Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Cleevy found that trying not to think of something is like trying to stop an avalanche with your bare hands. He realized that the human mind couldn’t be inhibited as directly and consciously as all that. It takes time, and practice.

  He had about fifteen feet left in which to learn how not to think of a . . .

  Well, there are also card games to think about, and parties, and dogs, cats, horses, mice, sheep, wolves (move away!) and bruises, battleships, caves, lairs, dens, cubs (watch out) p-paramounts, and tantamounts and gadabouts and roundabouts and roustabouts and ins-and-outs (about eight feet) meals, food, fire, fox, fur, pigs, pokes, prams, and p-p-p-p- . . .

  The panther was about five feet away now, and crouching for the spring. Cleevy couldn’t hold back the thought any longer. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he thought:

  Pantheress!

  The panther, still crouching, faced him doubtfully.

  Cleevy concentrated on the idea of a pantheress. He was a pantheress, and what did this panther mean by frightening her that way? He thought about his (her, damn it!) cubs, a warm cave, the pleasure of tracking down squirrels . . .

  The panther advanced slowly and rubbed against Cleevy. Cleevy thought desperately, what fine weather we’ve been having, and what a fine panther this chap really is, so big, so strong, and with such enormous teeth.

  The panther purred!

  Cleevy lay down and curled an imaginary tail around him, and decided he was going to sleep. The panther stood by indecisively. He seemed to feel that something was wrong. He growled once, deep in his throat, then turned and loped away.

  The sun had just set, and the entire land was a deep blue. Cleevy found that he was shaking uncontrollably, and on the verge of hysterical laughter. If the panther had stayed another moment . . .

  He controlled himself with an effort. It was time for some serious thinking.

  Probably every animal had its characteristic thought-smell. A squirrel emitted one kind, a wolf another, and a human still another. The all-important question was, could he be traced only when he thought of some animal? Or could his thought-pattern, like an odor, be detected even when he was not thinking of anything in particular?

  Apparently, the panther had scented him only when he thought specifically of it. But that could be due to un-familiarity. His alien thought-smell might have confused the panther—this time.

  He’d just have to wait and see. The panther probably wasn’t stupid. It was just the first time that trick had been played on him.

  Any trick will work—once.

  Cleevy lay back and stared at the sky. He was too tired to move, and his bruised body ached. What would happen now, at night? Did the beasts continue to hunt? Or was there a truce of some sort? He didn’t give a damn.

  To hell with squirrels, wolves, panthers, lions, tigers, and reindeer.

  He slept.

  The next morning, he was surprised to find himself still alive. So far, so good. It might be a good day after all. Cheerfully he walked to his ship.

  All that was left of Mailship 243 was a pile of twisted metal strewn across the scorched earth. Cleevy found a bar of metal, hefted it, and slid it into his belt below the mail sack. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it gave him a certain confidence.

  The ship was a total loss. He left, and began to look for food. In the surrounding countryside there were several fruit-bearing shrubs. He sampled one warily, and found it tart but not unpleasant. He gorged himself on fruit, and washed it down with water from a nearby stream.

  He hadn’t seen any animals, so far. Of course, for all he knew, they could be closing in on him now.

  He avoided the thought and started looking for a place to hide. His best bet was to stay out of sight until the rescue ship came. He tramped over the gentle rolling hills, looking for a cliff, a tree, a cave. But the amiable landscape presented nothing larger than a six-foot shrub.

  By afternoon he was tired and irritated, and scanning the skies anxiously. Why wasn’t the ship here? It should take no longer than a day or two, he estimated, for a fast emergency ship to reach him.

  If the Postmaster was looking on the right planet.

  There was a movement in the sky. He looked up, his heart racing furiously. There was something there!

  It was a bird. It sailed slowly over him, balancing easily on its gigantic wings. It dipped once, then flew on.

  It looked amazingly like a vulture.

  He continued walking. In another moment, he found himself face to face with four blind wolves.

  That took care of one question. He could be traced by his characteristic thought-smell. Evidently the beasts of this planet had decided he wasn’t too alien to eat.

  The wolves moved cautiously toward him. Cleevy tried the trick he had used the other day. Lifting the metal bar out of his belt, he thought of himself as a female wolf searching for her cubs. Won’t one of you gentlemen help me find them? They were here only a few minutes ago. One was green, one was spotted, and the other . . .

  Perhaps these wolves didn’t have spotted cubs. One of them leaped at Cleevy. Cleevy struck him in mid-air with his bar, and the wolf staggered back.

  Shoulder to shoulder, the four closed in.

  Desperately Cleevy tried to think himself out of existence. No use. The wolves kept on coming.

  Cleevy thought of a panther.He was a panther, a big one, and he was looking forward to a meal of wolf.

  That stopped them. They switched their tails anxiously, but held their ground.

  Cleevy growled, pawed the earth and stalked forward. The wolves retreated, but one started to slip in back of him.

  He moved sideways, trying to keep from being circled. It seemed that they really didn’t believe him. Perhaps he didn’t make a good panther. They had stopped retreating. One was in back of him, and the others stood firm, their tongues lolling out on their wet, open jaws. Cleevy growled ferociously, and swung his club. A wolf darted back, but the one behind him sprang, landed on the mail sack, and knocked him over.

  As they piled on, Cleevy had another inspiration. He imagined himself to be a snake, very fast, deadly, with poison fangs that could take a wolf’s life in an instant.

  They were off him at once. Cleevy hissed, and arched his boneless neck. The wolves howled angrily, but showed no inclination to attack.

  Then Cleevy made a mistake. He knew that he should stand firm and brazen it out. But his body had its own ideas. Involuntarily he turned and sprinted away.

  The wolves loped after him, and glancing up, Cleevy could see the vultures gathering for the remains. He controlled himself and tried to become a snake again, but the wolves kept coming.

  The vultures overhead gave him an idea. As a spaceman he knew what the land looked like from the air. Cleevy decided to become a bird. He imagined himself soaring, balanced easily on an updraft, looking down on the green rolling land.

  The wolves were confused. They ran in circles, and leaped into the air. Cleevy continued soaring, higher and higher, backing away slowly as he did so.

  Finally he was out of sight of the wolves, and it was evening. He was exhausted. He had lived through another day. But evidently his gambits were good only once. What was he going to do tomorrow, if the rescue ship didn’t come?

  After it grew dark, he lay awake for a long time, watching the sky. But all he saw were stars. And all he heard was the occasional growl of a wolf, or the roar of a panther dreaming of his breakfast.

  Morning came too soon. Cleevy awoke still tired and unrefreshed. He lay back and waited for something to happen.

  Where was the rescue ship? They had had plenty of time, he decided. Why weren’t they here? If they waited too long, the panther . . .

  He shouldn’t have thought it. In answer, he heard a roar on his right.

  He stood up and moved away from the sound. He decided he’d be better off facing the wolves . . .

  He shouldn’t have thought that either, because now the roar of the panther was joined by the
howl of a wolf pack.

  Cleevy met them simultaneously. A green-yellow panther stepped daintily out of the underbrush in front of him. On the other side, he could make out the shapes of several wolves. For a moment, he thought they might fight it out. If the wolves jumped the panther, he could get away . . .

  But they were interested only in him. Why should they fight each other, he realized, when he was around, broadcasting his fears and helplessness for all to hear?

  The panther moved toward him. The wolves stayed back, evidently content to take the remains. Cleevy tried the bird routine, but the panther, after hesitating a moment, kept on coming.

  Cleevy backed toward the wolves, wishing he had something to climb. What he needed was a cliff, or even a decent-sized tree . . .

  But there were shrubs! With inventiveness born of desperation, Cleevy became a six-foot shrub. He didn’t really know how a shrub would think, but he did his best.

  He was blossoming now. And one of his roots felt a little wobbly. The result of that last storm. Still, he was a pretty good shrub, taking everything into consideration.

  Out of the corner of his branches, he saw the wolves stop moving. The panther circled him, sniffed, and cocked his head to one side.

  Really now, he thought, who would want to take a bite out of a shrub. You may have thought I was something else, but actually, I’m just a shrub. You wouldn’t want a mouthful of leaves, would you? And you might break a tooth on my branches. Who ever heard of panthers eating shrubs? And I am a shrub. Ask my mother. She was a shrub, too. We’ve all been shrubs, ever since the Carboniferous Age.

  The panther showed no signs of attacking. But he showed no signs of leaving, either. Cleevy wondered if he could keep it up. What should he think about next? The beauties of Spring? A nest of robins in his hair.?

  A little bird landed on his shoulder.

  Isn’t that nice, Cleevy thought. He thinks I’m a shrub, too. He’s going to build a nest in my branches. That’s perfectly lovely. All the other shrubs will be jealous of me.

  The bird tapped lightly at Cleevy’s neck.

  Easy, Cleevy thought. Wouldn’t want to kill the tree that feeds you . . .

  The bird tapped again, experimentally. Then, setting its webbed feet firmly, proceeded to tap at Cleevy’s neck with the speed of a pneumatic hammer.

  A damned woodpecker, Cleevy thought, trying to stay shrublike. He noticed that the panther was suddenly restive. But after the bird had punctured his neck for the fifteenth time, Cleevy couldn’t help himself. He picked up the bird and threw it at the panther.

  The panther snapped, but not in time. Outraged, the bird flew around Cleevy’s head, scouting. Then it streaked away for the quieter shrubs.

  Instantly, Cleevy became a shrub again, but that game was over. The panther cuffed at him. Cleevy tried to run, stumbled over a wolf, and fell. With the panther growling in his ear, he knew that he was a corpse already.

  The panther hesitated.

  Cleevy now became a corpse to his melting finger tips. He had been dead for days, weeks. His blood had long since drained away. His flesh stank. All that was left was rot and decay. No sane animal would touch him, no matter how hungry it was.

  The panther seemed to agree. He backed away. The wolves howled hungrily, but they too were in retreat.

  Cleevy advanced his putrefaction several days. He concentrated on how horribly indigestible he was, how genuinely unsavory. And there was conviction in back of his thought. He honestly didn’t believe he would make a good meal for anyone.

  The panther continued to move away, followed by the wolves. He was saved! He could go on being a corpse for the rest of his life, if necessary . . .

  And then he smelled truly rotten flesh. Looking around, he saw that an enormous bird had landed beside him.

  On Earth, it would have been called a vulture.

  Cleevy could have cried at that moment. Wouldn’t anything work? The vulture waddled toward him, and Cleevy jumped to his feet and kicked it away. If he had to be eaten, it wasn’t going to be by a vulture.

  The panther came back like a lightning bolt, and there seemed to be anger and frustration on that blank, furry face. Cleevy raised his metal bar, wishing he had a tree to climb, a gun to shoot, or even a torch to wave . . .

  A torch!

  He knew at once that he had found the answer. He blazed in the panther’s face, and the panther backed away, squealing. Quickly Cleevy began to burn in all directions, devouring the dry grass, setting fire to the shrubs.

  The panther and the wolves darted away.

  Now it was his turn! He should have remembered that all animals have a deep, instinctive dread of fire. By God, he was going to be the greatest fire that ever hit this place!

  A light breeze came up and fanned him across the rolling land. Squirrels fled from the underbrush and streaked away from him. Families of birds took flight, and panthers, wolves and other animals ran side by side, all thought of food driven from their minds, wishing only to escape from the fire—to escape from him!

  Dimly, Cleevy realized that he had now become truly telepathic himself. Eyes closed, he could see on all sides of him, and sense what was going on. As a roaring fire he advanced, sweeping everything before him. And he could feel the fear in their minds as they raced away.

  It was fitting. Hadn’t man always been the master, due to his adaptability, his superior intelligence? The same results obtained here, too. Proudly he jumped a narrow stream three miles away, ignited a clump of bushes, flamed, spurted . . .

  And then he felt the first drop of water.

  He burned on, but the one drop became five, then fifteen then five hundred. He was drenched, and his fuel, the grass and shrubs, were soon dripping with water.

  He was being put out.

  It just wasn’t fair, Cleevy thought. By rights he should have won. He had met this planet on its own terms, and beaten it—only to have an act of nature ruin everything.

  Cautiously, the animals were starting to return.

  The water poured down. The last of Cleevy’s flames went out. Cleevy sighed, and fainted.

  “. . . a damned fine job. You held on to your mail, and that’s the mark of a good postman. Perhaps we can arrange a medal.”

  Cleevy opened his eyes. The Postmaster was standing over him, beaming proudly. He was lying on a bunk, and overhead he could see curving metal walls.

  He was on the rescue ship.

  “What happened?” he croaked.

  “We got you just in time,” the Postmaster said. “You’d better not move yet. We were almost too late.”

  Cleevy felt the ship lift, and knew that they were leaving the surface of 3-M-22. He staggered to the port, and looked at the green land below him.

  “It was close,” the Postmaster said, standing beside Cleevy and looking down. “We got the ship’s sprinkler system going just in time. You were standing in the center of the damndest grass fire I’ve ever seen.” Looking down at the unscarred green land, the Postmaster seemed to have a moment of doubt. He looked again, and his expression reminded Cleevy of the panther he had tricked.

  “Say—how come you weren’t burned?”

  WATCHBIRD

  Strange how often the Millennium has been at hand. The idea is peace on Earth, see, and the way to do it is by figuring out angles.

  WHEN Gelsen entered, he saw that the rest of the watchbird manufacturers were already present. There were six of them, not counting himself, and the room was blue with expensive cigar smoke.

  “Hi, Charlie,” one of them called as he came in.

  The rest broke off conversation long enough to wave a casual greeting at him. As a watchbird manufacturer, he was a member manufacturer of salvation, he reminded himself wryly. Very exclusive. You must have a certified government contract if you want to save the human race.

  “The government representative isn’t here yet,” one of the men told him. “He’s due any minute.”

  “We’re getting the g
reen light,” another said.

  “Fine.” Gelsen found a chair near the door and looked around the room. It was like a convention, or a Boy Scout rally. The six men made up for their lack of numbers by sheer volume. The president of Southern Consolidated was talking at the top of his lungs about watchbird’s enormous durability. The two presidents he was talking at were grinning, nodding, one trying to interrupt with the results of a test he had run on watchbird’s resourcefulness, the other talking about the new recharging apparatus.

  The other three men were in their own little group, delivering what sounded like a panegyric to watchbird.

  Gelsen noticed that all of them stood straight and tall, like the saviors they felt they were. He didn’t find it funny. Up to a few days ago he had felt that way himself. He had considered himself a pot-bellied, slightly balding saint.

  HE sighed and lighted a cigarette. At the beginning of the project, he had been as enthusiastic as the others. He remembered saying to Macintyre, his chief engineer, “Mac, a new day is coming. Watchbird is the Answer.” And Macintyre had nodded very profoundly—another watchbird convert.

  How wonderful it had seemed then! A simple, reliable answer to one of mankind’s greatest problems, all wrapped and packaged in a pound of incorruptible metal, crystal and plastics.

  Perhaps that was the very reason he was doubting it now. Gelsen suspected that you don’t solve human problems so easily. There had to be a catch somewhere.

  After all, murder was an old problem, and watchbird too new a solution.

  “Gentlemen—” They had been talking so heatedly that they hadn’t noticed the government representative entering. Now the room became quiet at once.

  “Gentlemen,” the plump government man said, “the President, with the consent of Congress, has acted to form a watchbird division for every city and town in the country.”

  The men burst into a spontaneous shout of triumph. They were going to have their chance to save the world after all, Gelsen thought, and worriedly asked himself what was wrong with that.