“Possibly,” Titus said. “I stopped off in the San Marino before I came up. You weren’t there, Lorraine. That deep voice is quite a trick, I have to admit. I had a drink with Mack and Corwyn. Then I went over to the East End, Ginger. You weren’t there; either. So,” he said, “there was only one place left to find you, Sharon.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Finally she said, simply, “Who are you?”
“Leslie MacGregor,” Titus said. “Also Sam Spielman. And W. M. Schuyler. Plus two or three other people. The name is Gaius Titus Menenius, at your service.”
“I still don’t understand—”
“Yes, you do,” Titus said. “You are clever—but not clever enough. Your little game had me going for almost a month, you know? And it’s not easy to fool a man my age.”
“When did you find out?” the girl asked weakly.
“Monday night, when I saw all three of you within a couple of hours.”
“You’re—”
“Yes. I’m like you,” he said. “But I’ll give you credit: I didn’t see through it until I was on my way home. You were using my own camouflage technique against me, and I didn’t spot it for what it was. What’s your real name?”
“Mary Bradford,” she said. “I was English, originally. Of fine Plantagenet stock. I’m really a Puritan at heart, you see.” She was grinning slyly.
“Oh? Mayflower descendant?” Titus asked teasingly.
“No,” Mary replied. “Not a descendant. A passenger. And I’ll tell you—I was awfully happy to get out of England and over here to Plymouth Colony.”
He toyed with her empty glass. “You didn’t like England? Probably my fault. I was a minor functionary in King James’ court in the early seventeenth century.”
They giggled together over it. Titus stared at her, his pulse pounding harder and harder. She stared back. Her eyes were smiling.
“I didn’t think there was another one,” she said after a while. “It was so strange, never growing old. I was afraid they’d burn me as a witch. I had to keep changing, moving all the time. It wasn’t a pleasant life. It’s better lately—I enjoy these little poses. But I’m glad you caught on to me,” she said. She reached out and took his hand. “I guess I would never have been smart enough to connect you and Leslie and Sam, the way you did Sharon and Ginger and Lorraine. You play the game too well for me.”
“In two thousand years,” Titus said, not caring if the waiter overheard him, “I never found another one like me. Believe me, Mary, I looked. I looked hard, and I’ve had plenty of time to search. And then to find you, hiding behind the faces of three girls I knew!”
He squeezed her hand. The next statement followed logically for him. “Now that we’ve found each other,” he said softly, “we can have a child. A third immortal.”
Her face showed radiant enthusiasm. “Wonderful!” she cried. “When can we get married?”
“How about tomor—” he started to say. Then a thought struck him.
“Mary?”
“What…Titus?”
“How old did you say you were? When were you born?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “1597,” she said. “I’m nearly four hundred.”
He nodded, dumb with growing frustration. Only four hundred? That meant—that meant she was now the equivalent of a three-year-old child!
“When can we get married?” she repeated.
“There’s no hurry,” Titus said dully, letting her hand drop. “We have eleven hundred years.”
ALAREE
This little item displays my growing professionalism. I wrote it in March of 1956—one of eight stories that I managed to produce that month, while still carrying a full class load in college. (They all sold.) Its theme is a good indication that I was trying to address the psychological preoccupations of the brilliant, cantankerous editor Horace Gold of Galaxy, John Campbell’s most determined competitor, to whom I had not yet managed to sell a story. It’s smoothly handled and I was sure that it would bring about a breakthrough for me there. But Gold had people like Theodore Sturgeon and Fritz Leiber to deal with matters of this sort, and evidently didn’t need my attempt at it. (Though he did start buying my work a few months later.) The story went bouncing around from magazine to magazine for over a year before an equally brilliant and equally cantankerous editor, the veteran Donald A. Wollheim, purchased it for the March, 1958 issue of a short-lived and now wholly forgotten magazine called Saturn Science Fiction that he edited with his left hand while giving most of his attention to his highly successful and important paperback series, Ace Double Books.
——————
When our ship left its carefully planned trajectory and started to wobble through space in dizzy circles, I knew we shouldn’t have passed up that opportunity for an overhauling on Spica IV. My men and I were anxious to get back to Earth, and a hasty check had assured us that the Aaron Burr was in tip-top shape, so we had turned down the offer of an overhaul, which would have meant a month’s delay, and set out straight for home.
As so often happens, what seemed like the most direct route home turned out to be the longest. We had spent far too much time on this survey trip already, and we were rejoicing in the prospect of an immediate return to Earth when the ship started turning cartwheels.
Willendorf, computer-man first class, came to me looking sheepish, a few minutes after I’d noticed we were off course.
“What is it, Gus?” I asked.
“The feed network’s oscillating, sir,” he said, tugging at his unruly reddish-brown beard. “It won’t stop, sir.”
“Is Ketteridge working on it?”
“I’ve just called him,” Willendorf said. His stolid face reflected acute embarrassment. Willendorf always took it personally whenever one of the cybers went haywire, as if it were his own fault. “You know what this means, don’t you, sir?”
I grinned. “Take a look at this, Willendorf,” I said, shoving the trajectory graphs towards him. I sketched out with my stylus the confused circles we had been traveling in all morning. “That’s what your feed network’s doing to us,” I said, “and we’ll keep on doing it until we get it fixed.”
“What are you going to do, sir?”
I sensed his impatience with me. Willendorf was a good man, but his psych charts indicated a latent desire for officerhood. Deep down inside, he was sure he was at least as competent as I was to run this ship and probably a good deal more so.
“Send me Upper Navigating Technician Haley,” I snapped. “We’re going to have to find a planet in the neighborhood and put down for repairs.”
It turned out there was an insignificant solar system in the vicinity, consisting of a small but hot white star and a single unexplored planet, Terra-size, a few hundred million miles out. After Haley and I had decided that that was the nearest port of refuge, I called a general meeting.
Quickly and positively I outlined our situation and explained what would have to be done. I sensed the immediate disappointment, but, gratifyingly, the reaction was followed by a general feeling of resigned pitching-in. If we all worked, we’d get back to Earth sooner or later. If we didn’t, we’d spend the next century flip-flopping aimlessly in space.
After the meeting, we set about the business of recovering control of the ship and putting it down for repairs. The feed network, luckily, gave up the ghost about ninety minutes later; it meant we had to stoke the fuel by hand, but at least it stopped that damned oscillating.
We got the ship going. Haley, navigating by feel in a way I never would have dreamed possible, brought us into the nearby solar system in hardly any time at all. Finally we swung into our landing orbit and made our looping way down to the surface of the little planet.
I studied my crew’s faces carefully. We had spent a great deal of time together in space—much too much, really, for comfort—and an incident like this might very well snap them all if we didn’t get going again soon enough. I could foresee disagreements, bicke
ring, declaration of opinion where no opinion was called for.
I was relieved to discover that the planet’s air was breathable. A rather high nitrogen concentration, to be sure—82 per cent but that left 17 per cent for oxygen, plus some miscellaneous inerts, and it wouldn’t be too rough on the lungs. I decreed a one-hour free break before beginning repairs.
Remaining aboard ship, I gloomily surveyed the scrambled feed network and tried to formulate a preliminary plan of action for getting the complex cybernetic instrument to function again, while my crew went outside to relax.
Ten minutes after I had opened the lock and let them out, I heard someone clanking around in the aft supplies cabin.
“Who’s there?” I yelled.
“Me,” grunted a heavy voice that could only be Willendorf’s. “I’m looking for the thought-converter, sir.”
I ran hastily through the corridor, flipped up the latch on the supplies cabin, and confronted him. “What do you want the converter for?” I snapped.
“Found an alien, sir,” he said laconically.
My eyes widened. The survey chart said nothing about intelligent extra-terrestrials in this limb of the galaxy, but then again this planet hadn’t been explored yet.
I gestured towards the rear cabinet. “The converter helmets are in there,” I said. “I’ll be out in a little while. Make sure you follow technique in making contact.”
“Of course, sir,” said Willendorf. He took the converter helmet and went out, leaving me standing there. I waited a few minutes, then climbed the catwalk to the airlock and peered out.
They were all clustered around a small alien being who looked weak and inconsequential in the midst of the circle. I smiled at the sight. The alien was roughly humanoid in shape, with the usual complement of arms and legs, and a pale green complexion that blended well with the muted violet coloring of his world. He was wearing the thought-converter somewhat lopsidedly, and I saw a small green furry ear protruding from the left side. Willendorf was talking to him.
Then someone saw me standing at the open airlock, and I heard Haley yell to me, “Come on down, Chief!”
They were ringed around the alien in a tight circle. I shouldered my way into their midst. Willendorf turned to me.
“Meet Alaree, sir,” he said. “Alaree, this is our commander.”
“We are pleased to meet you,” the alien said gravely. The converter automatically turned his thoughts into English, but maintained the trace of his oddly-inflected accent. “You have been saying that you are from the skies.”
“His grammar’s pretty shaky,” Willendorf interposed. “He keeps referring to any of us as ‘you’—even you, who just got here.”
“Odd,” I said. “The converter’s supposed to conform to the rules of grammar.” I turned to the alien, who seemed perfectly at ease among us. “My name is Bryson,” I said. “This is Willendorf, over here.”
The alien wrinkled his soft-skinned forehead in momentary confusion. “We are Alaree,” he said again.
“We? You and who else?”
“We and we else,” Alaree said blandly. I stared at him for a moment, then gave up. The complexities of an alien mind are often too much for a mere Terran to fathom.
“You are welcome to our world,” Alaree said after a few moments of silence.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks.”
I turned away, leaving the alien with my men. They had twenty-six minutes left of the break I’d given them, after which we would have to get back to the serious business of repairing the ship. Making friends with floppy-eared aliens was one thing; getting back to Earth was another.
The planet was a warm, friendly sort of place, with rolling fields and acres of pleasant-looking purple vegetation. We had landed in a clearing at the edge of a fair-sized copse. Great broad-beamed trees shot up all around us.
Alaree returned to visit us every day, until he became almost a mascot of the crew. I liked the little alien myself and spent some time with him, although I found his conversation generally incomprehensible. No doubt he had the same trouble with us. The converter had only limited efficiency, after all.
He was the only representative of his species who came. For all we knew, he was the only one of his kind on the whole planet. There was no sign of life elsewhere. Though Willendorf led an unauthorized scouting party during some free time on the third day, he failed to find a village of any sort. Where Alaree went every night and how he had found us in the first place remained mysteries.
As for the feed network, progress went slowly. Ketteridge, the technician in charge, had tracked down the foulup and was trying to repair it without building a completely new network. Shortcuts, again. He tinkered away for four days, setting up a tentative circuit, trying it out, watching it sputter and blow out, building another.
There was nothing I could do. But I sensed tension heightening among the crewmen. They were annoyed at themselves, at each other, at me, at everything.
On the fifth day, Ketteridge and Willendorf finally let their accumulated tenseness explode. They had been working together on the network, but they quarreled, and Ketteridge came storming into my cabin immediately afterward.
“Sir, I demand to be allowed to work on the network by myself. It’s my specialty, and Willendorf’s only screwing things up.”
“Get me Willendorf,” I said, frowning.
When Willendorf showed up I heard the whole story, decided quickly to let Ketteridge have his way—it was, after all, his specialty—and calmed Willendorf down. Then, reaching casually for some papers on my desk, I dismissed both of them. I knew they’d come to their senses in a day or so.
I spent most of the next day sitting placidly in the sun, while Ketteridge tinkered with the feed network some more. I watched the faces of the men. They were starting to smolder. They wanted to get home, and they weren’t getting there. Besides, this was a fairly dull planet, and even the novelty of Alaree wore off after a while. The little alien had a way of hanging around men who were busy scraping fuel deposits out of the jet tubes, or something equally unpleasant, and bothering them with all sorts of questions.
The following morning I was lying blissfully in the grassplot near the ship, talking to Alaree. Ketteridge came to me. By the tightness of his lips I knew he was in trouble.
I brushed some antlike blue insects off my trousers and rose to a sitting position, leaning against the tall, tough-barked tree behind me. “What’s the matter, Ketteridge? How’s the feed network?”
He glanced uneasily at Alaree for a moment before speaking. “I’m stuck, sir. I’ll have to admit I was wrong. I can’t fix it by myself.”
I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s a noble thing to say, Ketteridge. It takes a big man to admit he’s been a fool. Will you work with Willendorf now?”
“If he’ll work with me, sir,” Ketteridge said miserably.
“I think he will,” I said. Ketteridge saluted and turned away, and I felt a burst of satisfaction. I’d met the crisis in the only way possible; if I had ordered them to cooperate, I would have gotten no place. The psychological situation no longer allowed for unbending military discipline.
After Ketteridge had gone, Alaree, who had been silent all this time, looked up at me in puzzlement. “We do not understand,” he said.
“Not we,” I corrected. “I. You’re only one person. We means many people.”
“We are only one person?” Alaree said tentatively.
“No. I am only one person. Get it?”
He worried the thought around for a few moments; I could see his browless forehead contract in deep concentration.
“Look,” I said. “I’m one person. Ketteridge is another person. Willendorf is another. Each one of them is an independent individual, an ‘I’.”
“And together you make We?” Alaree asked brightly.
“Yes and no,” I said. “We is composed of many I, but we still remain I.”
Again he sank deep in concentrati
on, and then he smiled, scratched the ear that protruded from one side of the thought-helmet, and said, “We do not understand. But I do. Each of you is—is an I.”
“An individual,” I said.
“An individual,” he repeated. “A complete person. And together, to fly your ship, you must become a We.”
“But only temporarily,” I said. “There still can be conflict between the parts. That’s necessary, for progress. I can always think of the rest of them as They.”
“I—They,” Alaree repeated slowly. “They.” He nodded. “It is difficult for me to grasp all this. I…think differently. But I am coming to understand, and I am worried.”
That was a new idea. Alaree, worried? Could be, I reflected. I had no way of knowing. I knew so little about Alaree—where on the planet he came from, what his tribal life was like, what sort of civilization he had, were all blanks.
“What kind of worries, Alaree?”
“You would not understand,” he said solemnly and would say no more.
Towards afternoon, as golden shadows started to slant through the closely packed trees, I returned to the ship. Willendorf and Ketteridge were aft, working over the feed network, and the whole crew had gathered around to watch and offer suggestions. Even Alaree was there, looking absurdly comical in his copper alloy thought-converter helmet, standing on tiptoe and trying to see what was happening.
About an hour later, I spotted the alien sitting by himself beneath the long-limbed tree that towered over the ship. He was lost in thought. Evidently whatever his problem was, it was really eating him.
Towards evening, he made a decision. I had been watching him with a great deal of concern, wondering what was going on in that small but unfathomable mind. I saw him brighten, leap up suddenly, and cross the field, heading in my direction.
“Captain!”
“What is it, Alaree?”
He waddled up and stared gravely at me. “Your ship will be ready to leave soon. What was wrong is nearly right again.”
To Be Continued - 1953–58 - The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg Volume One Page 13
