Development of Galactic Travel
Ezra Coudert
July 19. Alpha Centaurus. Staying at the Excelsior. Everybody speaks English so no trouble at all. But can't drink the water. Nuisance. Went to that marvelous lace man Linda told me about. Bought five yards for practically peanuts.
People here too dirty and positively amoral. Disgusting. And rude? ! ! ! ! Tom took pictures of some kind of silly ceremony. People began screaming at us. Tried to steal T's camera. Official came along and jabbered in broken English. "They say no more take, please. Break." Tom: "Break what?" Official: "Religious. Sacred. No take look-see. Break." Tom: "You got the nerve to tell me that clowning is religion?" Official: "Yes, please." (Pointing to camera) "Give, please. Must break please." Tom: (to me) "How about that for nerve? Give them my four-hundred-dollar camera to bust just because it's taken a few religious pictures." Self: "If it's good enough for Notre Dame, it's good enough for them." Tom gave them some money and we left.
Ran into the Trumbulls and Rogers. Took them to a marvelous bistro where Clyde Pippin is playing now. Made me homesick to hear the old Key Klub tunes. Love that man. Tom too funny pretending to be visiting dignitary. Said was famous Senator from Saturn. Said was here investigating. Scared them all to death. Laugh? I tho't I'd die! Betelgeuse next.
Conflicting cultures brought about inevitable clashes which culminated in the Great Galactic War. Betelgeuse, bankrupt and desperate, attempted a costly and controversial experiment. The government was overthrown and a one-party business despotism established under the leadership of an economic dictator.
The Political Economy of Space
Arthur Raskober
July 23. Betelgeuse. Staying at the Excelsior. Everybody speaks English, so very convenient. Can't understand talk about poverty and shortages here. Not true. Food marvelous. Plenty cream, butter, eggs, etc., here in hotel. Not true about unhappiness. All waiters, maids, etc. in hotel cheerful and smiling. And Mudinna certainly has made the planes run on time.
Went to that marvelous beautician Linda told me about. Took all my courage in both hands and cut my hair. Tres chic but was afraid to show Tom. When he finally saw, furious! ! ! Said made me look like a d—ed foreigner. He'll get used to it.
Ran into the Trumbulls and Rogers. We all went to a marvelous bistro where Clyde Pippin is playing. Love that man! After two months travel finally became cosmopolitan enough to introduce myself to him. Something would never have dared before. Now, was tremendously poised. Said: "Mr. Pippin, admired you for twenty years. Ever since was child." He: "Thanks honey." Self: "Always adored the way you sang Tree Top." He: "No, that's Charley Hoyt's number. I never sing it, honey." Self: "Well I never asked Charley Hoyt for his autograph, but I'm asking you." I was too sophisticated.
Leave for Andromeda tomorrow. Very excited. Will be high spot of entire trip.
Perhaps the most amazing incident in the course of the exploration of space was the discovery that time-travel had already been developed in Andromeda. Permission for limited use by scientists, historians and students was granted in 2754.
The Exploration of Time
Stark Robinson
August 1. Andromeda. Staying at the Excelsior. Everybody speaks English divinely. Tom and self to authorities armed with letters from Chamber of Commerce, N.A.M., Senator Wilkins, and Joe Cates whose nephew practically runs the State Dept. We wanted time-trip. They said no, not for tourists. Too expensive, only for study. Tom finally laid down the law, told a few lies and made a few threats. They said yes. You have to be firm with these eggheads.
Tom picked Sept. 5, 1665 in London. Self: "Why?" Tom: "Because is date of Great Fire that destroyed London. Always dreamed about. Always wanted to see.: Self: "Don't be childish. A fire's a fire. Want to see Marie Antoinette's clothes." Tom: "No. I swung it. So we see what / want." Selfish! Had to exchange money for Seventeenth century money. Had to wear old Seventeenth century clothes. Not properly cleaned, I tho't. Almost didn't
go-Was right. Fire is just a fire. But bought some heavenly silver and china and ten place-settings of divine flatware. Also tea set. Tom couldn't complain for once. He bought six swords and a helmet for the rumpus room decorations. Funniest thing about the trip is fact that we could hardly understand the people there. In 1665 they couldn't speak their own English. Next week, home!
Faster-than-light speed while travelling through the universe produces a physical paradox. Although the traveller is conscious of the passage of time within the space ship (Subjective Time), actually he is being transported so rapidly that the trip seems to have taken no time at all to the rest of the world. (Objective Time). In other words, a space ship leaves Andromeda on August 1, bound for earth. It is August 1 when the ship arrives. No time has elapsed in the universe. But on board the ship, travelling at faster-than-light speed, seven days have elapsed.
Paradoxes of Space Travel
Oliver Nielson
August 20. Home. Although is August 20 in this diary, is actually only June 14 here on earth. Can not get used to Subj. and Obj. time. Have been gone three months by our counting, but only 14 days by earth's counting. Hate this. Makes me feel as if I'd never left home.
Distributed all gifts we brought back. Linda was imposs. Insists she told me get her a Shocking Pink peignoir on Callisto. Not Powder Blue. That's a D–––ed lie and she knows it. She can't wear Shocking with her hair. Tom furious. Forgot to take lens cap off new camera when photographing Great Fire. All pictures blank. Now nobody believes he was important enough to wangle time-trip.
The Trumbulls and the Rogers called. Want us to get together and have reunion. Suggested the new Kolony Klub. Clyde Pippin there with his marvelous act. Dying to go, but had to refuse. Too exhausted. The universe is a great place to visit, but I'd sure hate to live there.
Fondly Fahrenheit
He doesn't know which of us we are these days, but they know one truth. You must own nothing but yourself. You must make your own life, live your own life and die your own death ... or else you will die another's.
The rice fields on Paragon III stretch for hundreds of miles like checkerboard tundras, a blue and brown mosaic under a burning sky of orange. In the evening, clouds whip like smoke, and the paddies rustle and murmur.
A long line of men marched across the paddies the evening we escaped from Paragon III. They were silent, armed, intent; a long rank of silhouetted statues looming against the smoking sky. Each man carried a gun. Each man wore a walkie-talkie belt pack, the speaker button in his ear, the microphone bug clipped to his throat, the glowing view-screen strapped to his wrist like a green-eyed watch. The multitude of screens showed nothing but a multitude of individual paths through the paddies. The annunciators made no sound but the rustle and splash of steps. The men spoke infrequently, in heavy grunts, all speaking to all.
"Nothing here."
"Where's here?"
"Jenson's fields."
"You're drifting too far west."
"Close in the line there."
"Anybody covered the Grimson paddy?"
"Yeah. Nothing."
"She couldn't have walked this far."
"Could have been carried."
"Think she's alive?"
"Why should she be dead?"
The slow refrain swept up and down the long line of beaters advancing toward the smoky sunset. The line of beaters wavered like a writhing snake, but never ceased its remorseless advance. One hundred men spaced fifty feet apart. Five thousand feet of ominous search. One mile of angry determination stretching from east to west across a. compass of heart. Evening fell. Each man lit his search lamp. The writhing snake was transformed into a necklace of wavering diamonds.
"Clear here. Nothing."
"Nothing here."
"Nothing."
"What about the Allen paddies?"
"Covering them now."
"Think we missed her?"
"Maybe."
"We'll beat back and check."
"Th
is'll be an all-night job." "Allen paddies clear."
"God damn! We've got to find her!" "We'll find her."
"Here she is. Sector seven. Tune in."
The line stopped. The diamonds froze in the heat. There was silence. Each man gazed into the glowing green screen on his wrist, tuning to sector seven. All tuned to one. All showed a small nude figure awash in the muddy water of a paddy. Alongside the figure an owner's stake of bronze read: VANDALEUR. The ends of the line converged toward the Vandaleur field. The necklace turned into a cluster of stars. One hundred men gathered around a small nude body, a child dead in a rice paddy. There was no water in her mouth. There were fingermarks on her throat. Her innocent face was battered. Her body was torn. Clotted blood on her skin was crusted and hard.
"Dead three-four hours at least."
"Her mouth is dry."
"She wasn't drowned. Beaten to death."
In the dark evening heat the men swore softly. They picked up the body. One stopped the others and pointed to the child's fingernails. She had fought her murderer. Under the nails were particles of flesh and bright drops of scarlet blood, still liquid, still uncoagulated.
"That blood ought to be clotted too."
"Funny."
"Not so funny. What kind of blood don't clot?"
"Android."
"Looks like she was killed by one."
"Vandaleur owns an android."
"She couldn't be killed by an android."
"That's android blood under her nails."
"The police better check."
"The police'll prove I'm right."
"But androids can't kill."
"That's android blood, ain't it?"
"Androids can't kill. They're made that way."
"Looks like one android was made wrong."
"Jesus!"
And the thermometer that day registered 92.9° gloriously Fahrenheit.
So there we were aboard the Paragon Queen enroute for Megaster V, James Vandaleur and his android. James Vandaleur counted his money and wept. In the second-class cabin with him was his android, a magnificent synthetic creature with classic features and wide blue eyes. Raised on its forehead in a cameo of flesh were the letters ma, indicating that this was one of the rare multiple aptitude androids, worth fifty-seven-thousand dollars on the current exchange. There we were, weeping and counting and calmly watching.
"Twelve, fourteen, sixteen. Sixteen hundred dollars," Vandaleur wept. "That's all. Sixteen hundred dollars. My house was worth ten thousand. The land was worth five. There was furniture, cars, my paintings, etchings, my plane, my— And nothing to show for everything but sixteen hundred dollars. Christ!"
I leaped up from the table and turned on the android. I pulled a strap from one of the leather bags and beat the android. It didn't move.
"I must remind you," the android said, "that I am worth fifty-seven thousand dollars on the current exchange. I must warn you that you are endangering valuable property."
"You damned crazy machine," Vandaleur shouted.
"I am not a machine," the android answered. "The robot is a machine. The android is a chemical creation of synthetic tissue."
"What got into you?" Vandaleur cried. "Why did you do it? Damn you!" He beat the android savagely.
"I must remind you that I cannot be punished," It said. "The pleasure-pain syndrome is not incorporated in the android synthesis."
"Then why did you kill her?" Vandaleur shouted. "If it wasn't for kicks, why did you—"
"I must remind you," the android said, "that the second-class cabins in these ships are not soundproofed."
Vandaleur dropped the strap and stood panting, staring at the creature he owned.
"Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?" I asked.
"I don't know," I answered.
"First it was malicious mischief. Small things. Petty destruction. I should have known there was something wrong with you then. Androids can't destroy. They can't harm. They—"
"There is no pleasure-pain syndrome incorporated in the android synthesis."
"Then it got to arson. Then serious destruction. Then assault. . . that engineer on Rigel. Each time worse. Each time we had to get out faster. Now it's murder. Christ! What's the matter with you? What's happened?"
"There are no self-check relays incorporated in the android brain."
"Each time we had to get out it was a step downhill. Look at me. In a second-class cabin. Me. James Paleologue Vandaleur. There was a time when my father was the wealthiest— Now, sixteen hundred dollars in the world. That's all I've got. And you. Christ damn you!"
Vandaleur raised the strap to beat the android again, then dropped it and collapsed on a berth, sobbing. At last he pulled himself together.
"Instructions," he said.
The multiple aptitude android responded at once. It arose and awaited orders.
"My name is now Valentine. James Valentine. I stopped off on Paragon III for only one day to transfer to this ship for Megaster V. My occupation: Agent for one privately owned ma android which is for hire. Purpose of visit: To settle on Megaster V. Forge the papers."
The android removed Vandaleur's passport and papers from a bag, got pen and ink and sat down at the table. With an accurate, flawless hand—an accomplished hand that could draw, write, paint, carve, engrave, etch, photograph, design, create and build—it meticulously forged new credentials for Vandaleur. Its owner watched me miserably.
"Create and build," I muttered. "And now destroy. Oh, God! What am I going to do? Christ! If I could only get rid of you. If I didn't have to live off you. God! If only I'd inherited some guts instead of you."
Dallas Brady was Megaster's leading jewelry designer. She was short, stocky, amoral and a nymphomaniac. She hired Valentine's multiple aptitude android and put me to work in her shop. She seduced Valentine. In her bed one night, she asked abruptly: "Your name's Vandaleur, isn't it?"
"Yes," I murmured. Then: "No! No! It's Valentine. James Valentine."
"What happened on Paragon?" Dallas Brady asked. "I thought androids couldn't kill or destroy property. Prime Directives and Inhibitions set up for them when they're synthesized. Every company guarantees they can't."
"Valentine!" Vandaleur insisted.
"Oh, come off it," Dallas Brady said. "I've known for a week. I haven't hollered copper, have I?"
"The name is Valentine."
"You want to prove it? You want I should call the police?" Dallas reached out and picked up the phone.
"For God's sake, Dallas!" Vandaleur leaped up and struggled to take the phone from her. She fended him off, laughing at him, until he collapsed and wept in shame and helplessness.
"How did you find out?" he asked at last.
"The papers are full of it. And Valentine was a little too close to Vandaleur. That wasn't smart, was it?"
"I guess not. I'm not very smart."
"Your android's got quite a record, hasn't it? Assault. Arson. Destruction. What happened on Paragon?"
"It kidnaped a child. Took her out into the rice fields and murdered her."
"Raped her?"
"I don't know."
"They're going to catch up with you."
"Don't I know it? Christ! We've been running for two years now. Seven planets in two years. I must have abandoned a hundred thousand dollars worth of property in two years."
"You better find out what's wrong with it."
"How can I? Can I walk into a repair clinic and ask for an overhaul? What am I going to say? 'My android's just turned killer. Fix it.' They'd call the police right off." I began to shake. "They'd have that android dismantled inside one day. I'd probably be booked as accessory to murder."
"Why didn't you have it repaired before it got to murder?"
"I couldn't take the chance," Vandaleur explained angrily. "If they started fooling around with lobotomies and body chemistry and endocrine surgery, they might have destroyed its aptitudes. What would I have left to hire out? How would I liv
e?"
"You could work yourself. People do."
"Work at what? You know I'm good for nothing. How could I compete with specialist androids and robots? Who can, unless he's got a terrific talent for a particular job?"
"Yeah. That's true."
"I lived off my old man all my life. Damn him! He had to go bust just before he died. Left me the android and that's all. The only way I can get along is living off what it earns."
"You better sell it before the cops catch up with you. You can live off fifty grand. Invest it."
"At 3 per cent? Fifteen hundred a year? When the android returns 15 per cent on its value? Eight thousand a year. That's what it earns. No, Dallas. I've got to go along with it."
"What are you going to do about its violence kick?"
"I can't do anything . . . except watch it and pray. What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing. It's none of my business. Only one thing . . . I ought to get something for keeping my mouth shut."
"What?"
"The android works for me for free. Let somebody else pay you, but I get it for free."
The multiple aptitude android worked. Vandaleur collected its fees. His expenses were taken care of. His savings began to mount. As the warm spring of Megaster V turned to hot summer, I began investigating farms and properties. It would be possible, within a year or two, for us to settle down permanently, provided Dallas Brady's demands did not become rapacious.
On the first hot day of summer, the android began singing in Dallas Brady's workshop. It hovered over the electric furnace which, along with the weather, was broiling the shop, and sang an ancient tune that had been popular half a century before.
Oh, it's no feat to beat the heat.
All reet! All reet!
So jeet your seat
Be fleet be fleet
Cool and discreet
Honey...
It sang in a strange, halting voice, and its accomplished fingers were clasped behind its back, writhing in a strange rumba all their own. Dallas Brady was surprised.
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