Untouched by Human Hands

by Robert Sheckley

  “But the expedition—your duty—”

  “I changed my mind,” Ger told him. “You know, Pilot, I never wanted to be a Detector.”

  “But you were born a Detector!”

  “That’s true,” Ger said. “But it doesn’t help. I always wanted to be a Hunter.”

  Pid shook his entire body in annoyance. “You can’t,” he said, very slowly, as one would explain to a Glomling. “The Hunter shape is forbidden to you.”

  “Not here it isn’t,” Ger said, still wagging his tail.

  “Let’s have no more of this,” Pid said angrily. “Get into that installation and set up your Displacer. I’ll try to overlook this heresy.”

  “I won’t,” Ger said. “I don’t want the Glom here. They’d ruin it for the rest of us.”

  “He’s right,” an oak tree said.

  “Ilg!” Pid gasped. “Where are you?”

  Branches stirred. “I’m right here,” Ilg said. “I’ve been Thinking.”

  “But—your caste—”

  “Pilot,” Ger said sadly, “why don’t you wake up? Most of the people on Glom are miserable. Only custom makes us take the caste-shape of our ancestors.”

  “Pilot,” Ilg said, “all Glom are born Shapeless!”

  “And being born Shapeless, all Glom should have Freedom of Shape,” Ger said.

  “Exactly,” Ilg said. “But he’ll never understand. Now excuse me. I want to Think.” And the oak tree was silent.

  Pid laughed humorlessly. “The Men will kill you off,” he said. “Just as they killed off the rest of the expeditions.”

  “No one from Glom has been killed,” Ger told him. “The other expeditions are right here.”

  “Alive?”

  “Certainly. The Men don’t even know we exist. That Dog I was Hunting with is a Glom from the nineteenth expedition. There are hundreds of us here, Pilot. We like it.”

  Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in caste-consciousness. But this—this was preposterous!

  This planet’s secret menace was—freedom!

  “Join us, Pilot,” Ger said. “We’ve got a paradise here. Do you know how many species there are on this planet’ An uncountable number! There’s a shape to suit every need!”

  Pid shook his head. There was no shape to suit his need. He was a Pilot.

  But Men were unaware of the presence of the Glom. Getting near the reactor would be simple!

  “The Glom Supreme Council will take care of all of you,” he snarled, and shaped himself into a Dog. “I’m going to set up the Displacer myself.”

  He studied himself for a moment, bared his teeth at Ger, and loped toward the gate.

  The Men at the gate didn’t even look at him. He slipped through the main door of the building behind a Man, and loped down a corridor.

  The Displacer in his body pouch pulsed and tugged, leading him toward the reactor room.

  He sprinted up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. There were footsteps around the bend, and Pid knew instinctively that Dogs were not allowed inside the building.

  He looked around desperately for a hiding place, but the corridor was bare. However, there were several overhead lights in the ceiling.

  Pid leaped, and glued himself to the ceiling. He shaped himself into a lighting fixture, and hoped that the Men wouldn’t try to find out why he wasn’t shining.

  Men passed, running.

  Pid changed himself into a facsimile of a Man, and hurried on.

  He had to get closer.

  Another Man came down the corridor. He looked sharply at Pid, started to speak, and then sprinted away.

  Pid didn’t know what was wrong, but he broke into a full sprint. The Displacer in his body pouch throbbed and pulsed, telling him he had almost reached the critical distance.

  Suddenly a terrible doubt assailed his mind. All the expeditions had deserted! Every single Glom!

  He slowed slightly.

  Freedom of Shape...that was a strange notion. A disturbing notion.

  And obviously a device of The Shapeless One, he told himself, and rushed on.

  At the end of the corridor was a gigantic bolted door. Pid stared at it.

  Footsteps hammered down the corridor, and Men were shouting.

  What was wrong? How had they detected him? Quickly he examined himself and ran his fingers across his face.

  He had forgotten to mold any features.

  In despair he pulled at the door. He took the tiny Displacer out of his pouch, but the pulse beat wasn’t quite strong enough. He had to get closer to the reactor.

  He studied the door. There was a tiny crack running under it. Pid went quickly shapeless and flowed under, barely squeezing the Displacer through.

  Inside the room he found another bolt on the inside of the door. He jammed it into place, and looked around for something to prop against the door.

  It was a tiny room. On one side was a lead door, leading toward the reactor. There was a small window on another side, and that was all.

  Pid looked at the Displacer. The pulse beat was right. At last he was close enough. Here the Displacer could work, drawing and altering the energy from the reactor. All he had to do was activate it

  But they had all deserted, every one of them.

  Pid hesitated. All Glom are bom Shapeless. That was true. Glom children were amorphous, until old enough to be instructed in the caste-shape of their ancestors. But Freedom of Shape?

  Pid considered the possibilities. To be able to take on any shape he wanted, without interference! On this paradise planet he could fulfill any ambition, become anything, do anything.

  Nor would he be lonely. There were other Glom here as well, enjoying the benefits of Freedom of Shape.

  The Men were beginning to break down the door. Pid was still uncertain.

  What should he do? Freedom....

  But not for him, he thought bitterly. It was easy enough to be a Hunter or a Thinker. But he was a Pilot. Piloting was his life and love. How could he do that here?

  Of course, the Men had ships. He could turn into a Man, find a ship....

  Never. Easy enough to become a Tree or a Dog. He could never pass successfully as a Man.

  The door was beginning to splinter from repeated blows.

  Pid walked to the window to take a last look at the planet before activating the Displacer.

  He looked—and almost collapsed from shock.

  It was really true! He hadn’t fully understood what Ger had meant when he said that there were species on this planet to satisfy every need. Every need! Even his!

  Here he could satisfy a longing of the Pilot Caste that went even deeper than Piloting.

  He looked again, then smashed the Displacer to the floor. The door burst open, and in the same instant he flung himself through the window.

  The Men raced to the window and stared out. But they were unable to understand what they saw.

  There was only a great white bird out there, flapping awkwardly but with increasing strength, trying to overtake a flight of birds in the distance.

  THE IMPACTED MAN

  TO: CENTER

  Office 41

  ATTN: Controller Miglese

  FROM: Contractor Carienomen

  SUB J: ATTALA Metagalaxy

  Dear Controller Miglese:

  This is to inform you that I have completed contract 13371A. In the region of space coded ATTALA I have constructed one metagalaxy, incorporating 549 billion galaxies, with the normal distribution of star clusters, variables, novae, et cetera. See attached data sheet.

  The outer limits of ATTALA metagalaxy are defined in the accompanying map.

  Speaking for myself, as chief designer, and for my company, I am confident that we have done a sound construction job, as well as a work of great artistic merit.

  We welcome your inspection.

  Having fulfilled the terms of our contract, the agreed-upon fee is payable at any time.


  Respectfully,

  Carienomen

  Enclosed:

  1 data sheet, installations

  1 map of metagalaxy ATTALA

  TO: Construction Headquarters

  334132, Extension 12

  ATTN: Chief Designer, Carienomen

  FROM: Asst. Controller Miglese

  SUB J: ATTALA Metagalaxy

  Dear Carienomen:

  We have inspected your construction, and have held up your fee accordingly. Artistic! I suppose it’s artistic. But haven’t you forgotten our prime concern in construction work?

  Consistency, just to remind you.

  Our inspectors discovered large amounts of unexplained data occurring even around the metagalactic center, a region one would think you would build with care. That can’t go on. Luckily, the region is unpopulated.

  And that’s not all. Would you care to explain your spatial phenomena? What in chaos is this red shift you’ve built in? I’ve read your explanation of it, and it doesn’t make any sense to me. How will planetary observers take it?

  Artistry is no excuse.

  Furthermore, what kinds of atoms are you using? Carienomen, are you trying to save money with shoddy materials? A good percentage of those atoms were unstable! They break down at the touch of a finger, or even without the touch of a finger. Couldn’t you figure out any other way of lighting your suns?

  Enclosed is a data sheet, outlining the findings of our inspectors. No payment until they’re cleared up.

  And there is another serious matter, just brought to my attention. Evidently you weren’t watching too closely for stresses and strains in your spatial fabric. We have detected a time-flaw near the periphery of one of your galaxies. It is small, at present, but it could grow. I suggest that you take care of it at once, before you have to rebuild a galaxy or two.

  One of the inhabitants of a planet impinging on the flaw is impacted already; wedged into the flaw, due entirely to your carelessness. I suggest that you correct this before he moves out of his normal time-sequence, creating paradoxes right and left.

  Get in touch with him, if need be.

  Also, I have word of unexplained phenomena on some of your planets; items such as flying pigs, moving mountains, ghosts, and others, all enumerated in the complaint sheet.

  We won’t have this sort of thing, Carienomen. A paradox is strictly forbidden in the created galaxies, since a paradox is the inevitable forerunner of chaos.

  Take care of that impaction at once. I don’t know whether the impacted individual realizes it yet.

  Miglese

  Enclosed:

  1 complaint sheet

  Kay Masrin folded the last blouse into the suitcase, and, with her husband’s assistance, closed it.

  “That’s that,” Jack Masrin said, hefting the bulging case. “Say good-by to the old homestead.” They looked around at the furnished room where they had spent their last year.

  “Good-by, homestead,” Kay said. “Let’s not miss the train.”

  “Plenty of time.” Masrin started to the door. “Shall we say good-by to Happy Boy?” They had given Mr. Harf, their landlord, that nickname because he smiled, once a month, when they handed him the rent. Of course, he immediately reshaped his mouth to its usual prim line.

  “Let’s not,” Kay said, smoothing out her tailored suit. “He just might wish us luck, and what would happen then?”

  “You’re perfectly right,” Masrin said. “No use starting a new life with Happy Boy’s blessings. I’d rather have the Witch of Endor curse me.”

  With Kay following him, Masrin walked to the head of the stairs. He looked down at the first floor landing, started to take the first step, and stopped abruptly.

  “What’s wrong?” Kay asked.

  “Have we forgotten anything?” Masrin asked, frowning.

  “I checked all the drawers and under the bed. Come on, we’ll be late.”

  Masrin looked down the stairs again. Something was bothering him. He searched quickly for the source of the trouble. Of course, they had practically no money. But that had never worried him in the past. He did have a teaching job, finally, even if it was in Iowa. That was the important thing, after a year of working in a bookstore. Everything was going right. Why should he be worried?

  He took a step down, and stopped again. The feeling was stronger. There was something he shouldn’t do. He glanced back at Kay.

  “Do you hate leaving that much?” Kay asked. “Let’s go, or Happy Boy’ll charge us another month’s rent. Which, for some strange reason, we haven’t got.”

  Still Masrin hesitated. Kay pushed past him and trotted downstairs.

  “See?” she said from the first floor landing. “It’s easy. Come on. Walk to Mummy.”

  Masrin mumbled a few subdued curses and started down the stairs. The feeling became stronger.

  He reached the eighth step, and—

  He was standing on a grassy plain. The transition was as sudden as that.

  He gasped and blinked. The suitcase was still in his hand. But where was the brownstone? Where was Kay? Where, for that matter, was New York?

  In the distance was a small blue mountain. There was a clump of trees nearby. In front of the clump were a dozen or so men.

  Masrin was in a dreamlike state of shock. He observed, almost idly, that the men were short, swarthy, thickly muscled. They wore loin cloths, and carried beautifully carved and polished clubs.

  They were watching him, and Masrin decided it was a tossup, who was the most surprised.

  Then one of them grunted something, and they started moving toward him.

  A club bounced off his suitcase.

  The shock dissolved. Masrin turned, dropped the suitcase and ran like a greyhound. A club whacked his spine, nearly knocking him over. He was facing a little hill, and he bounded up it, arrows showering around him.

  A few feet up, he realized that he was back in New York.

  He was at the top of the stairs, still in full stride, and before he could stop himself he had run into the wall. Kay was on the first floor landing, looking up. She gasped when she saw him, but didn’t say anything.

  Masrin looked at the familiar murky mauve walls of the brownstone, and at his wife.

  No savages.

  “What happened?” Kay whispered, white-faced, coming up the stairs.

  “What did you see?” Masrin asked. He didn’t have a chance to feel the full impact of what had happened. Ideas were pouring into his head, theories, conclusions.

  Kay hesitated, gnawing at her lower lip. “You walked down a couple of steps and then you were gone. I couldn’t see you anymore. I just stood there and looked and looked. And then I heard a noise, and you were back on the stairs. Running.”

  They walked back to their room and opened the door. Kay sat down at once on the bed. Masrin walked around, catching his breath. Ideas were still pouring in, and he was having trouble sifting them.

  “You won’t believe me,” he said.

  “Oh won’t I? Try me!”

  He told her about the savages.

  “You could tell me you were on Mars,” Kay said. “I’d believe you. I saw you disappear!”

  “My suitcase!” Masrin said suddenly, remembering that he had dropped it.

  “Forget the suitcase,” Kay said.

  “I have to go back for it,” Masrin said.

  “No!”

  “I must. Look, dear, it’s pretty obvious what happened. I walked through some sort of time-flaw, which sent me back to the past. I must have landed in prehistoric times, to judge by the welcoming committee I met. I have to go back for that suitcase.”

  “Why?” Kay asked.

  “Because I can’t allow a paradox to occur.” Masrin didn’t even wonder how he knew this. His normal egotism saved him from wondering how the idea had originated in his mind.

  “Look,” he said, “my suitcase lands in the past. In it I’ve got an electric shaver, some pants with zippers, a plastic hairbrush, a ny
lon shirt, and a dozen or so books—some of them published as late as 1951. I’ve even got Ettison’s ‘Western Ways’ in there, a text on Western civilization from 1490 to the present day.

  “The contents of that case could give these savages the impetus to change their own history. And suppose some of that stuff got into the hands of Europeans, after they discovered America? How would that affect the present?”

  “I don’t know,” Kay said. “And you don’t either.”

  “Of course I know,” Masrin said. It was all crystal-clear. He was amazed that she wasn’t able to follow it logically.

  “Look at it this way,” Masrin said. “Minutiae make history. The present is made up of a tremendous number of infinitesimal factors, which shaped and molded the past. If you add another factor to the past, you’re bound to get another result in the present. But the present is as it is, unchangeable. So we have a paradox. And there can’t be any paradox!”

  “Why can’t there?” Kay asked.

  Masrin frowned. For a bright girl, she was following him very poorly. “Just believe me,” he said. “Paradox isn’t allowed in a logical universe.” Allowed by whom? He had the answer.

  “The way I see it,” Masrin said, “there must be a regulating principle in the universe. All our natural laws are expressions of it. This principle can’t stand paradox, because . . . because—” He knew that the answer had to do with suppressing the fundamental chaos, but he didn’t know why.

  “Anyhow, this principle can’t stand paradox.”

  “Where did you get that idea?” Kay asked. She had never heard Jack talk that way before.

  “I’ve had these ideas for a long time,” Masrin said, and believed it. “There was just never any reason to talk about it. Anyhow, I’m going back for my suitcase.”

  He walked out to the landing, followed by Kay. “Sorry I can’t bring you any souvenirs,” Masrin said cheerfully. “Unfortunately, that would result in a paradox also. Everything in the past has had a part in shaping the present. Remove something, and it’s like removing one unknown from an equation. You wouldn’t get the same result.” He started down the stairs.

  On the eighth step, he disappeared again.

  He was back in prehistoric America. The savages were gathered around the suitcase, only a few feet from him. They hadn’t opened it yet, Masrin noticed thankfully. Of course, the suitcase itself was a pretty paradoxical article. But its appearance—and his—would probably be swallowed up in myth and legend. Time had a certain amount of flexibility.