Young Star Travelers

by Isaac Asimov

  “We’ve got to stay,” he said.

  When the words penetrated, there was a shuffling of feet and a muttering of disagreement. “We shouldn’t have come out here in the first place!” said Wimpy.

  Second Lieutenant Randolph began to sniffle. “I want to go home,” he announced. “Right now!”

  “Me too,” said Ozaki, “and I’m going. Let’s get out of here before it’s too late.” He started to sidle toward the door. The rest wavered, then began to follow him.

  Bill hesitated only a moment, then dashed across the control room and slammed the door shut. Wt/” he shouted, throwing himself in front of it. “It’s already too late. You can’t get away now.”

  Captain Shirey forgot about military courtesy and cocked one hard fist under his superior’s nose. “You get out of the way, or you’re going to get a bust on the snoot!”

  “You’ve got to listen to me,” said Bill frantically. “That thing’s only a mile away from us, and we’re three hundred miles out from Earth. You saw how fast it can go. If it’s looking for trouble, do you think it’s just going to sit by and let us pull away in that old flyer?”

  Wimpy started to answer and then stopped. He let his fist drop slowly to his side. “Maybe you’re right,” he said slowly. “But if we don’t run, then what?”

  “Just sit for a while and see what happens. From the way that ship’s acting, they must figure the Glorious has been abandoned. They’d never have come this close, if they didn’t. If they’re just snooping around and don’t catch on that anybody’s in here, maybe they’ll just go away.”

  There were wistful glances toward the door, but after a moment the whole contingent straggled back to their positions.

  As they watched the alien ship, a square hatch opened in its gleaming spherical hull. There was a suggestion of movement and then a long, torpedo-shaped object slowly emerged and floated free alongside the ship. There was something seated on it—something that wasn’t human! It wore a wheel-shaped spacesuit with a hemispherical vision dome bulging out from the center.

  There was a little spurt of flame from the rear of the torpedo, and then it sped away from the alien ship, twisting and looping about. The thing riding on it moved busily for a moment, adjusting the controls. Then he brought it to a halt with its nose pointing toward the Glorious.

  “What do you think they’re figuring on doing with that?” asked Wimpy in a shaky voice.

  “Using it on us.”

  “What for?”

  “How many other spaceships does Earth have? Once the Glorious is knocked out, there’s nothing left that can be used against them.”

  “But this thing can’t fight,” protested Wimpy. “And there’s nobody left that knows how to run her.”

  “She could fight once,” said Bill grimly. “Maybe she still can. And there is somebody left to run her—us!” He turned his back to the screen and snapped, “Stations!” The Guard slowly took on a semblance of order.

  “All positions on. And I mean really on! We aren’t playing any longer. I want an immediate report on the condition of this tub.”

  There was hesitation for a moment, then a sudden flurry of action at each position as switches were thrown and instruments read. When they came, the reports weren’t very encouraging.

  “All drives disconnected.”

  The Glorious couldn’t run away.

  “No missiles in the racks.”

  “No shells in the lockers.”

  The Glorious couldn’t fight.

  “There’s got to be something ” said Bill as he went over to the gunnery station. The Guardsman at the controls looked up unhappily and pointed to the long row of little red plates that registered the number of rounds available for each gun. Each was blinking out the word Empty. “Turrets and automatic trackers are still operational, but that doesn’t help any.”

  Bill stood thinking a minute. “Maybe it can,” he said finally and went back to the coordination board. “Look, gang,” he said. “What we know and what they know are two different things. They’ve no way of knowing that those guns aren’t loaded. Maybe we can pull a bluff.”

  “And if we can’t?” said somebody.

  He shrugged. “Somebody got a better idea? We can’t just sit here and let them blow up the ship.”

  Wimpy let out a sudden shout and pointed toward the screen. Bill spun around and saw the alien was leaving the torpedo and returning to his ship. He felt a sudden dryness in his throat.

  “This is it!” he yelled. “All guns on target!”

  There was a growl of powerful motors as the turrets, set in blisters along the top and sides of the Glorious, swung swiftly to zero in their long-muzzled guns on the alien ship. There was no reaction for a moment, and then a long burst of sound came from the wall speakers.

  “Do you want to answer that?”

  Bill shook his head. “Better if we don’t talk. Maybe they’ve got some sort of a translator over there. If I start shooting off my mouth, I might say the wrong thing.”

  “Bill!” There was a shout from the detection station.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t look away from the screen. The torpedo still hung motionless, its nose pointed toward the Glorious.

  “I think they’re trying to make visual contact.”

  “See if you can pick them up,” Bill ordered.

  There was a flickering in the reproduction cube of the tri-V receiver and, slowly, a distorted replica of the control room of the alien ship began to materialize. Then, as the Guardsman at the communication station struggled with his controls, the scene cleared.

  There were seven of them. They weren’t humanoid—they looked like huge, furry footballs—but they weren’t the slavering monstrosities that Bill and the rest had half expected.

  “Turn on our transmitter.”

  After a brief warm-up period, there was a bouncing of aliens and their own screen lit up. Bill stepped forward, and as sternly as he could, made a stabbing motion toward Earth with a bent forefinger. There was a small commotion while all the fur balls rolled together to form a huddle. Then one of them went bouncing over to a set of controls at the far end of their control room.

  “The bluff didn’t work,” gasped Wimpy. “They’re going to blast us with that torp!”

  “Not yet,” said Bill. “Gunnery!”

  “Yes?”

  “Automatic trackers on!”

  The Guardsman at the gunnery station looked puzzled, but he didn’t ask any questions. His hands slid forward and the parabolic mirrors that projected the UHF beams—that had once controlled the guided missiles carried by the Glorious—swung until they were centered on the silver sphere.

  “Carriers on!”

  “Check.”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement in the alien control rooms as their detectors gave warning of the beams that were striking their hull. Bill faced the tri-V scanner and held up his hand for attention. There was some more scuttling and then all the aliens faced toward their own screen. Bill withdrew one of the odd-shaped weapons that hung at his hip and held it up so they could see it.

  “Get over here, Wimpy.”

  “What for?”

  “Hurry up. And play it straight.”

  The freckle-faced second in command marched over with a military stride and saluted.

  “Q-ray,” said Bill. “Get it?”

  Wimpy started to protest and then caught himself. “Sounds crazy to me,” he muttered, “but you’re the boss.”

  Bill’s side-arm was a complicated affair with two short barrels, one capped with a green lens and the other with a red. He held the weapon out to call attention to it and then raised it and pressed a stud on the stock three times. Three bursts of red light flared out briefly.

  “Give them three quick flips on the missile beams.” The Guardsman hit the cut-off button one, two, three.

  Bill’s gun flashed red three more times.

  “Once more should give them the idea.”

  Aga
in the carrier beams were clicked on and off.

  “Make this good.” Bill pointed the weapon deliberately at Wimpy and pressed the stud. Captain Shirey stood at attention, a circle of red light glowing on his chest.

  “Now!” There was a sudden green flash as Bill jerked the other trigger.

  Immediately Wimpy let out a bloodcurdling yell and then, clawing at his chest, collapsed in a writhing heap on the floor. Bill turned back to the scanner and pointed to his gun again.

  “Three more.” By the time the barrier beams had struck the other ship twice, chaos had let loose in its control room.

  “What’s happening?”

  It was hard to tell. They were lined up in a row, their pink underbodies tilted toward the ceiling, and weak, little leglike organs waving wildly.

  “I think,” said Colonel Faust slowly, “that they’re standing on their heads.”

  But surrender was not negotiated without some difficulty. The alien who seemed to be the commander kept bouncing in and out of one of a pair of metallic cups which projected from a complex mechanism at one side of the control room. Bill finally got the idea.

  “I think they’ve got some sort of a mechanical translator and they want me to come over.”

  There was a protest from the floor. “You can’t go there!”

  “Shut up!” said Bill. “You’re supposed to be dead. Do you want to give the whole show away?” Wimpy subsided obediently. “I’ve got to go over. We can’t escort them down and, once they find out that we aren’t following, there’s nothing to keep them from making a run for it. I’ll take the flyer over. There’s a three-quarter-size pressure suit in the luggage compartment that I think I can get into. Keep me covered.”

  “With what?” softly mumbled Wimpy.

  Later, with one exception, the Solar Guard stood at attention as a small red dot crawled toward one corner of the detection screen.

  “Can I get up now?” said a plaintive voice.

  Colonel Bill Faust looked down at the sprawled form of his second in command and then suddenly doubled up and began to emit strangled sounds that were half sobs and half laughter. He finally recovered enough to reach down and pull Wimpy to his feet.

  “You were real good, Wimpy. Real good!” He went off into another hysterical paroxysm.

  Wimpy grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop it! Why did you let them go?”

  “They—they ...” Bill choked, gasped and then tried again. “They couldn’t stay any longer. They had to get home for supper.”

  “They what?” gasped Wimpy.

  “They had to get home for supper.” Bill pointed at the screen. “And there they go.”

  Faster, the red dot went, and faster still, and then it flicked out of sight.

  “I’ll bet that’s the last time they come snooping around the Reservation,” said Bill with a mysterious grin.

  “The what?”

  “The Reservation. That’s this whole star cluster.”

  Wimpy advanced purposefully and waved a fist threateningly. “Are you going to tell us what happened, or do we have to beat it out of you?”

  Bill worked hard to control himself. “Suppose,” he said at last, “that, aside from a few dead systems like Alpha Centauri, the Universe was full of life—and some of the races have had interstellar drives for so long that even the kids’ flyers are equipped with them.” He looked around at the boys.

  “Go ahead,” said Wimpy impatiently.

  “Don’t you get it?”

  They all stared at him blankly.

  “Well,” he continued, “suppose a bunch of kids were out one day, and they went poking around where they had no business being, and they found a big old ship that looked deserted.”

  “The Glorious'”

  “So, whenever they could get away, they’d sneak over and play invasion.”

  “Oh, no!” said Wimpy.

  “And then, one day, they decided to run a real all-out offensive, and one of the kids borrowed his father’s ship without bothering to ask permission. And right in the middle of the game, the turrets on the ship they thought was deserted suddenly swing around, and they find a couple of dozen space-rifles pointed directly at them. They want to run away, but they’re too scared, and to make matters worse, they get a demonstration of a horrible, strange weapon. And we thought we were scared!”

  There was silence in the control room for a moment as the Guardsmen tried to digest what had happened.

  “But what about the torpedo?” asked Wimpy.

  Bill patted the elaborate toy that hung at his right hip. “It had as much real punch as this. They were making believe that it was a vortex torpedo—they’d rigged it up with remote controls—but it was really only one of the little flyers that they turn out for the kids over there. It’s an old one, but its interstellar drive is still working.”

  He paused, then said in an offhand manner, “I brought it back with me. It’s got an adjustable warp field that’ll open up wide enough to handle a ship the size of the Glorious, and I—well, it seemed to me that, maybe, it might get space travel going. ...”

  It did.

  A Start in Life

  by Arthur Sellings

  Like Adam and Eve, these children tasted the apple of knowledge, and life was never quite the same.

  * * *

  “C-A-T spells Cat,” said Em.

  “But what is a cat?” said Paul.

  “Why, here’s a cat. Look at his big striped tail.”

  But Paul only pushed the book away petulantly. “I want a cat. A real cat I can pull the tail of.”

  “Cats aren’t made for you to pull their tails,” said Em. “Now, C-A-T spells—”

  “Cat, cat, CAT!” he wailed, kicking his little heels on the floor.

  Em hesitated, then returned to her task. “Very well. The cat sat on the mat. M-A-T, Mat. And here’s a mat.” She held it up. “A real mat.”

  Paul sniffed contemptuously and, with a child’s unanswerable logic, said, “How can you say what a cat’s made for and what a cat’s not made for, if we haven’t got a cat?”

  If Em had been human, she would have sighed. As it was, she wondered whether the child’s question was good or bad. It was good because it showed power of reasoning; bad because it might get in the way of his studies. Helen now was different. She just listened and repeated the words, but Em was never sure whether she really understood.

  “Why can't I have a real cat, Em?” said Paul. “In the book, the boy’s got a cat. Why can’t I have a cat, a real alive cat, not one in a book? An alive cat, same as we’re alive.”

  In the web of Em’s mind floated several thoughts. One was that she wasn’t really alive—not really. And that brought the feeling of something a human would have called pain. It wasn’t pain, though, but something worse, because a robot couldn’t feel pain. Another was that it was bad enough as it was, having to teach them from books showing children in circumstances that they themselves knew nothing of; having to avoid their questions, putting them off and off—

  “In the story Jay was reading me the other bedtime, they buyed a cat in a shop. Why can’t we buy a cat in a shop!” He screwed up his face and added in a plaintive little voice, “And how do you buy?"

  Really, thought Em, she would have to have a word with Jay and suggest that he be more careful about what he read to them. He was too good-natured, too easy-going.

  “How do you buy*!” Paul said again, tugging at her metal knee-joint.

  “Well, it’s giving something for something else. Like ...” She floundered. It did involve giving something for something else. She’d heard the grown-ups mention it—in the days when there had been grownups. They had joked about it the way humans did joke, because here buying and—what was it?—selling had no meaning.

  “It isn’t important,” she said.

  “What’s important?”

  “That you learn your lessons.”

  “No, I mean what does important mean?”r />
  “If you learn your lessons, you’ll learn what important means.” As she said it she realized it couldn’t be very convincing, especially to a six-year-old. So she added hastily, “You’ll learn what all the long words mean, and then you’ll be able to read all the books there are. All the big books with long words in them.”

  To her surprise, the mention of big books did not brighten his eyes as it always had before.

  “They’re all lies!” he burst out. “I don’t want to learn anything. They’re all lies about things that don’t happen. There ain’t such things as cats and trees and— and . . .’’He broke into bitter sobbing.

  “Not ain’t—aren't,” said Em, cursing herself the next moment. As if that really mattered when there were only the four of them. She reached out a hand to comfort him. But he shrugged it away.

  “Come on,” she said, trying to modulate her voice like a human, trying to be soft and gentle and comforting and knowing that she couldn’t manage it. “We do have trees, anyway.”

  He looked up, his face flushed and indignant. “They’re not trees,” he retorted vehemently. “They’re only a lot of old weeds. You can climb up real trees.”

  “I thought you said those were lies in the books about trees,” she said. This time she did manage to get a whisper into her voice so that he would understand that she was only kidding him—she hoped.

  But he only burst into a renewed fit of sobbing.

  “There are trees,” she persisted. “Leastways, there have been trees. And there will be again.” She didn’t like to think what the odds were against that, so she didn’t. “I’ve seen them with my own eyes. You believe Em, don’t you?” She put out her hand again, and this time he did not reject it. He threw himself into her hard, cold, metallic lap.

  “Oh, Em,” he sobbed. “Oh, Em!” But his tears now were not the tears of anger and separation, but of union in a common loss, so that Em, too, might have wept had she been human.

  Instead she ran her clumsy, inadequate fingers through his damp, blond hair, and said, “There, there,” but this time it was far too loud and mechanical, so she stopped talking and cradled him in her arms, rocking him till his weeping subsided.