by Terry Carr
I know the answers that my colleagues will give when they get back to Earth. They will say that the universe has no purpose and no plan, that since a hundred suns explode every year in our galaxy, at this very moment some race is dying in the depths of space. Whether that race has done good or evil during its lifetime will make no difference in the end: there is no divine justice, for there is no God.
Yet, of course, what we have seen proves nothing of the sort. Anyone who argues thus is being swayed by emotion, not logic. God has no need to justify His actions to man. He who built the universe can destroy it when He chooses. It is arrogance—it is perilously near blasphemy—for us to say what He may or may not do.
This I could have accepted, hard though it is to look upon whole worlds and peoples thrown into the furnace. But there comes a point when even the deepest faith must falter, and now, as I look at my calculations, I know I have reached that point at last.
We could not tell, before we reached the nebula, how long ago the explosion took place. Now, from the astronomical evidence and the record in the rocks of that one surviving planet, I have been able to date it very exactly. I know in what year the light of this colossal conflagration reached Earth. I know how brilliantly the supernova whose corpse now dwindles behind our speeding ship once shone in terrestrial skies. I know how it must have blazed low in the East before sunrise, like a beacon in that Oriental dawn.
There can be no reasonable doubt: the ancient mystery is solved at last. Yet—O God, there were so many stars you could have used.
What was the need to give these people to the fire, that the symbol of their passing might shine above Bethlehem?
The
Christmas
Present
BY GORDON R. DICKSON
We come again to the problem of explaining the meaning of Christmas to aliens on another world—hut Gordon Dickson’s moving little story is in sharp contrast to Isaac Asimov’s “Christmas on Ganymede.” This is about a young boy who tried to teach the Christmas spirit to a creature of another world; he could not have imagined the result.
Gordon R. Dickson has written science fiction for over a quarter century, and has won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards. He is best known for his Dorsai novels.
“What is Christmas?” asked Harvey.
“It’s the time when they give you presents,” Allan Dumay told him. Allan was squatted on his mudshoes, a grubby figure of a little six-year-old boy, in the waning light over the inlet, talking to the Cidorian. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve. My daddy cut a thorn tree and my mother’s inside now, trimming it.”
“Trimming?” echoed the Cidorian. He floated awash in the cool water of the inlet. Someone—perhaps it was Allan’s father—had named him Harvey a long time ago. Now nobody called him by any other name.
“That’s putting things on the tree,” said Allan. “To make it beautiful. Do you know what beautiful is, Harvey?”
“No,” said Harvey. “I have never seen beautiful.” But he was wrong—even as, for a different reason, those humans were wrong who called Cidor an ugly swamp-planet because there was nothing green or familiar on the low mudflats that rose from its planet-wide fresh-water sea—only the stunted, dangerous thorn tree and the trailing weed. There was beauty on Cidor, but it was a different beauty. It was a black-and-silver world where the thorn trees stood up like fine ink sketches against the cloud-torn sky; and this was beautiful. The great and solemn fishes that moved about the uncharted pathways of its seas were beautiful with the beauty of large, far-traveled ships. And even Harvey, though he did not know it himself, was most beautiful of all with his swelling iridescent jellyfish body and the yard-long mantle of silver filaments spreading out through it and down through the water. Only his voice was croaky and unbeautiful, for a constricted air-sac is not built for the manufacture of human words.
“You can look at my tree when it’s ready,” said Allan. “That way you can tell.”
“Thank you,” said Harvey.
“You wait and see. There’ll be colored lights. And bright balls and stars; and presents all wrapped up.”
“I would like to see it,” said Harvey.
Up the slope of the dyked land that was the edge of the Dumay farm, reclaimed from the sea, the kitchen door of the house opened and a pale, warm finger of light reached out long over the black earth to touch the boy and the Cidorian. A woman stood silhouetted against the light.
“Time to come in, Allan,” called his mother’s voice.
“I’m coming,” he called back.
“Right away! Right now!”
Slowly, he got to his feet.
“If she’s got the tree ready, I’ll come tell you,” he said, to Harvey.
“I will wait,” said Harvey.
Allan turned and went slowly up the slope to the house, swinging his small body in the automatic rhythm of the mudshoes. The open doorway waited for him and took him in—into the light and human comfort of the house.
“Take your shoes off,” said his mother, “so you don’t track mud in.”
“Is the tree all ready?” asked Allan, fumbling with the fastenings of his calf-high boots.
“I want you to eat first,” said his mother. “Dinner’s all ready.” She steered him to the table. “Now, don’t gulp. There’s plenty of time.”
“Is Daddy going to be home in time for us to open the presents?”
“You don’t open your presents until morning. Daddy’ll be back by then. He just had to go upriver to the supply house. He’ll start back as soon as it’s light; he’ll be here before you wake up.”
“That’s right,” said Allan, solemnly, above his plate; “he shouldn’t go out on the water at night because that’s when the water-bulls come up under your boat and you can’t see them in the dark.”
“Hush,” said his mother, patting him on the shoulder. “There’s no water-bulls around here.”
“There’s water-bulls everywhere. Harvey says so.”
“Hush, now, and eat your dinner. Your daddy’s not going out on the water at night.”
Allan hurried with his dinner.
“My plate’s clean!” he called at last. “Can I go now?”
“All right,” she said. “Put your plate and silverware into the dishwasher.”
He gathered up his eating utensils and crammed them into the dishwasher; then ran into the next room. He stopped suddenly, staring at the thorn tree. He could not move—it was as if a huge, cold wave had suddenly risen up to smash into him and wash all the happy warmth out of him. Then he was aware of the sound of his mother’s footsteps coming up behind him; and suddenly her arms were around him.
“Oh, honey!” she said, holding him close, “you didn’t expect it to be like last year, did you, on the ship that brought us here? They had a real Christmas tree, supplied by the space lines, and real ornaments. We just had to make do with what we had.”
Suddenly he was sobbing violently. He turned around and clung to her. “—not a—Christmas tree—” he managed to choke out.
“But, sweetheart, it is!” He felt her hand, soothing the rumpled hair of his head. “It isn’t how it looks that makes it a Christmas tree. It’s how we think about it, and what it means to us. What makes Christmas is the loving and the giving—not how the Christmas tree looks, or how the presents are wrapped. Don’t you know that?”
“But—I—” He was lost in a fresh spate of sobs.
“What, sweetheart?”
“I—promised—Harvey—”
“Hush,” she said. “Here—” The violence of his grief was abating. She produced a clean white tissue from the pocket of her apron. “Blow your nose. That’s right. Now, what did you promise Harvey?”
“To—” He hiccupped. “To show him a Christmas tree.”
“Oh,” she said, softly. She rocked him a little in her arms. “Well, you know, honey,” she said, “Harvey’s a Cidorian; and he’s never seen a Christmas tree at all before. So this one would seem just as wo
nderful to him as that tree on the spaceship did to you last Christmas.”
He blinked and sniffed and looked at her doubtfully.
“Yes, it would,” she assured him gently. “Honey—Cidorians aren’t like people. I know Harvey can talk and even make pretty good sense sometimes—but he isn’t really like a human person. When you get older, you’ll understand that better. His world is out there in the water and everything on land like we have it is a little hard for him to understand.”
“Didn’t he ever know about Christmas?”
“No, he never did.”
“Or see a Christmas tree, or get presents?”
“No, dear.” She gave him a final hug. “So why don’t you go out and get him and let him take a look at the tree. I’ll bet he’ll think it’s beautiful.”
“Well . . . all right!” Allan turned and ran suddenly to the kitchen, where he began to climb into his boots.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” said his mother. “The breeze comes up after the sun goes down.”
He struggled into his jacket, snapped on his mudshoes and ran down to the inlet. Harvey was there waiting for him. Allan let the Cidorian climb onto the arm of his jacket and carried the great light bubble of him back into the house.
“See, there,” he said, after he had taken off his boots with one hand and carried Harvey into the living room. “That’s a Christmas tree, Harvey.”
Harvey did not answer immediately. He shimmered, balanced in the crook of Allan’s elbow, his long filaments spread like silver hair over and around the jacket of the boy.
“It’s not a real Christmas tree, Harvey,” said Allan. “But that doesn’t matter. We have to make do with what we have because what makes Christmas is the loving and the giving. Do you know that?”
“I did not know,” said Harvey.
“Well, that’s what it is.”
“It is beautiful,” said Harvey. “A Christmas tree beautiful.”
“There, you see,” said Allan’s mother, who had been standing to one side and watching. “I told you Harvey would think it was beautiful, Allan.”
“Well, it’d be more beautiful if we had some real shiny ornaments to put on it, instead of little bits of foil and beads and things. But we don’t care about that, Harvey.”
“We do not care,” said Harvey.
“I think, Allan,” said his mother, “you better take Harvey back now. He’s not built to be out of the water too long, and there’s just time to wrap your presents before bed.”
“All right,” said Allan. He started for the kitchen, then stopped. “Did you want to say good night to Harvey, Mommy?”
“Good night, Harvey,” she said.
“Good night,” answered Harvey, in his croaking voice.
Allan dressed and took the Cidorian back to the inlet. When he returned, his mother already had the wrapping papers in all their colors, and the ribbons and boxes laid out on his bed in the bedroom. Also laid out was the pocket whetstone he was giving his father for Christmas and a little inch-and-a-half-high figure he had molded out of native clay, kiln-baked and painted to send home to Allan’s grandmother and grandfather, who were his mother’s parents. It cost fifty units to ship an ounce of weight back to Earth, and the little figure was just under an ounce—but the grandparents would pay the freight on it from their end. Seeing everything ready, Allan went over to the top drawer of his closet.
“Close your eyes,” he said. His mother closed them, tight.
He got out the pair of work gloves he was giving his mother and smuggled them into one of the boxes.
They wrapped the presents together. After they were finished and had put the presents under the thorn tree, with its meager assortment of homemade ornaments, Allan lingered over the wrappings. After a moment, he went to the box that held his toys and got out the container of toy spacemen. They were molded of the same clay as his present to his grandparents. His father had made and fired them, his mother had painted them. They were all in good shape except the astrogator, and his right hand—the one that held the pencil—was broken off. He carried the astrogator over to his mother.
“Let’s wrap this, please,” he said.
“Why, who’s that for?” she asked, looking down at him. He rubbed the broken stump of the astrogator’s arm, shyly.
“It’s a Christmas present . . . for Harvey.”
She gazed at him.
Your astrogator?” she said. “How’ll you run your spaceship without him?”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” he said.
“But, honey,” she said. “Harvey’s not like a little boy. What could he do with the astrogator? He can’t very well play with it.”
“No,” said Allan. “But he could keep it. Couldn’t he?”
She smiled, suddenly.
“Yes,” she said. “He could keep it. Do you want to wrap it and put it under the tree for him?”
He shook his head, seriously.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think Harvey can open packages very well. I’ll get dressed and take it down to the inlet and give it to him now.”
“Not tonight, Allan,” his mother said. “It’s too late. You should be in bed already. You can take it to him tomorrow.”
“Then he won’t have it when he wakes up in the morning!”
“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll take it. But you’ve got to pop right into bed, now.”
“I will.” Allan turned to his closet and began to dig out his pajamas. When he was securely established in the warm, blanketing field of the bed, she kissed him and turned out everything but the night light.
“Sleep tight,” she said, and taking the broken-armed astrogator, went out of the bedroom, closing the door all but a crack behind her.
She set the dishwasher and turned it on. Then, taking the astrogator again, she put on her own jacket and mudshoes and went down to the shores of the inlet.
“Harvey?” she called.
But Harvey was not in sight. She stood for a moment, looking out over the darkened night country of low-lying earth and water, dimly revealed under the cloud-obscured face of Cidor’s nearest moon. A loneliness crept into her from the alien land and she caught herself wishing her husband were home. She shivered a little under her jacket and stooped down to leave the astrogator by the water’s edge. She had turned away and was halfway up the slope to the house when she heard Harvey’s voice calling her.
She turned about. The Cidorian was at the water’s edgehalfway out onto the land, holding wrapped up in his filaments the small shape of the astrogator. She went back down to him, and he slipped gratefully back into the water. He could move on land, but found the labor exhausting.
“You have lost this,” he said, lifting up the astrogator.
“No, Harvey,” she answered. “It’s a Christmas present. From Allan. For you.”
He floated where he was without answering, for a long moment. Finally:
“I do not understand,” he said.
“I know you don’t,” she sighed, and smiled a little at the same time. “Christmas just happens to be a time when we all give gifts to each other. It goes a long way back . . .” Standing there in the dark, she found herself trying to explain; and wondered, listening to the sound of her own voice, that she should feel so much comfort in talking to only Harvey. When she was finished with the story of Christmas and what the reasons were that had moved Allan, she fell silent. And the Cidorian rocked equally silent before her on the dark water, not answering.
“Do you understand?” she asked at last.
“No.” said Harvey. “But it is a beautiful.”
“Yes,” she said, “it’s a beautiful, all right.” She shivered suddenly, coming back to this chill damp world from the warm country of her childhood. “Harvey,” she said suddenly. “What’s it like out on the river—and the sea? Is it dangerous?”
“Dangerous?” he echoed.
“I mean with the water-bulls and all. Would one really attack a man in a boat?�
��
“One will. One will not,” said Harvey.
“Now I don’t understand you, Harvey.”
“At night,” said Harvey, “they come up from deep in the water. They are different. One will swim away. One will come up on the land to get you. One will lie still and wait.”
She shuddered.
“Why?” she said.
“They are hungry. They are angry,” said Harvey. “They are water-bulls. You do not like them?” She shuddered.
“I’m petrified.” She hesitated. “Don’t they ever bother you?”
“No. I am . . .” Harvey searched for the word. “Electric.”
“Oh.” She folded her arms about her, hugging the warmth in to her body. “It’s cold,” she said. “I’m going in.”
In the water, Harvey stirred.
“I would like to give a present,” he said. “I will make a present.”
Her breath caught a little in her throat.
“Thank you, Harvey,” she said, gently and solemnly. “We will be very happy to have you make us a present.”
“You are welcome,” said Harvey.
Strangely warmed and cheered, she turned and went back up the slope and into the peaceful warmth of the house. Harvey floating still on the water, watched her go. When at last the door had shut behind her, and all light was out, he turned and moved toward the entrance to the inlet.
It appeared he floated, but actually he was swimming very swiftly. His hundreds of hairlike filaments drove him through the dark water at amazing speed, but without a ripple. Almost, it seemed as if the water were no heavy substance to him but a matter as light as gas through which he traveled on the faintest impulse of a thought. He emerged from the mouth of the inlet and turned upriver, moving with the same ease and swiftness past the little flats and islands. He traveled upriver until he came to a place between two islands where the water was black and deep and the thorn bushes threw their sharp shadows across it in the silver path of the moonlight. Here he halted. And there rose slowly before him, breaking the smooth surface of the water, a huge and frog-like head, surmounted by two stubby cartilaginous projections above the tiny eyes. The head was as big as an oil drum, but it had come up in perfect silence. It spoke to him in vibrations through the water that Harvey understood.
