Arcturus Landing

by Gordon R. Dickson

  “Grmp!” said Mal.

  Later—when the trip was over and they were back in their quarters, after the guide had left them—Mal appealed to the other two.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Is it me? Am I acting like a spoiled kid, or something?”

  Dirk shook his head.

  “No,” said the tall young man slowly. “No, I don’t think so. There’s nothing spoiled about resenting an implication that you’re backward or inferior. Do you think so, Margie?”

  “Of course there isn’t” said Margie.

  Mal got up from the couch where he was sitting and strolled across the room to look out through an apparently paneless and force-fieldless window at walks and lawns stretching away into the distance under the light of a stranger sun. Was the short earthlike grass of the lawns real or illusory? Or had it been specially planted to make them feel at home?

  “No,” he said, with his back to them. “I am spoiled. Peep spoiled me. I got so used to Peep that I forgot that he was just one of many types of Alien that must make up this Federation—if it really is a Federation the way we understand the word and not something completely different. And most of the others naturally would be more advanced and more alien than he was.”

  “I wish somebody would come and tell us what happened to him,” said Margie.

  “So do I,” agreed Dirk.

  Mal nodded, turning back to face them; and for a minute they all brooded in silence. Their guide either could not or would not give them any information about Peep, or indeed anything at all connected with Earth’s place in the Federation and how their presence here or the existence of Mal’s drive might be affecting the situation. In the several weeks they had been cooped up here, they had been told nothing—not even what disposition had been made of their flying warehouse after the Golden Man had, by some magic of an unknown science, transferred it instantly from deep space to a field on the planet here, from which they had been brought to their present location.

  “It could be official secrecy—the business of not saying anything until the whole thing’s settled,” Mal said. “But that’s the sort of thing we’d do. Somehow, if Peep’s a representative of one of their least, you’d expect them to do better than that.”

  “We’ll just have to wait, that’s all,” said Dirk.

  “I suppose so,” replied Mal. He grimaced. “Wait and put in the time. Chess anyone? Ballroom dancing? Or a fourteen-course dinner.”

  Margie came across to him and put her arms around him.

  “Hush,” she said. “Don’t be bitter, Mal.”

  After that, they gave up going out. The low, roomy building that housed them was plentifully supplied with things to occupy the time—although these were without exception all of human invention. There was no tone film, tape, book or picture dealing with anything non-human or anything outside the limits of present human knowledge. Mal deduced an implication that anything else would be over the heads of the three visitors and resented it. Still, out of what was available, they all ended by finding means to fill their time; Mal with some technical texts of force-field mechanics he had always meant to get around to reading and never had. Dirk with his account of all that had happened to them which he was starting all over again—and Margie with a study in linguistics, which, somewhat to the surprise of the two men, turned out to have been her major in school.

  The human animal is adjustable. They were all but settled down and resigned to their situation when their former guide showed up unexpectedly one morning with another man beside him. The guide’s face was broadened with a smile. He knocked at the door and came in, surprising them scattered around the big room that was the main lounge of the building they inhabited, all busy at their various occupations.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’ve got a visitor for you.” And he indicated the man at his side.

  They all stared at the newcomer. He was a tall, slim man in his mid-sixties, perhaps, with surprisingly dark hair, but with a face deep-cut by lines around a firm mouth. A disciplined erectness held him straightly upright; but his gray eyes were relaxed and cheerful.

  “Don’t even you recognize me, Dirk?”

  For a second Dirk continued to look puzzled. Then recognition flooded his thin face.

  “Why, sure!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “It’s the President. Mal—Margie-—this is World Council President Waring.” He went striding forward to take the Chief Executive’s hand. “He used to visit with us when I was a boy.”

  Margie and Mal also came forward. Now, of course, that Dirk had made the identification, they recognized the other’s face immediately from the many pictures of it they had seen. It was just the unexpectedness of Waring’s appearance that had taken them all unawares.

  “Call for me when you want me,” said the guide and, turning, slipped out.

  The four humans shook hands all around and then adjourned to a small cluster of seats by one of the big open windows.

  “Did they finally tell you we were here?” asked Dirk, when the early amenities of the conversation had been taken care of.

  “I’ve known it for a long time,” Waring smiled. “I’ve just been too busy to come.”

  “What brings you now, then?” asked Mal. Waring turned to look at him.

  “I’ve come to break the good news to you.”

  “Good news … ?”

  “The Quarantine’s been lifted,” said Waring slowly. “The solar system’s wide open from now on, with no restrictions on the human race. And you three are responsible.”

  “Us?” said Mal.

  “That’s right.” Waring said.

  “But—” said Dirk. “What happened?”

  “Well,” Waring’s face sobered, “you may have heard that our original Quarantine had a time limit on it.”

  “Er—yes,” said Mal, not sure about whether he should mention the Underground or not.

  “I learned about it myself less than a year ago,” the Chief Executive went on. “At the time—last September on Earth, it was—the Federation warned me that I should hold myself ready to make the trip here for the hearing that would be held locally—” he smiled again at the word—“locally here on Arcturus Planet. You see, the Chief Executive has been on the end of a direct communication system with the Federation ever since first contact. Nearly two months ago Earth time they picked me up and brought me here.

  “They set me up in practically a duplicate of the quarters you have here; and for a few days I did nothing but meet the various members of the deciding group—board, or committee, or whatever you might call it. There were half a dozen members, all of the same race. It seems that they’re a type that are particularly good at making judgments. At first I thought I was supposed to lobby them, or some such similar action; but it turned out they were just being polite, to convince me we were about to get a fair shake.”

  “Were you convinced?” asked Mal.

  Waring nodded.

  “They even gave me a chance to make any objections or challenges I wanted. I couldn’t find serious grounds upon which to make any,” he went on. “Well, to put it shortly, they went into a two-day huddle and came out with the answer that we had failed to show satisfactory progress and that a long-term isolation program would have to be put into effect. And I’m positive they spun the business of deciding out, just so I wouldn’t feel that the decision was a hasty one.”

  “You mean they ruled against us?” said Mal. “I thought you just finished saying they hadn’t?”

  “I’m not through yet,” Waring said. “The decision was handed out and I was just about to pack my bags when you people showed up. Of course they informed me about it, but they wouldn’t let me see you because the order of isolation had already gone through. Of course, I immediately asked the deciding group to reconsider their decision. They told me, however, that since the matter was already passed on, they had no authority to reopen it.”

  “How in—” began Mal, and then closed his mouth.

&nb
sp; “I don’t really understand it myself,” confessed Waring. “These people all conform to some cosmic set of rules that doesn’t make sense to one of us at all. At any rate—one of the rules was barring the way to a new hearing for us, unless it could be authorized by someone with authority. It was then your friend spoke up for us and saved the day by authorizing a rehearing for us on his own hook.”

  “Who?” said Dirk.

  “What friend?” demanded Mal.

  “That little fellow who looks like a squirrel.”

  “Peep!” cried all three of the young people simultaneously.

  “Is that his name?” asked the President with a frown. “I thought it was Panja—Something long.”

  “Peep’s all right, then?” cried Margie.

  “Why, yes,” answered Waring. “He was a little weak at first. I guess a touch of poisoning or something—”

  “But wait a minute,” put in Mal. “You don’t mean to tell us Peep is some sort of Federation official?”

  “Well—yes and no,” replied Waring slowly. “It’s a little hard to know when one of these people in the Federation is an official or not. No clear line drawn between—well, no real government, you see. It seems there’re no true officials, as we know the term.” He smiled at their puzzlement and his own. “What seems to happen is that an individual will become accepted as a responsible person, and a person of authority in a particular field; and after that, if he chooses to act officially in that field, everybody else in the Federation accepts what he does as official. Do I make myself at least partially clear?”

  “Peep? A responsible person?” echoed Mal, unable to make up his mind whether to laugh or just be astonished.

  “Why not?” asked Waring, puzzled.

  “But—” said Dirk. “It seems so unlikely— with Peep as we know him.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Waring.

  “Look here,” said Mal. “I’ll try to explain it. When we ran into Peep, he was a member of the Neo-Taylorist group—and you know what nuts they are. He came away with us and for the next month he—he—” Words failed Mal. “Well, all I can say is, he must be the greatest actor in the universe. I know he’s an Alien. He’s got a heart of gold and we all like him a lot. But in all the time we knew him, he acted exactly like the most unworldly and impractical screwball that ever was. Now, if that was an act—you tell me.”

  Waring shook his boldly sculptured head. “I don’t see how you could have come to that conclusion,” he said. “What exactly did he do to give you such an impression?”

  “Why, the very first words he said—” replied Mal, and plunged into an account of Peep’s various adventures and misadventures. After he had finished, Waring sat silent for a long moment.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I think you wrong this Atakit in thinking he was acting while he was with you,” he said. “I haven’t known him and can’t say, but it’s possible he was acting entirely naturally.”

  “Then … ?” prompted Mal.

  “I think,” Waring went on, “that it’s your fault, not his, that you got such a—low opinion of him. And that you’re surprised to hear of his standing among his own people.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Mal.

  “I’m fumbling at an explanation,” replied Waring. “You see, in the Federation they’ve got something like a science of the emotions. And it’s very highly regarded. In fact they seem to believe that emotional capability and not intelligence is the common bond between differing races, and the measure of their worth. It’s in this field that Peep has his authority; and it was his opinion of our race’s emotional sensitivity that allowed them to reopen the hearing and give us a second chance. An opinion based upon his experiences with you three, by the way.”

  “Did you hear him?” asked Margie.

  Waring smiled at her. “No.” He shook his head. “They deal among themselves in a sort of direct mind-to-mind contact we humans will have to be learning for ourselves now. I don’t mean the individual races don’t speak their own language at home. This is a device used when several members of different races come together.”

  “Ah,” said Dirk thoughtfully.

  “But Peep—” said Mal, bringing them stubbornly back to the original subject. “Why, his own emotions were—darn near childish from what we saw of them. And you say that in this field of emotional science he’s an expert—”

  “Practically the expert from what I’ve picked up.” said Waring with a faint smile.

  “Well, it just doesn’t make sense,” said Mal.

  “Look here,” put in Waring. “Let me give you an example of what I think led you to the wrong conclusion where your friend is concerned. Suppose—just suppose—that there was still an unexplored little section of our own world and that someone stumbled across it and found living there a hitherto unknown race or tribe of humans. The news gets out and a well-known anthropologist goes to live with these people and study their ways. He finds them taboo-bound, custom-ridden, lacking any vestige of the sciences and—in a word—primitive, but not completely without promise of future merit. This is a picture of the people of the tribe as he sees them.”

  He paused and looked at them.

  “But what’s the picture the people of the tribe, from their own limited viewpoint, get of him? Here’s a man of unusual intelligence and a world-renowned authority in his field. But the primitives know nothing and care less about that. What impresses them is the fact that he can’t walk around barefoot without hurting his feet, that he can’t talk their language much better than a four-year-old child, that his nose is perfectly useless for hunting—in short, that he’s a full-grown idiot that has to be watched continually so that he doesn’t fall into a tiger pit or get poisoned by the first dangerous snake he runs across. This is the way they see him.”

  Waring stopped again for a moment to let his words sink in.

  “Understand,” he said. “I’m not saying it was this way with you and the Atakit: but in the time I’ve been here I’ve been able to acquire a healthy respect for all these Aliens; and I’m suggesting that what I described might be a distinct possibility.”

  Dirk was frowning, and Margie looked upset. “I just like Peep so well the way I thought he was!” she said.

  “It’s never pleasant to discover a supposed inferior was really a superior,” said Waring, perhaps a trifle sententiously.

  Mal sighed and pulled himself together. The conclusion following on Waring’s suppositions hurt; but, Mal told himself, there was no point in not facing it.

  “So that’s the reason he’s never been around to see us,” said Mal.

  “Oh, he hasn’t forgotten you,” answered Waring hastily. “He’s just been swarmed under by business connected with the hearing. But he asked me to bring you to him after our meeting today. If you’ll just put in a call for the guide—”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AT THE ENTRANCE of a low white building, Waring and the guide left them.

  “Go right in,” said the Chief Executive. “I’m afraid my schedule won’t let me spare the time to join you.”

  “Couldn’t you take—” Dirk was beginning, when Waring cut him short.

  “I’m afraid not.” He smiled. “I’m even a little overdue now. Now that the solar system’s going to be out of Quarantine, the Federation will be moving in what amounts to a reclamation project.” He grimaced humorously. “I’ll have to work with it and—to tell you the truth—right now they’re sending me to school so I’ll know enough to cooperate properly. But enjoy your visit!”

  He waved to them, turned with the guide, and was gone.

  The three who were left looked at each other and at the entrance before them.

  “Well,” said Mal, “come on,” and he led the way inside.

  They went down a small corridor and through a further entrance into a long, wide, low-ceilinged room spotted with cushions, hassocks and low tables. Peep was seated at one of the low tables, peering into the ey
epiece of some machine, his whiskers a-quiver with concentration.

  He did not look up immediately on their entrance; and they came to the table before stopping. Finally he looked up and saw them.

  “Young friends!” he cried happily. .

  “Hello—” they answered.

  Peep’s whiskers wilted visibly.

  “Is something the matter?” he inquired anxiously.

  They looked at each other in some embarrassment. Finally Mal cleared his throat, scowled darkly, and spoke.

  “We’ve had our eyes opened, that’s all,” he «aid. “We know what you really are now.”

  “You do?” said Peep astonishment. “What am I?”

  This left Mal somewhat at a loss. Luckily, before he could answer, Margie ran headlong into the breach.

  “Oh. Peep!” she cried. “You could at least have let us know.”

  “Know what?”

  “We thought you were dead!”

  “Dead? Oh, dear! Oh, no!” Peep beat the air with his paws in an agony of contrition. “No wonder! Of course! Naturally, you would assume— but I wasn’t. All these days—where is my perception?” And with one black fist he dealt his forehead a blow that would have dented armor plate.

  “How impolite—how careless of me” he said. ”Of course you would jump to the natural conclusion. Forgive me. Of course it was only a temporary paralysis due to a toxic element in the gas affecting my motor centers. How can I ever apologize for causing you this needless distress.”

  “Oh, Peep! Don’t worry about us,” said Margie. “It was you we were worried about—”

  “All right, Margie,” growled Mal. “You don’t have to go into emotional spasms over it.” Margie stared at him. Peep stared at all of them. “Young friends,” he said firmly, “something is evidently bothering you. Something connected with myself. Would you do me the courtesy of telling me what it is?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Dirk suddenly. “We’ve just learned a short while ago how important you are—”