Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “That’s about how I figured it,” said his companion wearily. “Why even bother?”

  “Earthman’s burden, maybe. Anyway, the program is: first we manufacture some 99, then we make a protolens, then we build a ship around them . . . How long did they say we had before this planet starts frying like henfruit on a griddle?”

  “About a week. Is that plenty?”

  “Well,” said Gaynor soberly, “considering that it took us upwards of two years to finish the Prototype, when we had all the resources we needed, and enough radioactive substances to fill a pickle barrel, it isn’t exactly too much time. Of course, we have the experience now.”

  “Right again,” said Clair sullenly. “Doesn’t it irritate you—this business of never being wrong?”

  “Sorry, bud—it’s the way I’m built. Like clockwork—you give me the data and I click out the answers, right every time . . . Well, we seem to be missing just about everything. It will be sort of hard getting away from here without any sort of a ship. But does that stop the Rover Boys of space?”

  “Yes,” said Clair flatly. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves. I’d sooner drink slow poison than have one of their psychotaxidermists put this nice brain of mine into one of those asbestos lizards. And I know like I know my own name that you would, too.”

  There was no answer to that. But Gaynor was spared the necessity of inventing one when the doorbell rang—just like on Earth. Eager for any distraction, he answered it.

  Gooper stepped in, a rare smile on his face. “Greetings, friends,” he said cheerily.

  “Yeah?” growled Clair. “What are you happy about?”

  “It’s a fine day outside,” said the Gaylen, “the air is bracing, all machinery’s working beautifully—and we’ve worked out a solution to your particular problem.”

  “That so?” asked Gaynor. “What is it?”

  “Wait a couple days and you’ll see,” said the Gaylen confidently. “We boys down at the Heavy Industries Trust want to surprise you.”

  “You might yell ‘boo!’ at us when we’re not looking,” said Gaynor sourly. “Nothing else could surprise us about you.”

  “I agree with my collaborator,” confirmed Clair. “Go away, Gooper. And stay away until we send for you, please. We have a lot of heavy thinking to do.”

  “Oh, all right—if you want it that way,” snapped Gooper, petulantly. He huffed out of the door, leaving the two Earthmen slumped despondently over a bench, thinking with such intensity that you could smell their short hairs frizzled with the heat.

  TWO days later they were still sitting, though they had stopped the flow of thought a few times for food, sleep, and the other necessities of the body.

  “Art,” said Clair.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you suppose that Gooper had the McCoy when he said that they’d solved our problem?”

  “I doubt it. No good can come from a Gaylen—take that for an axiom.”

  “I know they’ve got bad habits. But where would we be if it weren’t for them?”

  “Are you glad you’re here?” cried Gaynor savagely.

  “Not very. But its better than lying poisoned in the Prototype. And their projector—the one they used to drag us in is a marvelous gadget—even you should admit that.”

  “Why?” asked Gaynor glumly.

  “Because,” said Clair complacently, “I just figured out an answer to our difficulties, and the projector forms a large part of it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah! Because all we have to do is to coax the Gaylens into letting us have some sort of a shell—a boiler or a water-tank will do, if it’s gas-tight—and then fix it up for living purposes.” Clair sat back triumphantly.

  “And what good does that do us? We can’t stay in it forever, if that’s what you’re driving at—even if we could get one that was a good enough insulator to keep out the heat.”

  “Far from it. I examined their traction-projectors, and learned how to work them. They’re a good deal like our own artificial-gravity units, which, you may remember, are now floating around in the Prototype somewhere. Only these things are powered by electricity, and they don’t require a great deal of that, either. I’ve been trying to dope out just how they work, but I haven’t got very far, and Gooper keeps referring me to the experts in the field whenever I ask him. But I can handle them all right, so if we stick a quartz window in the shell, and install the projector, and seal it up nice and tidy—”

  “We can take off!” yelled Gaynor. “Art, you have it!” He whooped with joy. “We can tack out into space—”

  “Head for the nearest star—”

  “Raise our own garden truck with hydroponics—”

  “Maybe locate some radium—”

  “Live long and useful lives until we do—”

  “And if not, what the hell!” finished Gaynor.

  “So we’ll call up Gooper and have it done.” Clair began punching the combination of wall-studs that customarily sent their host and name-sake dashing into the room, but for once he actually preceded the summons.

  “Something I want to show you,” he said as he entered.

  “Lead on,” said Clair exuberantly, and all together they mounted the moving ramp. Clair began to describe his brainchild.

  But halfway through Gooper stamped his foot and uttered an impatient exclamation.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Clair, surprised. “Won’t it work?”

  “We wanted to surprise you,” said Gooper mournfully. “Remember?”

  “Distinctly. But where is this surprise?”

  “Here,” said Copper as they dismounted, leading the way into a rodm of colossal proportions. And there on the floor, looking small amid its surroundings, but bulking very large beside the hundred-odd men who were tinkering with it, was the very image of Clair’s machine—a mammoth ex-steam boiler, fitted with quartz ports and a gastight door, containing full living quarters, supplies, and a gravity projector.

  CLAIR and Gaynor staggered back in mock astonishment. “Pavlik,” said Clair gravely. “I like their system of production here. No sooner does one dream up a ship than its on the ways and ready to be launched.”

  “Let’s look the blighter over,” said Gaynor. “What shall we call it?”

  “Archetype,” said Clair instantly. “The primitive progenitor of all space ships. Archie for short.”

  “Not Archie,” said Gaynor, making a mouth of distaste. “No dignity there. How about calling it the Ark?”

  “That’ll do. Archetype she is, now and forever more.” They entered the capacious port and looked cautiously around.

  “Big, isn’t it?” Gaynor commented superfluously.

  “Very big. Hydroponics tanks and everything. Stores and spare parts too.”

  “We left little to chance,” said Gooper proudly. “This may be the last job of engineering of any complexity that our people will do for some time, so we made it good and impressive, both. I don’t see how, outside of diving into the sun, you can manage to get hurt in this thing.”

  “What are those?” suddenly asked Clair, pointing to a brace of what looked like diving suits.

  “In case you want to explore our unaffected planet,” said Gooper.

  “Are there any?” cried Gaynor, his eyes popping.

  “Only one. It will be well out of the danger zone. You can even settle the Ark there if you like, instead of living in space. Its gravity is a bit high, but not too much so.”

  “Look, Gooper,” broke in Clair. “I just had a simply marvelous idea.”

  “What is it?” asked the Gaylen with suspicious formality.

  “You have a bit of time left. If you work hard, enough time to fabricate more of these ships, to transport a lot of your people to that planet. Why not do it? You probably couldn’t get all of them there in time, but a good nucleus, say, for development.”

  Gooper scratched his head thoughtfully. “Psychologies differ,” he said finally. “And we stan
d in utter terror of space travel. We would sooner go through the fantastic hells of our ancient religious ancestors than venture outside the atmosphere. Without a doubt this has cost us much in knowledge we might have gained—but some things are unaccountable, and this is one of them, I suppose. Do you understand?”

  “No,” said Gaynor bluntly. “But I don’t suppose there’s much need to understand. It’s a fact, and it’s there. Well, there’s an end. When can we take off?”

  “Right now, if you wish,” said the Gaylen. He gestured at a control man high in a little box stuck to one of the transparent walls, and slowly the mighty vaulted roof of the place split and began to roll back. “Just turn on the power and you’ll flit away from the planet,” he said. “After that, you’re on your own.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Proteans

  “IT IS bigger than I thought,” said Clair absently, staring through the port of the Ark.

  “Mean the planet?” asked Gaynor.

  “What else, ape? Do we land?”

  “I suppose so.” Gaynor peered down at the mighty world spinning slowly beneath them. “Then the question is—how?”

  “Find a nice soft spot and let go,” suggested Gaynor. “Anyway, you’re the navigator. You dope it out.”

  In answer, his companion sent the ship into a vicious lurch that spilled Gaynor out of the hammock into which he had just crawled. “Necessary maneuver,” he explained genially.

  “Necessary like a boil behind the ear,” grunted Gaynor. “Let me take over.”

  Lazily they drifted down for a short period, then came to a near halt, perhaps five thousand feet above the ground, settled, fell again, halted; settled again, fell, and landed with a shattering jolt.

  “VERY neat, pal,” said Clair with disgust oozing from his tones. “Very neat.”

  “I could do better with the practice,” said Gaynor diffidently. “Do you want I should go up again and come down again maybe?”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Clair hastily. “Let’s get out and case the joint.”

  They donned fur garments thoughtfully laid out by one of the nameless builders of the Ark and stepped through the port. Clair took one deep breath and choked inelegantly. “Smells like the back room of McGuire’s Bar and Grill,” he said, burying his nostrils in his furs.

  “How does the gravity strike you, Art?” said Gaynor.

  “Easy, Pavlik, easy. A little heavier than is conducive to comfort, but agreeable in many ways. It seems to be dragging yesterday’s dinner right out of my stomach, but it’s not too bad. How’s for you?”

  “I feel sort of light in the head and heavy everywhere else. But I can thrive on anything that doesn’t knock you for a loop.”

  “See any animal life?”

  “Not yet. The Gaylens didn’t mention any, did they?”

  “No. But they couldn’t—all they know about any of their planetary brethren is what they can see at long range,” said Clair.

  “True for you, Art. Now, what would you call this?” As he spoke Gaynor pulled from the flint-hard soil a thing that seemed a cross between planet and animal. It looked at him glumly, squeaked once, and died.

  “Possibly you’ve slain a member of the leading civilization of this globe,” said Clair worriedly.

  “I doubt that. You don’t find advancement coupled with soil-feeding.”

  “There’s another reason why this thing isn’t the leading representative of the life of this planet,” said Clair, staring weakly over Gaynor’s shoulder. “Unless they built it, which I don’t believe.”

  Gaynor spun around and stared wildly. It was a city, a full-fledged metropolis which had sprung up behind his back. It was—point for point and line for line—the skyline of New York.

  Then the city got up and began to walk toward them with world-shaking strides.

  “You mean the city with legs?” Gaynor cried, beginning to laugh hysterically.

  “My error,” said Clair elaborately, passing a hand before his eyes. “I mean the giraffe.”

  Gaynor looked again, and where the city had been was now a giraffe. It looked weird and a trifle pathetic ambling across the flinty plain. It seemed to be having more than a little trouble in coordinating its legs.

  “Must be an inexperienced giraffe,” muttered Gaynor. “No animal that knew what it was doing would walk like that.”

  “You’re right,” said Clair vaguely. “But you can’t blame it. It hasn’t been a giraffe very long, and it wants practice. What next, do you suppose?”

  “Possibly a seventy-ton tank.” And the moment the words left Gaynor’s mouth he regretted them. For the giraffe dwindled into a tiny lump, and then the lump swelled strangely and took shape, becoming just that—a seventy-ton tank, half a mile away, bearing down on them with murder and sudden death in its every line and curve.

  WITHIN a couple of yards of the humans the tank dwindled again to a thing more like a whale than anything else in the travelers’ pretty wide experience—but with some features all of its own.

  “Hello,” said Gaynor diffidently, for lack of something more promising to say or do.

  And a mouth formed in the prow of the creature. “Hello,” responded the mouth.

  “I presume you’re friendly,” said Gaynor, drawn and mad. “At lease, I hope so.”

  “Quite friendly,” said the mouth. “Are you?”

  “Oh, quite,” cried Gaynor enthusiastically, sweat breaking forth on his brow. “Is there anything I can do for you to prove it?”

  “Yes,” said the mouth. “Go away.”

  “Gladly,” said Gaynor. “But there are reasons for us being here—”

  “Do they really matter?” asked the mouth. “To a Protean, I mean.”

  “To a what?”

  “To a Protean. That, I deduce from your rather disgusting language, is what you would eventually come to call me, from my protean powers of changing shape. That’s what I am—a Protean, probably the highest form of life in this or any universe.”

  “You’re a little flip for a very high form of life,” muttered Clair sullenly.

  “I learned it from you, after all, the whole language. And naturally I learned your little ‘flip’ tricks of talking. Would you like a demonstration of my practically infinite powers—something to convince you?”

  “Not at all necessary,” interrupted Gaynor hastily. “I—we believe you. We’ll leave right away.”

  “No,” said the Protean. “You can’t, and you know you can’t. Moreover, while it is certain that your presence here disturbs me and my people with your very sub-grade type of thought, we have so constituted ourselves that we are merciful to a fault. If we weren’t we’d blast the planet to ashes first time we got angry. I want to do you both a favor. What shall it be?”

  “Well,” brooded Gaynor, “there’s a woman at the bottom of it all.”

  “Females again!” groaned the Protean. “Thank God we reproduce by binary fission! But go on—sorry I interrupted.”

  “Her name is Jocelyn, and she’s lost.”

  “Well?” demanded the mouth.

  “Well what?”

  “Shall I see that she stays lost or do you want her to be found?”

  “Found, by all means found!” cried Gaynor.

  “Thanks. Wait for me.” Then the Protean vanished for a moment and became a perfect duplicate in size and scale of the Ark. Then it flashed up and out of sight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  New Sun—and Old

  GAYNOR stared at Clair—stared at him hard. Then he coughed. With a start his partner came to. “Anything wrong, Paul?” he asked soberly.

  “Anything wrong. Anything wrong,” murmured Gaynor quietly, almost to himself. Then he exploded, “Art, you bloody idiot, don’t you realize that we were in the presence of a Protean—the mightiest organism of any time or space? It even admits it—it must be so!”

  “I’m sorry, Paul,” said Clair gently. “But I was busy with a theory. I noticed something, y
es, but it didn’t seem terribly important at the time. What happened to the giraffe we were talking to?”

  Gaynor choked. It was rarely that this happened—but when it did something usually came of it. The first of these near-trances he had witnessed had come when Clair, in the middle of the Nobel Prize award, had glazed his eyes and stood like a log, leaving Gaynor to make a double speech of acceptance. And all the way back to America he had been in a trance, mumbling vaguely when spoken to, or not answering at all.

  A dot appeared in the sky—two dots. As they swooped down Gaynor recognized, with a jumping heart, the Prototype being towed by what looked like the Archetype, but really was, of course, the Protean who had forced the favor on him.

  Gently they landed, almost at his feet. And then the Ark turned into the whale-like creature again, and the mouth remarked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes. How do we get back to Earth?”

  “Ha!” laughed the creature. “You can think up some funny ones. Please visualize the planet for my benefit. I’ll have to explore your mind a little for this. Have I your permission to do so?”

  “Certainly!” cried Gaynor.

  “Thank you,” said the Protean, as the man began to concentrate on the more salient features of his native planet.

  “I said thank you,” repeated the creature to the expectantly waiting Gaynor. “It’s all over. You didn’t have too much of a mind to explore.”

  Gaynor was disappointed—the Gaylen mind-teachers had been a lot more spectacular, and a lot less insulting. “Well,” he asked, “funny as it may seem to you, how do we get back to the place?”

  “You know already,” said the Protean. “At least, your colleague does. Why don’t you ask him? Now will you leave?”

  “Certainly,” said Gaynor, puzzled but eager. “And all our thanks to you for your kindness.”

  “Just being neighborly,” said the Protean. Whereupon it dwindled into a tiny worm-like thing which slipped down an almost imperceptible hole in the ground.