The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  He was surprised to feel, in the next thought, a sensation of distress. “I am extremely upset, Les. I thought I had made every effort to have you as comfortable as possible. Was there anything else you wanted?”

  He was going to say Lana Turner, but suddenly felt a twinge of conscience. He didn’t know what he was doing here, or what the ultimate disposal of him was to be; but, after all, this creature had done what it could to make him comfortable. At least he wasn’t in some kind of dungeon.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s very nice,” he said grudgingly.

  The thing was obviously relieved. “Thank you. I have been upset at the possibility that you were without the things to which you’re used. But now I believe you have arrived at the point where it is necessary you indulge in your human habit of sleeping. Why don’t you retire?”

  * * * *

  When Les Cole awoke, he expected to find himself at home in bed, remembering a dream that wasn’t really a nightmare, although it should have been. In fact, he told himself, the place had been at Shangri La and he’d be willing to take some of that kind of imprisonment anytime.

  He gave a short laugh and opened his eyes. He took in the indirect lighting, now softly increasing in intensity since he was awake; the extensive bookcases; the phonograph-movie set, or whatever it was; the tremendous easy chair; the built-in bar.

  “Here we go again,” he groaned. It made a better dream than it did reality; a dream doesn’t need any reason, this whole situation certainly didn’t have any.

  He dressed and made his way to the kitchenette, conscious of hunger. There was a tremendous refrigerator here. He opened it experimentally. It was packed with food ranging from luscious fruit to cold fried chicken. Bottled goods started with milk and soft drinks and wound up with beer and champagne. He peered into the cupboards and found further supplies in profusion, including half a dozen large cans of caviar. He’d never tasted caviar.

  The deep freeze was filled with packaged meals. He picked up several. One label read: “Oeufs aux tomatoes St. Antonine, insert in Unit Four, five minutes.” He looked at the small stove and located the door marked Unit Four.

  “Stop me if I’m wrong,” he told himself, “but I seem to recall that oeufs are eggs. The rest I’ll take a chance on.” He popped the package into the Unit Four compartment and began figuring out how to achieve coffee, toast, and butter. He didn’t have much trouble.

  After eating, he returned to his living room and immediately spotted two bottles that hadn’t been there the night before, setting on the bar. The labels were weathered and indecipherable, but he didn’t have to be told what they were.

  He stared at them. “I’ll bet the stuff was laid down by Julius Caesar,” he muttered inwardly.

  The thought said, “If you are awake now, Les, perhaps you would like to stroll in the gardens. You haven’t been out in the fresh air for some time.”

  The door leading to the larger room was still open. “All right,” he said, “I’m coming.” Evidently, the thing’s plans included keeping him in as good health as possible.

  Standing, the creature seemed even larger than before. It led the way, walking slowly, to the garden. Les felt the edge of humor he’d noticed the night before in the next thought.

  “You were amusing yourself at my expense when you requested the brandy, Les. It isn’t usually as old as you gave me to believe. But it was amusing to meet your challenge. You will be pleased to learn they are the two oldest bottles on Earth.”

  He refused to let his mind consider some of the implications in the other’s words; it was too much.

  They had reached the garden now, and his worst fears, the suspicions he’d been trying to keep submerged, were realized. This was utterly foreign, not of Earth; and he suspected it wasn’t even of the solar system and possibly not of the universe he knew. It was beautiful, unbelievably, indescribably beautiful, but terribly alien from the blue-gold sun above to the Technicolor sand at his feet.

  But the shock was quick to leave him; he’d had too many new things happen these last few hours for this to floor him. He looked about with keen interest and asked questions when something he didn’t understand presented itself. He always got answers; evidently nothing was taboo.

  He wandered around noting everything, including the fact that his host, or jailer as the case might be, evidently had a metabolism considerably slower than that of man. It moved ponderously, and Les covered ten yards for every one of the alien’s, in spite of the latter’s great size. He briefly considered making his escape at this time, but rejected the idea. As yet, he had no idea of where to flee, or what methods his captor had available to recapture him. He’d best learn more of the ropes before he stuck his neck out.

  Later, in his room, he sat in his deep chair and tried to make some sense out of the situation. Obviously, these creatures were far in advance of Earth in their science. And, seemingly, they were studying man. Why? No matter how much he mulled it over, there was only one answer. They were interested in taking over the Earth. But, if that were so, why hadn’t they done it already? They obviously had the power and the ability.

  He got up and went over to the bar and picked up one of the brandy bottles. He wondered how the thing had ever got hold of it. For that matter, how had it got hold of him? The cork was still good; he opened the bottle and poured a sizable slug into a sniffer glass and returned to his chair. He couldn’t think of anything he could do at present toward escaping. Until he acquired more information, he might as well take it easy.

  He spent the rest of the day with the books, the movies, the bar, and the kitchen. And the next day, and the next. Except for daily walks and talks with the alien creature, his life began to assume a pattern which didn’t take it beyond the little apartment. He decided that life wasn’t so bad, even in jail, if you picked the right jail—although it would help if you knew what you were in for, and for how long.

  But a week later—judging passing days by the number of times he’d slept—he still wasn’t adjusted to his new environment. For one thing, he was drinking too much; for another, he couldn’t get the escape bug out of his head. Ordinarily, he thought, he wouldn’t mind this situation. He liked books, good music, good food and liquor, and had never been able to afford them before. He didn’t even particularly mind the absence of other humans; besides, he’d been told there were others here and that he’d meet them shortly. His own company had always been his favorite anyway. But he couldn’t enjoy these things, not knowing the why and wherefore of it all. Why was he here? How long would he stay?

  Within himself, he felt some responsibility to the human race. He’d been kidnapped for some purpose. What was it? What happened to the human race? If it was in danger from these aliens, he certainly wasn’t doing anything here to protect it.

  He snorted. As though there was anything he could do. As far as his own treatment was concerned, he reminded himself of how on a farm the kids will have a pet chicken, or calf, or lamb, and treat it like a member of the family. They love it all to pieces, but just the same, when slaughter time comes…

  * * * *

  That night he entered the large room for his customary talk with the alien. He could feel its thoughts and recognized that it was worried about him.

  “You aren’t happy, Les?”

  “How could you expect me to be when you’ve taken me away from my home and relatives? Besides that, the mystery of all this upsets me. What am I doing here? Why are you keeping me prisoner? What plans are you making for Earth?”

  An impression of distress. “You are not a prisoner, Les. You are free to do whatever you please, or go where you wish. And your Earth is in no danger”

  “Could I go back to Earth?”

  “I am sorry you want to go, Les. There is no return. Please try to adapt yourself to this new home.”

  “But why am I here? What do you want of me? I don’t get it.”

  He could sense infinite sadness in the thought of the other. “In a
ll the universe, Les, there is no living thing, small or great, that is alone as is the garook—my race. Eons before we developed the scientific progress you marvel at, our fundamental instincts were formed. These instincts prevent garook from feeling affection for garook, except during a brief mating season that comes only once in five of your Earth years. In our early existence, the bare sight of another of our species led us to dash madly together, rending and tearing, until one was dead. The reasons for this are too many and would be too strange for you to understand, although some of your deep sea forms of life on Earth have similar instincts. At a distance, telepathically, we were able to cooperate with each other; but proximity meant bloodshed. As we developed, we were able to overcome some of this instinct, but not all. Even today, I am extremely uncomfortable in the presence of another garook, as he is in mine.

  “This was bearable in the early days of the race, perhaps, but as we have grown intellectually, the need has developed for that greatest of all attributes of the intelligent mind. I speak of the need of companionship, attachment, sympathy.”

  “I…I still don’t get it,” Les said, confused.

  There was a touch of affection in the thought that came back. “In all the universe, Les, there are few species that can feel attachment for any except its own kind. Of them all, man has the greatest capacity for love, sympathy, and understanding. Even in your most primitive form, you brought the dog into your caves and into your hearts. Man has had to be cruel as he fought his way upward, but it was not a cruelty that came from the heart, it was born of necessity. He has had to use the other animals of his planet for food and for beasts of burden, but always beneath this need was a capacity for affection that is amazing. You see, thus far man has not been able to live up to his Golden Rule which has been expressed by his wise men and his holy men in all ages, but at least he strives toward that goal. His mind is capable of conceiving it and desiring it.”

  Les sat quietly for a long time. “I believe I am beginning to understand,” he said finally. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire to my apartment. I’ve got a date with a bottle.”

  “One other thing, Les. I have noticed that you have been lonely and upset since you have been here. I hope you will change. I have a surprise that I believe will be pleasant.”

  “All right,” Les said. “Good night.”

  The feeling of affection. “Good night, Les.”

  He walked slowly to his apartment and opened the door.

  She sat up quickly from where she had been sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were swollen with tears and she was obviously terrified.

  “Who are you?” she stuttered.

  Les stared at her. “How did you get here?”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “Don’t you know? I was coming home from work. Suddenly…”

  He nodded wearily. “…Suddenly you were here.” He went over to the bar and mixed two strong ones, using the twenty-year-old Irish Whiskey. He made a mental note to ask the garook to get him some more of it; he was running low.

  He took the drinks over to the bed and handed her one. “You’d better take this,” he said. “You’ll probably need it.”

  She took it hesitantly. “I’m afraid you’ve put something in it…or something.”

  Les shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m in the same boat you are.” He explained, as well as he could, where they were and what was in store for her. By the time he was finished, she was sobbing again. He sat beside her on the bed and put one arm protectively around her shoulder.

  “It’s not really bad at all. You’re secure here. You’ll have everything you want.”

  “But my family, my friends. What will they think, what will they do?”

  He patted her rounded arm. “It will be one more mysterious disappearance. It will hurt, at first, but life goes on.”

  She couldn’t accept it. “I don’t understand. What do these awful things want? Why did they kidnap us?”

  His heart went out to her. “I believe I’ve just about got it straight. You see, the garooks have a great capacity for love and understanding but can’t find it between themselves. They are scientifically advanced beyond our conception, but they desire affection desperately. They bring men into their homes for companionship. What it amounts to is…well, they keep us as men keep dogs.”

  She looked at him strangely. “But if this one already had you, what did he want me for?”

  He was embarrassed. “My garook…my master…was afraid I was unhappy. He had given me everything he could conceive of, books, movies, food, drink. But I was still unhappy about my new existence…”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then her eyes widened and her face went red.

  From a great distance they both seemed to hear a pleased, satisfied laughter…

  ISOLATIONIST

  The first attempt on the part of members of the Galactic Union to open communication with Planet K3LT14, known to its inhabitants as Earth, or Terra, was made by a benevolent society of the Aldeberan System. Although the Al-deberans were acquainted with the fact that Terra had not as yet reached a civilization development of even DQ-14, and was, consequently, far from prepared to enter the Galactic Union, they had become alarmed at the experiments in nuclear fission which the Terrans were making. The society feared that the energetic new race might destroy itself before ever reaching maturity...

  * * * *

  To begin with, I was probably feeling more crotchety than usual as a result of my trip into Harvey. Alone on the farm, and with more work than I can handle myself, I sometimes forget my bitterness; but my monthly trip to town will upset me for days afterward. Maybe I was more tolerant when I was younger and Ruth and the boys were still alive.

  I’d got through my business without trouble and had stopped off in a restaurant before heading home. I should’ve known better. The food was cooked on an electric stove and came mostly from cans. In the corner stood a garishly painted music box, covered with neon lights that flickered the way they do until I felt my eyeballs were about to pop out. Over and over it played something about a room full of roses, and from time to time suffering patrons got up and put money into it, trying to bribe it into shutting up, I suppose. But that didn’t do any good; it kept playing.

  At first I thought the man sitting next to me was staring at my beard. I ignored him, figuring that if he wanted to scrape his face raw with a razor every day, that was his business, but I’d leave my face the way nature planned it to be. But finally he spoke up, “You’re Alex Wood, aren’t you, with a farm about twenty miles out of town?”

  I nodded.

  He flashed me a professional smile and stuck out his hand to be shaken. So I shook it and dropped it, saying, “What’re you selling?”

  He laughed the way salesmen do and explained, “My name is Brown, and my line is radio. I...”

  I snorted. “I think radios ought to be taxed; wouldn’t have one in my home.” I went back to my food.

  You’d think I’d told him I was a cannibal.

  “Why not?” he said. “Practically everybody...”

  I stopped eating again and said patiently, like as if I was talking to a youngster, “Because, if I had a radio somebody might turn it on, and then I’d have to listen to the confounded thing. They’re worse than electric lights.”

  He blinked and his little salesman’s mustache twitched. “What’s wrong with electric lights?”

  I wiggled a finger at him. “They turn night into day, which automatically turns day into night; and you wind up with nothing accomplished except you’ve missed the best hours of the twenty-four by spending the dawn in bed.”

  He wrinkled up his forehead like as if he didn’t know what I was talking about but was afraid to tell me I was crazy because he still had hopes of selling me something.

  I didn’t bother going further. What was the use? Like nearly everybody else, he probably thought the “gifts” of science were wonderful and that
we were heading for the promised land on a streamlined bus.

  “I’m not interested in installing electric gadgets,” I told him, and returned to the adulterated stuff they call food in town restaurants.

  He was beginning to get peeved, the way they do when they see they aren’t going to make a sale.

  “You aren’t much in favor of progress, are you?” he asked, kind of nasty.

  I sighed disgustedly and said, “Son, everybody’s in favor of progress, just like everybody’s against sin. It’s all according to what you mean by the word. Now take automobiles...”

  He sneered. “Well, they get you there quicker, and...”

  I sneered back. “And what do you do when you get there; anything worthwhile? For a hundred years people have been trying to ‘get there quicker,’ so busily that they haven’t had time to figure out something worth doing when they arrive. Everybody is going lickity-split—and getting nowhere. These new thousand-mile-an-hour airplanes can get anywhere on Earth in twelve hours. But what’s accomplished?”

  He took a drink of his coffee, looking over the rim of his cup at me as though I didn’t have good sense.

  “Among other things,” he said, “it has military advantages.”

  I began to boil.

  “Makes it easier to kill folks, eh? Did it ever occur to you that if our scientists spent the time and money they did on the atom bomb on cancer research, there probably wouldn’t be any cancer today?”

  He didn’t answer that, probably figuring I was too foolish to argue with. After awhile he got up and left.

  * * * *

  All the way back to the farm, I worded over the things I could’ve said to him, pointing out where our modern trend is taking us. We’ve developed a tremendous science, but we’ve found no way to control it. Frankenstein’s monster was one of these here juvenile delinquents compared to our scientific development. We’re heading for complete destruction, unless a miracle comes along to save us—and I don’t believe in miracles.