by Jerry
“Oh, gosh, doctor, I’m afraid you’ve given away the game there,” Prior said, moving his bishop. “Check and mate, I think. But it’s almost certainly a complete accident; you’re a very much better player than I am.”
Vanderdecken gazed at the board. “Umm. Yes, I think you have it. Well.”
“Tell me, doctor, what is the upper echelon going to do about all these transfers, anyway?”
“Eh?” Vanderdecken looked up. “Oh, well, I’ve been told to return any of those transferring to duty on the station after a two-week rest. Unless there’s a really valid reason, of course. But the top brass isn’t going to put up with any more ‘sick’ transfers. No, sir. Matter of fact, I’ve got one now, a young scientist on the civilian staff, name of Gordon. Going to ship him right back in a week, though he doesn’t know it yet.”
“Gordon?” Prior asked. “Henry Gordon, in astronomy?”
“That’s the one. Do you know him?”
“Went to school together. I know him very well.” Prior looked puzzled. “Why, I ran into him a few months ago, just before he took the station job. Do you mean to tell me he’s been seeing ghosts? Why, he’s the most unimaginative . . .”
Dr. Vanderdecken chuckled. “He didn’t say he had, but he muttered a long tale about having stolen some money from an aunt of his when he was ten, and feeling that he wasn’t honest enough to work for the government. Excuses, naturally.”
“So you’re returning him to duty, doctor?”
“Of course; he signed a contract, and the government’s going to hold him to it. Another game, doctor?”
IN POWER SECTION, Quadrant Two, an engineer was checking gauges on the giant sun-heated boilers. As a pair of children ran happily, but inaudibly, out of the face of the boiler and into the solid mass of pipes, he checked off three more readings. Instinctively, he moved aside to let the next one pass, an emaciated man who muttered and pulled at his hair as he walked through. Otherwise, the engineer paid no attention. He had been seeing them for a long time now, but he was a devout Presbyterian. He had expected to see them, and was not surprised.
The only thing that really gave the engineer any feeling of disturbance was the occasional presence of a clerical collar among the passing crowds that wandered idly through. The occasional bearded, skull-capped orthodox Jew did not trouble him, but the presence of Papists, up here, did.
“MY NAME is Prior—Doctor Prior,” the young man said, extending his hand. “Medical Center asked me to come up here, to see if there’s anything can be done about some of your personnel problems. You’re Doctor Welty, I presume?”
“That’s right,” the gray man said, shaking hands limply. “You’re an M.D., I hope, Prior?”
“Certainly, doctor,” Prior smiled. “Not one of the lay psychoanalysts. You’ve probably received notice of my coming up, then?”
“Oh, sure.” The gray man closed the dispensary door, and sat down. “Take a chair.
You’ll find the whiskey just behind you.”
“But regulations . . .”
“You’ll need it,” the gray man advised him.
SIX THOUSAND MILES below, Henry Gordon sat at his desk and carefully reread his notice of refusal of transfer. When he had finished the last sentence, which said “. . . in view of the above mentioned contract, we find that you still have fourteen months to remain on duty,” he put the letter down. He opened the desk drawer and took out a Smith & Wesson, caliber .32, five-chambered, single action revolver.
Henry Gordon then shot himself in the head, once.
PRIOR poured a small drink, studying the other doctor carefully. Obviously the neurosis was present, but a trace of alcoholism was also there. This man would have to be recommended for transfer, for the good of the profession. As for the ghosts . . .
Susanna Smedley (1948-1981) trotted hastily through the room, bisecting the examination table in her arrowlike passage.
Prior spilled what was left in his glass. Dr. Welty refilled it for him.
“I imagine you occasionally have a little trouble with—well, slight optical effects?” Prior asked, trying not to look at the bulkhead.
The gray man chuckled, grimly. “Ghosts, you mean?”
“Well, now, doctor, if the men call them that . . .”
“Call them that? That’s what they are. Son, you’re sitting in the midst of the Great Beyond. The population of the heavens is continually walking through here, back and forth. And . . . and a drink’s what I need.” He took one, quickly.
Prior laughed, a little hollowly. “Come, now, doctor. We’re both too intelligent to fall prey to superstit—ulp.”
He looked down at the table, but it was hard not to notice Elwell Thompson (1834-1863). The gray man chuckled.
“Superstition, doctor,” Prior continued. “I realize you people up here are having some sort of difficulty, but I’m sure it can be worked out on a scientific basis. I can’t see that these things we see—you do see them too, don’t you, doctor?”
The gray man nodded. “I see ’em, all right.”
“Well. Now, there’s no reason to think these are the spirits of the dead. Gravity may have something to do with it, or possibly—well, there’s a fantastic idea which I’d still consider preferable to any pseudo-religious notions. Just suppose that these are some sort of projections which the Russians have rigged up to keep us from making a real success of . . . oop.”
Prior stared up into the pale, slightly transparent features of Henry Gordon, still carrying the impress of a 32-caliber slug. He walked slowly through the room, wearing a felt hat tipped back on his bullet-pierced head. Prior knew the hat; Henry had worn it all through college. He had been quite attached to it.
In the middle of the room, Henry stopped, and looked back at Prior. He lifted the hat politely, and stepped out through the wall, walking in the general direction of the Lesser Pleiades.
“Must be a friend of yours,” Doctor Welty said. “Never saw one of them take any notice of us before . . . hey. Now, what’s the matter with you, anyway?”
THE GENTLE EARTH
Christopher Anvil
Christopher Anvil’s Alien Invaders tend to get into trouble on Earthy it seems—trouble that wouldn’t be troublesome to the local talent, who “happen” to be ideally adapted to meet it . . .
Tlasht Bade, Supreme Commander of Invasion Forces, drew thoughtfully on his slim cigar. “The scouts are all back?”
Sission Runckel, Chief of the Supreme Commander’s Staff, nodded. “They all got back safely, though one or two had difficulties with some of the lower life forms.”
“Is the climate all right?”
Runckel abstractedly reached in his tunic, and pulled out a thing like a short piece of tarred rope. As he trimmed it, he scowled. “There’s some discomfort, apparently because the air is too dry. But on the other hand, there’s plenty of oxygen near the planet’s surface, and the gravity’s about the same as it is back home. We can live there.”
Bade glanced across the room at a large blue, green, and brown globe, with irregular patches of white at top and bottom. “What are the white areas?”
“Apparently, chalk. One of our scouts landed there, but he’s in practically a state of shock. The brilliant reflectivity in the area blinded him, a huge white furry animal attacked him, and he barely got out alive. To cap it all, his ship’s insulation apparently broke down on the way back, and now he’s in the sick bay with a bad case of space-gripe. All we can get out of him is that he had severe prickling sensations in the feet when he stepped out onto the chalk dust. Probably a pile of little spiny shells.”
“Did he bring back a sample?”
“He claims he did. But there’s only water in his sample box. I imagine he was delirious. In any case, this part of the planet has little to interest us.”
Bade nodded. “What about the more populous regions?”
“Just as we thought. A huge web of interconnecting cities, manufacturing centers, and rural areas. O
ur mapping procedures have proved to be accurate.”
“That’s a relief. What about the natives?”
“Erect, land-dwelling, ill-tempered bipeds,” said Runckel. “They seem to have little or no planet-wide unity. Of course, we have large samplings of their communications media. When these are all analyzed, we’ll know a lot more.”
“What do they look like?”
“They’re pink or brown in color, quite tall, but not very broad or thick through the chest. A little fur here and there on their bodies. No webs on their hands or feet, and their feet are fantastically small. Otherwise, they look quite human.”
“Their technology?”
Runckel sucked in a deep breath and sat up straight. “Every bit as bad as we thought.” He picked up a little box with two stiff handles, squeezed the handles hard, and touched a glowing wire on the box to his piece of black rope. He puffed violently.
Bade turned up the air-conditioning. Billowing clouds of smoke drew away from Runckel in long streamers, so that he looked like an island looming through heavy mist. His brow was creased in a foreboding scowl.
“Technologically,” he said, “they are deadly. They’ve got fission and fusion, indirect molecular and atomic reaction control, and a long-reaching development of electron flow and pulsing devices. So far, they don’t seem to have anything based on deep rearrangement or keyed focusing. But who knows when they’ll stumble on that? And then what? Even now, properly warned and ready they could give us a terrible struggle.”
Runckel knocked a clinker off his length of rope and looked at Bade with the tentative, judging air of one who is not quite sure of another’s reliability. Then he said, loudly and with great firmness, “We have a lot to be thankful for. Another five or ten decades delay getting the watchships up through the cloud layer, and they’d have had us by the throat. We’ve got to smash them before they’re ready, or we’ll end up as their colony.”
Bade’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always opposed this invasion on philosophical grounds. But it’s been argued and settled. I’m willing to go along with the majority opinion.” Bade rapped the ash off his slender cigar and looked Runckel directly in the eyes. “But if you want to open the whole argument up all over again—”
“No,” said Runckel, breathing out a heavy cloud of smoke. “But our micromapping and radiation analysis shows a terrific rate of progress. It’s hard to look at those figures and even breathe normally. They’re gaining on us like a shark after a minnow.”
“In that case,” said Bade, “let’s wake up and hold our lead. This business of attacking the suspect before he has a chance to commit a crime is no answer. What about all the other planets in the universe? How do we know what they might do some day?”
“This planet is right beside us!”
“Is murder honorable as long as you do it only to your neighbor? Your argument is self-defense. But you’re straining it.”
“Let it strain, then,” said Runckel angrily. “All I care about is that chart showing our comparative levels of development. Now we have the lead. I say, drag them out by their necks and let them submit, or we’ll thrust their heads underwater and have done with them. And anyone who says otherwise is a doubtful patriot!”
Bade’s teeth clamped, and he set his cigar carefully on a tray.
Runckel blinked, as if he only appreciated what he had said by its echo.
Bade’s glance moved over Runckel deliberately, as if stripping away the emblems and insignia. Then Bade opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a pad of dun-colored official forms. As he straightened, his glance caught the motto printed large on the base of the big globe. The motto had been used so often in the struggle to decide the question of invasion that Bade seldom noticed it any more. But now he looked at it. The motto read:
Them Or Us
Bade stared at it for a long moment, looked up at the globe that represented the mighty planet, then down at the puny motto. He glanced at Runckel, who looked back dully but squarely. Bade glanced at the motto, shook his head in disgust, and said, “Go get me the latest reports.”
Runckel blinked. “Yes, sir,” he said, and hurried out.
Bade leaned forward, ignored the motto, and thoughtfully studied the globe.
Bade read the reports carefully. Most of them, he noted, contained a qualification. In the scientific reports, this generally appeared at the end:
“. . . Owing to the brief time available for these observations, the conclusions presented herein must be regarded as only provisional in character.”
In the reports of the scouts, this reservation was usually presented in bits and pieces:
“. . . And this thing, that looked like a tiny crab, had a pair of pincers on one end, and I didn’t have time to see if this was the end it got me with, or if it was the other end. But I got a jolt as if somebody squeezed a lighter and held the red-hot wire against my leg. Then I got dizzy and sick to my stomach. I don’t know for sure if this was what did it, or if there are many of them, but if there are, and if it did, I don’t see how a man could fight a war and not be stung to death when he wasn’t looking. But I wasn’t there long enough to be sure . . .”
Another report spoke of a “Crawling army of little six-legged things with a set of oversize jaws on one end, that came swarming through the shrubbery straight for the ship, went right up the side and set to work eating away the superplast binder around the viewport. With that gone, the ship would leak air like a fishnet. But when I tried to clear them away, they started in on me. I don’t know if this really proves anything, because Rufft landed not too far away, and he swears the place was like a paradise. Nevertheless, I have to report that I merely set my foot on the ground, and I almost got marooned and eaten up right on the spot.”
Bade was particularly uneasy over reports of a vague respiratory difficulty some of the scouts noticed in the region where the first landings were planned. Bade commented on it, and Runckel nodded.
“I know,” said Runckel. “The air’s too dry. But if we take time to try to provide for that, at the same time they may make some new advance that will more than nullify whatever we gain. And right now their communications media show a political situation that fits right in with our plans. We can’t hope for that to last forever.”
Bade listened as Runckel described a situation like that of a dozen hungry sharks swimming in a circle, each getting its jaws open for a snap at the next one’s tail. Then Runckel described his plan.
At the end, Bade said, “Yes, it may work out as you say. But listen, Runckel, isn’t this a little too much like one of those whirlpools in the Treacherous Islands? If everything works out, you go through in a flash. But one wrong guess, and you go around and around and around and around and you’re lucky if you get out with a whole skin.”
Runckel’s jaw set firmly. “This is the only way to get a clear-cut decision.”
Bade studied the far wall of the room for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a hand at these plans sooner.”
“Sir,” said Runckel, “You would have, if you hadn’t been so busy fighting the whole idea.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you be coming to the staff review of plans?”
“Certainly,” said Bade.
“Good,” said Runckel. “You’ll see that we have it all worked to perfection.”
Bade went to the review of plans and listened as the details were gone over minutely. At the end, Runckel gave an overall summary:
“The Colony Planet,” he said, rapping a pointer on maps of four hemispheric views, “is only seventy-five percent water, so the land areas are immense. The chief land masses are largely dominated by two hostile power groups, which we may call East and West. At the fringes of influence of these power groups live a vast mass of people not firmly allied to either.
“The territory of this uncommitted group is well suited to our purposes. It contains many pleasant islands and comfortable seas. Unfortunately, analysis shows that the dangerous milit
ary power groups will unite against us if we seize this territory directly. To avoid this, we will act to stun and divide them at one stroke.”
Runckel rapped his pointer on a land area lettered “North America,” and said, “On this land mass is situated a politico-economic unit known as the U.S. The U.S. is the dominant power both in the Western Hemisphere and in the West power group. It is surrounded by wide seas that separate it from its allies.
“Our plan is simple and direct. We will attack and seize the central plain of the U.S. This will split it into helpless fragments, any one of which we may crush at will. The loss of the U.S. will, of course, destroy the power balance between East and West. The East will immediately seize the scraps of Western power and influence all over the globe.
“During this period of disorder, we will set up our key-tool factories and a light-duty forceway network. In rapid stages will then come ore-converters, staging plants, fabricators, heavy-duty forceway stations and self-operated production units. With these last we will produce energy-conversion units and storage piles by the million in a network to blanket the occupied area. The linkage produced will power our damper units to blot out missile attacks that may now begin in earnest.
“We will thus be solidly established on the planet itself. Our base will be secure against attack. We will now turn our energies to the destruction of the U.S.S.R. as a military power.” He reached out with his pointer to rap a new land mass.
“The U.S.S.R. is the dominant power of the East power group. This will by now be the only hostile power group remaining on the planet. It will be destroyed in stages.
“In Stage I we will confuse the U.S.S.R. by propaganda. We will profess friendship while we secretly multiply our productive facilities to the highest possible degree.
“In Stage II, we will seize and fortify the western and northern islands of Britain, Novaya Zemlya, and New Siberia. We will also seize and heavily fortify the Kamchatka Peninsula in the extreme eastern U.S.S.R. We will now demand that the U.S.S.R. lay down its arms and surrender.
