Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “And now,” the loudspeaker shouted, “we will bring you music from a planet named Ing. This music is based on a different tonal system than yours, an entirely different concept of music. But listen—it is no less beautiful for being different.”

  Music came over the loudspeaker.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Culver said.

  “I’m tone-deaf,” Grimsche said.

  Colonel Culver found his clay pipe and began to fill it. “So the weapon’s almost done? Amazing speed.”

  “Amazing,” Kyoto echoed.

  Grimsche looked at them, puzzled. Something was different about them. He didn’t care about Kyoto, but what happened to Colonel Culver?

  There was a long silence, which didn’t seem to bother Culver or Kyoto. Then Culver said, “Hungry, sergeant?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” Grimsche admitted. “Haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Come on.” Culver stood up and led Grimsche to the kitchen. “Got something here you’ll like.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a dish filled with a brownish-gray substance. “Go ahead, try it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something the Nam have been passing out. Conies from a planet called Mehvis. Damndest stuff you ever tasted.”

  “No thank you,” Grimsche said. He found a loaf of bread in the refrigerator, lettuce and cold steak, and a bottle of beer. Culver hummed abstractedly as he ate.

  “Sir,” Grimsche said finally, “is there anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Grimsche said; there’s something funny here. Has that Japanese been trying anything?”

  “Kyoto? Lord, no! What put that idea in your head?”

  “You don’t seem the same any more,” Grimsche said.

  Culver thought about it for a few moments, puffing on his pipe. “You may be right, Grimsche; but the change is natural. We had always assumed that we were the only beings in creation. Now, all of a sudden we meet an extraterrestrial race. We find that there are hundreds of thousands of inhabited planets—well, it makes you think.”

  “It doesn’t make me think,” Grimsche said.

  “It makes you wonder about a lot of things,” Culver went on. “Things like destiny, peace, war, life, meaning. A lot of things.”

  Silently they walked back into the living room.

  The music on the loudspeaker stopped, and a voice said, “Remember, for the full explanation of the Nam truth doctrines, be sure to read textbook 23, the one titled Empirical Techniques to Truth.”

  Grimsche said, “Have you got that formula XS24 stuff for the weapon?”

  Both Culver and Kyoto looked startled. Then Kyoto went to a closet and took out a small satchel. “Everything’s here,” he said.

  “Do you have a plan of battle, sir?” Grimsche asked Culver, taking the satchel.

  “Yes, certainly,” Culber said, speaking very rapidly now. “You will bring these components to Virginia. When the weapon is fully assembled, you’ll bring it back. It’s portable, isn’t it? Good. You’ve learned how to operate it? Good. The Nam are centralized in one building. Ridiculous, isn’t it? And more of them are arriving every day. Sitting ducks; we’ll go up there, aim the weapon, and blooey!”

  The colonel stopped, his face flushed. He appeared bewildered. “What was I saying? Oh yes, of course. Vou have your orders, sergeant. By the way, did you know that the Nam have a one-hour cure for schizophrenia?”

  “A wonderful process,” Kyoto murmured. “But their approach to economic stability.—”

  “Free enterprise,” Culver said, “but they solved the boom-bust cycle. You really should read some of their books, Grimsche. Amazing documents. Even after we’ve driven them off, well be indebted to them for some time.”

  Grimsche looked at the book Culver had been reading. It was titled Empirical Techniques to Truth. He opened it at random, and read, ‘It has long been considered that truth is vague, relative, a matter of shadings from black (false) into white (truth). The unreality of this point of view can be perceived by taking . . .’

  Grimsche closed the book with a snap. “Goodbye,” he said, and left.

  AFTER HE was gone, Culver turned to Kyoto. “Did you sense something strange about the sergeant?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it,” Kyoto said. “I don’t know what it could be.”

  “I don’t cither.”

  They thought in silence for long minutes. Then Kyoto said, “I know. It was when he left. He didn’t call you ‘sir’.”

  “That’s right,” Culver said thoughtfully. “He didn’t.” Culver picked up his book again. The loudspeaker began to play Dellian drum-music.

  Outside, it was twilight. Grimsche hesitated a moment, looking up and down the quiet, deserted street. He gripped the satchel firmly and started walking.

  Something was going wrong already. He could sense it. Had Colonel Culver given up?

  It didn’t seem possible. He knew Colonel Culver. There had never been a better officer, and good officers didn’t just change like that. Did they?

  Grimsche tried to examine his own attitudes. He decided that there was nothing wrong in Culver learning things from the Nam. Perhaps they did have some wonderful things. That didn’t alter the important fact; the Nam were invaders, enemies. You don’t make friends with your enemies, they have to be destroyed. Destroyed, to the last man.

  The Colonel would be all right, Grimsche decided, once he was away from the Japanese.

  As he crossed the street, he noticed a man following him. Grimsche slipped the .45 into his hand, released the safeties and cocked it. This was as good a place as any.

  l

  Gragash smiled to himself when he saw the Earthman stop, turn and face him. Excellent; that meant that the man wanted to talk. Gragash walked up to him slowly, so as not to startle him.

  The Earthman was big, self-contained, gloomy. He stood perfectly erect, motionless. But there was something unnatural about his posture. It was as though the man were standing outside himself, saying, ‘this is how I should stand.’

  Gragash topped, ten feet from the Earthman. There was no sense in startling him; this man would have to be handled with great delicacy, great care. “Pardon me,” Gragash said. “Could I have a word with you?”

  “Sure,” the Earthman said. Gragash could detect no involuntary tensing of muscles. Was this man really relaxed? Or was his self-control almost superhuman.

  “I am a Nam,” Gragash said directly-

  The Earthman nodded.

  “You seem to have a fixed, almost maniacal idea about us,” Gragash went on. “I’d like to tell you a few facts.” He hesitated. The Barthman’s stony face was unreadable, as though his features were carved of stone. It was growing darker. Gragash considered turning on a defensive screen, but decided against it; he wanted this man to realize that he was a friend. Besides, he would have time, as soon as he detected the muscle-tension that forwarns an attack.

  “You are unhappy,” Gragash said, “and I can offer you a functional insight into that unhappiness. You—”

  Gragash never saw the blow that hit him. He staggered back, trying to turn on his defensive screen, realizing how seriously he had underestimated his man. The Earthman’s conscious control was miraculous, and insane. The action had been planned, but concealed. Schizophrenic personalities were able to . . .

  The Earthman lunged forward, metal gleaming in his hand. “Wait!” Gragash screamed. But the blow fell, and Gragash stopped thinking.

  l

  TO: ARA ILDEK

  NAM IV

  SOLONES CLUSTER

  GALAXY X32-A

  SUBJECT: CIVILIZING EXPEDITION TO SOL III

  FROM: MORDESH KDAK

  ORGANIZER

  EXPEDITION 87C6

  GREETINGS:

  The great day has come! The emergent point has been reached, and successfully passed! Another planet enters the fold of civilization!

  Not every individual, of course. We were
n’t able to reach every isolated little group on the planet. But the huge population centers, the vast bulk of the planet is now civilized. The culture will diffuse outward, irrevocably. For this planet is now sane.

  You can imagine the shock to the Earthmen when the nodal point was finally reached. There is no experience like it. For an analogue, I could only take the butterfly, breaking out of its chrysalis, or perhaps the birth-process itself. Up to that point, the Earthmen had been suspicious. Their early panic had given way to hatred. Then, slowly, a growing awareness. And finally—insight!

  Since they can handle it sanely, we have given the Earthmen the rest of the necessary information.

  1. That we, the Nam, intervened only because Earth was on the verge of self-destruction. Not through self-interest.

  2. That Earth is now entitled to join (or not join, although it isn’t usual) the free planets of the Confederacy; to share equally in prosperity, trade and invention.

  3. That the entire Nam expedition is leaving at once, as soon as we can assemble our equipment. Another planet, where a genecidal atomic war is underway, needs our attention.

  The Earthmen will have no trouble reforming their governments; or government, I should say, since there is now no bar to their ancient dream of a world state. We are leaving them, as usual, spaceship prototypes, and anything else they might find useful.

  In a separate report I have listed the reactions of the Earthmen. Summarizing them, I can say: As usual, they originally considered ours a punitive expedition, and were shocked at its real purpose. They felt that altruism is a difficult ideal, instead of a workable actuality. Also, during the indoctrination many of them felt that they were being ‘hypnotized,’ or ‘brain-washed.’ Nothing could be farther from the truth. Gambits were introduced solely for the purpose of allowing them to evaluate on all levels the truth we brought them.

  There is tragedy in this victory, too. Gragash has been killed by the Earthman he was to indoctrinate; the Earthman has vanished from sight again.

  His probability-effects value has gone up to plus twenty-jive. Therefore he must be in possession of a weapon utilizing trans-atomic power.

  I must admit that I am filled with panic. Gragash was our only competent tracker. Influencing population trends isn’t difficult; but picking one man out of a population of millions—nearly impossible. We do have one advantage, though. We have a workable constrict of him, assembled from his personality as expressed through action. I have broadcast this construct to the war-mechanicals. If they find him, they are to request him to surrender, once; if he doesn’t, they are empowered to kill him.

  This step is, perhaps, a measure of my own inadequacy; but I must guard my expedition.

  What bothers me, is, why is he doing it? He must know our motives by now. Why does he persist?

  We are assembling in Washington now, preparing our departure.

  In Peace,

  Mordek Kdak, Organizer

  4

  GRIMSCHE had to wait another week before the technicians had the weapon assembled, and were certain that it would work. Then they built it into Grimsche’s suitcase, with the firing controls on the outside, near the handle. Grimsche left as soon as it was completed. He drove to the outskirts of Washington; then, noticing that there were very few cars around, he proceeded on foot, toward Culver’s brownstone.

  A man walked up to him. “Happy day, friend.”

  “Sure,” Grimsche said cautiously, his fingers near the firing control.

  “Here,” the man said, handing him a sheaf of bills. “Take them.”

  Grimsche hesitated, then took the bills. “Why?” he asked.

  “Doublefold,” the man said. “First of all, I can’t use all I have. Overcompensation. Second, you look like you need something. I don’t know if this is it, but here’s hoping it makes you happy.”

  The man walked quickly away from Grimsche, whistling. Grimsche looked at the pile of bills, then stuffed them in his pocket. He decided that the man must have been crazy.

  But the whole city seemed strange. Grimsche tried to analyze it. The buildings were the same, the streets, the stores. The people were—different.

  How? Suddenly Grimsche knew. They were happy, every damned one. He had never seen so many happy people in his life. It made him slightly ill.

  On a street corner a group of men were talking. Grimsche heard one man say, “. . . just as though I was turned inside out. Brother, I really saw myself. Not very pretty.”

  “We’re not perfect yet,” another man said.

  “No, thank God,” the first man put in quickly. “Perfection is a ridiculous ideal. The thing is—now we are at least capable of function, without tripping each other up out of sheer ignorant perversity.”

  Grimsche walked on, thinking that he was probably the only sane man in the city. Civilians, he thought contemptuously. Licking the hand of their conquerors.

  But walking made him nervous, for he realized that he was the only person around with a set, grim face. He couldn’t disguise that. He hailed a passing cab.

  The driver looked him over, then shook his head slowly. “Climb out, friend.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something wrong with you. I don’t know just what, but five minutes with you and my day’ll be ruined.”

  “You can’t put me out like that,” Grimsche said angrily; “I’ll report you to the company.”

  “Go ahead. If they fire me, I’ll take up gold-mining. But I don’t even think the boss’ll talk to you.”

  Grimsche’s first urge was to push the driver’s face in. But he couldn’t take the chance. To hell with the madman, he decided, and climbed out.

  The walk to the brownstone was a nightmare for Grimsche. He didn’t know these people any more. They weren’t Earthmen; they weren’t normal. He quickened his pace, holding the suitcase tightly. Twice he saw the great Nam war-mechanicals walking the street, but he cut out of their way each time.

  COLONEL Culver and Kyoto were in the kitchen of the brownstone, drinking beer.

  “Hello, brother,” Kyoto called gaily as he walked in. “Have a beer.”

  Grimsche ignored him and looked at Culver. The Colonel waved him to a chair.

  “The weapon’s ready,” Grimsche said. “Let’s start.”

  “Sit down,” Culver said. “The plans are changed.”

  Grimsche sat down, putting the suitcase between his knees. He slid his hands into his pockets, gripping the butt of the .45.

  “This is going to be hard to explain, if you don’t feel it,” Culver said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve been very wrong about the Nam,” Kyoto said, anxious to help. “They came here only to help us; you can understand that, can’t you, sergeant?”

  “Go on,” Grimsche said.

  “You’re net listening,” Culver said.

  “Sure I am.”

  “All right. Look at it this way,” Culver said, taking out his clay pipe and placing it on the kitchen table. “We on Earth have been fighting, killing, murdering, cheating, lying since the dawn of time. But not because we wanted to! That’s been our constant tragedy. Few of us are evil. We want to do good. We reach for the truth, but it always turns out to be illusion.”

  “That is over now,” Kyoto broke in eagerly. “The truth is really very simple, very constant. Once you see it, there’s no more confusion.”

  “Right. You’re all saints,” Grimsche said; “I can see that.”

  “No!” Culver shouted suddenly. “We’re men, with all the problems of men. But we are now sufficiently enlightened to work rationally on those problems. And we have a peaceful, cooperative galaxy to help us. And, in time, to receive our help.”

  “So?”

  “So naturally the attack is off. I’m going to destroy that weapon now.” Culver reached for the suitcase, but Grimsche had the .45 out.

  “The attack isn’t off,” Grimsche said.

  “You don’t understand—” Ky
oto began. Then he saw Grimsche’s face and retreated to the far corner of the kitchen.

  “I understand enough,” Grimsche said. “They came here without our asking them. They defeated us. They invaded us. This war isn’t over yet, not for me. Not until I’ve had my inning.”

  “Grimsche, Grimsche,” Culver said sadly. “You’re insane. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? There never was any war! What you’re considering is murder.”

  “I don’t forget my enemies,” Grimsche said, standing up and lifting the suitcase.

  Culver was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “It’s my fault, Grimsche. I picked you—and I picked too well. You’re my own personal monster, my golem; I feel like Frankenstein. And now you’re turning on your creator.” He stepped forward. “Give me the suitcase; that’s an order.”

  Grimsche shot him in the chest. The colonel was knocked back by the force of the .45. He stumbled against the kitchen table, and his clay pipe fell to the floor, shattered. Culver dropped to his knees and began to grope for the fragments. Grimsche shot him again.

  “And now you,” Grimsche said to Kyoto, standing in the corner. He shot him through the head. “That settles that score.” He shoved the .45 back in his pocket, and, holding the suitcase carefully, hurried out the door. As he ran, he felt an enormous exhilaration grip him. The dice were thrown! The moment of action had come at last, when he, he alone, would avenge Earth.

  Waiting for him in the street were two Nam robots. A small crowd of people had gathered.

  “Better give yourself up,” a man advised.

  “You’re sick.”

  “You’re insane.”

  The robots moved forward. Grimsche aimed the suitcase, adjusted quickly for range, and fired. The robots, the crowd, and a nearby building vanished.

  Grimsche began to trot toward the building that housed the Nam. He hoped he wouldn’t be picked off before he got there. It wouldn’t be fair, he thought. But everyone was a traitor now, perhaps everyone on Earth. He was the last loyal soldier. What in hell did it matter if the Nam brought gifts? They had landed on the soil of Earth. Reason enough to kill them.

  They’d get him, sooner or later, even with the marvelous weapon. But he’d get them first!