Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

“Your theory. Look, Doc — if you are right, don’t you see what it means? We’re helpless, we’re outclassed."

  “I don’t think they will bother much with human beings. They haven’t, up till now."

  “But that isn’t it. Don’t you see? We’ve had some dignity as a race. We’ve striven and accomplished things. Even when we failed, we had the tragic satisfaction of knowing that we were, nevertheless, superior and more able than the other animals. We’ve had faith in the race — we would accomplish great things yet. But if we are just one of the lower animals ourselves, what does our great work amount to? Me, I couldn’t go on pretending to be a 'scientist’ if I thought I was just a fish, mucking around in the bottom of a pool. My work wouldn’t signify anything."

  “Maybe it doesn’t."

  “No, maybe it doesn’t." Eisenberg got up and paced the constricted area of their prison. “Maybe not. But I won’t surrender to it. I won’t! Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re wrong. It doesn’t seem to matter very much where the X people came from. One way or the other, they are a threat to our own kind. Doc, we’ve got to get out of here and warn them!"

  “How?"

  Graves was comatose a large part of the time before he died. Bill maintained an almost continuous watch over him, catching only occasional cat naps. There was little he could do for his friend, even though he did watch over him, but the spirit behind it was comfort to them both.

  But he was dozing when Graves called his name. He woke at once, though the sound was a bare whisper. “Yes, Doc?"

  “I can’t talk much more, son. Thanks for taking care of me."

  “Shucks, Doc."

  “Don’t forget what you’re here for. Some day you’ll get a break. Be ready for it and don’t muff it. People have to be warned."

  “I’ll do it, Doc. I swear it."

  “Good boy." And then, almost inaudibly, “G’night, son."

  Eisenberg watched over the body until it was quite cold and had begun to stiffen. Then, exhausted by his long vigil and emotionally drained, he collapsed into a deep sleep.

  When he woke up the body was gone.

  It was hard to maintain his morale, after Graves was gone. It was all very well to resolve to warn the rest of mankind at the first possible chance, but there was the endless monotony to contend with. He had not even the relief from boredom afforded the condemned prisoner — the checking off of limited days. Even his “calendar" was nothing but a counting of his sleeps.

  He was not quite sane much of the time, and it was the twice-tragic insanity of intelligence, aware of its own instability. He cycled between periods of elation and periods of extreme depression, in which he would have destroyed himself, had he the means.

  During the periods of elation he made great plans for fighting against the X creatures — after he escaped. He was not sure how or when, but, momentarily, he was sure. He would lead the crusade himself; rockets could withstand the dead zone of the Pillars and the cloud; atomic bombs could destroy the dynamic balance of the Pillars. They would harry them and hunt them down; the globe would once again be the kingdom of man, to whom it belonged.

  During the bitter periods of relapse he would realize clearly that the puny engineering of mankind would be of no force against the powers and knowledge of the creatures who built the Pillars, who kidnapped himself and Graves in such a casual and mysterious a fashion. They were outclassed.

  Could codfish plan a sortie against the city of Boston? Would it matter if the chattering monkeys in Guatemala passed a resolution to destroy the navy?

  They were outclassed. The human race had reached its highest point — the point at which it began to be aware that it was not the highest race, and the knowledge was death to it, one way or the other — the mere knowledge alone, even as the knowledge was now destroying him, Bill Eisenberg, himself. Eisenberg — homo piscis. Poor fish!

  His overstrained mind conceived a means by which he might possibly warn his fellow beings. He could not escape as long as his surroundings remained unchanged. That was established and he accepted it; he no longer paced his cage. But certain things did leave his cage: left-over food, refuse — and Graves’ body. If he died, his own body would be removed, he felt sure. Some, at least, of the things which had gone up the Pillars had come down again — he knew that. Was it not likely that the X creatures disposed of any heavy mass for which they had no further use by dumping it down the Wahini Pillar? He convinced himself that it was so.

  Very well, his body would be returned to the surface, eventually. How could he use it to give a message to his fellow men, if it were found? He had no writing materials, nothing but his own body.

  But the same make-do means which served him as a calendar gave him a way to write a message. He could make welts on his skin with a shred of thumbnail. If the same spot were irritated over and over again, not permitted to heal, scar tissue would form. By such means he was able to create permanent tattooing.

  The letters had to be large; he was limited in space to the fore part of his body; involved argument was impossible. He was limited to a fairly simple warning. If he had been quite right in his mind, perhaps be would have been able to devise a more cleverly worded warning — but then he was not.

  In time, he had covered his chest and belly with cicatrix tattooing worthy of a bushman chief. He was thin by then and of an unhealthy color; the welts stood out plainly.

  His body was found floating in the Pacific, by Portuguese fishermen who could not read the message, but who turned it in to the harbor police of Honolulu. They, in turn, photographed the body, fingerprinted it, and disposed of it. The fingerprints were checked in Washington, and William Eisenberg, scientist, fellow of many distinguished societies, and high type of homo sapiens, was officially dead for the second time, with a new mystery attached to his name.

  The cumbersome course of official correspondence unwound itself and the record of his reappearance reached the desk of Captain Blake, at a port in the South Atlantic. Photographs of the body were attached to the record, along with a short official letter telling the captain that, in view of his connection with the case, it was being provided for his information and recommendation.

  Captain Blake looked at the photographs for the dozenth time. The message told in scar tissue was plain enough: “BEWARE — CREATION TOOK EIGHT DAYS." But what did it mean?

  Of one thing he was sure — Eisenberg had not had those scars on his body when he disappeared from the Mahan. The man had lived for a considerable period after he was grabbed up by the fireball — that was certain. And he had learned something. What? The reference to the first chapter of Genesis did not escape him; it was not such as to be useful.

  He turned to his desk and resumed making a draft in painful longhand of his report to the bureau. “— the message in scar tissue adds to the mystery, rather than clarifying it. I am now forced to the opinion that the Pillars and the LaGrange fireballs are connected in some way. The patrol around the Pillars should not be relaxed. If new opportunities or methods for investigating the nature of the Pillars should develop, they should be pursued thoroughly. I regret to say that I have nothing of the sort to suggest —"

  He got up from his desk and walked to a small aquarium supported by gimbals from the inboard bulkhead, and stirred up the two goldfish therein with a forefinger. Noticing the level of the water, he turned to the pantry door. “Johnson, you’ve filled this bowl too full again. Pat’s trying to jump out again!"

  “I’ll fix it, captain." The steward came out of the pantry with a small pan. (“Don’t know why the Old Man keeps these tarnation fish. He ain’t interested in 'em — that’s certain.") Aloud he added: “That Pat fish don’t want to stay in there, captain. Always trying to jump out. And he don’t like me, captain."

  “What’s that?" Captain Blake’s thoughts had already left the fish; he was worrying over the mystery again.

  “I say that fish don’t like me, captain. Tries to bite my finger every time I clean out the bowl"<
br />
  “Don’t be silly, Johnson."

  Pied piper

  Astonishing Stories, March 1942 as by Lyle Monroe

  The Prime Minister — and Field Marshal Yler!" Doctor Groot’s secretary was obviously excited.

  Doctor Groot did not lift his eyes from the laboratory bench. With a gentle, steady grip he held a; tiny furry animal while he shaved an area on its thigh.

  “So? Have them wait."

  “But Doctor, it’s the —"

  “Are they more important than this?" He reached for a hypodermic needle, loaded and waiting. His little specimen, a field mouse, did not resist the needle.

  The secretary started to speak, bit her lip, and withdrew.

  The statesman endured the wait somewhat better than the soldier. “I don’t like this, Excellency," the field marshal grumbled. “Why should we be kept waiting while our host fiddles around among his stinks and bottles? Mind you, I’m not complaining on my own account; I learned to wait when I was a cadet; but you represent the state."

  The Prime Minister twisted around in his chair to face Yler. “Patience, John. What does it matter if we are treated like job-seekers? We must have him to win the war, but does he need us? I doubt it from his viewpoint. Would you and I be here at all — if we were not already beaten."

  The general turned a darker red. “With due respect to you, sir, our armies are not yet beaten."

  “True. True," the statesman conceded testily, “but they will be in the end. You told me so."

  The soldier muttered to himself.

  “What," asked his companion, “did you say?"

  “I said I would rather go down in honorable defeat."

  “Oh, that! Of course you would. All your training is to fight. My anxiety is to win. That is the difference between politicians and soldiers — we know when to give way in order to win. Resign yourself to it; we must have the services of Doctor Groot in order to win this war!"

  The soldier’s answer was cut short by the secretary appearing to announce that Doctor Groot could now see them. She led the way; the politician followed; the soldier brought up the rear, still fuming. As they entered Groot’s study, the doctor was entering it also, from the laboratory door on the far side.

  His visitors saw a vigorous elderly man, a little below middle height, stocky and a bit full about the equator. Live, merry eyes peered out of a face appropriate to an old bull ape. This was surmounted by a pink, hairless dome of startling size. He was dressed in dirty linen pajamas and a rubber apron.

  “Sit down," he said, waving them to big leather armchairs and seating himself in one, after pushing several books and assorted oddments to the floor to clear the chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was up to my eyes in some research that couldn’t wait. But I found the answer to the problem."

  The field marshal leaned forward eagerly. “You’ve found the weapon, Doctor?"

  “The weapon?, What weapon? I’ve found why field mice have herpies. Odd business — hysteric, just as in humans. I induced a neurosis; they responded by developing herpies. Quite interesting."

  The soldier did not conceal his annoyance. “Field mice! Wasting time with such trifles! Man, don’t you know there’s a war?"

  Groot lifted his shoulders a fraction of an inch. “Field mice; or field marshals, who shall say what is important? To me, all life is important, and interesting,"

  The Prime Minister interrupted suavely, “No doubt you are right, Doctor, but Field Marshal Yler and I are faced with another problem of paramount importance to us. The sound of battle hardly reaches the quiet of your laboratory, but for us who are charged with the public responsibility of prosecuting the war, there is no escaping it. We have come to you because we are at our wit’s end and need the help of your genius. Will you give us that help?"

  Groot pushed out his lips. “How can I help? You have hundreds of able research men in your laboratories. Why do you think that one old man can help you win a war."

  “I am no expert in these things," replied the politician, “but I know your reputation. Everywhere among our experts and technical men I hear the same thing: 'If only Groot were here, he could do it.’ … 'Why isn’t Doctor Groot called in on this?’ They all seemed convinced that you can solve any problem you put your mind to."

  “And what do you wish me to do?"

  The Prime Minister turned to the soldier. “Tell him, John."

  Rapidly Yler sketched out the progress of the war; the statistics of men and materials involved, the factors of supply and distribution, the techniques employed in fighting, the types of weapons; the strategical principles.

  “So you see that even though we started practically equal in manpower and technical equipment, because of the enemy’s greater reserves of capital goods, the tide has swung against us. Under the law of decrements, each battle leaves us worse off than before; the ratio against us has increased."

  Groot considered this, then answered.

  “And the second differential is even worse, is it not so? The rate of increase of your losses climbs even more rapidly than the losses themselves. And it would seem from your figures that the third differential, the speed with which the rate is increasing spells disaster — you cannot even hold out until winter."

  The field marshal admitted that such was true. “However," he added, “we have dug in and are holding the strategic situation practically static while we try to decide what to do about it. That is where you come in, Doctor; we need some radically new weapon or technique to change the ratio of losses to our favor, or the end is in sight. I can hold this situation together with very little change for six weeks or so. If you can go into your laboratory and produce some new and powerful weapon of offense in that length of time, you can save the country."

  Groot looked at him quizzically. “So? What would you like? An incendiary ray from a portable projector, perhaps? Or how about a bomb that would not cease to explode, but would continue to destroy for days or weeks? Or perhaps you would like a means of disabling their aircraft in midair?"

  The soldier nodded eagerly. “That’s the idea, Doctor, any of those things. If you can do even one of them, you will be the greatest hero in the history of our country. But can you really give us such weapons?"

  Groot nodded casually. “But certainly. Any of those things are obvious possibilities. You provide me with the money and help and I can deliver such weapons, or better ones, in fairly short order."

  The politician intervened. “Anything you like, Doctor, anything at all. I shall direct the Secretary of the Exchequer to provide you with an unlimited drawing account. Any personnel you require will be ordered to report to you forthwith. Now suppose I leave you two to confer as to the most immediately important work to be done."

  He arose and reached for his gloves and hat. “I may say, Doctor, that the reward will be commensurate with your service. Your country will not forget."

  Groot motioned him back to his chair. “Don’t be hasty, my friend. I did not say I would do these things. I said I could."

  “Do you mean you might not —"

  “In fact, I will not. I see no reason for helping you destroy our neighbor."

  The field marshal was on his feet at once.

  “This is treason," he raged. “Excellency, permit me to arrest him at once. I’ll make him produce — or kill him in the process!"

  Groot’s tones were soft, mild. “Do you really think a man my age fears death? And let me tell you, my friend, a man with your blood pressure should not get into rages — it is quite likely to bring on a thrombosis, and result in your demise." .

  The politician’s years of practice in controlling his temper and concealing his feelings stood him in good stead. He placed a hand on the marshal’s shoulder. “Sit down, John, and be quiet. You know as well as I that we can’t make Dr. Groot work, if he refuses. To talk of revenge on him is silly." He turned to Groot. “Doctor, when your fellow countrymen are dying to accomplish a particular end. don
’t you think you owe them some explanation if you refuse to help them in any way you can?"

  Groot had watched the little byplay with amusement. He replied courteously, “Certainly, Your Excellency. I will not assist in this mass killing because I see no reason why either side should win. The cultures are similar; the racial stocks are the same in about the same proportions. What difference will it make which side wins?"

  “Don’t you feel any obligation of patriotism, or loyalty?"

  “Only," Groot shrugged, “to the race itself. Not to a particular gang."

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to discuss with you the question of which side is morally justified?"

  Groot shook his head. “None at all, I’m afraid."

  “I thought not. We are realists, you and I," He gathered up his gloves again. “I shall do what I can. Doctor, to protect you from the results of your decision, but political necessities may force my hand. You will understand."

  “Stay." Groot stopped him again. “I refused to help you win this war. Suppose I undertook to keep you from losing?"

  “But that is the same thing," exploded the field marshal.

  The Prime Minister simply raised his brows.

  Groot proceeded. “I will not help you to win. But if you wish it, I will show you how to stop this war with no victory on either side, provided —" He paused -“provided you agree now to my kind of peace."

  He stopped and waited for the effect of his words. The Prime Minister nodded. “Go ahead. We will at least listen."

  “If the war is finished with no victor and no vanquished, if the terms of the peace set up a new government which welds the two countries into one nation, indistinguishable, free, and equal, I shall be satisfied. If you can assure me of that, I will help you — otherwise not."

  The politician withdrew to the far end of the room, and stood staring out the window. He traced a triangle with his forefinger on his right cheek, and repeated it, endlessly; his brows furrowed in thought.

  The old soldier got up and joined him and expostulated in whispers, “— utopian! … impractical! … different languages, different traditions …"