The Early Asimov. Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  Tubal removed his head-piece. “Curtains!”

  Wri Forase gasped. “you mean-we’re through?”

  The Arcturian shook his head. “We can fix it, but it will take time. The radio is ruined for good, so we can’t get help.”

  “Get help!” Forase looked shocked. “That’s all we need. How would we explain being inside the Spican system? We might as well commit suicide as send out radio calls. As long as we can get back without help, we’re safe. Missing a few more classes won’t hurt us too much.”

  Sefan’s voice broke in dully. “But what about those panicky Earthmen back on Spica Four?”

  Forase’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say a word. It closed again, and if ever a Humanoid looked sick, Forase was that Humanoid.

  That was only the beginning.

  It took a day and a half to unscramble the space jalopy’s power lines. It took two more days to decelerate to safe turning point. It took four days to return to Spica IV. Total-eight days.

  When the ship hovered once more over the place where they had marooned the Earthmen, it was midmorning, and the Tubal’s face as he surveyed the area through the televisor was a study in length. Shortly he broke a silence that had long since become sticky.

  “I guess we’ve made every boner we could possibly have made. We landed them right outside a native village. There’s no sign of the Earthmen.”

  Sefan shook his head dolefully. “This is a bad business.”

  Tubal buried his head in his long arms clear down to the elbows.

  “That’s the finish. If they didn’t scare themselves to death, the natives got them. Violating prohibited solar systems is bad enough-but it’s just plain murder now, I guess.”

  “What we’ve got to do,” said Sefan, “is to get down there and find out if there are any still alive. We owe them that much. After that-”

  He swallowed. Forase finished in a whisper.

  “After that, it’s expulsion from the U., psycho-revision-and manual labor for life.”

  “Forget it!” barked Tubal. “We’ll face that when we have to.”

  Slowly, very slowly, the ship circled downward and came to rest on the rocky clearing where, eight days previously, ten Earthmen had been left stranded.

  “How do we handle these natives?” Tubal turned to Forase with raised eyebrow ridges (there was no hair on them, of course). “Come on, son, give with some sub-Humanoid psychology. There are only three of us and I don’t want any trouble.”

  Forase shrugged and his fuzzy face wrinkled in perplexity. “I’ve just been thinking about that, Tubal. I don’t know any.”

  “What!” exploded Sefan and Tubal in twin shouts.

  “No one does,” added the Denebian hurriedly. “It’s a fact. After all, we don’t let sub-Humanoids into the Federation till they’re fully civilized, and we quarantine them until then. Do you suppose we have much opportunity to study their psychology?”

  The Arcturian seated himself heavily. “This gets better and better. Think, Fuzzy-face, will you? Suggest something!”

  Forase scratched his head. “Well-uh-the best we can do is to treat them like normal Humanoids. If we approach slowly, palms spread out, make no sudden movements and keep calm, we ought toget along. Now, remember, I’m saying we ought to. I can’t be certain about this.”

  “Let’s go, and damnation with certainty,” urged Sefan impatiently. “It doesn’t matter much, anyway. If I get knocked off here, I don’t have to go back home.” His face took on a hunted look. “When I think of what my family is going to say-”

  They emerged from the ship and sniffed the atmosphere of Spica’s fourth planet. The sun was at meridian, and loomed overhead like a large orange basketball. Off in the woods, a bird called once in a creaky caw. Utter silence descended.

  “Hmph!” said Tubal, arms akimbo.

  “It’s enough to make you feel sleepy. No signs of life at all. Now, which way is the villager

  There was a three-way dispute about this, but it didn’t last long. The Arcturian first, the other two tagging along, they strode down the slope and toward the straggling forest.

  A hundred feet inside, the trees came alive, as a wave of natives dropped noiselessly from the overhanging branches. Wri Forase went under at the very first of the avalanche. Bill Sefan stumbled, stood his ground momentarily, then went over backward with a grunt.

  Only huge Myron Tubal was left standing. Legs straddled wide, and whooping hoarsely, he laid about right and left. The attacking natives hit him and bounced off like drops of water from a whirling flywheel. Modeling his defense on the principle of the windmill, he backed his way against a tree.

  Here he made a mistake. On the lowest branch of that tree squatted a native at once more cautious and more brainy than his fellows. Tubal had already noticed that the natives were equipped with stout, muscular tails, and had made a mental note of the fact. Of all the races in the Galaxy, only one other, Homo Gamma Cepheus, possessed tails. What he didn’t notice, however, was that these tails were prehensile.

  This he found out almost immediately, for the native in the branch above his head looped his tail downward, Hashed it about Tubal’s neck and contracted it.

  The Arcturian threshed wildly in agony, and the tailed attacker was jerked from his tree. Suspended head-first and whirled about in huge sweeps, the native nevertheless maintained his hold and tightened that tail-grip steadily.

  The world blacked out. Tubal was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  Tubal came to slowly, unpleasantly aware of the stinging stiffness of his neck. He tried vainly to rub that stiffness, and it took a few seconds to realize that he was tied tightly. The fact startled him into alertness. He became aware, first, that he was lying on his stomach; second, of the horrible din about him; third, of Sefan and Forase bundled up next to him-and last, that he could not break his bonds.

  “Hey, Sefan, Forase! Can you hear me?”

  It was Sefan that answered joyfully. “you old Draconian goat! We thought you were out for good.”

  “I don’t die so easy,” grunted the Arcturian. “Where are we?”

  There was a short pause.

  “In the native village, I imagine,” Wri Forase said dully. “Did you ever hear such a noise? The drum hasn’t stopped a minute since they dumped us here.”

  “Have you seen anything of-”

  Hands were upon Tubal, and he felt himself whirled about. He was in a sitting posture now and his neck hurt worse than ever. Ramshackle huts of thatch and green logs gleamed in the early afternoon sun. In a circle about them, watching in silence, were dark-skinned, long-tailed natives. There must have been hundreds, all wearing feathered head-dresses and carrying short, wickedly barbed spears.

  Their eyes were upon the row of figures that squatted mysteriously in the foreground, and upon these Tubal turned his angry glare. It was plain that they were the leaders of the tribe. Dressed in gaudy, fringed robes of ill-tanned skins, they added further to their barbaric impressiveness by wearing tall wooden masks painted into caricatures of the human face.

  With measured steps, the masked horror nearest the Humanoids approached.

  “Hello,” it said, and the mask lifted up and off. “Back so soon?”

  For quite a long while, Tubal and Sefan said absolutely nothing, while Wri Forase went into a protracted fit of coughing.

  Finally, Tubal drew a long breath. “You’re one of the Earthmen, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I’m Al Williams. Just call me Al.”

  “They haven’t killed you yet?”

  Williams smiled happily. “They haven’t killed any of us. Quite the contrary. Gentlemen,” he bowed extravagantly, “meet the new tribal-er-gods.”

  “The new tribal what?” gasped Forase. He was still coughing. “-er-gods. Sorry, but I don’t know the Galactic word for a god.”

  “What do you ‘gods’ represent?”

  “We’re sort of supernatural entities-objects to be worshipped.
Don’t you get it?”

  The Humanoids stared unhappily.

  “Yes, indeed,” Williams grinned, “we’re persons of great power.”

  “What are you talking about?” exclaimed Tubal indignantly. “Why should they think you were of great power? You Earth people are below average physically-well below!”

  “Its the psychology of the thing,” explained Williams. “If they see us landing in a large, gleaming vehicle that travels mysteriously through the air, and then takes off in a burst of rocket-flame-they’re bound to consider us supernatural. That’s elementary barbaric psychology.”

  Forase’s eyes seemed on the point of dropping out as Williams continued.

  “Incidentally, what detained you? We figure it was all a hazing of some sort, and it was, wasn’t it?”

  “Say,” broke in Sefan, “I think you’re feeding us a lot of bull! If they thought you people were gods, why didn’t they think we were? We had the ship, too, and-”

  “That,” said Williams, “is where we started to interfere. We explained-via pictures and sign language-that you people were devils. When you finally came back-and say, were we glad to see that ship coming down-they knew what to do.”

  “What, “ asked Forase, with a liberal dash of awe in his voice, “are ‘devils’?”

  Williams sighed. “Don’t you Galaxy people know anything? Tubal moved his aching neck slowly. “How about letting us up now?” he rumbled. “I’ve got a crick in my neck.”

  “What’s your hurry? After all, you were brought here to be sacrificed in our honor.”

  “Sacrificed!”

  “Sure. You’re to be carved up with knives.”

  There was a horror-laden silence. “Don’t give us any of that cometgas!” Tubal managed to grind out at last. “We’re not Earthmen who get panicky or scared, you know.”

  “Oh, we know that! I wouldn’t fool you for the world. But simple ordinary savage psychology always goes for a little human sacrifice, and-”

  Sefan writhed against his bonds and tried to throw himself in a rage at Forase.

  “I thought you said no one knew any sub-Humanoid psychology! Trying to alibi your ignorance, weren’t you, you shriveled; fuzz-covered, pop-eyed son of a half-breed Vegan lizard! A fine mess we’re in now!”

  Forase shrank away. “Now, wait! Just-”

  Williams decided the joke had gone far enough.

  “Take it easy,” he soothed. “Your clever hazing blew up right in your faces-it blew up beautifully-but we’re not going to carry it too far. I guess we’ve had enough fun out of you fellows. Sweeney is with the native chief now, explaining that we’re leaving and taking you three with us. Frankly, I’ll be glad to get going-Wait a while, Sweeney’s calling me.”

  When Williams returned two seconds later, his expression was peculiar, having turned a bit greenish. In fact, he got greener by the second.

  “It looks,” he gulped throatily, ‘‘as if our counter-haze has blown up in our faces. The native chief insists on the sacrifice!”

  Silence brooded, while the three Humanoids thought over the state of affairs. For moments, none of them could say a word

  “I’ve told Sweeney,” Williams added, glumly, “to go back and tell the chief that if he doesn’t do as we say, something terrible is going to happen to his tribe. But it’s pure bluff and he may not fall for it. Uh,-I’m sorry, fellows. I guess we went too far. If it looks really bad, we’ll cut you loose and join in the fight.”

  “Cut us loose now,” growled Tubal, his blood running cold. “Let’s get this over with!”

  “Wait!” cried Forase frantically. “Let the Earthman try some of his psychology. Go ahead, Earthman. Think hard!”

  Williams thought until his brain began to hurt.

  “You see,” he said weakly, “we’ve lost some of our godlike prestige, ever since we were unable to cure the chief’s wife. She died yesterday.” He nodded abstractedly to himself. “What we need is an impressive miracle. Er-have you fellows anything in your pockets?”

  He knelt beside them and began searching. Wri Forase had a stylus, a pocket-pad, a thin-toothed comb, some anti-itch powder, a sheaf of credits and a few odds and ends. Sefan had a collection of similar nondescript material.

  It was from Tubal’s hip pocket that Williams withdrew a small black gunlike object with a huge hand-grip and a short barrel.

  “What’s this?”

  Tubal scowled. “Is that what I’ve been sitting on all this while? It’s a weld-gun that I used to fix up a meteor puncture in our ship. It’s no good; power’s almost gone.”

  Williams’ eyes kindled. His whole body galvanized with excitement.

  “That’s what you think! You Galaxy men never could see farther than your noses. Why don’t you come down to Earth for a spell-and get a new point of view?”

  Williams was running toward his fellow conspirators now.

  “Sweeney,” he howled, “you tell that damned monkey-tailed chief that in just about one second, I’m going to get sore and pull the whole sky down over his head. Get tough!”

  But the chief did not wait for the message. He gestured defiance and the natives made a united rush. Tubal roared, and his muscles cracked against the bonds. The weld-gun in Williams’ hand flared into life, its feeble power beaming outward.

  The nearest native hut went up in sudden flames. Another followed-and another-and the fourth-and then the weld-gun went dead.

  But it was enough. Not a native remained standing. All were groveling on their faces, wailing and shrieking for pardon. The chief wailed and shrieked loudest of all.

  “Tell the chief,” said Williams to Sweeney, “that that’s just a little, insignificant sample of what we’re thinking of doing to him!”

  To the Humanoids, as he cut the rawhide holding them, he added complacently,

  “Just some simple, ordinary savage psychology.”

  It was only after they were back in their ship and off in space again that Forase locked up his pride.

  “But I thought Earthmen had never developed mathematical psychology! How did You know all that sub-Humanoid stuff? No one in the Galaxy has got that far yet!”

  “Well,” Williams grinned, “we have a certain amount of rule-of-thumb knowledge about the workings of the uncivilized mind. You see-we come from a world where most people, in a manner of speaking, are still uncivilized. So we have to know!”

  Forase nodded slowly. “You screwball Earthmen! At least, this little episode has taught us all one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never,” said Forase, dipping a second time into Earth slang, “get tough with a bunch of nuts. They may be nuttier than you think!”

  ***

  In going through my stories while preparing this book, I found “The Hazing” to be the only published story concerning which I could remember nothing from the title alone. Even as I reread it, nothing clicked. If I had been given the story without my name on it and had been asked to read it and guess the author, I would probably have been stumped. Maybe that means something.

  It does seem to me, though, that the story is set against a “Homo Sol” background.

  I had better luck with Fred Pohl with another story, “Super-Neutron,” which I wrote at the end of the same February in which I did “Masks” and “The Hazing.” I submitted it to him on March 3, 1941, and he accepted it on March 5.

  By that time, less than three years after my first submission, I was clearly becoming rather impatient with rejections. At least, the news of the acceptance of “Super-Neutron” is greeted in my diary with an “It’s about time I made a sale-five and a half weeks since the last one.”

  Super-Neutron

  It was at the seventeenth meeting of the Honorable Society of Ananias that we got the greatest scare of our collective lives and consequently elected Gilbert Hayes to the office of Perpetual President.

  The Society is not a large one. Before the election of Hayes there were only four of us: John
Sebastian, Simon Murfree, Morris Levin and myself. On the first Sunday of every month we met at luncheon, and on these monthly occasions justified our Society’s title by gambling the dinner check on our ability to lie.

  It was quite a complicated process, with strict Parliamentary rules. One member spun a yarn each meeting as his turn came up, and two conditions had to be adhered to. His story had to be an outrageous, complicated, fantastic lie; and, it had to sound like the truth. Members were allowed to-and did-attack any and every point of the story by asking questions or demanding explanations.

  Woe to the narrator who did not answer all questions immediately, or who, in answering, involved himself in a contradiction. The dinner-check was his! Financial loss was slight; but the disgrace was great.

  And then came that seventeenth meeting-and Gilbert Hayes. Hayes was one of several non-members who attended occasionally to listen to the after-dinner whopper, paying his own check, and, of course, being forbidden to participate; but on this occasion he was the only one present aside from the regular members.

  Dinner was over, I had been voted into the chair (it was my regular turn to preside), and the minutes had been read, when Hayes leaned forward and said quietly, “I’d like a chance today, gentlemen.”

  I frowned, “In the eyes of the Society you are non-existent, Mr. Hayes. It is impossible for you to take part.”

  “Then just let me make a statement, “ he rejoined. “The Solar System is coming to an end at exactly seventeen and a half minutes after two this afternoon.”

  There was a devil of a stir, and I looked at the electric clock over the television receiver. It was 1:14 P.M.

  I said hesitantly, “If you have anything to substantiate that extraordinary statement, it should be most interesting. It is Mr. Levin’s turn today, but if he is willing to waive it, and if the rest of the Society agrees-”

  Levin smiled and nodded, and the others joined in.

  I banged the gavel, “Mr. Hayes has the floor.”

  Hayes lit his cigar and gazed at it pensively. “I have little more than an hour, gentlemen, but I’ll start at the beginning-which is about fifteen years ago. At that time, though I’ve resigned since, I was an astrophysicist at Yerkes Observatory-young, but promising. I was hot on the trail of the solution to one of the perennial puzzles of astrophysics-the source of the cosmic rays-and full of ambition.”