Everyone was suddenly exclusively concerned with his own Thing. (Come to think of it, so was Mike.) Andrew Blake had conjured up what could pass for the ghost of Henry James — barring unsuspected gaps in Andy’s memory — and was trying to get it to teach him how to write dirty books in pure 1890’s florid high style; but the ghost of maybe Henry James, concerned more with the subject than the style, insisted on asking blunt, unflorid questions that made Andy blush from beard to brow and rendered him extravagantly useless for Mike’s purposes.
Gary the cupiditous Frog and Harriet were happily projecting millions of enormous diamonds — but Gary’s looked suspiciously like paste. Consistency is such a charming accident!
Sativa was walking insecurely fifteen feet up in the air and looking unsure whether to enjoy the sport or cry. Karen was building a scale model of the Pyramid of Cheops in vanilla halvah. Sandi was assembling separate but equal layettes in dusty pink and blue, suggesting she might well be pregnant after all.
Leo was also constructing a scale model, Rodin’s “The Kiss,” out of a greenish-brown substance that looked like Persian hashish. Pat and Stu were removing gobs of this strange substance just a bit less quickly than Leo could put it on, while arguing in unknown tongues both seemed to understand.
Sean and Kevin were playing a lively game of anti-anti-missile missile, using genuine miniature anti-anti-missile missiles, with the score, while I watched them, pretty loudly tied.
What the hell? I put up a double of the Wanamaker organ and tossed off a few bright choruses of The Carman’s Whistle. Like they say: if you can’t run your tongue across them, merge with them.
None of this sat noticeably well with Brother Michael. His face was trying to register so many different disapprovals simultaneously it seemed frozen in a disbelieving blank. He was trying to shout, too, but he couldn’t make up his mind what to shout first, and nothing came out but a vaguely well-bred gurgle.
I could understand a lot of what Mike must be feeling. After all, we really weren’t in anything like fighting trim just then. A pair of moderately irritated nuns could’ve wiped us out one-handed. To test this thesis, I projected a pair of moderately irritated nuns, but they just sniffed disdainfully, rattled their beads, and strode off into the woods. Nevertheless, we were pretty grossly ignoring our mission, and something certainly ought to be done. I hoped Mike could figure out something to do.
But he didn’t have to. Three vulgarly well-armed military robots clanked out of the thicket, Sativa fell to the sand with a tentative squeal and an alarmingly tactile thump, and all our manic fun and games evaporated.
Well, nearly all. My mighty Wanamaker organ didn’t seem to want to go. The robots ground to a halt and made it overwhelmingly clear that they were waiting for me to get rid of my overdone playtoy before they’d state their transcendentally important business. This was terribly embarrassing.
I unimagined my music box in painstaking detail and nothing worth mentioning happened. The robots, chugging softly, continued to wait. Mike’s face found a single expression it could maintain, but not one I enjoyed. The rest of the gang stared at me as though the whole thing were all my fault.
I carefully wished the organ off to the deepest pit of hell, where it might even do some good. It tootled derisively and stayed put.
“All right, you guys,” I sneered. “Who’s the wise guy put a hex on me?”
Nobody giggled, not even the robots. Most of my erstwhile friends gave me the kind of smile you’re supposed to use only when visiting elderly relatives in mental wards. Michael’s left nostril twitched in Morse.
“Aw come on!” I was running out of temper. The last time that’d happened to me, I gave the Old Empire State Building such a punishing kick I had to walk on crutches for a week. Recalling that mistake, I gave the musical monster — that forty-nine-ton albatross — an experimental tap with my right boot.
PoP! like the emperor of soap suds. It was gone. Someone was unkind enough to cheer.
“Now are you satisfied?” I asked the air a few yards to the left of the lead robot. They all three hopped to pots-and-pans attention, and the one in front threw me a bell-like salute so crisp it would have turned a West Point kay-det mauve.
“T-X two-three beta, sir. Are you Galactic Grand High Marshal Anderson?”
I floated him a return for his salute, said, “At ease, things,” and allowed as how I might well be the institution he was seeking. I almost remembered having vaguely considered conjuring up some such gadgets to keep the lobsters occupied a few hours back, but I couldn’t even pretend to remember having done it; and besides, any hallucination of mine would’ve known I’m just too modest to put up with such inflated titles.
Still, “What can I do for you, gadget?” I asked kindly, not wanting to hurt the poor thing’s ferric feelings.
“Begging to report, sir. Armored details Toggle-Xylophone and Marshmallow-Buggywhip” (I could hear the military Michael gagging somewhere to my left, but I ignored him. Why should I use someone else’s secondhand phonetic alphabet?) “engaged units of the enemy at 2100 hours, killing three aliens and capturing nine, plus one humanoid associated with the enemy, sustaining only superficial damage and no casualties, sir.”
He shot off another of those tool-and-die salutes, which I alertly fielded and returned. “Well done, device,” I said, “well done,” in a warm and well-oiled tone calculated to win me the instant love of my troops. “Please bring in the prisoners.”
After another volley of precisely machined salutes, the three gleaming golems snapped about face and returned to the woods.
“Chester?” Michael, fatally wounded, implored.
“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” I assured him. “Maybe less.”
“I certainly hope so,” just short of a sob.
One thing was relatively sure: either those machines were programmed by some unidentified subversive overpoweringly disrespectful of our hallowed military traditions, or I programmed them myself and was in desperate need of psychiatric care. Imagine, as didn’t I dare, the anguish those boiler-plate parodies were inflicting on poor Michael. I felt a sinking certainty he’d never forgive me for this.
Our gang — impressed, overawed, or otherwise incapable of free expression — shuffled feet, beat twitchy rhythms on thighs, uttered fractional whispers, and displayed other symptoms of uncomprehending restlessness. An exaggerated red, white, and bluely chauvinistic butterfly glided by within a half inch of my nose.
“Cool it,” I suggested. “I think we’ve got it licked now.” I was careful not to define my terms.
Then the mechanical marines returned — a good two dozen of them — riding herd on nine psychotically depressed blue lobsters and one ambiguously frantic Laszlo Scott. The cockles of my heart — whatever they might be — warmed to an instant ruby glow at the sight. (But where in hell did two whole dozen robots come from?)
“Hiya, Lasz!” bleated Gary the compulsive Frog. Laszlo didn’t respond.
The metallic militia lined the wilted prisoners up before me, took a uniform giant step back, discharged a barrage of salutes clearly audible halfway to Fort Mudge, then aimed a complete assortment of semiportable artillery at the prisoners and stood as still as robots standing still.
And there I was, staring at the first honest-to-God real enemies I’d ever honest-to-God really defeated — and I discovered that I didn’t know what to do with them. Nothing in my previous experience had prepared me for this situation.
“Okay,” I asked the world at large, “now what am I supposed to do?”
“Why,” somebody started, “don’t you just…” and faded out. Right. Nobody said anything for a while.
Then, “I suppose there ought to be a trial,” I supposed “That’s what they did last time. Nuremberg. It seems to be traditional.”
The courtroom was dark, but the darkness illuminated it. The lobsters were standing on separate round raised platforms in bulletproof glass cylinders. Lasz
lo was similarly housed, but at some distance from the others.
The ceiling, dark and glowing, rose powerfully to meet the wall some forty-five feet above the judge’s bench, from which point a flag — a glowing spiral nebula against a field of light-absorbent black in depth — hung down almost to the floor.
The judge’s bench was a plain white table with an inset display screen, and a white straight-back chair.
The judge wore vibrant gray robes that perfectly concealed the shape of his body, and he was some three feet taller than you’d expect a man to be; but his face was acceptably human — longer than ours and narrower, more angular, considerably wise, hairless, and bright yellow: not Homo sap., but human all the way.
I didn’t know who was responsible for it, but I surely did admire that set.
“Pay heed to the court,” a deep and sourceless voice admonished.
“An unaffiliated group of native Terrans now bring cause against one non-Terran, Ktch, and against his coracialists and their superiors, if any, for the crimes of felonious trespass, inciting to warfare, intent to practice genocide, and conspiracy to enslave. Cause is also brought against one Terran, Laszlo Scott, for voluntary participation in crimes against his species, for conspiracy to enslave, and for racial treason,” the judge read solemnly from his display screen. “Are you people ready? Come on, now. Let’s not take all day.”
We stepped up to the bench, all a little overawed.
“These bastards are as guilty as sin,” the judge said. “What’s it worth? Want ’em killed?”
Pause.
“No,” Mike said quietly. “That doesn’t fit, somehow.”
“Okay. Then how about expulsion and sanctions?”
I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded right to me, and I said so.
“Right. Offender Ktch, give heed. You — by which are also meant and included your coracialists and superiors, if any — stand convicted of each charge. It is the order of this court that you shall withdraw from Terra and adjacent space no later than one local hour after the end of the present trial. You are further ordered to abstain henceforth from the practice of conquest and colonization, and to abandon all colonies no older than the oldest living member of your race, under pain of termination. If we catch you at this racket one more time, you’ve had it.
“Now what about the other one?”
This I’d made plans for. I’d been five years gathering recipes for Laszlo’s just deserts. I knew to the erg how to pay him back for all the Laszlo tricks he’d played. Elaborate visions of quaint retribution were a minor mainstay of my fantasy life. But now all these schemes felt inappropriate.
“How about sending him off with the others?” That had a certain humorous appeal.
“Quite poetic,” the judge smiled (sideways, by our reckoning). “All beings present and attending now bear witness,” he intoned. “Offender Laszlo Scott stands convicted of each charge, accusers urging clemency. Therefore this court declares and redefines said Laszlo Scott coracial in perpetuity to offender of the first cause, in full and equal membership and subject to the sanctions of this court. Wherefore the present cause is now closed and this body is dismissed.
“All right, you people, you have an hour. Start hopping.”
Which put us all on battle beach again. I’d’ve blamed the whole thing on the pill, except that the lobsters were scurrying and Laszlo was complaining, “Hey, man, Cool it! That ain’t fair! What’re you picking on Me for? I mean, what’d I Do, man? What’d I Do? Hey, baby, No!”
I hadn’t counted on that: Laszlo in voluble distress, myself in empathy. Very depressing. I felt sad and righteous, a brand-new combination for me. And I pitied Laszlo, which I also hadn’t counted on.
Not all of us experienced this hangup.
“Please don’t let ’em do it to me, baby. Man! I won’t never see real people anymore!”
“Don’t sweat it, Laszlo,” Kevin said. “You probably won’t even notice the difference.
The lobsters’ ship — a conventional saucer model with a highly polished mirror finish — was concealed in a dune just a few yards away from the beach. They had it cleared and ready to fly in under twenty minutes.
Laszlo was still in his glass cage, screaming, “I don’t wanna go away! Oh wow, man, I’m like scared, man. Somebody help me!” He was falling apart unprettily.
“Hey, baby,” Patrick comforted, “just think of all them groovy things you’re gonna see. Wow, and all those far-out planets and like that. Hey, man, what a gas!”
“No! No, don’ wanna! No!”
Ktch very shyly sought me out.
“I must apologize, Mister Spy,” he abased himself. “We misjudged you. I am sorry.”
Not sorry for trying to conquer us and all. Sorry he’d insulted us by underestimating us. This wasn’t a way I could ever think, but even so I had to give him credit: Ktch had class.
I forgave him everything he thought needed it, and we parted on technically friendly terms half an hour ahead of schedule.
“Please!” Laszlo shrieked prayers as the lobsters carried him to the ship. “Nonono I’m Sorry! No! Please! I’m Really sorry! I’ll be good, I promise! No! Don’t put me out in the dark! I won’t do it anymore! Don’t make me all alone! Please! I’ll be Good!” Then the ship’s lock closed and no one ever heard the voice of Laszlo Scott again.
I could feel the day at last begin to curve in toward a close. A day full of years. Mortal fear, mortal combat, victory, justice, and repentance: suddenly and all at once that day I had encountered concepts that I’d always thought were mythical, and they just weren’t what they’d been cracked up to be.
The ship rose above my nuclear lamps and out of sight. A few minutes later we all heard a pop like prepubescent thunder and I knew they were gone.
“Swell,” Mike privately rejoiced, then, louder, “Okay, everybody. Let’s pack it up and hit the road.”
Silently — the trial and its aftermath had put us in a collective thoughtful mood — we dismantled our imaginary artifacts and boarded the tripsmobile.
Mike had to get us home somehow without the benefit of my expert worrying. I fell asleep the minute I sat down.
28
AND THAT, we all naively thought, was that.
The world was saved to a fare-thee-well and only slightly battered. Laszlo and the lobster gang were gloriously out of it for real. The papers were hilarious with mad and earnest speculation on the curious corpses we’d abandoned in the reservoir. Sean’d bought me a bottle of spring water. And I had a practically inexhaustible supply of Reality Pills for Halloween, saturnalia, and bar mitzvahs.
There was, of course, a skinny outside chance that somebody might want Little Micky’s absence explained, but it wasn’t bloody likely. Micky’d been one of the hundreds of Villagers in vacuo: no family, no relations, no hometown, no background, no pad, no chick, no past, little present and let’s don’t have any morbid talk about the future. Out of the nothing, into the here and away — just one of the hundreds. It didn’t seem reasonable to expect Little Micky to have more kinfolk dead than he did alive; and, barring that acute unlikelihood, we didn’t have a problem to our names.
But all day Thursday afternoon I kept finding random little things I wanted right there underneath my hand, which wasn’t really consonant with my established way of life.
And the first tweet of the vidiphone brought me Andrew Blake saying, “Chester! God in heaven help me, it’s Happening again!” as openers for a half-hour lamentation on his new, improved, four-color Art Nouveau psychedelic Carnaby Street halo.
And Sandi phoned a little after that and did nothing but giggle uncontrollably for seven minutes.
And after that, when I was donning my gaudiest celebratory threads for work, I happened to look out my bedroom window and see in the courtyard below a perfectly lovely small quiescent steam calliope all garlanded with improbable blossoms.
And then Mike’s malty, dry, let’s-explore-the-obvi
ous voice tiptoed into my room, saying, “Know what, Chester? I’ve been thinking,” and I braced myself.
“And what have you been thinking, O Michael?” I dreaded, entering the living room. Sean, looking rurally concerned, was already there.
“I’ve been thinking that we dropped a god-awful lot of those Reality Pills last night.” Michael was standing on his head, feet and buttocks braced against the west wall. He’d never done anything remotely like that before. My spirit or something trembled.
“Go on.”
“And an awful lot of Very Strange Things have been happening to everybody all day long. And somehow I’ve acquired this irrational conviction that we’re never ever coming down.”
He looked good, standing on his head. It became him, somehow. I piously wished that I didn’t believe him.
But Sean, that puppy, hollered, “GrOOvy!” and hallucinated an intense silver and scarlet butterfly with, printed across its wings in some invisible color our eyes could read like electricity, the magic words:
THE END
But it wasn’t, really.
Not at all.
Oh my, no!
Footnotes
1
Alfred North Whitehead
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The Butterfly Kid Page 20
