The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Then radar picked it up.

  Carson stepped to the control-panel to give a change of course. Observational data, fed into the calculator, gave successive approximations of the mass and velocity of the sphere thus far visible only on the radar screen.

  It became more and more like ocean-navigation in dense fog, though the actual haze of planetary debris had diminished markedly during the past few hours. Jupiter, Mars, Venus came up sharply again in the theodolite cross hairs. The Hyperion was right on her course, but at half speed…quarter speed…and slower…approaching a body that no astronomer had charted.

  The calculator gave the change of course to intersect the orbit. Carson signaled, “Resume speed.”

  * * * *

  At last, visual observation picked the objective: a dull globe which neither Terrestrian nor Martian telescopes could distinguish, except when it occulted a brighter body. The color tended toward grayish-lavender; its mass was fantastically out of proportion to its apparent size. The infrared detectors indicated radiation quite out of keeping with any Terrestrian determinations of an asteroid’s probable temperature.

  There were two distinct reflections of the radar-beam: one from the stratosphere, and another from the surface of the planetoid.

  “Deep atmosphere, and dense,” Carson remarked.

  An occasional meteorite-trail confirmed the opinion.

  Gravitational pull took effect earlier than instrumental-indications toward the sun, the Hyperion sank. The deflectors shifted her clear of a body of water; friction heated the hull. Carson said to the intercom, “Make atmospheric tests, and report.”

  He got the first analysis soon after the Hyperion was sitting on her hydraulic landing-struts, on firm, hard footing. The pharmacist’s mate wasn’t sure of himself; he sounded as though he expected an order recheck.

  Carson beckoned to Tweed. “Get a load of this.” Then, “Ames, let’s have that again. Never mind oxygen, nitrogen, C02, helium. Are you sure of that thoron figure?”

  Ames repeated.

  Carson said, “If you simply had to pull a boner, you’d’ve pulled something plausible. You could have got a sample tainted with exhaust fumes; try again.”

  Thoron—thorium emanation—had such a short life that its persistence in this amount indicated the presence of unheard-of quantities. This, however proved to be only a minor oddity. The planet was warm, the air dense and moist. Beyond the open space in which the Hyperion had landed was vegetation of a lavender-grayish tinge, with a greenish undertone. Flights of birds rose from a distant lake. The sun, small and red, rose through swirling mists.

  Garrett and several of the crew debarked to get samples of air, water, earth; to make thermometric and barometric observations; and to take samples of vegetation. They were, however, to remain within two hundred yards’ radius.

  Later, the rest of the crew left the ship.

  Carson was listening to the analysis of the samples Garrett had brought back, when—looking up—he saw human forms along the lake shore.

  He said, “Recall all hands, mister; we don’t want any incidents. And those men—” He gestured to a group gathered around a growth neither quite like the plantain stalk it appeared to be, nor yet like any tree he had ever before seen. “Whatever they’re picking, there will be no eating until it’s been tested.”

  For awhile, the human forms he had seen along the lake were obscured by a patch of scrubby forest. Presently, they came into view again; the first of the group was in procession, crossing the clearing.

  Musicians led. They sounded off with wind instruments which suggested flutes and oboes. They had percussion-instruments also: small drums, discs of resonant metal, and rattles that rapped and swished. The scale was pentatonic: an eerie, alien harmony, even stranger than the Martian music of which it reminded Carson.

  Next, came men carrying banners; others had censers from the pierced metal covers of which poured smoke, pungent and fragrant, half-inviting, half-repulsive.

  “Look like Martians,” a man behind Carson muttered. “Same kind of faces.”

  Carson had noted this from the stature, gait, and posture of the visitors. All this confirmed what Alani had told him, that night under the moons of Mars. The skullcaps, the multicolored tunics, and the gilded twinkling headgear of the women, the sandals recalled that Martian evening. Most of all, it was the music and the chanting, so that thinking of Alani made him fancy that he could recognize her among the men and women who hung back from the procession.

  Gradually, Carson began to understand words of the chant.

  “Do you get it?” Garrett asked.

  “They think,” Carson answered, “that we are from the home of the gods. Keep the crew in ranks till I’ve had a parley; looks as if we have a good thing here, if we don’t foul it up.”

  There was muttering as word was passed to the crew. Carson addressed them directly this time: “Pipe down! You jerks have been gods at government expense all your lives; try and act the part, just once. No telling what these people will do, or how they’ll take it if they find out we are men like themselves.”

  “I don’t see what those apes would use to make trouble with!”

  Carson said to the speaker, “The fact that this bunch is unarmed doesn’t guarantee they don’t have weapons.”

  Tweed said from the corner of his mouth, “It’ll be OK, Walt; these Standard Citizens are thinking and talking big to hide a streak of chicken.”

  The procession halted; the chanting ceased. Carson stepped forward. Men in tunics and flopping black pants came to meet him. At every third step, they halted, bowed, and resumed the advance.

  Others came from the rear of the procession, carrying trays; these knelt when their leaders halted, and held up gifts for Carson to inspect.

  “We bow to the Exalted Ones who ride the Silver Dragon,” the spokesman sing-songed. “We welcome the Dragon and the Exalted Ones.”

  Carson answered, “We have come a long way; it is good to be here.” Then, remembering Martian etiquette, he selected an item from each of the nine trays presented by the nine kneeling attendants. Once he had the plunder wrapped in his scarf, he bowed and said, “You may leave, and prepare for our visit.”

  The leader backed off, bowing.

  The attendants backed off.

  The musicians, moving backward, struck up their weird harmonies. After all had retreated nine paces, the procession countermarched, and made for the lake. The waiting crowd trailed after.

  Rejoining the crew, Carson displayed the gifts. There were three pieces of fruit: a mango, a tangerine, and a plum. Then, three pieces of meat: the leg of a fowl; a chop; a filet of fish. Finally, a deep red, hexagonal gem, uncut, but burnished to brilliance; a small slug of heavy, yellow metal; a similar slug of bluish white metal, equally heavy. The last two had Martian symbols stamped upon them.

  There was a crossfire of chatter, largely objections as to the skipper’s having taken so little of the loot offered him, and queries as to how the stuff was to be divided up.

  Carson said, “I followed the Martian custom, and so did not grab everything on every tray—or even everything from one tray. You get away with that on Mars, because you have the whip hand, so no one bothers to set you right.

  “Next, it seems we’ve been expected for centuries—thousands of years, perhaps; we tie in with some legend. The ‘gods’ business is not to be taken literally. It may be an extravagant compliment, rather than a religious term. It’s easy to speak a language and not really know what the words actually mean.

  “In some countries, gods eat; in others, they do not eat. Again, high-ranking gods just inhale the odor of grub, whereas junior or second-class gods do sink their teeth into the chow. Frankly, I do not know yet what we are supposed to be, or do.

  “Finally, these gifts come from three kingdoms: animal, vegetable, and mineral. Y
ou’ll notice that the meat is from three of the elements—air, earth, and water. Don’t ask me why they didn’t bring a water-lily, a sweet potato, and an orchid; I’m not psychic.

  “Whether this gem is ruby, garnet—or just plain red quartz, I don’t know.

  “But one thing I damn well do know. If you start stealing, getting drunk, or making passes at women who belong to somebody else, we might end with our necks on the block. Just because these people didn’t come at us with a show of weapons does not mean they do not have weapons as good as the few energy-guns we carry.

  “That’s all. Garrett, post a watch, and detail three men to go with me. There will be no liberty until I have looked things over; I’m going to return the visit.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A few days after returning the visit of the natives, Carson found the wreck of a freighter whose hold was packed with ore. Vapor from the hot springs, and chemical-exhalation from fumaroles that dotted the region, had reduced the hull to a paper-thin shell which collapsed from the weight of the layer of oxides. He inferred that the freighter had crashed because of power failure. Whether the colonists of the asteroid had been abandoned, or whether they had declined subsequent chances to return to Mars, was a question obscured by legend, and by difficulties of language. The only certainty was that the people had lapsed into what a Terrestrian would call barbarism.

  They had few laws, and no ambition at all; their archaic code was based on good manners, rather than on moral taboos. Being without fear, they had—in the Terrestrian sense—neither law, morals, religion, nor war. Their observance in honor of the Tall Gods were motivated by politeness, rather than superstition or boon begging.

  Now that ceremony had been attended to, and repairs to the Hyperion completed, Carson went back to the town—a settlement of small houses built of lava blocks. There were other such settlements. As nearly as he had been able to find out, the asteroid was thinly, though uniformly populated.

  Carson’s visit had more than sociability behind it; he had caught some of the crew coming back with loot from a grave-robbing expedition. No digging had been involved, since the natives had the custom of laying jewelry and amulets on the graves. Before making any move to restore the stuff, he wanted to find out whether the thefts had been discovered; if not, better say nothing until the last minute.

  Kalgar, the chief elder, served mango-brandy in small earthenware cups. The stuff would have made first-rate fuel for an old-fashioned rocket. When Carson regained his breath, he said, “It is time for me to be frank with you. We are not gods; what is more, your liquor is not good for Terrestrials.”

  Kalgar, who reminded him very much of Alani’s father, was quite interested. “It doesn’t seem to hurt you. Neither now, nor last time.”

  “A few more, and I’d fall on my face.”

  “So do we; that’s why we drink it.”

  “Well, that’s a pretty good reason,” Carson agreed. “But some people don’t fall on their faces soon enough. Instead they act like those pigs you roast so nicely. Pigs are edible, but a drunken Terrestrian hasn’t even that much in his favor. Better sidetrack the brandy when the crewmen are around, and we’ll all have a nicer visit.

  “So far, there seems to have been no trouble about women. But while we’re talking things over—”

  Kalgar smiled, and gestured. “Ever since we heard your voices, we knew you were not gods. Also, we noticed that things had been taken from graves. Prowling animals take only the food we set out for the dead.

  “But do not worry; we will replace those trifles. And what we call reserved women are always kept out of sight; the others—there will be no trouble about them at all.”

  Before he left, Carson learned about the yellow metal, and the white. The natives washed these from creek beds, melted the granules in thorium ore crucibles set over volcanic crevices. The ingots were hammered into slugs which served as a medium of exchange—though barter was more convenient, and a lot more fun.

  Now that the overhaul-job was completed, Carson took off on a test-flight, circling the asteroid. Setting her down again, Carson arranged with Kalgar to have a gang of natives carry ore from the wreck to replace the low grade fuel the Hyperion had picked up at Galgorra. Refueling by carrying ore in baskets was slow and inefficient, but this favored the crew; it gave them plenty of time for fraternizing. Kalgar, too polite to keep the liquor out of reach, diluted it instead. Likewise, he displayed great tact in having all the grave offerings removed, instead of being so crude as to post guards at the cemetery.

  Things went so nicely that Carson relaxed and began to enjoy a breathing-spell. The morale of the crew was good. This encouraged him sufficiently to make him wonder whether, by a crisp course of apple-polishing, back home, he could get himself appointed to the job of administering the trading-post that would certainly be established on the asteroid. Having got things off to a good start, he could keep them right.

  The other alternative was to doctor the log of the cruise, so that there would be not one chance in a thousand that any succeeding party would spot the asteroid. The completion of his mission—flight to Jupiter and return—was all he had any obligation to do.

  While debating this matter, and realizing more and more that even if he were made trading-post factor, he would eventually have a successor with different ideas on running things, Tweed came bursting into the cabin.

  “Skipper, there’s hell to pay in town! Drunks going hog-wild; somehow, they got hold of a lot of uncut liquor. I tried to break it up.”

  Carson eyed the man. He was battered, bleeding, and had one eye shut. “Looks like it halfway broke you up; turn out the guard.”

  “Guard, hell! Every son and his brother, officers and all, are kicking the gong around.”

  Carson grabbed his helmet and made for the companionway.

  “Grab your guns, you dope!” Tweed said, as he lurched for the locker to get his belt; “you’ll need ’em.”

  As they raced along the path to the settlement, Tweed explained, “They found out that those slugs are gold and platinum—and regardless of color, mostly platinum; they got a lot of notions.”

  Several crew-members were running from town. They ignored Carson’s hail. Tweed caught him by the shoulder when he halted. “Never mind them; let’s go.”

  When they got to the torch lighted town, Carson found the plaza strewn with ear-pendants, headgear, and slugs of precious metal. Natives, goaded beyond the limit of their good manners, were ganging up on the drunken spacemen. The latter, cornered in an angle of the wall, were making a good defense; both sides were using clubs, rocks, and whatever else they could grab.

  Women, stripped to tatters, huddled in doorways. Some were blood-spattered, their earlobes torn by the snatching of their pendants and ear rings.

  Brandy-jugs and earthenware pots were smashed. Half the crew was down, punchy from having booted and slugged so many natives; thus far, spears, hatchets, and knives had not come into play.

  Breathless, Carson wove on his feet a moment before shouting, “Lay off! Quit this monkey business.”

  Seeing he was armed, one shouted, “Cut ’em down, skipper!”

  He drew his gun, picked a clear stretch of wall and fired. The blast shattered the masonry. Red hot fragments spattered, singeing crewmen and natives alike. The shock, the flash, the crackle of stone disintegrating as from intense heat, checked the infuriated attackers.

  “Pick up those drunks and get them out of here while you can!”

  Voice and gesture assured the natives that Carson was on their side. They were willing to withdraw; Old Kalgar appeared from a doorway, and sing-songed a few-words. There was every reason to believe that peace would be restored; groups of natives, coming on the run with weapons, checked their stride instead of closing in. They were responding to Kalgar’s command, not to fear of any strange arms; they had not seen the blast.
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br />   And then two crew members came into the plaza, yelling.

  Their shipmates answered. The newcomers had guns. Carson turned, but too late; there was a crackle and flash and blast. Half a dozen of Kalgar’s people crumpled.

  Carson’s gun flicked into line; he fired twice. The two crewmen dropped, a smoking, frying huddle. He said to Kalgar, “That is the best I can do. The others will behave.” He turned to Garrett. “March them back, mister; you’ve allowed enough deviltry for one evening.”

  * * * *

  Once the drunks had left the plaza, Carson picked up the guns dropped by the two he had cut down. He offered them to Kalgar. “They are easy to use; I’ll show you how. Keep them in case there is more trouble. Though I think these fellows have learned their lesson.”

  Tweed interrupted, “Skipper, you’d better not dally here too long.”

  “Probably not,” Carson agreed, as he turned toward Kalgar. “I’ll be back to talk to you. Maybe we can still make some arrangement for your people to finish refueling.”

  The old man bowed; women ventured from corners and doorways to recover their ornaments. Leaving the village, Carson, spoke his mind to Tweed. “I am the guy who discovered an asteroid all dripping with thorium, platinum, and what have you,” he said, bitterly.

  “You’ll be decorated,” Tweed said; “there’ll be a trading-post established. The natives will be civilized, and put to work in the mines; there’ll be no more loose women lolling around the plaza. It will be a fine new world. It will be such a wow that not much will be said about your gunwork.”

  Carson eyed him. “You seem to like this place.”

  “Brother, I do.”

  “Like it enough to make sure it won’t get the processing you mention?”

  “Sound off, Walt.”

  “Then give me a hand with a bit of sabotage. The Hyperion won’t be taking off; she’ll be reported lost with all hands. That will prove, back home, that I was a crackpot. Once our hand-guns are knocked out of action, anyone who doesn’t have good manners will end up at the business-end of a native hatchet, and the rest of us who behave will be among friends.”