The Mammoth Book Of Science Fiction

by Mike Ashley (Editor)

  A rat runs around a trap only because he is grimly aware of its existence. So long as he remains blissfully ignorant of it, he does nothing. On this very world a horde of intelligent aliens had done nothing about it through the whole of their history. Fifty skeptical Altairans weren’t likely to step in where three thousand million Terrans had failed.

  He was still sitting there when Haraka came in and informed, “We leave at sunset.”

  Morfad said nothing.

  “I’ll be sorry to go,” added Haraka. He was the ship’s captain, a big, burly sample of Altairan life. Rubbing flexible fingers together, he went on, “We’ve been lucky to discover this planet, exceedingly lucky. We’ve become blood brothers of a life-form fully up to our own standard of intelligence, space-traversing like ourselves, friendly and cooperative.”

  Morfad said nothing.

  “Their reception of us has been most cordial,” Haraka continued enthusiastically. “Our people will be greatly heartened when they hear our report. A great future lies before us, no doubt of that. A Terran-Altairan combine will be invincible. Between us we can explore and exploit the entire galaxy.”

  Morfad said nothing.

  Cooling down, Haraka frowned at him. “What’s the matter with you, Misery?”

  “I am not overjoyed.”

  “I can see that much. Your face resembles a very sour shamsid on an aged and withered bush. And at a time of triumph, too! Are you ill?”

  “No.” Turning slowly, Morfad looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you believe in psionic faculties?”

  Haraka reacted as if caught on one foot. “Well, I don’t know. I am a captain, a trained engineer-navigator, and as such I cannot pretend to be an expert upon extraordinary abilities. You ask me something I am not qualified to answer. How about you? Do you believe in them?”

  “I do – now.”

  “Now? Why now?”

  “The belief has been thrust upon me.” Morfad hesitated, went on with a touch of desperation. “I have discovered that I am telepathic.”

  Surveying him with slight incredulity, Haraka said, “You’ve discovered it? You mean it has come upon you recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since we arrived on Terra.”

  “I don’t understand this at all,” confessed Haraka, baffled. “Do you assert that some peculiarity in Terra’s conditions has suddenly enabled you to read my thoughts?”

  “No, I cannot read your thoughts.”

  “But you’ve just said that you have become telepathic.”

  “So I have. I can hear thoughts as clearly as if the words were being shouted aloud. But not your thoughts nor those of any member of our crew.”

  Haraka leaned forward, his features intent. “Ah, you have been hearing Terran thoughts, eh? And what you’ve heard has got you bothered? Morfad, I am your captain, your commander. It is your bounden duty to tell me of anything suspicious about these Terrans.” He waited a bit, urged impatiently, “Come on, speak up!”

  “I know no more about these humanoids than you do,” said Morfad. “I have every reason to believe them genuinely friendly but I don’t know what they think.”

  “But by the stars, man, you –”

  “We are talking at cross-purposes,” Morfad interrupted. “Whether I do or do not overhear Terran thoughts depends upon what one means by Terrans.”

  “Look,” said Haraka, “whose thoughts do you hear?”

  Steeling himself, Morfad said flatly, “Those of Terran dogs.”

  “Dogs?” Haraka lay back and stared at him. “Dogs? Are you serious?”

  “I have never been more so. I can hear dogs and no others. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. It is a freak of circumstance.”

  “And you have listened to their minds ever since we jumped to Earth?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of things have you heard?”

  “I have had pearls of alien wisdom cast before me,” declared Morfad, “and the longer I look at them the more they scare hell out of me.”

  “Get busy frightening me with a few examples,” invited Haraka, suppressing a smile.

  “Quote: the supreme test of intelligence is the ability to live as one pleases without working,” recited Morfad. “Quote: the art of retribution is that of concealing it beyond all suspicion. Quote: the sharpest, most subtle, most effective weapon in the cosmos is flattery.”

  “Huh?”

  “Quote: if a thing can think it likes to think that it is God – treat it as God and it becomes your willing slave.”

  “Oh, no!” denied Haraka.

  “Oh, yes!” insisted Morfad. He waved a hand toward the nearest port. “Out there are three thousand million petty gods. They are eagerly panted after, fawned upon, gazed upon with worshiping eyes. Gods are very gracious toward those who love them.” He made a spitting sound that lent emphasis to what followed. “The lovers know it – and love comes cheap.”

  Haraka said, uneasily, “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Quote: to rule successfully the ruled must be unconscious of it.” Again the spitting sound. “Is that crazy? I don’t think so. It makes sense. It works. It’s working out there right now.”

  “But –”

  “Take a look at this.” He tossed a small object into Haraka’s lap. “Recognize it?”

  “Yes, it’s what they call a cracker.”

  “Correct. To make it some Terrans plowed fields in all kinds of weather, rain, wind and sunshine, sowed wheat, reaped it with the aid of machinery other Terrans had sweated to build. They transported the wheat, stored it, milled it, enriched the flour by various processes, baked it, packaged it, shipped it all over the world. When humanoid Terrans want crackers they’ve got to put in man-hours to get them.”

  “So –”

  “When a dog wants one he sits up, waves his forepaws and admires his god. That’s all. Just that.”

  “But, darn it, man, dogs are relatively stupid.”

  “So it seems,” said Morfad, dryly.

  “They can’t really do anything effective.”

  “That depends upon what one regards as effective.”

  “They haven’t got hands.”

  “And don’t need them – having brains.”

  “Now see here,” declaimed Haraka, openly irritated, “we Altairans invented and constructed ships capable of roaming the spaces between the stars. The Terrans have done the same. Terran dogs have not done it and won’t do it in the next million years. When one dog has the brains and ability to get to another planet I’ll eat my cap.”

  “You can do that right now,” Morfad suggested. “We have two dogs on board.”

  Haraka let go a grunt of disdain. “The Terrans have given us those as a memento.”

  “Sure they gave them to us – at whose behest?”

  “It was wholly a spontaneous gesture.”

  “Was it?”

  “Are you suggesting that dogs put the idea into their heads?” Haraka demanded.

  “I know they did,” retorted Morfad, looking grim. “And we’ve not been given two males or two females. Oh no, sir, not on your life. One male and one female. The givers said we could breed them. Thus in due course our own worlds can become illuminated with the undying love of man’s best friend.”

  “Nuts!” said Haraka.

  Morfad gave back, “You’re obsessed with the old, out-of-date idea that conquest must be preceded by aggression. Can’t you understand that a wholly alien species just naturally uses wholly alien methods? Dogs employ their own tactics, not ours. It isn’t within their nature or abilities to take us over with the aid of ships, guns and a great hullabaloo. It is within their nature and abilities to creep in upon us, their eyes shining with hero-worship. If we don’t watch out, we’ll be mastered by a horde of loving creepers.”

  “I can invent a word for your mental condition,” said Haraka. “You’re suffering from caniphobia.”

  “With
good reasons.”

  “Imaginary ones.”

  “Yesterday I looked into a dogs’ beauty shop. Who was doing the bathing, scenting, powdering, primping? Other dogs? Hah! Humanoid females were busy dolling ’em up. Was that imaginary?”

  “You can call it a Terran eccentricity. It means nothing whatever. Besides, we’ve quite a few funny habits of our own.”

  “You’re dead right there,” Morfad agreed. “And I know one of yours. So does the entire crew.”

  Haraka narrowed his eyes. “You might as well name it. I am not afraid to see myself as others see me.”

  “All right. You’ve asked for it. You think a lot of Kashim. He always has your ear. You will listen to him when you’ll listen to nobody else. Everything he says makes sound sense – to you.”

  “So you’re jealous of Kashim, eh?”

  “Not in the least,” assured Morfad, making a disparaging gesture. “I merely despise him for the same reason that everyone else holds him in contempt. He is a professional toady. He spends most of his time fawning upon you, flattering you, pandering to your ego. He is a natural-born creeper who gives you the Terradog treatment. You like it. You bask in it. It affects you like an irresistible drug. It works – and don’t tell me that it doesn’t because all of us know that it does.”

  “I am not a fool. I have Kashim sized up. He does not influence me to the extent you believe.”

  “Three thousand million Terrans have four hundred million dogs sized up and are equally convinced that no dog has a say in anything worth a hoot.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Of course you don’t. I had little hope that you would. Morfad is telling you these things and Morfad is either crazy or a liar. But if Kashim were to tell you while prostrate at the foot of your throne you would swallow his story hook, line and sinker. Kashim has a Terradog mind and uses Terradog logic, see?”

  “My disbelief has better basis than that.”

  “For instance?” Morfad invited.

  “Some Terrans are telepathic. Therefore if this myth of subtle mastery by dogs were a fact, they’d know of it. Not a dog would be left alive on this world.” Haraka paused, finished pointedly, “They don’t know of it.”

  “Terran telepaths hear the minds of their own kind but not those of dogs. I hear the minds of dogs but not those of any other kind. As I said before, I don’t know why this should be. I know only that it is.”

  “It seems nonsensical to me.”

  “It would. I suppose you can’t be blamed for taking that viewpoint. My position is difficult; I’m like the only one with ears in a world that is stone-deaf.”

  Haraka thought it over, said after a while, “Suppose I were to accept everything you’ve said at face value – what do you think I should do about it?”

  “Refuse to take the dogs,” responded Morfad, promptly.

  “That’s more easily said than done. Good relations with the Terrans are vitally important. How can I reject a warmhearted gift without offending the givers?”

  “All right, don’t reject it. Modify it instead. Ask for two male or two female dogs. Make it plausible by quoting an Altairan law against the importation of alien animals that are capable of natural increase.”

  “I can’t do that. It’s far too late. We’ve already accepted the animals and expressed our gratitude for them. Besides, their ability to breed is essential part of the gift, the basic intention of the givers. They’ve presented us with a new species, an entire race of dogs.”

  “You said it!” confirmed Morfad.

  “For the same reason we can’t very well prevent them from breeding when we get back home,” Haraka pointed. “From now on we and the Terrans are going to do a lot of visiting. Immediately they discover that our dogs have failed to multiply they’ll become generous and sentimental and dump another dozen on us. Or maybe a hundred. We’ll then be worse off than we were before.”

  “All right, all right.” Morfad shrugged with weary resignation. “If you’re going to concoct a major objection to every possible solution we may as well surrender without a fight. Let’s abandon ourselves to becoming yet another dog-dominated species. Requote: to rule successfully the ruled must be unconscious of it.” He gave Haraka the sour eye. “If I had my way, I’d wait until we were far out in free space and then give those two dogs the hearty heave-ho out the hatch.”

  Haraka grinned in the manner of one about to nail down a cockeyed tale once and for all. “And if you did that it would be proof positive beyond all argument that you’re afflicted with a delusion.”

  Emitting a deep sigh, Morfad asked, “Why would it?”

  “You’d be slinging out two prime members of the master race. Some domination, eh?” Haraka grinned again. “Listen, Morfad, according to your own story you know something never before known or suspected and you’re the only one who does know it. That should make you a mighty menace to the entire species of dogs. They wouldn’t let you live long enough to thwart them or even to go round advertising the truth. You’d soon be deader than a low-strata fossil.” He walked to the door, held it open while he made his parting shot. “You look healthy enough to me.”

  Morfad shouted at the closing door, “Doesn’t follow that because I can hear their thoughts they must necessarily hear mine. I doubt that they can because it’s just a freakish –”

  The door clicked shut. He scowled at it, walked twenty times up and down the cabin, finally resumed his chair and sat in silence while he beat his brains around in search of a satisfactory solution.

  “The sharpest, most subtle, most effective weapon in the cosmos is flattery.”

  Yes, he was seeking a means of coping with fourfooted warriors incredibly skilled in the use of Creation’s sharpest weapon. Professional fawners, creepers, worshipers, man-lovers, ego-boosters, trained to near-perfection through countless generations in an art against which there seemed no decisive defense.

  How to beat off the coming attack, contain it, counter it?

  “Yes, God!”

  “Certainly, God!”

  “Anything you say, God!”

  How to protect oneself against this insidious technique, how to quarantine it or –

  By the stars! that was it – quarantine them! On Pladamine, the useless world, the planet nobody wanted. They could breed there to their limits and meanwhile dominate the herbs and bugs. And a soothing reply would be ready for any nosy Terran tourist.

  “The dogs? Oh, sure, we’ve still got them, lots of them. They’re doing fine. Got a nice world of their very own. Place called Pladamine. If you wish to go see them, it can be arranged.”

  A wonderful idea. It would solve the problem while creating no hard feelings among the Terrans. It would prove useful in the future and to the end of time. Once planted on Pladamine no dog could ever escape by its own efforts. Any tourists from Terra who brought dogs along could be persuaded to leave them in the canine heaven specially created by Altair. There the dogs would find themselves unable to boss anything higher than other dogs, and, if they didn’t like it, they could lump it.

  No use putting the scheme to Haraka, who was obviously prejudiced. He’d save it for the authorities back home. Even if they found it hard to credit his story, they’d still take the necessary action on the principle that it is better to be sure than sorry. Yes, they’d play safe and give Pladamine to the dogs.

  Standing on a cabin seat, he gazed out and down through the port. A great mob of Terrans, far below, waited to witness the coming takeoff and cheer them on their way. He noticed beyond the back of the crowd a small, absurdly groomed dog dragging a Terran female at the end of a thin, light chain. Poor girl, he thought. The dog leads, she follows yet believes she is taking it some place.

  Finding his color-camera, he checked its controls, walked along the corridor and into the open air lock. It would be nice to have a picture of the big send-off audience. Reaching the rim of the lock he tripped headlong over something four-legged and stubby-tail
ed that suddenly intruded itself between his feet. He dived outward, the camera still in his grip, and went down fast through the whistling wind while shrill feminine screams came from among the watching crowd.

  Haraka said, “The funeral has delayed us two days. We’ll have to make up the time as best we can.” He brooded a moment, added, “I am very sorry about Morfad. He had a brilliant mind but it was breaking up toward the end. Oh well, it’s a comfort that the expedition has suffered only one fatality.”

  “It could have been worse, sir,” responded Kashim. “It could have been you. Praise the heavens that it was not.”

  “Yes, it could have been me.” Haraka regarded him curiously. “And would it have grieved you, Kashim?”

  “Very much indeed, sir. I don’t think anyone aboard would feel the loss more deeply. My respect and admiration are such that –”

  He ceased as something padded softly into the cabin, laid its head in Haraka’s lap, gazed soulfully up at the captain. Kashim frowned with annoyance.

  “Good boy!” approved Haraka, scratching the newcomer’s ears.

  “My respect and admiration,” repeated Kashim in louder tones, “are such that –”

  “Good boy!” said Haraka again. He gently pulled one ear, then the other, observed with pleasure the vibrating tail.

  “As I was saying, sir, my respect –”

  “Good boy!” Deaf to all else, Haraka slid a hand down from the ears and massaged under the jaw.

  Kashim favored Good Boy with a glare of inutterable hatred. The dog rolled a brown eye sideways and looked at him without expression. From that moment Kashim’s fate was sealed.

  A Death in the House

  Clifford D. Simak

  Although his best work was produced in the 1950s and early 1960s, and his later work became perhaps a little too repetitive of old themes, I would still rank Simak (1904–88) amongst my top ten favourite sf writers. And that’s because he was a voice on his own. No one else produced science fiction like Simak. Although he could write high-tech stuff if he chose, most of the time he chose not to. What interested Simak were everyday folks with their everyday robots and everyday dogs (sentient or otherwise) and everyday aliens. The typical Simak story involves a loner in a rural setting, quite often a farmer in the American mid-west, to whom something unusual happens. Simak reworked that theme over and over again but always with remarkable freshness, often with humour, sometimes with profound poignancy, as in the following. He could achieve this at novel length – check out his masterpiece, the award-winning Way Station (1963). He could do it at novella length – the award-winning “The Big Front Yard” Astounding, November 1958). He could do it with the short story – the award-winning “Grotto of the Dancing Deer” (Analog, April 1980). Oh, and he could do it with the story series – yep, another award-winner; City (1952). The Science Fiction Writers of America voted Simak a Grand Master in 1976, and I doubt there’ll ever be another like him.