League members have had their eyes upon us, and each has counteracted the other.
It's certain that Venus, Saturn, or even Pluto would like to assimilate Terra. Actually, any one of them could do it. As is customary, a beauty from the planet upon which the meet is being held, a Martian princess in this case, opened the main event by throwing out the prize. It was a tremendous Venusian emerald, the largest ever discovered, and the size of a man's hand. It doesn't really make much difference who catches the prize, except that it's considered to be a lucky sign. The gladiator who survives the contest is the one who finally takes it.
I could see Susie in the press-box, sitting next to Alger. She seemed pale. I thought I might as well show her that some of the stuff she'd given me to read had been remembered. So, just before the princess tossed out the emerald, and while the others stood about nervously and impatient, I drew my sword, flourished it, and called out, "'We who are about to die salute you!' The Martian princess smiled down at me. "'Good fortune to you, gladiator from Terra,' she said. and deliberately threw the stone.
I just as well she hadn't. The man with the prize is always the center of conflict, and to have a hundred or so of the most efficient killers in the system out after you is no way to live to a ripe old age. But I caught the emerald, and the battle was on. I'd hardly got it into my belt before I heard a swish, and a Mercurian bouncer The steel knives on his heels flashing missed me by a fraction of an inch. Before he could jump again, a four-armed Martian pierced it with a javelin. The Martian went down in turn under a crushing blow from a slobber.
I ran backwards quickly, knowing that where there's one bouncer there's another. They fight in a group of twenty or thirty. Sometimes I wonder about that rule. Each planet is represented in the final free-for-all, the climax of the interplanetary meat, by weight. The Mercurians, who are about the size of Terran chickens, have thirty gladiators in the battle. The group from Calypso numbers eight and looks like a gang of human dwarfs. Jupiter and Saturn have only one representative each because of their gigantic size. Mars has four, Terra three, The others have varying numbers. The other two gladiators from Terra tried to cover me, but went down in the rush. The first fell victim to the heavy, ponderous, and nearly weapon-proof gladiator from Saturn, victor of the last interplanetary meet.
The Terran tried to run in close beneath the other's guard, but was smashed with a sweeping blow that broke half the bones in his body. The crowd cheered for the nice try. And the Saturnian brandished his half-ton club again, peered about nearsightedly for another enemy. My second companion in arms had an arm severed near the shoulder by a fast-moving Plutonian gadaboot. He fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. At least he'd probably survive and get back to Terra. I had seconds to live. As I said, we Terrans don't show up so well in the games. The gladiators from any planet can take us. Oh, I don't mean that a Terran couldn't defeat one Mercurian bouncer or one Calypso dwarf, but face our three Terrans with the whole Calypso or the whole Mercurian delegation, and we don't last very long.
I had seconds to live. They were all centering toward me, taking side swipes at one another if the opportunity allowed. But heading for me. Ordinarily, before a contest, my manager fills me full of last-minute advice and instructions. But I'd hardly seen him in the past few months. I'd been too busy reading Susie's books about the ancients. I was on my own. I didn't have time to figure it out. It just happened automatically. I remembered something, and before I had time to place the memory— I had taken the emerald from my belt, held it up momentarily so they could all see it, and yelled, For the greatest fighter of all! and threw it into the midst of them.
Later I recalled a guy in one of Susie's books having done something similar, except I believe he yelled, For the fairest! and threw a golden apple. At any rate the result seemed to be about the same. That guy started the Trojan War. It gave me a breathing spell. They piled on one another until I thought the meet would end then and there. A Venusian Spider-Man bent to pick up the emerald, and had five of his limbs and his head cut off before he could straighten again. A gadaboot grabbed it and tried to dart out of the crush, but ran into the darting rapier of a Uranian. Rising dust swirled up and enveloped the rest. In moments the fight had settled down into a series of individual combats all over the field.
I could see the slow-moving slobber from Jupiter stalking about, weaponless, seizing and crushing all with whom he came in contact. I could see the Mercurian bouncers dying like flies, but killing their share and more of opponents with the razor-sharp spurs attached to their feet. They would fling themselves high into the air and come down from above, heels slashing death. I had no more time to observe. Five remaining Calypso dwarfs disengaged themselves from a fight centering about two Venusians, spied me, and dashed in my direction. Ordinarily the Calypso gladiators would be even weaker than we Terrans, but they have the advantage of a universal mind. That is, they think together. Each knows what every other dwarf is thinking.
It goes beyond mere mental telepathy. They act as though they were a single individual. Talk about teamwork. You get three or four of them about you, all working in complete and perfect harmony, and you're sunk. I groaned for my manager's advice again, and resigned myself. When they got within fifteen feet of me they opened their mouths and cried in unison, "'Prepare to die, Terran Mokron!' For a second that did it. I raised my short sword and started toward them. They spread out like a fan to encircle me. Once again I didn't consciously figure it out. The idea came spontaneously without my acting upon it. I suddenly turned on my heel and started to run. They followed me like a pack. I'd gotten halfway across the arena and could hear the thousands in the arena seats booing me like thunder, before it came back to me what I'd read.
It was a trick some gladiator from Rome or Greece had pulled once. I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, they were still coming, but now they were strung out in a line. The fastest runner of them all was only a short distance behind me, the slowest quite a ways back. The other three were in between at varying distances. This next is going to sound like it took some time, but actually it was over in its split seconds. I stopped, whirled, and said tightly to the one pressing me, "'Who's calling you a Macron now?' At the same time my sword parried his and ripped into his unprotected belly. He died, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. I hardly had time to disengage my sword before the second dwarf was upon me.
I dropped to one knee and slashed upward, cutting completely through his right arm. The arm fell to the ground, his hand still clutching the three-pronged javelin with which he'd expected to spit me. He screamed in agony and stumbled away, hopelessly trying to staunch the flow of blood with his left hand. The third came running up, both hands high over his head, ready to bring down his battle-axe. I kicked him savagely with a spiked shoe, cracking a knee and bringing him to the ground. I could have finished him then and there, but didn't have the time. The fourth, yelling like a maniac, slashed into me, his blade ripping my right arm from elbow to shoulder. He brought up his sword for another stroke.
I was short-winded from the long run across the arena, and from the fast action of the past few moments. I drew all my strength together and lunged desperately forward. My sword pierced his throat. He fell, writhing, taking my blade with him. I stood up wearily to confront the Fifth One. My arm was bleeding freely, and I had no weapon nor time to get one. He came, shouting, raging with bloodlust and desire for revenge. His arm flew back for the javelin cast, when a Plutonian gadaboot shot out from a nearby melee and struck him from the rear. The dwarf collapsed, bleeding his life away in moments. The gadabooch straightened up, shrilling its death-whistle, preparatory to darning at me, but a Mercurian bouncer, wounded and fluttering, came down from above and made a last desperate stroke.
They died together. I shook my head to clear it, and reached down to disengage my sword from the neck of the fallen dwarf I'd killed last. I looked about. There were no others near me. For a moment there was a breathing-spell. In the past ten minutes two-thirds of the contestants had either died or been carried off the field incapacitated. Those of us that remained were wounded but still in the fight. As I stood there, staggering, panting, aching, it occurred to me that never before had a Terran lasted so long in an interplanetary meet.
As though by common consent we all gravitated toward the center of the arena. This was it. In the next few moments the contest would be over. And so would I.
As I stumbled forward a wounded Martian staggered to his feet and made a half-hearted stab at me. I bypassed him. He was too far gone to fight. Shortly the judge's assistance would get to him and take him from the field. Possibly he'd have a chance to survive. I had no desire to finish him off. In fact, I envied him.
We were quiet momentarily, and so was the crowd. A hush hung over the whole arena. I noted in seconds that among the survivors were two of the four-limbed Martians, half a dozen bouncers, the gigantic slobber from Jupiter, one of the Calypso dwarfs, almost helpless now that his fellows were all gone, Three or four Godaboots, and of Anousian Spider-Man. I wondered vaguely if my namesake, that gladiator of the famous states of the legendary United States, the original Jock Dempsey, had ever found himself on a spot like this. I suppose that he had, possibly worse. Susie, who gave me the name, saying that it would be good for publicity, claimed he was one of the greatest of all. I shook my head again, trying to clear it, my loss of blood making me faint.
And then it broke. The dust swirled high as we rushed together. I felt a crushing blow, tried to deal one back, was struck again by the ponderous gladiator from Jupiter, and was thrown heavily to the ground. I tried to push myself to my knees, my already bloody sword still in hand, still at the ready. I was in the center of the crush. This was the end. Susie flashed before my mind.
Well, there was a tremendous controversy afterward, and I was brought before the judges and the diplomats more like a prisoner than the victor of the interplanetary meat. I was laden down with bandages and weak from loss of blood, but they didn't look in the least sympathetic, not even the judge and diplomats from Terra. They got right to the point. The Martian judge, as senior, since the meet was taking place on his planet, acted as spokesman. He was excited and indignant, and would wave three or four of his arms at a time to emphasize his point. I thought vaguely of one of the olden-time windmills I'd seen pictured in one of Susie's books. "'Gladiator Jock Dempsey,' he rapped, "'our tendency is to rule your conduct in the affray so unbecoming that not only will the prize not be awarded you as last standing contestant on the field, but we are considering I wasn't having any.
After coming through that scrap I wasn't—' ever figuring on taking a back seat again. I interrupted him, growling. I am willing to stand behind anything I did in the arena, on the ground that it was compatible with Terran custom and therefore allowable on the part of a Terran gladiator. The Venusian judge sneered without bothering to say anything. The Plutonian tittered his disbelief. The Terran judge blinked at me, shocked by my words. I was getting mad. In the press box you'll find two reporters from Terra. Bring them here. They are both students of Terran history and ancient custom, and will support what I say. Susie and Alger Wilde were located and brought before us after a brief debate between the judges.
By their appearance it was obvious that the press box boys had similar ideas to those of the judges. Susie showed signs of concern about my wounds, and she also half indicated that I was a leper. There was no half about it as far as Alger Wilde was concerned. "'You might have died like a man, Dempsey,' he said sharply, instead of bringing disgrace to terror.
The Martian judge said coldly, "'This gladiator claims that his astounding actions in the arena More excusable on the grounds that everything he did is in accord with Terran customs, and consequently permissible by the rules of the interplanetary meat. Susie's eyes widened. Elger Wilde began to protest. I didn't give them a chance to deny anything. Just what are the complaints? I asked the Judge. As though they weren't obvious. He snorted, beginning to wave his arms again. First, your trick of throwing the emerald the princess was so kind to honor you with into the midst of the others, and thus diverting the strife from yourself. This was an act of strategy," I interrupted him. The custom is to be found in Terran history.
An old maxim of the Sioux Indians was divide and conquer. That's what I did. I got my opponents to fighting among themselves so that I could defeat them easier. The Romans, not the Sioux Indians," Alger muttered. Then you mean that this was actually a maxim of terror? the judge said in surprise. I could see the other judges and diplomats, including those from Earth, were as shocked as the Martian. Well, yes," Susie told him. Of course they usually don't use quite the method that Jack did. The judge snorted again. Be that as it may, I don't see how Dempsey can justify his fleeing before the Calypso gladiators like a common coward. Meet rules are that each gladiator must fight any who oppose him.
Susie shot a worried look at me. Right in accord with Terran history and custom, I said decisively. For one thing. It was always a basic rule with a Terran general to choose the battlefield where the fight was to be joined. It was considered a major advantage. Another maxim was, get their fustus with the mostus. I merely ran to the ground that best suited me, and then, when the Calypso dwarfs were no longer the mostus, I fought them one at a time. The judge raised his eyes questioningly at Alger, and was rewarded with a grudging nod. The Martian shook his head as though in disbelief, but went on. These two matters you have explained surprisingly but acceptably. But to this last charge there can be no possible honorable background in Terran custom.
I refer to the fact that in the final conflict you fell as though dead and remained on the ground until the other contestants had all but eliminated each other. When only the badly wounded Slobber and the half-dead Venusian Gladiator remained, you got up again and, re-entering the fight, finished off these opponents."
The judge threw up his four hands in horror. Certainly you can't claim justification for that. Not on any grounds, not by, and— I stood up as straight and defiantly as my heavy bandages would allow. Listen, I growled. It's one of the oldest traditions of terror. It's called playing possum. For a full minute silence fell on the whole group. Then I could hear one diplomat whisper questioningly to another, "'Playing possum? What does that mean?' And then, with one of the most outstanding bits of pure statesmanship the system has ever seen, Susie took up the cue and spoke in collaboration. "'He's quite right. Playing possum is in full accord with Terran Custom. Why,' she added innocently, Earth always acts in that manner.
She pretends she's weak, helpless, someone to be ignored, and then, suddenly, and without warning, she shows her full strength. The various judges and diplomats shot glances at each other from the sides of their eyes, especially those from Venus, Saturn, and Pluto. The Terran judge was no Macron. When somebody yelled, Gorm, he knew enough to grab the gaboot and run with it. He looked at Susie and I severely. "'Say no more, either of you. You are not here to reveal Terran secrets.' The other diplomats eyed each other again, nervously. The Martian judge, more genial now, said, "'None doubtedly a mistake has been made due to our lack of knowledge of Terran customs and practices. The emerald shall be awarded the Terran gladiator.
Jack Dempsey,' As soon as it is found, it is undoubtedly still in the arena in the possession of some slain contestant.
I took it from my belt. As a matter of fact, I have it here. I picked it up while playing possum under that heap of corpses. It's an old custom handed down from a Terran city named Brooklyn. When you see something that ain't nailed down, latch on to it." Alger Wilde left the room hurriedly, followed hand in hand by Susie and I. It was time for the diplomats to begin their wrangling, the wrangling that would settle the fate of worlds. As we passed through the door I could see the anticipation on the faces of the diplomats from Terra. From what I heard later they must have given the other diplomats Kurt, if you'll pardon my language.
End of Not in the Rules.
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2 02 - The Martians and the Coys 32:36
Story number two of 4SF Stories by Mac Reynolds. The Martians and the Coys. This story was first published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, June 1951.
Ma Coy climbed the fence down at the end of the south pasture and started up the side of the creek carrying her bundle over her shoulder and puffing slightly at her exertion. She forded the creek there at the place where Hank's old coon-dog Jigger was killed by the boar three years ago come next hunting season. Jumping from rock to rock across the creek made her puff even harder. Ma Coy wasn't as young as she once was. On the other side she rested a minute to light up her pipe and look carefully about her before heading up the draw. She didn't really expect to see any Martins around here, but you never knew. Besides, there might have been a revenue agent. They were getting mighty thick and mighty uppity these days.
You'd think the government would have more to do than bother honest folks trying to make an honest living. The pipe lit. Ma swung the bundle back over her shoulder and started up the draw. Pa and the boys, she reckoned, were probably hungry, as the passel of hound dogs by now. She'd have to hurry. When she entered the far side of the clearing she couldn't see any sign of them, so she yelled, "'You, Pa! You, Hank and Zeke!' Ma Coy liked to give the menfolk's warning before she came up on the hill. Hank in particular was mighty quick on the trigger sometimes. But there wasn't any answer. She trudged across the clearing to where the still was hidden in a cluster of pines. Nobody was there but Lim.
She let the bundle down and glowered at him. "'Lim, you no account. Why didn't you answer me when I hollered?' He grinned at her vacuously, not bothering to get up from where he sat whittling his back to an old oak. "'Huh?' he said. A thin trickle of brown ran from the side of his mouth and through the stubble on his chin. "'I said how come you didn't answer when I hollered?' he said. "'You call Pa, and Hank and Zeke, you didn't holler for me. What you got there, Ma, huh?' His watery eyes were fixed on the bundle. Ma Koi sighed deeply and sat down on a tree stump. Now what you think I got here, Lim? I've been bringing your vittles to you every day since Pa and you boys started up this new still.
Where's Pa and Zeke and Hank? Lim scratched himself with the stick he'd been whittling on. They went off scouting around for the Revenours, or maybe the Martins. He let his mouth fall open and peered wistfully into the woods. He added, "'I wish I could shoot me a martin, Ma. I wish I could. I sure wish I could shoot me a martin.' The idea excited him. He brought his hulking body to its feet, and went over to pick up an ancient shotgun from where it leaned against a mash-barrel. Ma Coy was taking corn-pone, some cold-fried salt-pork, and a quart of black-strap molasses from her bundle, and arranging it on the top of an empty keg. You mind yourself with that gun now, Lim. Mind how you shot up your foot that time.
Lim didn't hear her. He was stroking the stock of his shotgun absently. I could do it easy, he muttered. I could shoot me, Martin, easy. I sure could, Ma. I'd show Hank and Zeke. I would. "'You forget about the Martins, son,' Ma'Kai said softly. "'You're my simple son. There's at least one in every family, mostly more, and it ain't fitting that you get into fights. You got a strong back, strongest in the hills, but you're too simple, Lim.' "'I ain't as simple as Jim Martin, Ma,' Lim protested. "'Son, they don't come no more simple than you,' his mother told him gently. "'And mine that gun! You know how you bent the barrel of Zeke's Winchester back double that time, absent-minded like!' He stroked the gun-stock, patted it, half in anger, half in protest.
His lower lip hung down in a pout. "'You stop talking that way, Ma,' he growled, "'or I'll larp you one.' Mokha didn't answer. She reckoned she'd better set off into the woods and see if she could locate the rest of the menfolks so they could eat. Lim said under his breath, "'I could shoot me a mok. Real easy I could.' To the Most High, the Glorious, the Omnipotent, Omnipresent, and Omniscient, the Lord of the Seven, the Leader of the Chosen Neo Geek, the Thirty-Eighth." In regard to Testing of Special Weapons Designed to Eliminate Present Population of the Third Planet with the Eventual View of Colonizing, from C.G.I.L.1, Commander of Space Cruiser 12B-44.
Your Omnipotence. Upon the receipt of your orders we proceeded to the planet in question, known to its inhabitants as Earth or Terra. first touching at its satellite, Luna, in order to pick up the observation group, which has been studying the potential foe for several decals. Commander of the observation group Baron Dahl has enjoyed the reputation of being our most outstanding authority on Earthlings. It has been principally through his recommendations that the secret supplementary weapons worked upon for the past Decal were devised. Baron Dahl has successfully deciphered the principal language of Earth, and through listening to their radio emanations has compiled a formidable work on his findings, but of his abilities more later.
It might be added here that Baron Dahl and all his group were more than ready to proceed to Earth and begin the slaughter of its inhabitants. It seems that these investigators have for decals listened most carefully to every radio emanation possible to pick up. This has evidently led them to the edge of complete frenzy, especially those who have been assigned the morning programs, sometimes known as soap-uppers by the Earthlings. Baron Dahl inspected the newly created weapons with considerable care, and proclaimed them excellent for our purposes. In particular, he was impressed with the IQ Depressor, the deadly poison, Nork, and the lebonic plague-carrying fleas. He was convinced that these secret weapons would give our forces that advantage we seek before launching our all-out attack upon Earth.
Acting on Darle's suggestions, we avoided the more heavily populated areas of Earth, and landed our space cruiser in a mountainous area of the planet known as Kentucky, a subdivision of the United States of America, one of the more advanced Earth nations. Our plans did not work out exactly as expected. Keeping well in mind the need for secrecy, we made every attempt to land the space cruiser without detection. We settled in a small valley near a stream, and immediately sent out scouts to determine if there was any sign that our craft had been sighted in descent.
Evidently, the population of the vicinity was so small that our plans were successful. Our patrols reported only one small group of Earthlings in the immediate area. Deciding to test the new weapons on this gathering, we disembarked a force of a dozen warriors, all disguised as Earthlings, and with myself as Commander and Baron Dahl as our technical advisor. We must keep our senses alert for Sam Spade, Superman and the Lone Ranger, Baren Dahl said nervously, peering around among the strange exotic trees and other vegetation that grows on Earth. I was somewhat surprised at his tone and obvious unease. Who? I asked. What? Three Terran warriors of amazing ability and viciousness. He told me. I have been gathering reports of their activities from the radio for some time.
They seem to have clairvoyant minds. One or the other of them almost invariably appears on the scene of violence.
I said impatiently, Without doubt our weapons would mean the end of these warriors. I did not share his belief that any earthling warriors might be our equals or superiors, but to remain on the cautious side, I immediately ordered that the elect no be switched on. This weapon, one of the several designed for the Earth Campaign, as your omnipotence is undoubtedly aware, is so constructed as to prevent the use of any internal combustion engine within a dozen miles of the Electno. In this case, no aircraft, no landcraft, utilizing internal combustion could enter our zone. Baron Dahl seemed somewhat relieved at this precaution, but his attitude to a certain extent began to affect the rest of us. To prepare for any eventuality, I had the fission suppressor activated.
This, of course, automatically made it impossible for nuclear fission to take place within a hundred miles of our ship. That measure pleased Baron Dahl exceedingly, in view of the fact that the Earth Nations seemed to be spending practically all of their military appropriations on their so-called A-bombs and H-bombs.
According to the radio emanations our lunar base had picked up, the Earthlings were interested in little else in a military way except possibly bacteriological weapons, and of course we were prepared to deal them a strong blow along that line with our lepbonic plague-spreading fleas. At any rate, Knowing that we had suppressed the use of their major weapon, the fission bomb, and had prevented transportation from entering the vicinity, we proceeded toward the clearing where the earthlings had gathered, determined to test the IQ depressor, NORC, and the Lebonic plague fleas, for it was upon the success of these weapons that our earth campaign depended. We proceeded with care toward the clearing on the edge of which our scouts had detected the earthlings, and carefully approached from behind the one specimen we saw there.
Evidently the others had gone off. Baron Dahl, the only member of our little group who was familiar with the language, acted as spokesman, and we concealed for the moment at least the purpose of our visit. The following conversation was recorded by Barindal himself, and later translated as literally as possible into our own superior language. Earthling. Huh? What's that? Barindal. Have no fear. Earthling. Rivenorce! Pa! Hank! The meaning of the word revenors was completely unknown to Barandall, but from the earthling's tone of voice it is to be assumed that the term is a derogatory one. Barandall. We are not revenors, we are friends. Earthling. Huh? Barandall. We are not revenors, we are friends.
Earthling, suspiciously, "'Well, you can't have no free corn if that's what you're lookin' for. Can't buy none, either. Pa won't sell no raw corn. Says corn ain't fittin' to drink if it ain't been aged a week.' This conversation seemed to puzzle Barindal, and I was beginning to suspect already that his knowledge of the Earthlings was somewhat less than he had led me to believe. Barandal. Where are the others? Earthling. Huh? This continual inability on the Earthling's part to understand the questions put to him by Barandal also caused me to wonder whether or not the decals spent on Luna in observing Earth were quite as fruitful as they might have been. Barandal. Where are the others? Earthling.
Oh, you mean Ma and Pa and Hank and Zeke? They're off looking for Martins. Your omnipotence is of course aware, that in the language of the earthlings our glorious planet is known as Mars, and we as Martians, or evidently, as this earthling pronounced it, Martins. This information was, as you can well imagine, startling. Since we had supposed that our landing had been made in the most complete secrecy, what means they had utilized to discover us is unknown. Berendahl. Ah, and what made them suspect there were Martians in the vicinity? Earthling. Huh? Berendahl. What made Ma and P- Pa and Hank and Zeke think there were Martians around. Earthling. Oh. Berendahl. What made them think there were Martians about?
Earthling. Pa says he can smell him a Martin from most twenty miles away. Pa's got a regular feeling for Martins like— Pa'd rather shoot him a martin than eat fried chicken. I wish I could shoot me a martin. I wish. Yep, I sure wish I could shoot me a martin. I wish—' This sixth sense of some of the earthlings had been unsuspected by Barondal, in spite of his decals of investigation. Evidently, the earthlings have an unusual ability to detect the presence of alien life forms. Also surprising was the fact that the earthlings were evidently aware of our plans to conquer their planet, and were already working up to a pitch of patriotism which made them extremely anxious to destroy us. Baron Dahl turned to me and explained that there were four more of the earthlings in the woods searching for us.
And that undoubtedly they would soon return. He suggested that we immediately try some of our weapons upon this specimen. The plan seemed feasible enough, so I ordered one of the warriors to find a suitable liquid in which to place a portion of the poison gnarc. Ultimate plans, as you are aware, have been to drop by spacecraft. Small containers of nork in the reservoirs, rivers, and lakes of the earthlings. One drop was designated to be, as your omnipotence knows, sufficient to poison a reservoir capable of supplying the water needs of a hundred thousand earthlings. Although water was not available, the warrior was soon able to find what was obviously a container for some type of beverage. It was nearly full of a colourless fluid.
The following conversation then took place between Baran Dahl and the Earthling. Baran Dahl. What is this? Earthling. Huh? Oh, that's White Mule. Yep, sure is. Baran Dahl, puzzled. I thought a mule was a four-legged animal of burden particularly noted for kicking. Earthling. Vaguely. Paw's white mule's got lots of kick in it. Yep. Upon finding it was a beverage, as we had suspected, a small quantity of narc was quickly inserted. Barandal. Try a drink. Earthling. What say? Barandal. Have a drink. Earthling. Uh, maybe I will, but don't tell Pa. Pa says I'm simple enough without no white mule. Here he took a long draught without seeming effect, although we were expecting him to fall dead at our feet.
We stood there staring at him unbelievingly. Earthling. That tasted mighty good. Got more of a kick than usual. Yup, sure did. Tasted like maybe somebody put in a wallop of turpentine. He seemed perfectly at ease. I turned to Baron Dahl and snapped. The type of poison you recommended seems less than effective. Baron Dahl was obviously shocked. "'It is inconceivable,' he said. "'Possibly the fluid in which we dissolved the narc acted as an antidote.' "'I turned my back on him, angrily. I began to wonder about the effect of your other weapons.' He waved to one of the warriors who had been burdened with the IQ depressor. "'We'll try this immediately,' he said, anxiety in his tone." While the machine was being readied, Barandal explained its workings to me in some detail.
Meanwhile the earthling continued to sip at the jug, which supposedly contained sufficient poison to eliminate an average large Terran city. As you know, Barandal told me, the mind, whether of earthlings or Martian type, is capable of being either stimulated or depressed. For hundreds of decals our race has possessed chemicals capable of such depression or stimulation. However, to my knowledge, this device is the only one yet developed which can suppress the intelligence quotient of anyone within an area of many square miles. The plan for utilizing it is a simple but effective one. When we confront a body of Earthling soldiery, Our men need only to turn on the IQ depressor, to turn the enemy into brainless idiots.
Their defeat would then obviously be quite simple. Very well, I told him stiffly. Let us proceed to try it on this earthling. The device seemed quite elementary in construction. Baron Dahl activated it by the simple flicking of a switch. We ourselves, of course, were immune to its workings, since it was tuned only to the Earth-type brain.
Is it now in operation? I asked Berendahl. Definitely watch the Earthling. I am watching. The supposed top authority on Earth and Earthlings approached the specimen and eyed him carefully. The following conversation ensued. Barandal, how do you feel, Earthling? Huh? Barandal seemed pleased at this response, and indeed it would seem that the subject was on the verge of idiocy. Barandal, how do you feel, Earthling? I guess I feel fine. Yep, yep, feel fine. How do you feel, stranger? Barandal, scowling. Does your head feel somewhat different? Does your mind seem more sluggish? Earthling. Huh? Barandal. Does your thinking seem weaker? Earthling. Nope. Can't say it does, stranger. Fact is. It'd be pretty hard to make my thinking much weaker.
Yup, sure would. Baron Dahl stared at him for a long period, unbelievingly. Obviously the IQ Depressor had been worthless as far as undermining the Earthlings' intelligence is concerned. Finally, this alleged authority on Earthlings and upon Earth affairs flashed a look of despair at me and at the others of us who stood around him. The fleas, he blurted finally, the lepbonic plague fleas. This weapon alone might well destroy the whole population of earth. Bring the fleas. I said coldly, We shall see, Baron Dahl. Then to one of the warriors. Bring the fleas that carry this so deadly so barren doll tells us lepbonic plague. The earthling was ignoring us now, and had gone back to taking an occasional drake from his jug.
Our warrior approached carefully from behind him, and dropped a half-dozen of the supposedly deadly insects upon the earthling's back. We then stood back and watched, cautiously. According to Barindal, the fast-spreading disease should take effect almost immediately. The earthling sat there, the IQ depressor still turned on, but obviously unable to lower his intelligence and iota. He continued to sip from the jug of white mule, which had enough mnork in it to kill thousands. Occasionally he scratched himself. "'I guess I'll take me a nap,' he said thickly, his words slurred. He scratched himself once again, yawned deeply, and slumped against the tree, obviously in sleep. Barindal looked at me triumphantly.
"'The reaction is somewhat different than we'd expected, but obviously the fleas have given him lepbonic plague.' This weapon at least is as successful as we had—I peered down at the earthling suspiciously. His clothes were disarrayed and torn. I pointed at a speck on his uncouthly hairy chest. And what is that? I snapped at Barrandal. He bent down to see what I indicated. It seems to be one of the fleas, he told me. Then what is it doing on its back with its feet up in the air?
It seems indisposed. It seems dead, you numbskull, I roared at him. After biting this earthling your fleas have died. In a high rage, I strode up and down the clearing, trying to coordinate my thoughts to the point where I could make an intelligent decision on this situation. Obviously, a crisis was at hand. Using these weapons devised by our scientists after detailed instructions on their construction by Barendal and his group of efficient experts would obviously be suicidal. They were completely worthless. I came to a snap conclusion. Our plan must be to reveal ourselves to the Earthlings as Martians, and pretend to come bearing them only good will and desire for peace and commerce. A few months on their planet, closely but unbeknown to them studying their life-form, should give Give us ample opportunity to plan more effective weapons against them.
This, then, was my decision. I snapped to Barindal. Awaken the Earthman. Tell him that we are Martians and that we seek peace with the inhabitants of Earth. There was some difficulty in the awakening, but finally Barindal succeeded. The Earthling shook his head groggily and scowled at my interpreter. The following conversation ensued. Barandal. Awaken. We have a message of great importance for you. Earthling. Huh? Barandal. We have a message for you. Earthling, rolling over on his other side. Oh. Barandal said impressively. In the name of the Most High. The glorious, the omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, the lord of the seven, the leader of the chosen Neo Geek. The thirty-eighth, we bring you greetings from the Martians.
Earthling. Huh? Barandal, we Martians offer you the friendship and the goodwill of a people that—Earthling. Martians? Are you Martins?" Barendal, that is correct. We Martians come with the greetings, and—at this point your omnipotence—my account must of necessity be somewhat vague, for even after we had made good our escape back to the space cruiser, bearing our more serious casualties with us, we were unable to agree among ourselves on just what had happened. Baron Dahl, who is now under arrest and in the darkest recess of the Space Cruiser 12B-44, laden down with chains, is of the opinion that the Earthling was none other than either Superman or the Lone Ranger in disguise. He contends that both of these Earthling warriors are prone to adapt disguises in this manner, revealing themselves only at the last moment to their enemies.
Suffice to say, however, that we were all successful in making good our retreat to the space cruiser, although all of our equipment and supplies were destroyed in the melee. Upon regaining the spacecraft, we blasted off hurriedly to return to our own sacred planet. I recommend, your omnipotence, that the plans to subjugate the planet Earth be indefinitely postponed. In view of the fact that our specially designed weapons proved worthless, and in particular view of the abilities of earthling warriors. I further recommend that the unspeakable Baron Dahl, who obviously frittered away his time during the decals spent on Luna, supposedly studying the earthlings, be sent to the Naribis salt mines. Obediently, CGL-1, Commander, Space Cruiser 12, B-44.
Ma and Pa Coy and Hank and Zeke came back into the clearing wearily. The boys had done a lot of tramping and were hungry for their vittles, and Ma was feeling bodacious about their taking off to go hunting for Martins. Pa had told her to shut up two or three times, but it hadn't been much use. Lim was sitting on an up-ended mash-barrel, loading his old shotgun and grinning vacuously. He seemed unaware of the fact that the stock of the gun was a splintered ruin. "'Guess what, Pa?' he yelled. "'I got me a martin. I got me a whole passel of martins, Pa. I sure did. Yup, I—' Pa Coy grunted, and started poking around in the vittles Ma had brought up from the cabin. The boys leaned their rifles up against the oak and each picked up a handy fruit jar of corn-squeezins.
Hank said nastily, Sure you got a whole pass of the Martins, Lim. In your sleep you got a pass of the Martins. Lim said belligerently, Don't you go talking that-a-way, Hank, or I'll—I'll throw you up into the tree the way I did that time you hit me with the axe. "'I did so get me some martins. I was sitting here when a whole passel come out in the woods. Didn't know they was martins at first, then—' Ma Coy handed him a chunk of corn-pone. "'Now you be quiet, Lem, and eat your vittles. Sure, you got yourself a martin, Lem.' A thin trickle of brown ran down from the side of Lem's mouth. He spit on the ground before him with an air of happy belligerence. "'I sure did, Ma. I sure got me a passel of Martins.
Yep, I sure did.'
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3 03 - Tourists To Terra 19:34
Story three, Tourists to Terra. This story was first published in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, December 1950. Diomed of Argos, son of Atidaeus, drew his sword with a shout and rushed forward to finish off his Trojan opponent before help could arrive. Suddenly he stopped and threw up a shielding arm before his eyes. When he could see again, one who could only have been Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, stood between him and the unconscious enemy. She was dressed as though for the bridal room, Her goddess body, breathtakingly beautiful, revealed through the transparent robe she wore. She was attired for love, but held a short sword in her hand. Aphrodite smiled at him in derision.
Now then, Prince of Argos, would you fight the gods? She advanced the sword half-mockingly. But the Greek was mad with bloodlust. Half crazed with this day's victories, he snatched up his spear, muttering, Pallas Athena aids me, and rushed her. Her eyes widened, fear flashing in them. She began to rise from the ground. The barbaric spear flashed out and ripped her arm. Blood flowed, and she dropped the sword, screaming. Diomed heard a voice call urgently. Go back, go back immediately, too. And the goddess Aphrodite disappeared. He whirled to face the newcomer, and saw another god confronting him. The extent of his action was beginning to be realized, but Diomed had gone too far to turn back now.
He charged his new opponent, shield held high, and sword at the ready. The god lifted his hand, sending forth a bolt of power that brought the Greek to his knees. Diomed's eyes were filled with sudden fear and despair. Phebus, Apollo, he quavered. The god was scornful. Beware, Diomed, he said. Do not think to fight with gods. The Greek cowered before him.
Later. In the invisible spaceship hovering five hundred feet above the battle, Kajun faced her, his features impassive and his tone of voice faultless. He was boiling with rage beneath his courtesy. I will present your complaint to the captain. But I would like to remind the Lady Jan that she has been warned repeatedly against appearing in the battle-clothes as she is, and without greater defenses. It was fortunate I was able to appear as soon as I did. If you'd been injured seriously, I hesitate to say what repercussions would have taken place on the home planet." Her eyebrows went up. Injured? Seriously? Just what do you mean by that? Do you realize this horrible wound will probably take half the night to heal?
You saw that barbarian was insane? Why didn't you come to my assistance sooner? You haven't heard the last of this, you inefficient nincompoop. When we return home I'll have you stripped of your rank."
Kajun's face remained blank. Yes, your ladyship, he said. And before I go, may I deliver a message from the Lady Marid? She said they await you in the salon.
She drew a cape about her, and without speaking further, swept from the compartment. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Parasites, he muttered savagely. and turned to go to his own quarters, where he could change from this ridiculous glittering armor into his own uniform as ship's officer. The Lady Jan stormed into the salon, where the others had gathered to try the new concoction the steward had named Ambrosia. Some of them still wore their costumes, others had changed into the more comfortable dress of their own world. Her eyes blazed at them. Who in the name of Mokred told that Greek he would conquer anyone he fought today, even a god? The damned barbarian nearly killed me. The Lord Daron laughed gently.
It was Mard. She was playing the goddess Athene. The sport was rather poor with that new bow of hers, and so she thought she'd inflame one of the Greeks and see just how berserk he would become if he thought he had the protection of a goddess. "'He could have killed me.' "'Oh, come now, Jan, you were barely scratched. Besides, Merrid didn't know this Greek Diomed was going to run into you, or that he'd have the fantastic nerve to attack whom he thought one of his gods.' She took up a goblet of the new drink, but she wasn't placated. I'm of the opinion this stop shouldn't be made. It's too dangerous. I'm going to insist Captain Forrin blast the city and obliterate both sides of this barbaric conflict.
The lady Merrid, who was still dressed in her Pallas Athenae armor, broke in. Don't be so upset, Jan. We're sorry that brute hurt your arm, but what can you expect on this type of cruise? They guaranteed us thrills, didn't they? The very dangers we face are what we're paying so highly for, she laughed lightly. Besides that costume you wear as Aphrodite, really, I don't know why you didn't get worse than a scratch on your arm. These Greeks aren't exactly civilized. "'Nor exactly cold-blooded, either.' The other's face went red, and she snatched another drink from a tray. "'Nevertheless, I'm going to complain. This war is absolutely too perilous to be part of the tour. And after all the trouble we went to in order to learn their fantastic languages and customs, why, I was under that damned psycho-study impressor for nearly two hours.' Captain Foreign had entered behind her.
I agree with you, Lady Jan, and can only apologize. I should have realized last week, when Lord General Barris, fighting in the battle as the god Ares on the Trojan side, was speared by this same Greek. The company would never hear the end of it, if on one of these cruises a passenger was seriously injured. The Lord General Barris shrugged. It was wonderful sport. I killed a score of the beggars that day. I don't know how that one found a chink in my armor. I'll take measures against my costumer when we return home," he grinned wryly. I doubt if the Emperor would appreciate having one of his generals killed in a primitive war while on leave.
I think I'll have to take a crack at this Diomed myself, Lord Doran said. The lady Merrid laughed. "'If I know you, you'll do it with a blaster from a hundred feet in the air above him.' Doran smiled and returned. "'Of course. Do you think I'd make a fool of myself by going down into their battle as Barris does? It's insane. This hand-to-hand conflict is much too risky.' The captain changed the subject. "'I'm sure you'll all appreciate our next stop,' he said. "'I plan to visit an even more astounding planet than this. We are to fight the Swamp Dragons of Venus.' "'From what distance, Captain?' Lord Doran drawled. The captain smiled. "'Their poisonous breath reaches half a mile, so it will be necessary to use long-distance weapons.' Lord General Barris scowled.
It sounds too easy. I like to fight humanards. There's more thrill in killing when your opponents look like yourself, as do these earthlings. The Lady Jan was nearing the nasty stage of intoxication. It wouldn't be so thrilling if you weren't provided with defenses making it practically impossible to be hurt. You wouldn't enter these battles if you weren't sure you'd come out safely. I wouldn't deny it. Sport is sport, but I have no desire to be killed at it. At any rate, I am opposed to killing these swamp-dragons. It sounds as though it would be boring, and Mockred knows we had enough boredom butchering those dwarves at our last stop." The lady Marrod becked him. She also thought Venus unattractive.
If the captain was of the opinion this war was too dangerous, Wasn't there some other conflict on this planet? The captain told him he'd consult with his officers and let them know in the morning. One thing was sure, Captain Forrin thought, as he made his way toward the officers' mess. He'd have to get this group of thrill-crazy wastrels away from Troy. If one of them was hurt badly he'd undoubtedly lose his lucrative position on the swank cruise ship. The idea was his own, really, and a good one. In a luxury mad world the cry was for new titillations, new pleasures, new planets on which to play, new drugs to bring even wilder dreams, new foods, new drinks, new loves, but most of all, new thrills.
Yes, the idea of taking cruise ships of wealthy thrill-seekers to the more backward planets and letting them join in primitive wars had been his. It proved the thrill supreme. His cruises were the rage of half a dozen planets, and the company had increased his pace several times in the past few years. But he knew it could crumple like a house of cards, given one serious injury to a wealthy guest. The theory of the crews was to let them kill without endangering themselves.
The stop at Troy had, as a rule, been a successful one. The Greeks and their opponents were both highly superstitious, and readily accepted the presence of the aliens from space as gods taking place in the battle. Usually they were too terrified to take measures against the strangers in their gleaming armor. But today had been the second occasion in which a tourist had been injured in spite of scientific protective armor. His officers were awaiting him in the mess hall. They, too, had been conscious of the wounds suffered by the thrill-seeking guests, and hadn't liked it. Lady Jan was the daughter of a noble strong enough to have them all imprisoned if the whim took him. Captain Foren growled.
"'Have any of you an idea? I propose the Venus trip, but although they admit being leery about further risks here, they prefer fighting humanoids.' First Officer Kajun said, "'Perhaps it would be better to head for the home planet, Captain.' Captain Forrin shook his head. "'We can't do that. The cruise has another week to go.' If we went back now it would be obvious that something had happened and just sprained matters to a head. If we can give them another week of thrills, possibly they'll have forgotten their wounds by the time we return. The chief engineer turned to Kajun. At what stage of development is this planet? I believe it's an H-A. Why? I was wondering at the possibility of going forward a few thousand years in time and participating in a war that dealt less in hand-to-hand conflict.
They could have their fill of killing with a minimum of danger, protected, of course, with suitable anti-projectile force fields. Kha-Jun went over to the ship's predict-informer and spoke into its mouthpiece. What will be the military development of this planet in two or three thousand years, and would it be safe to take the ship into that period?
They awaited the answer, which came approximately one minute later.
Probability shows the inhabitants of Terra will begin utilizing explosives for propelling missiles in two thousand years. About five hundred years later, They will have developed this means of warfare to its ultimate. Safety for the ship is indicated."
Captain Forren mused. That sounds practical. We could participate in some war in which our passengers could use such weapons as snipers from a distance. Another thought struck him. Besides, The Lord General Barrus is quite intrigued with the possibilities involved in fighting the humanoids here. He had spoken of transporting large numbers of his troops to Terra, and using the planet for a training ground in actual combat. Undoubtedly the earthlings of the future would make better victims for his soldiers than these more primitive types. It might be well to look at the future of this planet. The first engineer said, Such a step would wipe out the development of civilization on the planet. Captain Forring shrugged impatiently.
He ordered Kajun to make immediate preparations to take the ship forward twenty-five hundred years, and gave instructions to a sub-officer to locate a suitable conflict as soon as they arrived, so that the guests could begin their participation when they awoke in the morning.
The ship arrived effortlessly in the new location in time, but when the sub-officer returned from his patrol, First Officer Kajun took him to the captain's quarters himself. He saluted. "'I don't believe this is quite it, Captain.' "'Why not? Weren't there any wars in progress?' Kajun said, "'It wasn't that. There were several. They don't seem to have reached the development for which we were looking.' For instance, in the region in which we've landed, the first stage of conflict between two nations has begun. The countries are called Mexico and the United States, and they're fighting over the northwestern possessions of the former, although, as always, both sides claim they're involved for idealistic reasons.
However, the fighting still consists to an extent of hand-to-hand conflict. The soldiers carry explosive-propelled missile weapons. But they're usually slow in loading and single-shot in operation. Swords are carried at the ends of these weapons, so that after it is fired the soldier may dash forward and engage his enemy personally. The captain was glum. That's as bad as before, and I can't risk our passengers in any more hand-to-hand combat. Sir, these humanoids on Terra seem slow in progressing. But I have an idea if we move forward another hundred years, they will be using automatic weapons, and hand-to-hand combat will be antiquated. The calendar system they use calls this year 1845. I suggest we travel forward to 1945.
Captain Foran made a snap decision. All right, we'll move forward to sentry. As soon as we arrive, have a patrol go out again.
When Captain Forrin awoke in the morning, the hot desert sun was already well into the sky. The invisible spaceship had stationed itself a hundred feet off the ground, in an area in which there were no other signs of habitation and few of the works of man. He strode leisurely to the control room, and returned the greetings of the morning watch. "'Any word from the patrol as yet?' he asked. First Officer Kajun was worried. No, sir, and he should have been back long before this. I trust nothing has happened to him, as he reported at all. Only once, several hours ago. Evidently there is a globe-wide war raging. Kajun ran his tongue over his lips. Our passengers should have excellent sport. In fact, Captain, if you could spare me I would like to participate myself.
Captain Foran looked at him and laughed. You also? I'm afraid this must be a racial characteristic, this love of imposing death. I must confess, on my first trips I too liked to join in the sport. He turned and glanced out an observation port. What is that steel tower down there on the desert? We can't decide, Captain, unless it's some structure for conducting tests of some sort or other. The surprising thing about it is that our instruments detect radioactivity. The captain interrupted sharply. Has anyone checked the ship's predict informer on whether or not this era is completely safe? Kajun said, I assume that you had, sir. He stepped to the instrument and spoke into its mouthpiece. What is the military development on this planet?
Is the ship safe? The predict informer began its report. In the past thirty-five years, military science on Terra has developed tremendously under the impetus of two world-wide conflicts. At present, the dominant power on this continent is experimenting with nuclear fission. Sudden fear came into the eyes of the captain of the Thrill Ship. That radioactive steel tower! Blast off! he shrieked. Blast off! The predict informer went on dispassionately. and is about to test an atomic bomb against which this ship's defenses would be—it got no further.
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4 04 - I'm A Stranger Here Myself 13:40
Story number four of four science fiction stories by Mac Reynolds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story four. I'm a stranger here myself. This story was first published in Amazing Stories, December 1960. The Place de France is the town's hub. It marks the end of Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag of the westernized part of the city, and the beginning of Rue de la Liberté, which leads down to the Grand Socle and the Medina. In a three-minute walk from the Place de France, you can go from an ultra-modern, California-like resort to the Baghdad of Haroun al-Rashid. It's quite a town, Tangier. King's size sidewalk cafes occupy three of the strategic corners on the Place de France. The Café de Paris serves the best-draft beer in town, gets all the better custom, and has three shoeshine boys attached to the establishment.
You can sit of a sunny morning and read the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune, while getting your shoes done up like mirrors for thirty Moroccan francs. which comes to about five cents at current exchange. You can sit there after the paper's read, sip your espresso, and watch the people go by. Tangier is possibly the most cosmopolitan city in the world. In native costume you'll see Berber and Rif, Arab and Blue Man, and occasionally a Cingalese from further south. In European dress you'll see Japs and Chinese, Hindus and Turks, Levantines and Filipinos, North Americans and South Americans, and of course even Europeans, from both sides of the curtain. In Tangier you'll find some of the world's poorest and some of the richest.
The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoe-shine to their not very lily-white bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes. Afraid you might try to sell them something. In spite of recent changes, the town still has its unique qualities. As a result of them, the permanent population includes smugglers and black marketeers, fugitives from justice and international con men, espionage and counter-espionage agents, Homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, ex-royalty, and subversives of every flavor. Local law limits the activities of few of these. Like I said, it's quite a town. I looked up from my Herald Tribune and said, Hello, Paul. Anything new cooking?
He sank into the chair opposite me and looked around for the waiter. The tables were all crowded, and since mine was a face he recognized, he assumed he was welcome to intrude. It was more or less standard procedure at the Café de Paris. It wasn't a place to go if you wanted to be alone. Paul said, How are you, Rupert? Haven't seen you for a donkey's years. The waiter came along, and Paul ordered a glass of beer. Paul was an easy-going, sallow-faced little man. I vaguely remembered somebody saying he was from Liverpool and in exports. "'What's in the newspaper?' he said disinterestedly. "'Pogo and Albert are going to fight a duel,' I told him. "'And little Abner is becoming a rock-and-roll singer.' He grunted.
"'Oh,' I said, "'the intellectual type.'" I scanned the front page. The Ruskies have put up another man's satellite. They have, eh? How big? Several times bigger than anything we Americans have. The beer came and looked good, so I ordered a glass, too. Paul said, Whatever happened to those poxy flying saucers? What flying saucers? A French girl went by with a poodle so finely clipped as to look as though it had been shaven. The girl was in the latest from Paris, every pore in place. We both looked after her. You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one of these bloody man satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would have seen one. That's an idea, I said. We didn't say anything else for a while, and I began to wonder if I could go back to my paper without rubbing him the wrong way.
I don't know Paul very well, but for that matter it's comparatively seldom you ever get to know anybody very well in Tangier. Largely, chords are played close to the chest. My beer came, and a plate of tapas for us both. Tapas at the Café de Paris, or apt to be potato salad, a few anchovies, olives, and possibly some cheese. Free lunch, they used to call it in the States. Just to say something, I said, where do you think they come from? And when he looked blank, I added, the flying saucers. He grinned. From Mars, or Venus, or someplace? Hmm, I said. Too bad none of them ever crashed or landed on the Yale football field and said, take me to your cheerleader or something. Paul yawned and said, that was always the trouble with those crackpot blokes' explanations of them.
If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves? I ate one of the potato chips. It had been cooked in rancid olive oil. I said, Oh, there were various answers to that one. We could probably sit around here and think of two or three that made sense. Paul was mildly interested. Like what? Well, hell, suppose, for instance, there's this big galactic league of civilized planets. But it's restricted, see? You're not eligible for membership until you, well, say until you've developed spaceflight. Then you're invited into the club. Meanwhile they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress. Paul grinned at me. I see you read the same poxy stuff I do. A Moorish girl went by, dressed in a neatly tailored gray jalaba, European-style high-heeled shoes, and a pinkish silk veil, so transparent that you could see she wore lipstick.
Very provocative, dark eyes can be over a veil. We both looked after her. I said, Oh, here's another one. Suppose you have a very advanced civilization on, say, Mars. Not Mars. No air and too bloody dry to support life. Don't interrupt, please, I said with mock severity. This is a very old civilization, and as the planet began to lose its water and air it withdrew underground. Uses hydroponics and so forth, husbands its water and air. Isn't that what we'd do in a few million years if Earth lost its water and air?" I suppose so, he said. Anyway, what about them? Well, they observe how man is going through a scientific boom, an industrial boom, a population boom, a boom period. Any day now he's going to have practical spaceships.
Meanwhile, he's also got the H-bomb, and the way he beats the drums on both sides of the curtain, he's not against using it, if he could get away with it." Paul said, "'I got it. So they're scared and are keeping an eye on us. That's an old one. I've read that a dozen times, dished up different.' I shifted my shoulders. "'Well, it's one possibility. I got a better one. How's this?' There's this alien life-form that's way ahead of us. Their civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when it began and how it was in the early days. They've gone beyond things like wars and depressions and revolutions and greed for power, or any of these things, giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars, get it?
And some of them are jolly well taken by Earth. "'Especially the way we are right now with all the problems. Get it? Things developing so fast we don't know where we're going or how we're going to get there.' I finished my beer and clapped my hands for Muli. "'How do you mean where we're going?' "'Well, take half the countries in the world today. They're trying to industrialize, modernize, catch up with the advanced countries.' Look at Egypt, and Israel, and India, and China, and Yugoslavia, and Brazil, and all the rest. Trying to drag themselves up to the level of the advanced countries, and all using different methods of doing it. But look at the so-called advanced countries, up to their bottoms of problems, juvenile delinquents, climbing crime and suicide rates, the loony bins full of the balmy, unemployed, threat of wars.
Spending all their money on armaments instead of things like schools? Oh, the bloody mess of it! Why, a man from Mars would be fascinated like—' Moolie came shuffling up in his baboosh slippers, and we both ordered another schooner of beer. Paul said seriously, "'You know, there's only one big snag in this sort of talk.' I've sorted the whole thing out before, and you always come up against this brick wall. Where are they, these observers, or scholars, or spies, or whatever they are? Sooner or later we'd nab one of them. You know, Scotland Yard, or the FBI, or Russia's secret police, or the French Soudete, or Interpol. This world is so deep in police, counter-espionage outfits, and security agents that an agent would slip up in time, no matter how much he'd been trained.
Sooner or later, he'd slip up, and they'd nab him. I shook my head. Not necessarily. The first time I ever considered this possibility, it seemed to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could use the libraries for research, get the daily newspapers and the magazines, be right in the center of things. But now I don't think so. I think he'd be right here in Tangier." Why Tangier? It's the one town in the world where anything goes. Nobody gives a damn about you or your affairs. For instance, I've known you a year or more now. And I haven't the slightest idea of how you make your living." That's right," Paul admitted. In this town you seldom ever ask a man where he's from.
He can be British, a White Russian, a Basque, a Sikh, and nobody could care less. Where are you from, Rupert? California, I told him. No, you're not," he grinned. I was taken aback. What do you mean? I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago when I was talking about Scotland Yard or the FBI, possibly flushing an alien. Telepathy is a sense not trained by the humanoids. If they had it, your job and mine would be considerably more difficult. Let's face it, in spite of these human bodies we're disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where are you really from, Rupert? Aldebaran, I said. How about you? Deneb, he told me, shaking. We had a laugh and ordered another beer.
What are you doing here on earth? I asked him. Researching for one of our meat trusts. We are protein eaters. Humanoid flesh is considered quite a delicacy. How about you? Scouting the place for thrill tourists. My job is to go around to these backward cultures and help stir up intertribal or international conflicts, all according to how advanced they are. Then our tourists come in, well-shielded, of course, and get their kicks watching it." Paul frowned. That sort of practice could spoil an awful lot of good meat.
End of I'm a Stranger Here Myself