“Davison?”
“What is it, Gus?”
“Come out here a second, will you?”
I waited, and a few minutes later he appeared, frowning impatiently. “What do you want, Gus? I’m busy and I—” His mouth dropped open. “Look at the drive!”
“You look at it,” I snapped. “I’m sick. Go get Holdreth, on the double.”
While he was gone I tinkered with the shattered mechanism. Once I had the cabinet panel off and could see the inside, I felt a little better; the drive wasn’t damaged beyond repair, though it had been pretty well scrambled. Three or four days of hard work with a screwdriver and solderbeam might get the ship back into functioning order.
But that didn’t make me any less angry. I heard Holdreth and Davison entering behind me, and I whirled to face them.
“All right, you idiots. Which one of you did this?”
They opened their mouths in protesting squawks at the same instant. I listened to them for a while, then said, “One at a time!”
“If you’re implying that one of us deliberately sabotaged the ship,” Holdreth said, “I want you to know—”
“I’m not implying anything. But the way it looks to me, you two decided you’d like to stay here a while longer to continue your investigations, and figured the easiest way of getting me to agree was to wreck the drive.” I glared hotly at them. “Well, I’ve got news for you. I can fix this, and I can fix it in a couple of days. So go on—get about your business! Get all the zoologizing you can in, while you still have time. I—”
Davison laid a hand gently on my arm. “Gus,” he said quietly, “we didn’t do it. Neither of us.”
Suddenly all the anger drained out of me and was replaced by raw fear. I could see that Davison meant it.
“If you didn’t do it, and Holdreth didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it—then who did?”
Davison shrugged.
“Maybe it’s one of us who doesn’t know he’s doing it,” I suggested. “Maybe—” I stopped. “Oh, that’s nonsense. Hand me that tool-kit, will you, Lee?”
They left to tend to the animals, and I set to work on the repair job, dismissing all further speculations and suspicions from my mind, concentrating solely on joining Lead A to Input A and Transistor F to Potentiometer K, as indicated. It was slow, nerve-harrowing work, and by mealtime I had accomplished only the barest preliminaries. My fingers were starting to quiver from the strain of small-scale work, and I decided to give up the job for the day and get back to it tomorrow.
I slept uneasily, my nightmares punctuated by the moaning of the accursed anteaters and the occasional squeals, chuckles, bleats, and hisses of the various other creatures in the hold. It must have been four in the morning before I dropped off into a really sound sleep, and what was left of the night passed swiftly. The next thing I knew, hands were shaking me, and I was looking up into the pale, tense faces of Holdreth and Davison.
I pushed my sleep-stuck eyes open and blinked. “Huh? What’s going on?”
Holdreth leaned down and shook me savagely. “Get up, Gus!”
I struggled to my feet slowly. “Hell of a thing to do, wake a fellow up in the middle of the—”
I found myself being propelled from my cabin and led down the corridor to the control room. Blearily, I followed where Holdreth pointed, and then I woke up in a hurry.
The drive was battered again. Someone—or something—had completely undone my repair job of the night before.
If there had been bickering among us, it stopped. This was past the category of a joke now; it couldn’t be laughed off, and we found ourselves working together as a tight unit again, trying desperately to solve the puzzle before it was too late.
“Let’s review the situation,” Holdreth said, pacing nervously up and down the control cabin. “The drive has been sabotaged twice. None of us knows who did it, and on a conscious level each of us is convinced he didn’t do it.”
He paused. “That leaves us with two possibilities. Either, as Gus suggested, one of us is doing it unaware of it even himself, or someone else is doing it while we’re not looking. Neither possibility is a very cheerful one.”
“We can stay on guard, though,” I said. “Here’s what I propose: first, have one of us awake at all times—sleep in shifts, that is, with somebody guarding the drive until I get it fixed. Two—jettison all the animals aboard ship.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” Davison said. “We don’t know what we may have brought aboard. They don’t seem to be intelligent, but we can’t be sure. That purple-eyed baby giraffe, for instance—suppose he’s been hypnotizing us into damaging the drive ourselves? How can we tell?”
“Oh, but—” Holdreth started to protest, then stopped and frowned soberly. “I suppose we’ll have to admit the possibility,” he said, obviously unhappy about the prospect of freeing our captives. “We’ll empty out the hold, and you see if you can get the drive fixed. Maybe later we’ll recapture them all, if nothing further develops.”
We agreed to that, and Holdreth and Davison cleared the ship of its animal cargo while I set to work determinedly at the drive mechanism. By nightfall, I had managed to accomplish as much as I had the day before.
I sat up as watch the first shift, aboard the strangely quiet ship. I paced around the drive cabin, fighting the great temptation to doze off, and managed to last through until the time Holdreth arrived to relieve me.
Only—when he showed up, he gasped and pointed at the drive. It had been ripped apart a third time.
Now we had no excuse, no explanation. The expedition had turned into a nightmare.
I could only protest that I had remained awake my entire spell on duty, and that I had seen no one and no thing approach the drive panel. But that was hardly a satisfactory explanation, since it either cast guilt on me as the saboteur or implied that some unseen external power was repeatedly wrecking the drive. Neither hypothesis made sense, at least to me.
By now we had spent four days on the planet, and food was getting to be a major problem. My carefully budgeted flight schedule called for us to be two days out on our return journey to Earth by now. But we still were no closer to departure than we had been four days ago.
The animals continued to wander around outside, nosing up against the ship, examining it, almost fondling it, with those damned pseudo-giraffes staring soulfully at us always. The beasts were as friendly as ever, little knowing how the tension was growing within the hull. The three of us walked around like zombies, eyes bright and lips clamped. We were scared—all of us.
Something was keeping us from fixing the drive.
Something didn’t want us to leave this planet.
I looked at the bland face of the purple-eyed giraffe staring through the viewport, and it stared mildly back at me. Around it was grouped the rest of the local fauna, the same incredible hodgepodge of improbable genera and species.
That night, the three of us stood guard in the control-room together. The drive was smashed anyway. The wires were soldered in so many places by now that the control panel was a mass of shining alloy, and I knew that a few more such sabotagings and it would be impossible to patch it together any more—if it wasn’t so already.
The next night, I just didn’t knock off. I continued soldering right on after dinner (and a pretty skimpy dinner it was, now that we were on close rations) and far on into the night.
By morning, it was as if I hadn’t done a thing.
“I give up,” I announced, surveying the damage. “I don’t see any sense in ruining my nerves trying to fix a thing that won’t stay fixed.”
Holdreth nodded. He looked terribly pale. “We’ll have to find some new approach.”
“Yeah. Some new approach.”
I yanked open the food closet and examined our stock. Even figuring in the synthetics we would have fed to the animals if we hadn’t released them, we were low on food. We had overstayed even the safety margin. It would be a hungry t
rip back—if we ever did get back.
I clambered through the hatch and sprawled down on a big rock near the ship. One of the furless dogs came over and nuzzled in my shirt. Davison stepped to the hatch and called down to me.
“What are you doing out there, Gus?”
“Just getting a little fresh air. I’m sick of living aboard that ship.” I scratched the dog behind his pointed ears, and looked around.
The animals had lost most of their curiosity about us, and didn’t congregate the way they used to. They were meandering all over the plain, nibbling at little deposits of a white doughy substance. It precipitated every night. “Manna,” we called it. All the animals seemed to live on it.
I folded my arms and leaned back.
We were getting to look awfully lean by the eighth day. I wasn’t even trying to fix the ship any more; the hunger was starting to get me. But I saw Davison puttering around with my solderbeam.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to repair the drive,” he said. “You don’t want to, but we can’t just sit around, you know.” His nose was deep in my repair guide, and he was fumbling with the release on the solderbeam.
I shrugged. “Go ahead, if you want to.” I didn’t care what he did. All I cared about was the gaping emptiness in my stomach, and about the dimly grasped fact that somehow we were stuck here for good.
“Gus?”
“Yeah?”
“I think it’s time I told you something. I’ve been eating the manna for four days. It’s good. It’s nourishing stuff.”
“You’ve been eating—the manna? Something that grows on an alien world? You crazy?”
“What else can we do? Starve?”
I smiled feebly, admitting that he was right. From somewhere in the back of the ship came the sounds of Holdreth moving around. Holdreth had taken this thing worse than any of us. He had a family back on Earth, and he was beginning to realize that he wasn’t ever going to see them again.
“Why don’t you get Holdreth?” Davison suggested. “Go out there and stuff yourselves with the manna. You’ve got to eat something.”
“Yeah. What can I lose?” Moving like a mechanical man, I headed towards Holdreth’s cabin. We would go out and eat the manna and cease being hungry, one way or another.
“Clyde?” I called. “Clyde?”
I entered his cabin. He was sitting at his desk, shaking convulsively, staring at the two streams of blood that trickled in red spurts from his slashed wrists.
“Clyde!”
He made no protest as I dragged him towards the infirmary cabin and got tourniquets around his arms, cutting off the bleeding. He just stared dully ahead, sobbing.
I slapped him and he came around. He shook his head dizzily, as if he didn’t know where he was.
“Easy, Clyde. Everything’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” he said hollowly. “I’m still alive. Why didn’t you let me die? Why didn’t you—”
Davison entered the cabin. “What’s been happening, Gus?”
“It’s Clyde. The pressure’s getting him. He tried to kill himself, but I think he’s all right now. Get him something to eat, will you?”
We had Holdreth straightened around by evening. Davison gathered as much of the manna as he could find, and we held a feast.
“I wish we had nerve enough to kill some of the local fauna,” Davison said. “Then we’d have a feast—steaks and everything!”
“The bacteria,” Holdreth pointed out quietly. “We don’t dare.”
“I know. But it’s a thought.”
“No more thoughts,” I said sharply. “Tomorrow morning we start work on the drive panel again. Maybe with some food in our bellies we’ll be able to keep awake and see what’s happening here.”
Holdreth smiled. “Good. I can’t wait to get out of this ship and back to a normal existence. God, I just can’t wait!”
“Let’s get some sleep,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll give it another try. We’ll get back,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.
The following morning I rose early and got my tool-kit. My head was clear, and I was trying to put the pieces together without much luck. I started towards the control cabin.
And stopped.
And looked out the viewport.
I went back and awoke Holdreth and Davison. “Take a look out the port,” I said hoarsely.
They looked. They gaped.
“It looks just like my house,” Holdreth said. “My house on Earth.”
“With all the comforts of home inside, I’ll bet.” I walked forward uneasily and lowered myself through the hatch. “Let’s go look at it.”
We approached it, while the animals frolicked around us. The big giraffe came near and shook its head gravely. The house stood in the middle of the clearing, small and neat and freshly painted.
I saw it now. During the night, invisible hands had put it there. Had assembled and built a cosy little Earth-type house and dropped it next to our ship for us to live in.
“Just like my house,” Holdreth repeated in wonderment.
“It should be,” I said. “They grabbed the model from your mind, as soon as they found out we couldn’t live on the ship indefinitely.”
Holdreth and Davison asked as one, “What do you mean?”
“You mean you haven’t figured this place out yet?” I licked my lips, getting myself used to the fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life here. “You mean you don’t realize what this house is intended to be?”
They shook their heads, baffled. I glanced around, from the house to the useless ship to the jungle to the plain to the little pond. It all made sense now.
“They want to keep us happy,” I said. “They know we weren’t thriving aboard the ship, so they—they built us something a little more like home.”
“They? The giraffes?”
“Forget the giraffes. They tried to warn us, but it’s too late. They’re intelligent beings, but they’re prisoners just like us. I’m talking about the ones who run this place. The super-aliens who make us sabotage our own ship and not even know we’re doing it, who stand someplace up there and gape at us. The ones who dredged together this motley assortment of beasts from all over the galaxy. Now we’ve been collected too. This whole damned place is just a zoo—a zoo for aliens so far ahead of us we don’t dare dream what they’re like.”
I looked up at the shimmering blue-green sky, where invisible bars seemed to restrain us, and sank down dismally on the porch of our new home. I was resigned. There wasn’t any sense in struggling against them.
I could see the neat little placard now:
EARTHMEN. Native Habitat, Sol III.
A Man of Talent
This story came into being at the first Milford Science Fiction Writers’ Conference in September, 1956: an astonishing assemblage of the great figures of the field, meeting for a week at a ramshackle vacation lodge in Pennsylvania to share the problems and challenges of their profession. James Blish, Damon Knight, and Judith Merril organized it; and the writers who gathered there included Theodore Sturgeon, Algis Budrys, Cyril Kornbluth, Gordon R. Dickson, Fritz Leiber, Frederik Pohl, Lester del Rey, L. Sprague de Camp, and just about everyone else who was anybody in the world of 1950s science fiction. The very young Harlan Ellison was there, too—he had sold maybe a dozen stories at that point—and so was I, by some months even younger than Harlan. We were more or less the mascots of the meeting, and the whipping-boys as well, Harlan catching hell for his irrepressible brashness, and me because at the age of 21 I had sold reams and reams of conscienceless rent-paying potboilers along with the somewhat better stories that I’ve chosen to reprint in this book (and which had helped me to win the Hugo award for Most Promising New Writer that year, just the week before Milford).
So I sat among my betters at Milford, listening to them speak of the agonies of their art; and I, for whom writing was at that time no agony at all, merely an exercise in discip
line and concentration, felt abashed and ultimately very troubled. I resolved, not to give up writing potboilers (for as long as my landlord insisted on charging rent for my Manhattan apartment I saw no harm in turning out stories that would help me to pay it) but to reach for greater intensity in the stories that I took more seriously, my “real” science fiction. And after my return to New York, I tried my best to keep that resolution, at least for a while. “The Man With Talent,” as the first version of this story was called, was written early in October, 1956, a few weeks after Milford—an attempt to grapple with the Milford experience in metaphorical form. Bob Lowndes paid me $75 for it—a premium rate then, believe it or not—and published it in the Winter, 1957 issue of Future Science Fiction. A decade later, James Blish, one of the prime movers of the Milford meeting and a man famous for his harsh chastisement of poorly done science fiction, used it in an anthology about the future of art called New Dreams This Morning, an event which gave me such pleasure that I revised the story especially for the book and changed its title slightly. It is the revised version that I use here.
~
There was a scrap of a clipping that Emil Vilar carried about with him, a review of his first and only volume of poetry. Now, on this new world, he drew it out and read it for the ten-thousandth time. It was yellow with age, and the print was blurred, but that hardly mattered; the words were graven deep in Emil Vilar’s memory.
We welcome Emil Vilar both for his technical gifts and his breadth of understanding. He speaks with the authentic poetic voice. His book, certainly the most promising debut volume in many years, perhaps heralds the arrival of a major poet. Yet it must be doubted that Mr. Vilar will have the opportunity to fulfil this promise, working as he must in a world where such art as his is doomed to be stillborn. With the audience for poetry of any quality already nearly extinct, how can an Emil Vilar sustain and develop his talent?
Vilar had reddened with shame when the review appeared. He had known, inwardly, that it was the truth, that he had the stuff of a major poet within him, but he neither dared to take that resonant label upon himself nor welcomed another’s saying it. But it had not mattered much. With or without the burden of that reputation, he had failed to find his following. It was not an age of poetry but of verse: the occasional ode, the snappy quatrain, the glorified limerick. The craft of poetry was nearly dead, the poet’s function distorted. Practical matters, the immediately useful thing—they had triumphed on Earth. It was no century for the artist. A crowded, harried world could not afford such luxuries.
To Be Continued Page 17
