by Unknown
“Naturally. How stupid of me, Klarloth. Well, one thing is obvious from the rocket itself: we have nothing to fear from the science of Earth for at least a few millennia. So there is no hurry, which is fortunate. For to send back the creature's memory to the time of its birth, and to follow each sensory impression in the psychograph will require—well, a time at least equivalent to the age of the creature, whatever that is, plus the time necessary for us to interpret and assimilate each.”
“But that will not be necessary, Bemj.”
“No? Oh, you mean the X-19 waves?”
“Exactly. Focused upon this creature's brain center, they can, without disturbing his memories, be so delicately adjusted as to increase his intelligence—now probably about .0001 in the scale—to the point where he is a reasoning creature. Almost automatically, during the process, he will assimilate his own memories, and understand them just as he would if he had been intelligent at the time he received those impressions.
“See, Bemj? He will automatically sort out irrelevant data and will be able to answer our questions.”
“But would you make him as intelligent as–?”
“As we? No, the X-19 waves would not work so far. I would say to about .2 on the scale. That, judging from the rocket, coupled with what we remember of Earthlings from our last trip there, is about their present place on the intelligence scale.”
“Ummm, yes. At that level, he would comprehend his experiences on Earth just sufficiently that he would not be dangerous to us, too. Equal to an intelligent Earthling. Just about right for our purpose. Then, shall we teach him our language?”
“Wait,” said Klarloth. He studied the psychograph closely for a while. “No, I do not think so. He will have a language of his own. I see in his subconscious, memories of many long conversations. Strangely, they all seem to be monologues by one person. But he will have a language—a simple one. It would take him a long time, even under treatment, to grasp the concepts of our own method of communication. But we can learn his, while he is under the X-19 machine, in a few minutes.”
“Does he understand, now, any of that language?”
Klarloth studied the psychograph again. “No, I do not believe he– Wait, there is one word that seems to mean something to him. The word 'Mitkey.' it seems to be his name, and I believe that, from hearing it many times, he vaguely associates it with himself.”
“And quarters for him—with air-locks and such?”
“Of course. Order them built.”
To say it was a strange experience for Mitkey is an understatement. Knowledge is a strange thing, even when it is acquired gradually. To have it thrust upon him–
And there were little things that had to be straightened out. Like the matter of vocal chords. His weren't adapted to the language he now found he knew. Bemj fixed that; you would hardly call it an operation because Mitkey—even with his new awareness—didn't know what was going on, and he was wide awake at the time. And they didn't explain to Mitkey about the J-dimension with which one can get at the inwardness of things without penetrating the outsides.
They figured things like that weren't in Mitkey's line, and anyway they were more interested in learning from him than teaching him. Bemj and Klarloth and a dozen others deemed worthy of the privilege. If one of them wasn't talking to him, another was.
Their questioning helped his own growing understanding. He would not, usually, know that he knew the answer to a question until it was asked. Then he'd piece it together, without knowing just how he did it (any more than you or I know how we know things) and give them the answer.
Bemj: “Iss this language vhich you sbeak a universal vun?”
And Mitkey, even though he'd never thought about it before, had the answer ready: “No, it iss not. It iss Englitch, but I remember der Herr Brofessor sbeaking of other tongues. I belief he sboke another himself origionally, but in America he always sboke Englitch to become more vamiliar mitt it. It iss a beaudiful sbeech, is it not?”
“Hmmmm,” said Bemj.
Klarloth: “Und your race, the mices. Are they treated vell?”
“Not by most people,” Mitkey told him. And explained.
“I vould like to do something for them,” he added. “Look, could I not take back mitt me this brocess vhich you used upon me? Abbly it to other mices, und greate a race of super-mices?”
“Vhy not?” asked Bemj.
He saw Klarloth looking at him strangely, and threw his mind into rapport with the chief scientist's, with Mitkey left out of the silent communion.
“Yes, of course,” Bemj told Klarloth, “It will lead to trouble on Earth, grave trouble. Two equal classes of being so dissimilar as mice and men cannot live together in amity. But why should that concern us, other than favorably? The resultant mess will slow down progress on Earth—give us a few more millennia of peace before Earthlings discover we are here, and trouble starts. You know these Earthlings.”
“But you would give them the X-19 waves? They might–”
“No, of course not. But we can explain to Mitkey here how to make a very crude and limited machine for them. A primitive one which would suffice for nothing more than the specific task of converting mouse mentality from .0001 to .2, Mitkey's own level and that of the bifurcated Earthlings.”
“It is possible,” communicated Klarloth. “It is certain that for eons to come they will be incapable of understanding its basic principle.”
“But could they not use even a crude machine to raise their own level of intelligence?”
“You forget, Bemj, the basic limitation of the X-19 rays; that no one can possibly design a projector capable of raising any mentality to a point on the scale higher than his own. Not even we.”
All this, of course, over Mitkey's head, in silent Prxlian.
More interviews, and more.
Klarloth again: “Mitkey, ve varn you of vun thing. Avoid carelessness with electricity. Der new molecular rearranchement of your brain center—it iss unstable, und–”
Bemj: “Mitkey, are you sure your Herr Brofessor iss der most advanced of all who eggsperiment vith der rockets?”
“In cheneral, yess, Bemj. There are others who on vun specific boint, such as eggsplosives, mathematics, astrovisics, may know more, but not much more. Und for combining these knowledges, he iss ahead.”
“It iss vell,” said Bemj.
Small gray mouse towering like a dinosaur over tinier half-inch Prxlians. Meek, herbivorous creature though he was, Mitkey could have killed any one of them with a single bite. But, of course, it never occurred to him to do so, nor to them to fear that he might.
They turned him inside out mentally. They did a pretty good job of study on him physically, too, but that was through the J-dimension, and Mitkey didn't even know about it.
They found out what made him tick, and they found out everything he knew and some things he didn't even know he knew. And they grew quite fond of him.
“Mitkey,” said Klarloth one day, “all der civilized races on Earth vear glothing, do they not? Vell, if you are to raise der level of mices to men, vould it not be vitting that you vear glothes, too?”
“An eggcelent idea, Herr Klarloth. Und I know chust vhat kind I should like. Der Herr Brofessor vunce showed me a bicture of a mouse bainted by der artist Dissney, und der mouse vore glothing. Der mouse vas not a real-life vun, but an imachinary mouse in a barable, and der Brofessor named me after der Dissney mouse.”
“Vot kind of glothing vas it, Mitkey?”
“Bright red bants mitt two bit yellow buttons in frondt und two in back, und yellow shoes for der back feet und a pair of yellow gloves for der front. A hole in der seat of der bants to aggomodate der tail.”
“Ogay, Mitkey. Such shall be ready for you in fife minutes.”
That was on the eve of Mitkey's departure. Originally Bemj had suggested awaiting the moment when Prxl's eccentric orbit would again take it within a hundred and fifty thousand miles of Earth. But, as Klarloth pointed
out, that would be fifty-five Earth years ahead, and Mitkey wouldn't last that long. Not unless they—and Bemj agreed that they had better not risk sending a secret like that back to Earth.
So they compromised by refueling Mitkey's rocket with something that would cancel out the million and a quarter odd miles he would have to travel. That secret they didn't have to worry about, because the fuel would be gone by the time the rocket landed.
Day of departure.
“Ve haff done our best, Mitkey, to set und time der rocket so it vill land on or near der spot from vhich you left Earth. But you gannot eggspect agguracy in a voyach so long as this. But you vill land near. The rest iss up to you. Ve half equivipped the rocket ship for effery contingency.”
“Thank you, Herr Klarloth, Herr Bemj. Gootbye.”
“Gootbye, Mitkey. Ve hate to loose you.
“Goodbye, Mitkey.”
“Gootbye, gootbye ...”
For a million and a quarter miles, the aim was really excellent. The rocket landed in Long Island Sound, ten miles out from Bridgeport, about sixty miles from the house of Professor Oberburger near Hartford.
They had prepared for a water landing, of course. The rocket went down to the bottom, but before it was more than a few dozen feet under the surface, Mitkey opened the door—especially reequipped to open from the inside—and stepped out.
Over his regular clothes he wore a neat little diving suit that would have protected him at any reasonable depth, and which, being lighter than water, brought him to the surface quickly where he was able to open his helmet.
He had enough synthetic food to last him for a week, but it wasn't necessary, as things turned out. The night boat from Boston carried him to Bridgeport on its anchor chain, and once in sight of land he was able to divest himself of the diving suit and let it sink to the bottom after he'd punctured the tiny compartments that made it float, as he'd promised Klarloth he would do.
Almost instinctively, Mitkey knew that he'd do well to avoid human being until he'd reached Professor Oberburger and told his story. The worst danger proved to be the rats at the wharf where he swam ashore. They were ten times Mitkey's size and had teeth that could have taken him apart in two bites.
But mind has always triumphed over matter. Mitkey pointed an imperious yellow glove and said, “Scram,” and the rats scrammed. They'd never seen anything like Mitkey before, and they were impressed.
So for that matter, was the drunk of whom Mitkey inquired the way to Hartford. We mentioned that episode before. That was the only time Mitkey tried direct communication with strange human beings. He took, of course, every precaution. He addressed his remarks from a strategic position only inches away from a hole into which he could have popped. But it was the drunk who did the popping, without even waiting to answer Mitkey's question.
But he got there, finally. He made his way afoot to the north side of town and hid out behind a gas station until he heard a motorist who had pulled in for gasoline inquire the way to Hartford. And Mitkey was a stowaway when the car started up.
The rest wasn't hard. The calculations of the Prxlians showed that the starting point of the rocket was five Earth miles northwest of what showed on their telescopomaps as a city, and which from the Professor's conversation Mitkey knew would be Hartford.
He got there.
“Hello, Brofessor.”
The Herr Professor Oberburger looked up, startled. There was no one in sight, “Vot?” he asked, of the air. “Who iss?”
“It is I, Brofessor. Mitkey, der mouse whom you sent to the moon. But I vas not there. Insteadt, I–”
“Vot?? It is imbossible. Soembody blays der choke. But—but nobody knows about that rocket. Vhen it vailed, I didn't told nobody. Nobody but me knows–“
“And me, Brofessor.”
The Herr Professor sighed heavily. “Offervork. I am going vhat they call battly in der bell–“
“No, Brofessor. This is really me, Mitkey. I can talk now. Chust like you.”
“You say you can—I do not belief it. Vhy can I not see you, then. Vhere are you? Vhy don't you—“
“I am hiding, Brofessor, in der vall chust behind der big hole. I vanted to be sure efferything was ogay before I showed myself Then you would not get eggcited und throw something at me maybe.”
“Vhot? Vhy, Mitkey, if it iss really you and I am not asleep or going— Vhy, Mitkey, you know better than to think I might do something like that!”
“Ogay, Brofessor.”
Mitkey stepped out of the hole in the wall, and the professor looked at him and rubbed his eyes looked again and rubbed his eyes and—
“I am grazy,” he said finally. “Red bants he vears yet, und yellow— It gannot be. I am grazy.”
“No, Brofessor. Listen, I'll tell you all about.”
And Mitkey told him.
Gray dawn, and a small gray mouse still talking earnestly.
“Yes, Brofessor. I see your boint, that you think an intelligent race of mices und an intelligent race of men could not get along side by sides. But it vould not be side by sides; as I said, there are only a ferry few beople in the smallest continent of Australia. Und it vould cost little to bring them back und turn offer that continent to us mices. Ve vould call it Moustralia instead of Australia, und ve vould instead of Sydney call der capital Dissney, in honor of—”
“But, Mitkey—”
“But, Brofessor, look vot ve offer for that continent. All mices vould go there. Ve civilize a few und the few help us catch others und bring them in to put under der ray machine, und the others help catch more und build more machines and it grows like a snowball rolling down hill. Und ve sign a nonaggression pact mitt humans und stay on Moustralia and raise own own food und—”
“But, Mitkey—”
“Vot, Brofessor?”
“It vould vork, but it would not vork. You could eggsterminate der rats, yess. But how long vould it be before clonflicts of interests vould lead to der mices trying to eggsterminate der people or der people trying to eggsterminate der–”
“They vould not dare, Brofessor. Ve could make weapons that vould–”
“You see, Mitkey?”
“But it vould not habben. If men vill honor our rights, ve vill honor–”
The Herr Professor sighed.
“I—I vill act as your intermediary, Mitkey, und offer your broposition, und— Vell, it iss true that getting rid of rats vould be a great boon to der human race. But–”
“Thank you, Brofessor.”
“By der vay, Mitkey. I half Minnie. Your vife, I gues it iss, unless there vas other mices around. Shie iss in der other room; I put her there chust before you ariffed, so she vould be in der dark und could sleep. You vant to see her?”
“Vife?” said Mitkey. It had been so long that he had really forgotten the family he had perforce abandoned. The memory returned slowly.
“Vell,” he said “–ummm, yess. Ve vill get her and I shall construct quvick a small X-19 prochector und—Yess, it vill help you in your negotiations mitt der governments if there are sefferal of us already so they can see I am not chust a freak like they might otherwise suspegt.”
It wasn't deliberate. It couldn't have been, because the Professor didn't know about Klarloth's warning to Mitkey about carelessness with electricity–”Der new molecular rarranchement of your brain center—it iss unstable, und–”
And the Professor was still back in the lighted room when Mitkey ran into the room where Minnie was in her barless cage. She was asleep, and the sight of her– Memory of his earlier days came back like a flash and suddenly Mitkey knew how lonesome he had been.
“Minnie!” he called, forgetting that she could not understand.
And stepped up on the board where she lay. “Squeak!” The mild electric current between two strips of tinfoil got him.
There was silence for a while.
Then: “Mitkey,” called Herr Professor. “Come back und ve vill discuss this–”
He steppe
d through the doorway and saw them, there in the gray light of dawn, two small gray mice cuddled happily together. He couldn't tell which was which, because Mitkey's teeth had torn off the red and yellow garments which had suddenly been strange, confining and obnoxious things.
“Vot on earth?” asked Professor Oberburger. Then he remembered the current, and guessed.
“Mitkey! Can you no longer talk? Iss der–”
Silence.
Then the professor smiled. “Mitkey,” he said, “my little star-mouse. I think you are more happier now.”
He watched them a moment, fondly, then reached down and flipped the switch that broke the electric barrier. Of course they didn't know they were free, but when the Professor picked them up and placed them carefully on the floor, one ran immediately for the hole in the wall. The other followed, but turned around and looked back—still a trace of puzzlement in the little black eyes, a puzzlement that faded.
“Gootbye, Mitkey. You vill be happier this vay. Und there vill always be cheese.”
“Squeak,” said the little gray mouse, and it popped into the hole.
“Gootbye–” it might, or might not, have meant.
Number Nine
Cleve Cartmill
The artificial increase of an animal’s intelligence, with unexpected results, is an old theme in science fiction. Cleve Cartmill tells it here a bit more amusingly than most – and plausibly; the increased intelligence does not give Number Nine the ability to speak.
On February 3, 2012 (as this anthology was being assembled), Dan Westman, a sheepdog breeder in northern Sweden, uploaded onto YouTube a video made the previous June, showing Kal village farmers Nils-Erik and Greta Vigren’s five-year-old pet rabbit Champis herding Vigren’s small flock of sheep. The beige dwarf-rabbit dashes about the farmyard, getting behind the sheep and hustling them along, hurrying to cut off any sheep straying from the flock and keeping them together. The rabbit was not taught this; Westman speculates that he probably learned by watching Vigren’s sheepdogs at work. Significantly, the dogs herd the sheep only when and where Vigren wants, by following the farmer’s signals, while the rabbit is just amusing himself by chasing the sheep across the farmyard and then back again. Even without a brain-boost, this shows a rabbit’s ability to observe and learn on its own.
