GREEN MAN'S BURDEN
Anthony Taylor sat watching the wealthy Borden Harper on his multi-vision screen.
"Is there any more news about the—the Greenies?" the interviewer was asking.
"None at at all." Harper dropped his voice to a deep sober sincerity. "We keep on trying. But I'm afraid we are just going to have to face the unpleasant fact that the Greenies are nothing more than human-looking animals. ..."
Anthony could contain his detestation no longer. Snatching the cushion, he rammed it violently into the speaker-grill, wishing he could ram it down Harper's throat. Harper and the other humans on Venus, milking it of its miraculous beans, using the green-skinned natives to cultivate the crop, because that's all they could be trained to do. They had no language, no human-style intelligence, no cultural potential, nothing.
Anthony grabbed up a dummy piano-keyboard savagely. He struck out a crisp-edged series of chords, double handed, up the keyboard. The notes were sharp, precise sounds.
"Not bad___ "he said, aloud."For an animal!"
Turn this book over for second complete novel
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ANTHONY TAYLOR
When he found himself running out of pills, he knew he could no longer pass for human.
MARTHA MERRILL
She seemed to be a beautiful woman, but how long could she keep up the deception?
DR. M'GRATH
A psychiatrist of questionable sanity, he held thousands of Venusians under his sway.
THE OLD MAN
He had the power to wipe out all the human settlements on Venus.
LOVELY
That was the only name she had, for what use did Greenies have for names?
BORDEN HARPER
Though he was the richest man on Venus, he really knew very little about the source of his wealth.
WE THE VENUSIANS
by
JOHN RACKHAM
ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036
WE,THE VENUSIANS
Copyright ©, 1965, by Ace Books, Inc. AH Rights Reserved
THEWATER OF THOUGHT
Copyright ©, 1965, by Ace Books, Inc.
Printed in U.S.A.
PART ONE
THEMULTI-VISION screen, a standard installation in all rented rooms, dominated the eye. It was meant to. Anthony Taylor sat watching the slowly changing mosaic of colors, but without seeing them in any real sense. He had just finished a synthetic and tasteless meal in the cafeteria downstairs, and was letting his digestion take care of it, without being consciously aware of that process, either. He had long since learned to ignore insults to his stomach, and suggestions to his eyes, but he couldn't quite ignore appeals to his hearing. Therefore, because the multi-vision set constantly churned out meaningless music and could not be switched off, he had stuffed a foam-filled cushion into the speaker-grills. That served to damp down the offensive noise to the point where he could overlook it.
In his mind he listened to the mighty striding sonorousness of the second movement of Schubert's Eighth Symphony, the great "Unfinished." So far as he could discover, no-one had ever produced an adequate transcription of it, for piano. He, Anthony Taylor, was determined to do just that.
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As the strong, marching, down-striding counter-point beat in his mind, he laid over it, note by careful note, the nearest equivalent he could think of, within the limits imposed by a keyboard and ten agile fingers. It would be a small miracle if he ever developed this exercise to the point where he could write it out and feel satisfied with it. It would be a miracle of much greater dimensions if the work was ever published. It was extremely unlikely that there were more than ten people in the whole of this modem world who would be able to play it, or would even try.
None of these considerations troubled him, at all. This universe of joyous and beauteous sound was his world, the only place where he was completely happy and at home. The noise out there, oozing past the cushion, meant not a thing; was as devoid of inspiration as was the sliding, shifting web of color on the screen. Warmed by his inner music, he felt like someone in a snug room, looking out on a chill and miserable winter.
The mosaic faded, giving way to the careful face of a news-reader, and past the muffling cushion came the announcement: "News of the World, to the World, every hour, on the hour, through the magic of multi-vision . . ." The voice was a whisper, a distantly-sensational catalogue of faraway places, strange sins, crimes and pseudo-crises, to be followed by a rapid-fire succession of advertisements in larger-than-life color, with super-impossible claims, and mind-snaring jingles. Anthony let the stream wash over him, completely absorbed in the near-impossible task of conveying the fugal majesty of a full orchestra within the gamut of a keyboard. Again the news-reader, with a quick explosion of color: "I now hand you over to your local station announcer for your own, more intimate iook at the news . . ." he said, and the music all ran together in Anthony's head, and collapsed with a squeal. He sat forward, kicked away the cushion, and paid attention.
"Arriving at London Airport this afternoon, his last port-of-call on a round-the-world shopping spree, Mr. Borden Harper, from the fabulous far-off Venus Colony, was interviewed by our man-on-the-spot. . The picture gave way to yet another color-explosion, with engine noises and sounds of gale winds, then became a distant view of passengers streaming across an open plain of concrete. Shift, more color,
6 then a comfortable close-up of a face, tanned and glowing, a strong, smooth, somehow remote face, like that of a patient adult attending to children.
"Nothing special in mind," he said. "Just looking. If I see something I fancy, I'll buy it."
"It must be nice to have so deep a purse."
"It's pleasant, yes. But it's not for myself alone, you understand. I'm shopping for two hundred and fifty other people, my friends, back there."
"Of course. I imagine, Mr. Harper, that millions watching us will envy you and your friends the great wealth, the fabulous luxury, that you enjoy. But it has its dark side, too, doesn't it?"
"That is true. We like it, mind you. Let me not give the impression that we are nostalgic castaways, pining for Mother Earth and the sight of blue sky and stars . . ." Harper shrugged and smiled, tightly, managing to convey just that. "We regard Venus as Tiome.' But we are strictly confined to the limits of the domes. A circle one mile across is a world, to us. We do what we can to make it pleasant, but it gets tedious at times. We nibble away at the planet, constantly, but it's slow, uphill work. Venus yields her secrets grudgingly. So we need relaxation, something to keep us occupied. That's what I'm shopping for, something new, a diversion."
"What about the rumors, Mr. Harper, about bean-crop failure?"
"Just rumors. We have our problems, yes, but well keep the bean-crop coming just as long as there's a need for it. After all"—his smile grew and became candid—"we depend on it, too. Without the bean-crop, we would be flat broke!"
"How unlikely that is," the interviewer permitted himself a chuckle along with the great man, then changed his tone, rapidly. "Is there any more news about the—the Greenies?"
"None at all." Harper dropped his voice to a deep sober sincerity. "We are doing all we can, constantly. We keep on trying. But I'm afraid we are just going to have to face the unpleasant fact that the Greenies are nothing more than human-looking animals."
"It's sad news. They are—completely human-like?"
"Fantastically so. The biologists, anthropologists, and all the other people who study such things consider the Green-
7
ies one of the biggest problems science has discovered so far. They've had to revise whole areas of their sciences. It was astonishing enough just to discover a race of beings ex
acdy like us, apart from being green, on another planet. That was fifty years ago, and it's history, now. But the greater shock has come since, as we learn that this seemingly-human creature has no measurable I.Q., has no language, no society, no culture, no artifacts, nothing. It's difficult to accept. As I said, we keep trying to 'reach' them, to understand them in some way, but we haven't much hope. They are the way they are, and we just have to accept it . . ."
Anthony could contain his detestation no longer. Snatching the cushion, he rammed it violently into the speaker-grill, wishing he could ram it down Harper's throat as easily. It was all lies, deliberate and vicious lies. It had to be. It was a conspiracy, with Harper and people like him, and money, and gullible "superior" humans, all involved in maintaining it, and he hated them all with a senseless violence that twisted his stomach and brought bitter bile into his throat. He shut his eyes tight, stuffed fingers in his ears, and fought to regain some measure of calm. Music came to his aid, from the recesses of his mind, and he reached for the Barcarolle from Hoffmann as a thirsty man grasps a glass of cool water.
When he could bear to look again, speakers and voices had gone and the screen shimmered with the everlasting swirl of meaningless color-shapes. In the lower right-hand corner a small square glowed" into being, enclosing a black space bearing the words, "You are being called." Anthony pulled in a deep breath, steadying himself, then twitched away the muffling cushion once more, pressed the "Accept" switch, and sat back, tightening his eyes as the strip-lights flared in his face. The screen showed to him, now, a long, lean, knowing face, with dark eyes bright under heavy eyebrows and a black lock of curl draped modishly over its forehead. Gregory Hartford was nothing if not "modish." His sideburns were so long and black that he gave the impression of a man peering between the bars of a cage. Switching on a bright smile, he said, "Hi, Tone. Be at the Cellar, tonight, eh?"
"Don't I always, on Fridays?"
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"Just making sure, boy.Got a treat for you, tonight. A thrush."
"Not another singer," Anthony protested, helplessly. "You know I don't like vamping to that kind of stuff, Greg. I'm a soloist!"
"The bestl" Hartford nodded, with false heartiness. "But this one is genuine, man. Real pipes, and songs from way back before pops. Your kind of stuff. Classical, you'll see. She's Australian."
Anthony, never very fluent, was completely confused now. "Classical," in Gregory Hartford's lexicon, was anything that called for more than three chords. And, since multi-vision covered the whole civilized world, what did it matter that this "thrush" came from Australia? Or maybe she had a pouch? He rescued his mind from such insane byways, manufactured a resigned smile,
"All right, Greg. I suppose I'll manage, somehow."
"That's my boy. It's all bread, isn't it? Be seeing you."
Hartford's face went away, the strip-lights died, and the idiot-color patterns and senseless music came back. Anthony replaced the cushion, put fingers back in his ears, shut his eyes tight, and dismissed Hartford, his agent and manager, the Cellar, the mystery "thrush" and everything connected with that aspect of his life. He thought, instead, about Borden Harper, and Venus, and the Greenies, and the thoughts were personal pangs.
Fifty years ago very few people had known anything about Greenies, and even fewer cared much. They were obscure, and somehow obscene, parodies of humans, green-skinned animals running silent and naked in the steamy hot forest-jungles of an inhospitable planet. Of scientific interest only, until the advent of the "miracle bean."
Nobody knew, now, who had first found the things, which grew in pods, on stunted bushes, out of the slushy swamp. Venus was rich in new and strange flora, and the beans would have had to wait their turn, had it not been for one or two enterprising field-parties reporting back that they had seen the Greenies eating them. The chemists perked up their ears. What was good for Greenies might be good for humans, and a local food supply would save some of the fabulous cost of shipping supplies all the way from Earth. So they investigated the beans, carefully. Now, almost
9 fifty years later, they were still trying to explain their findings. They could explain, they could measure and show what the bean did, but they couldn't explain how. Once their reports became public, nobody cared much about the "how." The "what" was quite enough to set the public mind afire.
The bean, so the chemists said, supplied two exciting substances. One had the power to mobilize fat. In effect, it made the body withdraw fat from various storage places and move it to the liver, where it was expended as fuel. In short, you ate bean-meal regularly, and you grew. slim. Generations of hopeful, wishful and gullible "fatties" had spent millions in chasing many "diets" which had claimed to do just this, and had been defrauded, deluded and disappointed. Now it was hard fact. The second substance out of the bean was a benign antivirus. You ate bean-meal, and you were insured against virus infection of almost any kind. Those were the two substances, and after nearly five decades of hard work, the chemists were no nearer being able to isolate or synthesize either of them than when they began. Only the genuine, Venus-grown beans would work.
Practically overnight, the bean became The Beauty Bean, and passed into the loving care of big business. And the Greenies, suddenly, became important. Venus, the whole of Venus outside the shield and armor of a scientifically maintained "dome," was a vicious, strength-sapping, uninviting place, a humid infemo. But that was where the beans grew, and nowhere else. Business wanted beans gathered in large quantities. Business wanted more. It wanted to be able to plant, and grow to order, and harvest, the beans. It wanted a work-force. What more natural than that they should see the Greenies as the obvious answer? Teach them, train them, put them to work, why not?
Anthony shivered as he listed the reasons why not. Much money and effort had gone into the study, and the results were hard. Greenies, for all they looked exacdy like humans, were animals, about as intelligent as a dog, perhaps, or a horse, but no more than that. They could be trained to help in cultivating and caring for the bean-bushes, which was something. But it was the absolute limit. Greenies had nothing else, no language, no human-style intelligence, no
10
cultural potential, nothing. They were just green-skinned animals which looked like men.
Anthony got to his feet, moved to a mirror which hung on the wall, and looked at himself. He saw a face that would have been counted as strong and handsome, by any standards, had it not been for the subtly secretive expression. His jet black hair was glossy with health, his skin clear and warmly tanned. A smile, had he been able to force one, would have shown regular and perfect teeth. The white of his shirt clung to and moulded big shoulders and a deep chest. He looked down at his hands—lean, powerful, competent hands, and then back in the mirror he stared into his own eyes. Steady, gray-blue eyes. Only a close examination would have shown that he was wearing corneal contacts, and no one would have had any reason to guess that those contact-pieces were tinted, deliberately, to produce that gray-blue color. That they were designed to hide the real color beneath ... a blue so dark and vivid as to be almost purple.
Hide your eyes, he thought, bitterly. Hide. Evade questions, avoid too much publicity. Be sure that no one wonders how it is that you're so nicely sun-tanned, although you seldom see the sun and can't bear it on your skin. Never let anyone suspect that you take . . . that you have to take ... a tablet of anti-tan every twenty-four hours. Be grateful that millions of other people do, for a reason other than yours, and that chemists are, by profession, discreet people. Hide also the fact that you dare not take so much as a taste of sugar in any form, or even a dash of alcohol in a drink, because it will knock you silly. Hide your true self, Anthony Taylor, so that no one will ever know what you really are.
He turned away from the mirror, stooped and caught up from the floor a long box. Laid on the table and opened, it became a dummy piano-keyboard, with tuned and muted metal pieces under the keys. A poor substitute for the real thing, but better t
han nothing at all. He sat, spread his hands, and struck out a crisp-edged series of chords, double handed, up the keyboard, let his fingers chase themselves down again in staccato runs and trips. The notes were sharp, precise sounds in the little room.
"Not bad . . ." he said, aloud. "For an animal!"
11
To reach the Cellar, Anthony had to run, through sleeting rain, from the nearest Underground station, and arrived with his shabby jacket wet through. Only six of the ten tables were occupied, and the figures sitting there were dim shadows in the half-light that was all the place offered. He spared no more than a quick glance at the nearest as he made his way to the far end, by the rostrum, and found a seat. Strip-lights from the stage cut back the gloom a litde, here, showing the chips and scratches in the plastic and gilt decor. A smell of coffee and hot cooking-oil drifted from a side-door as the proprietor bellied his way through carrying a tray.
"Hello, Anthony," he hailed, going by. "A coffee, eh?"
"Please!" said Anthony, but his mind was elsewhere. On stage a thin youth with a blur of black beard and a startling mop of hair was trying to coax a lilt from a lute. The Cellar was hung, about the walls, with ancient instruments of many kinds. Anthony had seen them, had believed them to be ornamental, of curiosity value only. This was the first time he had ever seen anyone try to play one of them, and the result was distressing. Not only was the performer unskilled, he was trying to play something utterly unsuited to his instrument.
In a moment the stout proprietor was back, laying a cup before Anthony and putting one down for himself. Then he slumped heavily into a chair.
John Rackham Page 1
