by Isaac Asimov
I tried to stop her. No use.
She finally said, “And here I am all alone, with nobody,” and broke off contact.
Well, she was right. I felt like the lowest heel in the Galaxy.
I went back into the reception room. A flunky outside the door saluted me in.
I stared at the three industrialists and speculated on the order in which I would slowly choke each to death if I could but receive choking orders. Harponaster first, maybe. He had a thin, stringy neck that the fingers could go round neatly and a sharp Adam’s apple against which the thumbs could find purchase.
It cheered me up infinitesimally, to the point where I mustered, “Boy!” just out of sheer longing, though it was no boy I was longing for.
It started them off at once. Ferrucci said, “Boyl the watern the spout you goateeming rain over us, God savior pennies—”
Harponaster of the scrawny neck added, “Nies and nephew don’t like orporalley cat.”
Lipsky said, “Cattle corral go down off a ductilitease drunk.”
“Drunkle aunterior passageway! a while.”
“While beasts oh pray.”
“Prayties grow.”
“Grow way.”
“Waiter.”
“Terble.”
“Ble.”
Then nothing.
They stared at me. I stared at them. They were empty of emotion (or two were) and I was empty of ideas. And time passed.
I stared at them some more and thought about Flora. It occurred to me that I had nothing to lose that I had not already lost. I might as well talk about her.
I said, “Gentlemen, there is a girl in this town whose name I will not mention for fear of compromising her. Let me describe her to you, gentlemen.”
And I did. If I say so myself, the last two hours had honed me to such a fine force-field edge that the description of Flora took on a kind of poetry that seemed to be coming from some wellspring of masculine force deep in the subbasement of my unconscious.
And they sat frozen, almost as though they were listening, and hardly ever interrupting. People under Spaceoline have a kind of politeness about them. They won’t speak when someone else is speaking. That’s why they take turns.
I kept it up with a kind of heartfelt sadness in my voice until the loud-speaker announced in stirring tones the arrival of the Space Eater.
That was that. I said in a loud voice, “Rise, gentlemen.”
“Not you, you murderer,” and my magnetic coil was on Ferrucci’s wrist before he could breathe twice.
Ferrucci fought like a demon. He was under no Spaceoline influence. They found the altered Spaceoline in thin flesh-colored plastic pads hugging the inner surface of his thighs. You couldn’t see it at all; you could only feel it, and even then it took a knife to make sure.
Afterward, Rog Crinton, grinning and half insane with relief, held me by the lapel with a death grip. “How did you do it? What gave it away?”
I said, trying to pull loose, “One of them was faking a Spaceoline jag. I was sure of it. So I told them,” (I grew cautious—none of his business as to the details, you know) “… uh, about a girl, see, and two of them never reacted, so they were Spaceolined. But Ferrucci’s breathing speeded up and the beads of sweat came out on his forehead. I gave a pretty dramatic rendition, and he reacted, so he was under no Spaceoline. Now will you let me go?”
He let go and I almost fell over backward.
I was set to take off. My feet were pawing the ground without any instruction from me—but then I turned back.
“Hey, Rog,” I said, “can you sign me a chit for a thousand credits without its going on the record—for services rendered to the service?”
That’s when I realized he was half insane with relief and very temporary gratitude, because he said, “Sure, Max, sure. Ten thousand credits if you want.”
“I want,” I said, grabbing him for a change. “I want. I want.”
He filled out an official Service chit for ten thousand credits; good as cash anywhere in half the Galaxy. He was actually grinning as he gave it to me and you can bet I was grinning as I took it.
How he intended accounting for it was his affair; the point was that I wouldn’t have to account for it to Hilda.
I stood in the booth, one last time, signaling Flora. I didn’t dare let matters go till I reached her place. The additional half hour might just give her time to get someone else, if she hadn’t already.
Make her answer. Make her answer. Make her—
She answered, but she was in formal clothes. She was going out and I had obviously caught her by two minutes.
“I am going out,” she announced. “Some men can be decent. And I do not wish to see you in the henceforward. I do not wish ever to find my eyes upon you. You will do me a great favor, Mister Whoeveryouare, if you unhand my signal combination and never pollute it with—”
I wasn’t saying anything. I was just standing there holding my breath and also holding the chit up where she could see it. Just standing there. Just holding.
Sure enough, at the word “pollute” she came in for a closer look. She wasn’t much on education, that girl, but she could read “ten thousand credits” faster than any college graduate in the Solar System.
She said, “Max! For me?”
“All for you, baby,” I said, “I told you I had a little business to do. I wanted to surprise you.”
“Oh, Max, that’s sweet of you. I didn’t really mind. I was joking. Now you come right here to me.” She took off her coat.
“What about your date?” I said.
“I said I was joking,” she said.
“I’m coming,” I said faintly.
“With every single one of those credits now,” she said roguishly.
“With every single one,” I said.
I broke contact, stepped out of the booth, and now, finally, I was set—set—
I heard my name called. “Max! Max!” Someone was running toward me. “Rog Crinton said I would find you here. Mamma’s all right after all, so I got special passage on the Space Eater and what’s this about ten thousand credits?”
I didn’t turn. I said, “Hello, Hilda.”
And then I turned and did the hardest thing I ever succeeded in doing in all my good-for-nothing, space-hopping life.
I managed to smile.
THE GENTLE VULTURES
For fifteen years now, the Hurrians had maintained their base on the other side of the Moon.
It was unprecedented; unheard of. No Hurrian had dreamed it possible to be delayed so long. The decontamination squads had been ready; ready and waiting for fifteen years; ready to swoop down through the radioactive clouds and save what might be saved for the remnant of survivors.—In return, of course, for fair payment.
But fifteen times the planet had revolved about its Sun. During each revolution, the satellite had rotated not quite thirteen times about the primary. And in all that time the nuclear war had not come.
Nuclear bombs were exploded by the large-primate intelligences at various points on the planet’s surface. The planet’s stratosphere had grown amazingly warm with radioactive refuse. But still no war.
Devi-en hoped ardently that he would be replaced. He was the fourth Captain-in-charge of this colonizing expedition (if it could still be called so after fifteen years of suspended animation) and he was quite content that there should be a fifth. Now that the home world was sending an Arch-administrator to make a personal survey of the situation, his replacement might come soon. Good!
He stood on the surface of the Moon, encased in his space-suit, and thought of home, of Hurria. His long, thin arms moved restlessly with the thought, as though aching (through millions of years of instinct) for the ancestral trees. He stood only three feet high. What could be seen of him through the glass-fronted head plate was a black and wrinkled face with the fleshy, mobile nose dead-centered. The little tuft of fine beard was a pure white in contrast. In the rear of the suit, ju
st below center, was the bulge within which the short and stubby Hurrian tail might rest comfortably.
Devi-en took his appearance for granted, of course, but was well aware of the difference between the Hurrians and all the other intelligences in the Galaxy. The Hurrians alone were so small; they alone were tailed; they alone were vegetarians—they alone had escaped the inevitable nuclear war that had ruined every other known intelligent species.
He stood on the walled plain that extended for so many miles that the raised and circular rim (which on Hurria would have been called a crater, if it were smaller) was invisible beyond the horizon. Against the southern edge of the rim, where there was always some protection against the direct rays of the Sun, a city had grown. It had begun as a temporary camp, of course, but with the years, women had been brought in, and children had been born in it. Now there were schools and elaborate hydroponics establishments, large water reservoirs, all that went with a city on an airless world.
It was ridiculous! All because one planet had nuclear weapons and would not fight a nuclear war.
The Arch-administrator, who would be arriving soon, would undoubtedly ask, almost at once, the same question that Devi-en had asked himself a wearisome number of times.
Why had there not been a nuclear war?
Devi-en watched the hulking Mauvs preparing the ground now for the landing, smoothing out the unevennesses and laying down the ceramic bed designed to absorb the hyperatomic field-thrusts with minimum discomfort to the passengers within the ship.
Even in their space-suits, the Mauvs seemed to exude power, but it was the power of muscle only. Beyond them was the little figure of a Hurrian giving orders, and the docile Mauvs obeyed. Naturally.
The Mauvian race, of all the large-primate intelligences, paid their fees in the most unusual coin, a quota of themselves, rather than of material goods. It was a surprisingly useful tribute, better than steel, aluminum, or fine drugs in many ways.
Devi-en’s receiver stuttered to life. “The ship is sighted, sir,” came the report. “It will be landing within the hour.”
“Very good,” said Devi-en. “Have my car made ready to take me to the ship as soon as landing is initiated.”
He did not feel that it was very good at all.
The Arch-administator came, flanked by a personal retinue of five Mauvs. They entered the city with him, one on each side, three following. They helped him off with his space-suit, then removed their own.
Their thinly haired bodies, their large, coarse-featured faces, their broad noses and flat cheekbones were repulsive but not frightening. Though twice the height of the Hurrians and more than twice the breadth, there was a blankness about their eyes, something completely submissive about the way they stood, with their thick-sinewed necks slightly bent, their bulging arms hanging listlessly.
The Arch-administrator dismissed them and they trooped out. He did not really need their protection, of course, but his position required a retinue of five and that was that.
No business was discussed during the meal or during the almost endless ritual of welcome. At a time that might have been more appropriate for sleeping, the Arch-administrator passed small fingers through his tuft of beard and said, “How much longer must we wait for this planet, Captain?”
He was visibly advancing in age. The hair on his upper arms was grizzled and the tufts at the elbows were almost as white as his beard.
“I cannot say, your Height,” said Devi-en humbly. “They have not followed the path.”
“That is obvious. The point is, why have they not followed the path? It is clear to the Council that your reports promise more than they deliver. You talk of theories but you give no details. Now we are tired of all this back on Hurria. If you know of anything you have not told us, now is the time to talk of it.”
“The matter, your Height, is hard to prove. We have had no experience of spying on a people over such an extended period. Until recently, we weren’t watching for the right things. Each year we kept expecting the nuclear war the year after and it is only in my time as Captain that we have taken to studying the people more intensively. It is at least one benefit of the long waiting time that we have learned some of their principal languages.”
“Indeed? Without even landing on their planet?’
Devi-en explained. “A number of radio messages were recorded by those of our ships that penetrated the planetary atmosphere on observation missions, particularly in the early years. I set our linguistics computers to work on them, and for the last year I have been attempting to make sense out of it all.”
The Arch-administrator stared. His bearing was such that any outright exclamation of surprise would have been superfluous. “And have you learned anything of interest?”
“I may have, your Height, but what I have worked out is so strange and the underpinning of actual evidence is so uncertain that I dared not speak of it officially in my reports.”
The Arch-administrator understood. He said, stiffly, “Would you object to explaining your views unofficially— to me?”
“I would be glad to,” said Devi-en at once. “The inhabitants of this planet are, of course, large-primate in nature. And they are competitive.”
The other blew out his breath in a kind of relief and passed his tongue quickly over his nose. “ I had the queer notion,” he muttered, “that they might not be competitive and that that might—But go on, go on.”
“They are competitive,” Devi-en assured him. “Much more so than one would expect on the average.”
“Then why doesn’t everything else follow?”
“Up to a point it does, your Height. After the usual long incubation period, they began to mechanize; and after that, the usual large-primate killings became truly destructive warfare. At the conclusion of the most recent large-scale war, nuclear weapons were developed and the war ended at once.”
The Arch-administrator nodded. “And then?”
Devi-en said, “What should have happened was that a nuclear war ought to have begun shortly afterward and in the course of the war, nuclear weapons would have developed quickly in destructiveness, have been used nevertheless in typical large-primate fashion, and have quickly reduced the population to starving remnants in a ruined world.”
“Of course, but that didn’t happen. Why not?”
Devi-en said, “There is one point. I believe these people, once mechanization started, developed at an unusually high rate.”
“And if so?” said the other. “Does that matter? They reached nuclear weapons the more quickly.”
“True. But after the most recent general war, they continued to develop nuclear weapons at an unusual rate. That’s the trouble. The deadly potential had increased before the nuclear war had a chance to start and now it has reached a point where even large-primate intelligences dare not risk a war.”
The Arch-administrator opened his small black eyes wide. “But that is impossible. I don’t care how technically talented these creatures are. Military science advances rapidly only during a war.”
“Perhaps that is not true in the case of these particular creatures. But even if it were, it seems they are having a war; not a real war, but a war.”
“Not a real war, but a war,” repeated the Arch-administrator blankly. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Devi-en wiggled his nose in exasperation. “This is where my attempts to draw logic out of the scattered material we have picked up is least satisfactory. This planet has something called a Cold War. Whatever it is, it drives them furiously onward in research and yet it does not involve complete nuclear destruction.”
The Arch-administrator said, “Impossible!”
Devi-en said, “There is the planet. Here we are. We have been waiting fifteen years.”
The Arch-administrator’s long arms came up and crossed over his head and down again to the opposite shoulders. “Then there is only one thing to do. The Council has considered the possibilty that the planet ma
y have achieved a stalemate, a kind of uneasy peace that balances just short of a nuclear war. Something of the sort you describe, though no one suggested the actual reasons you advance. But it’s something we can’t allow.”
“No, your Height?”
“No,” he seemed almost in pain. “The longer the stalemate continues, the greater the possibility that large-primate individuals may discover the methods of interstellar travel. They will leak out into the Galaxy, in full competitive strength. You see?”
“Then?”
The Arch-administrator hunched his head deeper into his arms, as though not wishing to hear what he himself must say. His voice was a little muffled. “If they are balanced precariously, we must push them a little, Captain. We must push them.”
Devi-en’s stomach churned and he suddenly tasted his dinner once more in the back of his throat. “Push them, your Height?” He didn’t want to understand.
But the Arch-administrator put it bluntly, “We must help them start their nuclear war.” He looked as miserably sick as Devi-en felt. He whispered, “We must!”
Devi-en could scarcely speak. He said, in a whisper, “But how could such a thing be done, your Height?”
“I don’t know how.—And do not look at me so. It is not my decision. It is the decision of the Council. Surely you understand what would happen to the Galaxy if a large-primate intelligence were to enter space in full strength without having been tamed by nuclear war.”
Devi-en shuddered at the thought. All that competitiveness loosed on the Galaxy. He persisted though. “But how does one start a nuclear war? How is it done?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. But there must be some way; perhaps a—a message we might send or a—a crucial rainstorm we might start by cloud-seeding. We could manage a great deal with their weather conditions—”
“How would that start a nuclear war?” said Devi-en, unimpressed
“Maybe it wouldn’t. I mention such a thing only as a possible example. But large-primates would know. After all, they are the ones who do start nuclear wars in actual fact. It is in their brain-pattern to know. That is the decision the Council came to.”
