(1/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  Orne swallowed. Into his ears came Stetson's voice: "Better admit it."

  "That's true," said Orne.

  "I like you, Orne," said Tanub. "You shall be one of my slaves. You will teach me many things."

  "How did you capture the Delphinus?" asked Orne.

  "You know that, too?"

  "You have one of their rifles," said Orne.

  "Your race is no match for us, Orne ... in cunning, in strength, in the prowess of the mind. Your ship landed to repair its tubes. Very inferior ceramics in those tubes."

  Orne turned, looked at Tanub in the dim glow of the cab light. "Have you heard about the I-A, Tanub?"

  "I-A? What is that?" There was a wary tenseness in the Gienahn's figure. His mouth opened to reveal the long canines.

  "You took the Delphinus by treachery?" asked Orne.

  "They were simple fools," said Tanub. "We are smaller, thus they thought us weaker." The Mark XX's muzzle came around to center on Orne's stomach. "You have not answered my question. What is the I-A?"

  "I am of the I-A," said Orne. "Where've you hidden the Delphinus?"

  "In the place that suits us best," said Tanub. "In all our history there has never been a better place."

  "What do you plan to do with it?" asked Orne.

  "Within a year we will have a copy with our own improvements. After that--"

  "You intend to start a war?" asked Orne.

  "In the jungle the strong slay the weak until only the strong remain," said Tanub.

  "And then the strong prey upon each other?" asked Orne.

  "That is a quibble for women," said Tanub.

  "It's too bad you feel that way," said Orne. "When two cultures meet like this they tend to help each other. What have you done with the crew of the Delphinus?"

  "They are slaves," said Tanub. "Those who still live. Some resisted. Others objected to teaching us what we want to know." He waved the gun muzzle. "You will not be that foolish, will you, Orne?"

  "No need to be," said Orne. "I've another little lesson to teach you: I already know where you've hidden the Delphinus."

  "Go, boy!" hissed Stetson. "Where is it?"

  "Impossible!" barked Tanub.

  "It's on your moon," said Orne. "Darkside. It's on a mountain on the darkside of your moon."

  Tanub's eyes dilated, contracted. "You read minds?"

  "The I-A has no need to read minds," said Orne. "We rely on superior mental prowess."

  "The marines are on their way," hissed Stetson. "We're coming in to get you. I'm going to want to know how you guessed that one."

  "You are a weak fool like the others," gritted Tanub.

  "It's too bad you formed your opinion of us by observing only the low grades of the R&R," said Orne.

  "Easy, boy," hissed Stetson. "Don't pick a fight with him now. Remember, his race is arboreal. He's probably as strong as an ape."

  "I could kill you where you sit!" grated Tanub.

  "You write finish for your entire planet if you do," said Orne. "I'm not alone. There are others listening to every word we say. There's a ship overhead that could split open your planet with one bomb--wash it with molten rock. It'd run like the glass you use for your buildings."

  "You are lying!"

  "We'll make you an offer," said Orne. "We don't really want to exterminate you. We'll give you limited membership in the Galactic Federation until you prove you're no menace to us."

  "Keep talking," hissed Stetson. "Keep him interested."

  "You dare insult me!" growled Tanub.

  "You had better believe me," said Orne. "We--"

  Stetson's voice interrupted him: "Got it, Orne! They caught the Delphinus on the ground right where you said it'd be! Blew the tubes off it. Marines now mopping up."

  "It's like this," said Orne. "We already have recaptured the Delphinus." Tanub's eyes went instinctively skyward. "Except for the captured armament you still hold, you obviously don't have the weapons to meet us," continued Orne. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be carrying that rifle off the Delphinus."

  "If you speak the truth, then we shall die bravely," said Tanub.

  "No need for you to die," said Orne.

  "Better to die than be slaves," said Tanub.

  "We don't need slaves," said Orne. "We--"

  "I cannot take the chance that you are lying," said Tanub. "I must kill you now."

  * * * * *

  Orne's foot rested on the air sled control pedal. He depressed it. Instantly, the sled shot skyward, heavy G's pressing them down into the seats. The gun in Tanub's hands was slammed into his lap. He struggled to raise it. To Orne, the weight was still only about twice that of his home planet of Chargon. He reached over, took the rifle, found safety belts, bound Tanub with them. Then he eased off the acceleration.

  "We don't need slaves," said Orne. "We have machines to do our work. We'll send experts in here, teach you people how to exploit your planet, how to build good transportation facilities, show you how to mine your minerals, how to--"

  "And what do we do in return?" whispered Tanub.

  "You could start by teaching us how you make superior glass," said Orne. "I certainly hope you see things our way. We really don't want to have to come down there and clean you out. It'd be a shame to have to blast that city into little pieces."

  Tanub wilted. Presently, he said: "Send me back. I will discuss this with ... our council." He stared at Orne. "You I-A's are too strong. We did not know."

  * * * * *

  In the wardroom of Stetson's scout cruiser, the lights were low, the leather chairs comfortable, the green beige table set with a decanter of Hochar brandy and two glasses.

  Orne lifted his glass, sipped the liquor, smacked his lips. "For a while there, I thought I'd never be tasting anything like this again."

  Stetson took his own glass. "ComGO heard the whole thing over the general monitor net," he said. "D'you know you've been breveted to senior field man?"

  "Ah, they've already recognized my sterling worth," said Orne.

  The wolfish grin took over Stetson's big features. "Senior field men last about half as long as the juniors," he said. "Mortality's terrific?"

  "I might've known," said Orne. He took another sip of the brandy.

  Stetson flicked on the switch of a recorder beside him. "O.K. You can go ahead any time."

  "Where do you want me to start?"

  "First, how'd you spot right away where they'd hidden the Delphinus?"

  "Easy. Tanub's word for his people was Grazzi. Most races call themselves something meaning The People. But in his tongue that's Ocheero. Grazzi wasn't on the translated list. I started working on it. The most likely answer was that it had been adopted from another language, and meant enemy."

  "And that told you where the Delphinus was?"

  "No. But it fitted my hunch about these Gienahns. I'd kind of felt from the first minute of meeting them that they had a culture like the Indians of ancient Terra."

  "Why?"

  "They came in like a primitive raiding party. The leader dropped right onto the hood of my sled. An act of bravery, no less. Counting coup, you see?"

  "I guess so."

  "Then he said he was High Path Chief. That wasn't on the language list, either. But it was easy: Raider Chief. There's a word in almost every language in history that means raider and derives from a word for road, path or highway."

  "Highwaymen," said Stetson.

  "Raid itself," said Orne. "An ancient Terran language corruption of road."

  "Yeah, yeah. But where'd all this translation griff put--"

  "Don't be impatient. Glass-blowing culture meant they were just out of the primitive stage. That, we could control. Next, he said their moon was Chiranachuruso, translated as The Limb of Victory. After that it just fell into place."

  "How?"

  "The vertical-slit pupils of their eyes. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

  "Maybe. What's it mean to you?"

  "Night-hunting predator a
ccustomed to dropping upon its victims from above. No other type of creature ever has had the vertical slit. And Tanub said himself that the Delphinus was hidden in the best place in all of their history. History? That'd be a high place. Dark, likewise. Ergo: a high place on the darkside of their moon."

  "I'm a pie-eyed greepus," whispered Stetson.

  Orne grinned, said: "You probably are ... sir."

  THE END

  * * *

  Contents

  NEXT LOGICAL STEP

  by Ben Bova

  Ordinarily the military least wants to have the others know the final details of their war plans. But, logically, there would be times--

  "I don't really see where this problem has anything to do with me," the CIA man said. "And, frankly, there are a lot of more important things I could be doing."

  Ford, the physicist, glanced at General LeRoy. The general had that quizzical expression on his face, the look that meant he was about to do something decisive.

  "Would you like to see the problem first-hand?" the general asked, innocently.

  The CIA man took a quick look at his wristwatch. "O.K., if it doesn't take too long. It's late enough already."

  "It won't take very long, will it, Ford?" the general said, getting out of his chair.

  "Not very long," Ford agreed. "Only a lifetime."

  The CIA man grunted as they went to the doorway and left the general's office. Going down the dark, deserted hallway, their footsteps echoed hollowly.

  "I can't overemphasize the seriousness of the problem," General LeRoy said to the CIA man. "Eight ranking members of the General Staff have either resigned their commissions or gone straight to the violent ward after just one session with the computer."

  The CIA man scowled. "Is this area Secure?"

  General LeRoy's face turned red. "This entire building is as Secure as any edifice in the Free World, mister. And it's empty. We're the only living people inside here at this hour. I'm not taking any chances."

  "Just want to be sure."

  "Perhaps if I explain the computer a little more," Ford said, changing the subject, "you'll know what to expect."

  "Good idea," said the man from CIA.

  "We told you that this is the most modern, most complex and delicate computer in the world ... nothing like it has ever been attempted before--anywhere."

  "I know that They don't have anything like it," the CIA man agreed.

  "And you also know, I suppose, that it was built to simulate actual war situations. We fight wars in this computer ... wars with missiles and bombs and gas. Real wars, complete down to the tiniest detail. The computer tells us what will actually happen to every missile, every city, every man ... who dies, how many planes are lost, how many trucks will fail to start on a cold morning, whether a battle is won or lost ..."

  General LeRoy interrupted. "The computer runs these analyses for both sides, so we can see what's happening to Them, too."

  The CIA man gestured impatiently. "War games simulations aren't new. You've been doing them for years."

  "Yes, but this machine is different," Ford pointed out. "It not only gives a much more detailed war game. It's the next logical step in the development of machine-simulated war games." He hesitated dramatically.

  "Well, what is it?"

  "We've added a variation of the electro-encephalograph ..."

  The CIA man stopped walking. "The electro-what?"

  "Electro-encephalograph. You know, a recording device that reads the electrical patterns of your brain. Like the electro-cardiograph."

  "Oh."

  "But you see, we've given the EEG a reverse twist. Instead of using a machine that makes a recording of the brain's electrical wave output, we've developed a device that will take the computer's readout tapes, and turn them into electrical patterns that are put into your brain!"

  "I don't get it."

  General LeRoy took over. "You sit at the machine's control console. A helmet is placed over your head. You set the machine in operation. You see the results."

  "Yes," Ford went on. "Instead of reading rows of figures from the computer's printer ... you actually see the war being fought. Complete visual and auditory hallucinations. You can watch the progress of the battles, and as you change strategy and tactics you can see the results before your eyes."

  "The idea, originally, was to make it easier for the General Staff to visualize strategic situations," General LeRoy said.

  "But every one who's used the machine has either resigned his commission or gone insane," Ford added.

  The CIA man cocked an eye at LeRoy. "You've used the computer."

  "Correct."

  "And you have neither resigned nor cracked up."

  General LeRoy nodded. "I called you in."

  Before the CIA man could comment, Ford said, "The computer's right inside this doorway. Let's get this over with while the building is still empty."

  * * * * *

  They stepped in. The physicist and the general showed the CIA man through the room-filling rows of massive consoles.

  "It's all transistorized and subminiaturized, of course," Ford explained. "That's the only way we could build so much detail into the machine and still have it small enough to fit inside a single building."

  "A single building?"

  "Oh yes; this is only the control section. Most of this building is taken up by the circuits, the memory banks, and the rest of it."

  "Hm-m-m."

  They showed him finally to a small desk, studded with control buttons and dials. The single spotlight above the desk lit it brilliantly, in harsh contrast to the semidarkness of the rest of the room.

  "Since you've never run the computer before," Ford said, "General LeRoy will do the controlling. You just sit and watch what happens."

  The general sat in one of the well-padded chairs and donned a grotesque headgear that was connected to the desk by a half-dozen wires. The CIA man took his chair slowly.

  When they put one of the bulky helmets on him, he looked up at them, squinting a little in the bright light. "This ... this isn't going to ... well, do me any damage, is it?"

  "My goodness, no," Ford said. "You mean mentally? No, of course not. You're not on the General Staff, so it shouldn't ... it won't ... affect you the way it did the others. Their reaction had nothing to do with the computer per se ..."

  "Several civilians have used the computer with no ill effects," General LeRoy said. "Ford has used it many times."

  The CIA man nodded, and they closed the transparent visor over his face. He sat there and watched General LeRoy press a series of buttons, then turn a dial.

  "Can you hear me?" The general's voice came muffled through the helmet.

  "Yes," he said.

  "All right. Here we go. You're familiar with Situation One-Two-One? That's what we're going to be seeing."

  Situation One-Two-One was a standard war game. The CIA man was well acquainted with it. He watched the general flip a switch, then sit back and fold his arms over his chest. A row of lights on the desk console began blinking on and off, one, two, three ... down to the end of the row, then back to the beginning again, on and off, on and off ...

  And then, somehow, he could see it!

  He was poised incredibly somewhere in space, and he could see it all in a funny, blurry-double-sighted, dream-like way. He seemed to be seeing several pictures and hearing many voices, all at once. It was all mixed up, and yet it made a weird kind of sense.

  For a panicked instant he wanted to rip the helmet off his head. It's only an illusion, he told himself, forcing calm on his unwilling nerves. Only an illusion.

  But it seemed strangely real.

  He was watching the Gulf of Mexico. He could see Florida off to his right, and the arching coast of the southeastern United States. He could even make out the Rio Grande River.

  Situation One-Two-One started, he remembered, with the discovery of missile-bearing Enemy submarines in the Gulf. Even as he watched the who
le area--as though perched on a satellite--he could see, underwater and close-up, the menacing shadowy figure of a submarine gliding through the crystal blue sea.

  He saw, too, a patrol plane as it spotted the submarine and sent an urgent radio warning.

  The underwater picture dissolved in a bewildering burst of bubbles. A missile had been launched. Within seconds, another burst--this time a nuclear depth charge--utterly destroyed the submarine.

  It was confusing. He was everyplace at once. The details were overpowering, but the total picture was agonizingly clear.

  Six submarines fired missiles from the Gulf of Mexico. Four were immediately sunk, but too late. New Orleans, St. Louis and three Air Force bases were obliterated by hydrogen-fusion warheads.

  The CIA man was familiar with the opening stages of the war. The first missile fired at the United States was the signal for whole fleets of missiles and bombers to launch themselves at the Enemy. It was confusing to see the world at once; at times he could not tell if the fireball and mushroom cloud was over Chicago or Shanghai, New York or Novosibirsk, Baltimore or Budapest.

  It did not make much difference, really. They all got it in the first few hours of the war; as did London and Moscow, Washington and Peking, Detroit and Delhi, and many, many more.

  The defensive systems on all sides seemed to operate well, except that there were never enough anti-missiles. Defensive systems were expensive compared to attack rockets. It was cheaper to build a deterrent than to defend against it.

  The missiles flashed up from submarines and railway cars, from underground silos and stratospheric jets; secret ones fired off automatically when a certain airbase command post ceased beaming out a restraining radio signal. The defensive systems were simply overloaded. And when the bombs ran out, the missiles carried dust and germs and gas. On and on. For six days and six firelit nights. Launch, boost, coast, re-enter, death.

  * * * * *

  And now it was over, the CIA man thought. The missiles were all gone. The airplanes were exhausted. The nations that had built the weapons no longer existed. By all the rules he knew of, the war should have been ended.

  Yet the fighting did not end. The machine knew better. There were still many ways to kill an enemy. Time-tested ways. There were armies fighting in four continents, armies that had marched overland, or splashed ashore from the sea, or dropped out of the skies.