The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r)

by Robert Silverberg

  He’d have to try a different tactic.

  Down below, he could see the blue-white ammonia ice that was the frozen atmosphere of Ganymede. Shimmering gently amid the whiteness was the transparent yellow of the Dome beneath whose curved walls lived the Ganymede Colony. Even forewarned, Preston shuddered. Surrounding the Dome was a living, writhing belt of giant worms.

  “Lovely,” he said. “Just lovely.”

  Getting up, he clambered over the mail sacks and headed toward the rear of the ship, hunting for the auxiliary fuel-tanks.

  Working rapidly, he lugged one out and strapped it into an empty gun turret, making sure he could get it loose again when he’d need it.

  He wiped away sweat and checked the angle at which the fuel-tank would face the ground when he came down for a landing. Satisfied, he knocked a hole in the side of the fuel-tank.

  “Okay, Ganymede,” he radioed. “I’m coming down.”

  He blasted loose from the tight orbit and rocked the ship down on manual. The forbidding surface of Ganymede grew closer and closer. Now he could see the iceworms plainly.

  Hideous, thick creatures, lying coiled in masses around the Dome. Preston checked his spacesuit, making sure it was sealed. The instruments told him he was a bare ten miles above Ganymede now. One more swing around the poles would do it.

  He peered out as the Dome came below and once again snapped on the radio.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to come down and burn a path through those worms of yours. Watch me carefully, and jump to it when you see me land. I want that airlock open, or else.”

  “But—”

  “No buts!”

  He was right overhead now. Just one ordinary-type gun would solve the whole problem, he thought. But Postal Ships didn’t get guns. They weren’t supposed to need them.

  He centered the ship as well as he could on the Dome below and threw it into automatic pilot. Jumping from the control panel, he ran back toward the gun turret and slammed shut the plexilite screen. Its outer wall opened and the fuel-tank went tumbling outward and down. He returned to his control-panel seat and looked at the viewscreen. He smiled.

  The fuel-tank was lying near the Dome—right in the middle of the nest of iceworms. The fuel was leaking from the puncture.

  The iceworms writhed in from all sides.

  “Now!” Preston said grimly.

  The ship roared down, jets blasting. The fire licked out, heated the ground, melted snow—ignited the fuel-tank! A gigantic flame blazed up, reflected harshly off the snows of Ganymede.

  And the mindless iceworms came, marching toward the fire, being consumed, as still others devoured the bodies of the dead and dying.

  Preston looked away and concentrated on the business of finding a place to land the ship.

  * * * *

  The holocaust still raged as he leaped down from the catwalk of the ship, clutching one of the heavy mail sacks, and struggled through the melting snows to the airlock.

  He grinned. The airlock was open.

  Arms grabbed him, pulled him through. Someone opened his helmet.

  “Great job, Postman!”

  “There are two more mail sacks,” Preston said. “Get men out after them.”

  The man in charge gestured to two young colonists, who donned spacesuits and dashed through the airlock. Preston watched as they raced to the ship, climbed in, and returned a few moments later with the mail sacks.

  “You’ve got it all,” Preston said. “I’m checking out. I’ll get word to the Patrol to get here and clean up that mess for you.”

  “How can we thank you?” the official-looking man asked.

  “No need to,” Preston said casually. “I had to get that mail down here some way, didn’t I?”

  He turned away, smiling to himself. Maybe the Chief had known what he was doing when he took an experienced Patrol man and dumped him into Postal. Delivering the mail to Ganymede had been more hazardous than fighting off half a dozen space pirates. I guess I was wrong, Preston thought. This is no snap job for old men.

  Preoccupied, he started out through the airlock. The man in charge caught his arm. “Say, we don’t even know your name! Here you are a hero, and—”

  “Hero?” Preston shrugged. “All I did was deliver the mail. It’s all in a day’s work, you know. The mail’s got to get through!”

  PRIME COMMANDMENT

  Originally published in Science Fiction Stories, January 1958.

  If the strangers had come to World on any night but The Night of No Moon, perhaps the tragedy could have been avoided. Even had the strangers come that night, if they had left their ship in a parking orbit and landed on World by dropshaft it might not have happened.

  But the strangers arrived on World on The Night of No Moon, and they came by ship—a fine bright vessel a thousand feet long, with burnished gold walls. And because they were a proud and stiff-necked people, and because the people of World were what they were, and because the god of the strangers was not the God of the World, The Night of No Moon was the prelude to a season of blood.

  Down at the Ship, the worshipping was under way when the strangers arrived. The ship sat embedded in the side of the hill, exactly where it had first fallen upon World; open in its side was the hatch through which the people of World had come forth.

  The bonfire blazed, casting bright shadows on the corroded, time-stained walls of the Ship. The worshipping was under way. Lyle of the Kwitni knelt in a deep genuflection, forehead inches from the warm rich loam of World, muttering in a hoarse monotone the Book of the Ship. At his side stood the priestess Jeen of McCaig, arms flung wide, head thrown back, as she recited the Litany of the Ship in savage bursts of half-chanted song.

  “In the beginning there was the ship—”

  “Kwitni was the Captain, McCaig the astrogator,” came the droning antiphonal response of the congregation, all five hundred of the people of World, crouching in the praying-pit surrounding the Ship.

  “And Kwitni and McCaig brought the people through the sky to World—”

  “And they looked upon World and found it good,” was the response.

  “And down through the sky did the people come—”

  “Down across the light-years to World.”

  “Out of the Ship!”

  “Out of the Ship!”

  On it went, a long and ornate retelling of the early days of World, when Kwitni and McCaig, with the guidance of the Ship, had brought the original eight-and-thirty safely to ground. During the three hundred years the story had grown; six nights a year there was no moon, and the ceremonial retelling took place. And five hundred and thirteen were the numbers of the people on this Night of No Moon when the strangers came.

  Jeen of the McCaig was the first to see them, as she stood before the Ship waiting for the ecstasy to sweep over her and for her feet to begin the worship dance. She was young, and this was only her fourth worship; she waited with some impatience for the frenzy to seize her.

  Suddenly a blaze of light appeared in the dark moonless sky. Jeen stared. In her twenty years she had never seen fire in the heavens on The Night of No Moon.

  And her sharp eyes saw that the fire was coming closer, that something was dropping through the skies toward them. And a shiver ran down her back, and she felt the coolness of the night winds against her lightly clad body. She heard the people stirring uneasily behind her.

  Perhaps it was a miracle, she thought. Perhaps the Ship had sent some divine manifestation. Her heart pounded; her flanks glistened with sweat. The worshipping drew near its climax, and Jeen felt the dance-fever come over her, growing more intense as the strange light approached the ground.

  She wriggled belly and buttocks sensuously and began the dance, the dance of worship that concluded t
he ceremony, while from behind her came the pleasure-sounds of the people as they, too, worshipped the Ship in their own ways. For the commandment of the old lawgiver Lorresson had been, Be happy, my children, and the people of World expressed their joy while the miracle-light plunged rapidly Worldward.

  * * * *

  Eleven miles from the Hill of the Ship, the strange light finally touched ground—not a light at all, but a starship, golden-hulled, a thousand feet long and bearing within itself the eight hundred men and women of the Church of the New Resurrection, who had crossed the gulf of light-years in search of a world where they might practice their religion free from interference and without the distraction of the presence of countless billions of the unholy.

  The Blessed Myron Brown was the leader of this flock and the captain of their ship, the New Galilee. Fifth in direct line from the Blessed Leroy Brown himself, Blessed Myron Brown was majestic of bearing and thunderous of voice, and when his words rang out over the ship phones saying, “Here we may rest here we may live,” the eight hundred members of the Church of the New Resurrection rejoiced in their solemn way, and made ready for the landing.

  They were not tractable people. The tenets of their Church were two: that the Messiah had come again on Earth, died again, been reborn, and in his resurrection prophesied that the Millennium was at hand—and, secondly, that He had chosen certain people to lead the way in the forthcoming building of New Jerusalem.

  And it was through the mouth of Blessed Leroy Brown that He spoke, in the two thousand nine hundred and seventieth year since His first birth, and the Blessed Leroy Brown did name those of Earth who had been chosen for holiness and salvation. Many of the elect declined the designation, some with kindly thanks, some with scorn. The Blessed Leroy Brown died early, the protomartyr of his Church, but his work went on.

  And a hundred years passed and the members of his Church were eight hundred in number, proud God-touched men and women who denounced the sinful ways of the world and revealed that judgment was near. There were martyrs, and the way was a painful one for the Blessed. But they persevered, and they raised money (some of their members had been quite wealthy in their days of sin) and when it became clear that Earth was too steeped in infamy for them to abide existence on it any further, they built their ark, the New Galilee, and crossed the gulf of night to a new world where they might live in peace and happiness and never know the persecution of the mocking ones.

  They were a proud and stubborn people, and they kept the ways of God as they knew them. They dressed in gray, for bright colors were sinful, and they covered their bodies but for face and hands, and when a man knew his wife it was for the production of children alone. They made no graven images and they honored the sabbath, and it was their very great hope that on Beta Andromedae XII they could at last be at peace.

  But fifteen minutes after their landing they saw that this was not to be. For, while the women labored to erect camp and the men hunted provisions, the Blessed Enoch Brown, son of the leader Myron, went forth in a helicopter to survey the new planet.

  And when he returned from his mission his dour face was deeper than usual with woe, and when he spoke it was in a sepulchral tone.

  “The Lord has visited another tribulation upon us, even here in the wilderness.”

  “What have you seen?” the blessed Myron asked.

  “This world is peopled!”

  “Impossible! We were given every assurance that this was a virgin world, without colonists, without native life.”

  “Nevertheless,” the Blessed Enoch said bitterly, “There are people here. I have seen them. Naked savages who look like Earthpeople—dancing and prancing by the light of a huge bonfire round the rotting hulk of an abandoned spaceship that lies implanted in a hillside.” He scowled. “I flew low over them. Their bodies were virtually bare, and their flesh was oiled, and they leaped wildly and coupled like animals in the open.”

  For a moment the Blessed Myron Brown stared bleakly at his son, unable to speak. The blood drained from his lean face. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with anger.

  “Even here the Devil pursues us.”

  “Who can these people be?”

  The Blessed Myron shrugged. “It makes little difference. Perhaps they are descendants of a Terran colonial mission—a ship bound for a more distant world, that crashed here and sent no word to Earth.” He stared heavenward for a moment, at the dark and moonless sky, and muttered a brief prayer. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will visit these people and speak with them. Now let us build our camp.”

  * * * *

  The morning dawned fresh and clear, the sun rising early and growing warm rapidly, and shortly after morning prayer a picked band of eleven Resurrectionist men made their way through the heavily wooded area that separated their camp from that of the savages. The women of the Church knelt in the clearing and prayed, while the remaining men went about their daily chores.

  The Blessed Myron Brown led the party, and with him were his son Enoch and nine others. They strode without speaking through the woods. The Blessed Myron experienced a certain discomfort as the great yellow sun grew higher in the sky and the forest warmed; he was perspiring heavily beneath his thick gray woolen clothes. But this was merely a physical discomfort, and those he could bear with ease.

  This other torment, though, that of finding people on this new world—that hurt him. He wanted to see these people with his own eyes, and look upon them.

  Near noon the village of the natives came in sight; the Blessed Myron was first to see it. He saw a huddle of crude low huts built around a medium-sized hill, atop which rose the snout of a corroded spaceship that had crashed into the hillside years, perhaps centuries earlier. The Blessed Myron pointed, and they went forward.

  And several of the natives advanced from the village to meet them. There was a girl, young and fair, and a man, and all the man wore was a scanty white cloth around his waist, and all the girl wore was the breechcloth and an additional binding around her breasts. The rest of their bodies—lean, tanned—were bare. The Blessed Myron offered a prayer that he would be kept from sin.

  The girl stepped forward and said, “I’m the priestess Jeen of the McCaig. This is Lyle of Kwitni, who is in charge. Who are you?”

  “You—you speak English?” the Blessed Myron asked.

  “We do. Who are you, and what are you doing on World? Where did you come from? What do you want here?”

  The girl was openly impudent; and the sight of her sleek thighs made the muscles tighten along the Blessed Myron’s jaws. Coldly he said, “We have come here from Earth. We will settle here.”

  “Earth? Where is that?”

  The Blessed Myron smiled knowingly and glanced at his son and at the others. He noticed in some disapproval that Enoch was staring with perhaps too much curiosity at the lithe girl. “Earth is the planet from beyond the sky where you originally came from,” he said. “Long ago—before you declined into savagery.”

  “You came from the place we came from?” The girl frowned. “We are not savages, though.”

  “You run naked and perform strange ceremonies by night. This is savagery. But all this must change. We will help you regain your stature as Earthmen again; we will show you how to build houses instead of shabby huts. And you must learn to wear clothing again.”

  “But surely we need no more clothing than this,” Jeen said in surprise. She reached out and plucked a section of the Blessed Myron’s gray woolen vestments between two of her fingers. “Your clothes are wet with the heat. How can you bear such silly things?”

  “Nakedness is sinful,” the Blessed Myron thundered.

  Suddenly the man Lyle spoke. “Who are you to tell us these things? Why have you come to World?”

  “To worship God freely.”

  The pair of natives exchang
ed looks. Jeen pointed at the half-buried spaceship that gleamed in the noonday sun. “To worship with us?”

  “Of course not! You worship a ship, a piece of metal. You have fallen into decadent ways.”

  “We worship that which has brought us to World, for it is holy,” Jeen snapped hotly. “And you?”

  “We, too, worship That which has brought us to the world. But we shall teach you. We—”

  The Blessed Myron stopped. He no longer had an audience. Jeen and Lyle had whirled suddenly and both of them sprinted away, back toward the village.

  The churchmen waited for more than half an hour. Finally the Blessed Myron said, “They will not come back. They are afraid of us. Let us return to our settlement and decide what is to be done.”

  They heard laughing and giggling coming from above. The Blessed Myron stared upward.

  The trees were thick with the naked people; they had stealthily surrounded them. The Blessed Myron saw the impish face of the girl Jeen.

  She called down to him: “Go back to your God and leave us alone, silly men! Leave World by tomorrow morning or we’ll kill you!”

  Enraged, the Blessed Myron shook his fist at the trees. “You chattering monkeys, we’ll make human beings of you again!”

  “And make us wear thick ugly clothes and worship a false god? You’d have to kill us first—if you could!”

  “Come,” the blessed Myron said. “Back to the settlement. We cannot stay here longer.”

  * * * *

  That evening, in the rude church building that had been erected during the day, the elders of the Church of the New Resurrection met in solemn convocation, to discuss the problem of the people of the forest.

  “They are obviously descendants of a wrecked colony ship,” said the Blessed Myron, “But they make of sin a virtue. They have become as animals. In time they will merely corrupt us to their ways.”