Notions: Unlimited

by Robert Sheckley

“Will you believe me, then, when I swear to you that this is true?”

  “I—I’ll try, Captain Sven.”

  “Now you know the reason for the custom. Will you work with Blake?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Will you try?”

  Forbes bit his lip and squirmed uncomfortably. “Captain, I’ll try. I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. And I’m doing it for you and the men, not on account of what you said.”

  “Just try,” Sven said. “That’s all I ask of you.”

  Forbes nodded and hurriedly left the bridge. Sven immediately signaled the tower that he was preparing for blastoff.

  Down in the crew’s quarters, Forbes was introduced to the new man, Blake. The replacement was tall, black-haired, and obviously ill at ease.

  “Howdy,” said Blake.

  “Howdy,” said Forbes. Each made a tentative gesture toward a handshake, but didn’t follow it through.

  “I’m from Pompey,” said Forbes.

  “I’m from Almira.”

  “Practically next door,” Forbes said unhappily.

  “Yeah, afraid so,” Blake said.

  They eyed each other in silence. After a long moment, Forbes groaned, “I can’t do it, I just can’t.” He began to walk away.

  Suddenly he stopped, turned, and blurted out, “You all white?”

  “Can’t say as how I am,” Blake replied. “I’m one-eighth Cherokee on my mother’s side.”

  “Cherokee, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, man, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Knew a Cherokee from Altahatchie once, name of Tom Little Sitting Bear. Don’t suppose you’re kin to him?”

  “Don’t believe so,” Blake said. “Never knew no Cherokees, myself.”

  “Well, it don’t make no never-mind. They should a told me in the first place you was a Cherokee. Come on, I’ll show you your bunk.”

  When the incident was reported to Captain Sven, several hours after blastoff, he was completely perplexed. How, he asked himself, could one-eighth Cherokee blood make a man a Cherokee? Wasn’t the other seven-eighths more indicative?

  He decided he didn’t understand American Southerners at all.

  DAWN INVADER

  There were eleven planets in that system, and Dillon found that the outer ones contained no life whatsoever. The fourth planet from the sun had once been populated, and the third would someday be. But on the second, a blue world with a single moon, intelligent life existed, and to this planet Dillon directed his ship.

  He approached stealthily, slipping through the atmosphere under cover of darkness, descending through thick rain clouds, looking much like a cloud himself. He landed with that absolute lack of commotion possible only for an Earthman.

  When his ship finally settled it was an hour before dawn, the safe hour, the time when most creatures, no matter what planet has spawned them, are least alert. Or so his father had told him before he left Earth. Invading before dawn was part of the lore of Earth, hard-won knowledge directed solely toward survival on alien planets.

  “But all this knowledge is fallible,” his father had reminded him. “For it deals with that least predictable of entities, intelligent life.” The old man had nodded sententiously as he made that statement.

  “Remember, my boy,” the old man went on, “you can outwit a meteor, predict an ice-age, outguess a nova. But what, truthfully, can you know about those baffling and constantly changing entities who are possessed of intelligence?”

  Not very much, Dillon realized. But he believed in his own youth, Fire, and cunning, and he trusted the unique Terran invasion technique. With that special skill, an Earthman could battle his way to the top of any environment, no matter how alien, no matter how hostile.

  From the day he was born, Dillon had been taught that life is incessant combat. He had learned that the galaxy is large and unfriendly, made up mostly of incandescent suns and empty space. But sometimes there are planets, and on these planets are races, differing vastly in shape and size, but alike in one respect: their hatred for anything unlike themselves. No cooperation was possible between these races. For an Earthman to live among them called for the utmost in skill, stamina and cunning. And even then, survival would be impossible without Earth’s devastating technique of invasion.

  Dillon had been an apt student, eager to face his destiny in the great galaxy. He had enlisted for the Exodus, not waiting to be drafted. And finally, like millions of young men before him, he had been given his own space ship and sent out, leaving small, overcrowded Earth forever behind. He had flown to the limit of his fuel. And now his destiny lay before him.

  His ship rested in a clump of jungle near a thatch-roofed village, almost invisible in dense underbrush. He waited, tense behind his controls, until the dawn came up white, with red hints of sunrise in it. But no one came near, no bombs fell, no shells burst. He had to assume that he had landed undetected.

  When the planet’s yellow sun touched the rim of the horizon, Dillon emerged and sized up his physical surroundings. He sniffed the air, felt the gravity, estimated the sun’s spectrum and power, and sadly shook his head. This planet, like most planets in the galaxy, would not support Terran life. He had perhaps an hour in which to complete his invasion.

  He touched a button on his instrument panel and walked quickly away. Behind him, his ship dissolved into a gray ash. The ash scattered on the morning breeze and dispersed over the jungle. Now he was committed irrevocably. He moved toward the alien village.

  As he approached he saw that the aliens’ huts were crude affairs of wood and thatch, a few of hand-hewn stone. They seemed durable and sufficient for the climate. There was no sign of roads—only a single footpath leading into the jungle. There were no power installations, no manufactured articles. This, he decided, was an early civilization, one he should have no difficulty mastering.

  Confidently he stepped forward, and almost bumped into an alien.

  They stared at each other. The alien was bipedal, considerably taller than an Earthman, with a good cranial capacity. He wore a single striped garment wrapped around his waist. His skin was pigmented a light brown beneath gray fur. He showed no tendency to run.

  “Ir tai!” the creature said, sounds which Dillon interpreted as a cry of surprise. Looking hastily around, he saw that no other villager had discovered him yet. He tensed slightly and leaned forward.

  “K’tal tai a—”

  Dillon leaped like a great spring unfolding. The alien tried to dodge, but Dillon twisted in midair like a cat, and managed to clamp a hand around one of the alien’s limbs.

  That was all he needed. Now physical contact had been established. The rest should be easy.

  For hundreds of years, an exploding birth rate had forced the inhabitants of Earth to migrate in ever-increasing numbers. But not one planet in ten thousand was suitable for human life. Therefore, Earth considered the possibility of altering alien environments to suit Terran needs, or changing men biologically to suit the new environments. But there was a third method which yielded the greatest returns for the least effort. This was to develop the mind-projecting tendency latent in all intelligent races.

  Earth bred for it, concentrated and trained it. With this ability, an Earthman could live on any planet simply by taking over the mind of one of its inhabitants. This done, he had a body tailor-made for its environment, and filled with useful and interesting information. Once an Earthman was established, his love of competition usually carried him to a pre-eminent position in the new world he had invaded.

  There was only one slight hitch; an alien usually resented having his mind invaded. And sometimes, he was able to do something about it.

  In the first instant of penetration, Dillon sensed, with passionate regret, his own body collapsing, folding in on itself. It would dissolve immediately, leaving no trace. Only he and his host would know an invasion had taken place.

  And at the end, only one of the
m would know.

  Now, within the alien mind, Dillon concentrated entirely on the job ahead. Barriers went down one after another as he drove hard toward the center, where the I-am-I existed. When he entered that citadel and succeeded in driving out the ego now occupying it, the body would be his.

  Hastily erected defenses dissolved before him. For an instant, Dillon thought that his First wild rush was going to carry him all the way. Then, suddenly, he was directionless, wandering through a gray and featureless no-man’s land.

  The alien had recovered from his initial shock. Dillon could sense energies slowly growing around him.

  Now he was really in for a fight.

  A parlay was held in the no-man’s land of the alien’s mind.

  “Who are you?”

  “Edward Dillon, from the planet Earth. And you?”

  “Arek. We call this planet K’egra. What do you want here, Dillon?”

  “A little living space, Arek,” Dillon said, grinning. “Can you spare it?”

  “Well I’ll be damned....Get out of my mind!”

  “I can’t” Dillon said. “I have no place to go.”

  “I see,” Arek mused. “Tough. But you are uninvited. And something tells me you want more than just living room. You want everything, don’t you?”

  “I must have control,” Dillon admitted. “There’s no other way. But if you don’t struggle, perhaps I can leave a space for you, although it isn’t customary.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Of course not,” Dillon said. “Different races can’t exist together. That’s a law of nature. The stronger drives out the weaker. But I might be willing to try it for a while.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Arek said, and broke off contact.

  The grayness of no-man’s land turned solid black. And Dillon, waiting for the coming struggle, felt the first pangs of self-doubt

  Arek was a primitive. He couldn’t have any training in mind-combat. Yet he grasped the situation at once, adjusted to it, and was now prepared to deal with it Probably his efforts would be feeble, but still....

  What kind of a creature was this?

  He was standing on a rocky hillside, surrounded by ragged cliffs. Far ahead was a tall range of misty blue mountains. The sun was in his eyes, blinding and hot. A black speck crawled up the hillside toward him.

  Dillon kicked a stone out of his way and waited for the speck to resolve. This was the pattern of mental combat, where thought becomes physical, and ideas are touchable things.

  The speck became a K’egran. Suddenly he loomed above Dillon, enormous, glistening with muscle, armed with sword and dagger.

  Dillon moved back, avoiding the first stroke. The fight was proceeding in a recognizable—and controllable—pattern. Aliens usually conjured an idealized image of their race, with its attributes magnified and augmented. The figure was invariably fearsome, superhuman, irresistible. But usually, it had a rather subtle flaw. Dillon decided to gamble on its presence here.

  The K’egran lunged ahead. Dillon dodged, dropped to the ground and lashed out with both feet, leaving his body momentarily exposed. The K’egran tried to parry and respond, but too slowly. The blow from Dillon’s booted feet caught him powerfully in the stomach.

  Exultantly, Dillon bounded forward. The flaw was there!

  He ran in under the sword, feinted, and, while the K’egran tried to guard, neatly broke his neck with two blows of the edge of his hand.

  The K’egran fell, shaking the ground. Dillon watched him die with a certain sympathy. The idealized racial fighting image was larger than life, stronger, braver, more enduring. But it always had a certain ponderousness about it, a sure and terrible majesty. This was excellent for an image—but not for a fighting machine. It meant slow reaction time, which meant death.

  The dead giant vanished. Dillon thought for a moment that he had won. Then he heard a snarl behind him. He whirled, and saw a long, low black beast, panther-like, with ears laid back and teeth bared.

  So Arek had reserves. But Dillon knew how much energy this kind of a fight used up. In a while, the alien’s reserves would be gone. And then....

  Dillon picked up the giant’s sword and moved back, the panther advancing, until he found a high boulder against which he could set his back. A waist-high rock in front of him served as a parapet, across which the panther had to leap. The sun hung before him, in his eyes, and a light breeze blew dust in his face. He swung back the sword as the panther leaped.

  During the next slow hours, Dillon met and destroyed a complete sampling of K’egra’s more deadly creatures, and dealt with them as he would deal with similar animals on Earth. The rhinoceros—at least, it resembled one—was easy in spite of its formidable size and speed. He was able to lure it to a cliff edge, and goad it into charging over. The cobra was more dangerous, nearly spitting poison in his eyes before he was able to slash it in half. The gorilla was powerful, strong, and terribly quick. But he could never get his bone-crushing hands on Dillon, who danced back and forth, slashing him to shreds. The tyrannosaurus was armored and tenacious. It took an avalanche to bury him. And Dillon lost count of the others. But at the end, sick with fatigue, his sword reduced to a jagged splinter, he stood alone.

  “Had enough, Dillon?” Arek asked.

  “Not at all,” Dillon answered, through thirst-blackened lips. “You can’t go on forever, Arek. There’s a limit to even your vitality.”

  “Really?” Arek asked.

  “You can’t have much left,” Dillon said, trying to show a confidence he did not feel. “Why not be reasonable? I’ll leave you room, Arek, I really will. I...well, I sort of respect you.”

  “Thanks, Dillon,” Arek said. “The feeling is sort of mutual. Now, if you’d give in—”

  “No,” Dillon said. “My terms.”

  “Okay,” Arek said. “You asked for it!”

  “Bring it on,” Dillon muttered.

  Abruptly, the rocky hillside vanished.

  He was standing knee-deep in a gray marsh. Great gnarled trees rank with moss rose from the still green water. Lilies white as a fish’s belly jerked and swayed, although there was no breeze at all. A dead white vapor hung over the water and clung to the tree’s rough bark. There was not a sound in the swamp, although Dillon sensed life all around him.

  He waited, turning slowly around. He sniffed the stagnant, slow-moving air, shuffled his feet in the gluey mud, smelled the decaying fragrance of the lilies. And a realization came to him.

  This swamp had never existed on K’egra!

  He knew it, with the certainty with which an Earthman senses alien worlds. The gravity was different, and the air was different. Even the mud beneath his feet was unlike the mud of K’egra.

  The implications came crowding in, too quickly to be sorted. Could K’egra have space travel, then? Impossible! Then how could Arek know so well a planet other than his own? Had he read about it, imagined it, or—

  Something solid glanced heavily off his shoulder. In his speculation, the attack had caught Dillon off guard.

  He tried to move, but the mud clung to his feet. A branch had fallen from one of the giant overhanging trees. As he watched, the trees began to sway and crackle. Boughs bent and creaked, then broke, raining down upon him.

  But there was no wind.

  Half stunned, Dillon fought his way through the swamp, trying to find solid ground and a space away from the trees. But the great trunks lay everywhere, and there was no solidness in the swamp. The rain of branches increased, and Dillon whirled back and forth, looking for something to fight against. But there was only the silent swamp.

  “Come out and fight!” Dillon shrieked. He was beaten to his knees, stood up, fell again. Then, half-conscious, he saw a place of refuge.

  He struggled to a great tree and clung tightly to its roots. Boughs fell, branches whipped and slashed, but the tree couldn’t reach him. He was safe!

  But then he saw, with horror, that the lilies at the base of th
e tree had twined their long stalks around his ankles. He tried to kick them loose. They bent like pale snakes and clung tighter to him. He slashed them loose and ran from the shelter of the tree.

  “Fight me!” Dillon begged, as the branches rained around him. There was no answer. The lilies writhed on their stalks, reaching for him. Overhead was a whirr of angry wings. The birds of the swamp were gathering, black and ragged carrion crows, waiting for the end. And as Dillon swayed on his feet, he felt something warm and terrible touch his ankles.

  Then he knew what he had to do.

  It took a moment to get up his courage. Then Dillon plunged headfirst into the dirty green water.

  As soon as he dived, the swamp became silent. The giant trees froze against the slate sky. The lilies lost their frenzy and hung limp on their stalks. The white vapor clung motionless to the rough bark of the trees, and the birds of prey glided silently through the thick air.

  For a while, bubbles frothed to the surface. Then the bubbles stopped.

  Dillon came up, gasping for breath, deep scratches across his neck and back. In his hands was the shapeless, transparent creature who ruled the swamp.

  He waded to a tree and swung the limp creature against it, shattering it completely. Then he sat down.

  Never had he been so tired and so sick, and so convinced of the futility of everything. Why was he struggling for life, when life occupied so insignificant a part in the scheme of things? Of what significance was his instant of life, measured against the swing of the planets, or the stately flaming of the stars? And Dillon was amazed at the lewdness with which he was scrambling for existence.

  The warm water lapped around his chest. Life, Dillon told himself sleepily, is nothing more than an itch on the hide of the nonliving, a parasite of matter. Quantity counts, he told himself, as the water stroked his neck. What is the tininess of life compared to the vastness of nonliving? If nonliving is natural, he thought as the water touched his chin, then to live is to be diseased. And life’s only healthy thought is the wish for death.

  Death was a pleasant thought at that moment, as the water caressed his lips. There was a tiredness past resting, and a sickness past healing. Now it would be easy to let go, go down, abandon—