The Frederick Pohl Omnibus (1966) SSC

by Frederik Pohl

  So I talked all that afternoon about the Aldebaranians, though what did they matter? Mr. Hagsworth did not ask me about other races, on which I could have said something of greater interest. Afterwards we went to my suite at the Mayflower Hotel and Mr. Hagsworth said with admiration: 'You handled yourself beautifully, Mr. Smith. When this is over I wonder if you would consider some sort of post here in Washington.'

  'When this is over?'

  'Oh,' he said, 'I've been around for some years, Mr. Smith. I've seen them come and I've seen them go. Every newspaper in the country is full of Aldebaranians tonight, but next year? They'll be shouting about something new.'

  'They will not,' I said surely.

  He shrugged. 'As you say,' he said agreeably, 'at any rate it's a great sensation now. Senator Schnell is tasting the headlines. He's up for re-election next year you know and just between the two of us, he was afraid he might be defeated.'

  'Impossible, Mr. Hagsworth,' I said out of certain knowledge, but could not convey this to him. He thought I was only being polite. It did not matter.

  'He'll be gratified to hear that,' said Mr. Hagsworth and he stood up and winked: he was a great human for winking. 'But think about what I said about a job, Mr. Smith.... Or would you care to tell me your real name?'

  Why not? Sporting! 'Plinglot,' I said.

  He said with a puzzled face, 'Plinglot? Plinglot? That's an odd name.'

  I didn't say anything, why should I? 'But you're an odd man,' he sighed. 'I don't mind telling you that there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask. For instance, the file folder of correspondence between you and Senator Heffernan. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me how come no employee of the committee remembers anything about it, although the folder turned up in our files just as you said?'

  Senator Heffernan was dead, that was why the correspondence had been with him. But I know tricks for awkward questions, you give only another question instead of answer. 'Don't you trust me, Mr. Hagsworth?'

  He looked at me queerly and left without speaking. No matter. It was time, I had very much to do. 'No calls,' I told the switchboard person, 'and no visitors, I must rest.' Also there would be a guard Hagsworth had promised. I wondered if he would have made the same arrangement if I had not requested it, but that also did not matter.

  I sat quickly in what looked, for usual purposes, like a large armchair, purple embroidery on the headrest. It was my spaceship, with cosmetic upholstery. Zz-z-z-zit, quick like that, that's all there was to it and I was there.

  • • • •

  2

  Old days I could not have timed it so well, for the old one slept all the day, and worked, drinking, all the night. But now they kept capitalist hours.

  'Good morning, gospodin,' cried the man in the black tunic, leaping up alertly as I opened the tall double doors. 'I trust you slept well.'

  I had changed quickly into pyjamas and a bathrobe. Stretching, yawning, I grumbled in flawless Russian in a sleepy way: 'All right, all right.

  What time is it?'

  'Eight in the morning, Gospodin Arakelian. I shall order your breakfast'

  'Have we time?'

  'There is time, gospodin, especially as you have already shaved.'

  I looked at him with more care, but he had a broad open Russian face, there was no trickery on it or suspicion. I drank some tea and changed into street clothing again, a smaller size as I was now smaller. The Hotel Metropole doorman was holding open the door of the black Zis, and we bumped over cobblestones to the white marble building with no name. Here in Moscow it was also hot, though only early morning.

  This morning their expressions were all different in the dim, cool room. Worried. There were three of them: Blue eyes; Kvetchnikov, the tall one, with eyes so very blue; he looked at the wall and the ceiling, but not at me and, though sometimes he smiled, there was nothing behind it.

  Red beard--Muzhnets. He tapped with a pencil softly, on thin sheets of paper.

  And the old one. He sat like a squat, fat Buddha. His name was Tadjensevitch.

  Yesterday they were reserved and suspicious, but they could not help themselves, they would have to do whatever I asked. There was no choice for them; they reported to the chief himself and how could they let such a thing as I had told them go untaken? No, they must swallow bait But today there was worry on their faces.

  The worry was not about me; they knew me. Or so they thought.

  'Hello, hello, Arakelian,' said Blue Eyes to me, though his gaze examined the rug in front of my chair. 'Have you more to tell us today?'

  I asked without alarm: 'What more could I have?'

  'Oh,' said Blue-Eyed Kvetchnikov, looking at the old man, 'perhaps you can explain what happened in Washington last night.'

  'In Washington?'

  'In Washington, yes. A man appeared before one of the committees of their Senate. He spoke of the Aldebaratniki, and he spoke also of the Soviet Union. Arakelian, then, tell us how this is possible.'

  The old man whispered softly: 'Show him the dispatch.'

  Red Beard jumped. He stopped tapping on the thin paper and handed it to me. 'Read!' he ordered in a voice of danger, though I was not afraid. I read. It was a diplomatic telegram, from their embassy in Washington, and what it said was what every newspaper said--it was no diplomatic secret, it was headlines. One Robert P. Smith, a fictitious name, real identity unknown, had appeared before the Schnell Committee. He had told them of Soviet penetration of the stars. Considering limitations, excellent, it was an admirably accurate account.

  I creased the paper and handed it back to Muzhnets. 'I have read it.'

  Old One: 'You have nothing to say?'

  'Only this.' I leaped up on two legs and pointed at him. 'I did not think you would bungle this! How dared you allow this information to become public?'

  'How-'

  'How did that weapon get out of your country?'

  'Weap-'

  'Is this Soviet efficiency?' I cried loudly. 'Is it proletarian discipline?'

  Red-Beard Muzhnets intervened. 'Softly, comrade,' he cried. 'Please!

  We must not lose tempers!'

  I made a sound of disgust. I did it very well. 'I warned you,' I said, low, and made my face sad and stern. 'I told you that there was a danger that the bourgeois-capitalists would interfere. Why did you not listen? Why did you permit their spies to steal the weapon I gave you?'

  Tadjensevitch whispered agedly: 'That weapon is still here.'

  I cried: 'But this report-'

  'There must be another weapon, Arakelian. And do you see? That means the Americans are also in contact with the Aldebaratniki.'

  It was time for chagrin. I admitted: 'You are right.'

  He sighed: 'Comrades, the Marshal will be here in a moment. Let us settle this.' I composed my face and looked at him. 'Arakelian, answer this question straight out. Do you know how this American could have got in touch with the Aldebaratniki now?'

  'How could I, gospodin?'

  'That,' he said thoughtfully, 'is not a straight answer but it is answer enough. How could you? You have not left the Metropole. And in any case the Marshal is now coming, I hear his guard.'

  • • • •

  We all stood up, very formal, it was a question of socialist discipline.

  In came this man, the Marshal, who ruled two hundred million humans, smoking a cigarette in a paper holder, his small pig's eyes looking here and there and at me. Five very large men were with him, but they never said anything at all. He sat down grunting; it was not necessary for him to speak loud or to speak clearly, but it was necessary that those around him should hear anyhow. It was not deafness that caused Tadjensevitch to wear a hearing aid.

  The old man jumped up. 'Comrade Party Secretary,' he said, not now whispering, no, 'this man is P.P. Arakelian.'

  Grunt from the Marshal.

  'Yes, Comrade Party Secretary, he has come to us with the suggestion that we sign a treaty with a race of creatures inhabiting a pla
net of the star Aldebaran. Our astronomers say they cannot dispute any part of his story. And the M.V.D. has assuredly verified his reliability in certain documents signed by the late--(cough)--Comrade Beria.' That too had not been easy and would have been less so if Beria had not been dead.

  Grunt from the Marshal. Old Tadjensevitch looked expectantly at me.

  'I beg your pardon?' I said.

  Old Tadjensevitch said without patience: The Marshal asked about terms.'

  'Oh,' I bowed, 'there are no terms. These are unworldly creatures, excellent comrade.' I thought to mention it as a joke, but none laughed.

  'Unworldly, you see. They wish only to be friends--with you, with the Americans ... they do not know the difference; it is all in whom they first see.'

  Grunt. 'Will they sign a treaty?' Tadjensevitch translated.

  'Of course.'

  Grunt. Translation. 'Have they enemies? There is talk in the American document of creatures that destroy them. We must know what enemies our new friends may have.'

  'Only animals, excellent comrade. Like your wolves of Siberia, but huge, as the great blue whale.'

  Grunt. Tadjensevitch said: 'The Marshal asks if you can guarantee that the creatures will come first to us.'

  'No. I can only suggest. I cannot guarantee there will be no error.'

  'But if-'

  'If,' I cried loudly, 'if there is error, you have Red Army to correct it!'

  They looked at me, strange. They did not expect that. But they did not understand.

  I gave them no time. I said quickly: 'Now, excellency, one thing more.

  I have a present for you.'

  Grunt. I hastily said: 'I saved it, comrade. Excuse me. In my pocket.' I reached, most gently, those five men all looked at me now with much care.

  For the first demonstration I had produced an Aldebaranian hand weapon, three inches long, capable of destroying a bull at five hundred yards, but now for this Russian I had more. 'See,' I said, and took it out to hand him, a small glittering thing, carved of a single solid diamond, an esthetic statue four inches long. Oh, I did not like to think of it wasted: But it was important that this man should be off guard, so I handed it to one of the tall silent men, who thumbed it over and then passed it on with a scowl to the Marshal. I was sorry, yes. It was a favourite thing, a clever carving that they had made in the water under Aldebaran's rays; it was almost greater than I could have made myself. No, I will not begrudge it them, it was greater; I could not have done so well!

  Unfortunate that so great a race should have needed attention; unfortunate that I must now give this memento away; but I needed to make an effect and, yes, I did!

  Oh, diamond is great to humans; the Marshal looked surprised, and grunted, and one of the silent, tall five reached in his pocket, and took out something that glittered on silken ribbon. He looped it around my neck.

  'Hero of Soviet Labour,' he said, 'First Class--With emeralds. For you.'

  'Thank you, Marshal,' I said.

  Grunt. 'The Marshal,' said Tadjensevitch in a thin, thin voice, 'thanks you. Certain investigations must be made. He will see you again tomorrow morning.'

  This was wrong, but I did not wish to make him right. I said again:

  'Thank you.'

  A grunt from the Marshal; he stopped and looked at me, and then he spoke loud so that, though he grunted, I understood. 'Tell,' he said, 'the Aldebaratniki, tell them they must come to us--if their ship should land in the wrong country...'

  He stopped at the door and looked at me powerfully.

  'I hope,' he said, That it will not,' and he left, and they escorted me back in the Zis sedan to the room at the Hotel Metropole.

  • • • •

  3

  So that was that and z-z-z-z-zit, I was gone again, leaving an empty and heavily guarded room in the old hotel.

  In Paris it was midday, I had spent a long time in Moscow. In Paris it was also hot and, as the grey-haired small man with the rosette of the Legion in his buttonhole escorted me along the Champs Elysees, slim-legged girls in bright short skirts smiled at us. No matter. I did not care one pin for all those bright slim girls.

  But it was necessary to look, the man expected it of me, and he was the man I had chosen. In America I worked through a committee of their Senate, in Russia the Comrade Party Secretary; here my man was a M.

  Duplessin, a small straw but the one to wreck a dromedary. He was a member of the Chamber of Deputies, elected as a Christian Socialist Radical Democrat, a party which stood between the Non-Clerical Catholic Workers' Movement on one side and the F.C.M., or Movement for Christian Brotherhood, on the other. His party had three deputies in the Chamber, and the other two hated each other. Thus M. Duplessin held the balance of power in his party, which held the balance of power in the Right Centrist Coalition, which held the balance through the entire Anti-Communist Democratic Front, which supported the Premier. Yes. M. Duplessin was the man I needed.

  I had slipped a folder into the locked files of a Senate committee and forged credentials into the records of Russian's M.V.D., but both together were easier than the finding of this right man. But I had him now, and he was taking me to see certain persons who also knew his importance, persons who would do as he told them. 'Monsieur,' he said gravely, 'It lacks a small half-hour of the appointed time. Might one not enjoy an aperitif?'

  'One might,' I said fluently, and permitted him to find us a table under the trees, for I knew that he was unsure of me; it was necessary to cause him to become sure.

  'Ah,' said Duplessin, sighing and placed hat, cane and gloves on a filigree metal chair. He ordered drinks and when they came sipped slightly, looking away. 'My friend,' he said at last, 'Tell me of les aldebaragnards.

  We French have traditions--liberty, equality, fraternity--we made Arabs into citizens of the Republic--always has France been mankind's spiritual home.

  But, monsieur. Nevertheless. Three eyes?'

  'They are really very nice,' I told him with great sincerity, though it was probably no longer true.

  'Hum.'

  'And,' I said, 'they know of love.'

  'Ah,' he said mistily sighing again. 'Love. Tell me, monsieur. Tell me of love on Aldebaran.'

  'They live on a planet,' I misstated somewhat. 'Aldebaran is the star itself. But I will tell you what you ask, M. Duplessin. It is thus: When a young Triop, for so they call themselves, comes of age, he swims far out into the wide sea, far from his crystal city out into the pellucid water where giant fan-tailed fish of rainbow colours swim endlessly above, tinting the pale sunlight that filters through the water and their scales. Tiny bright fish give off star-like flashes from patterned luminescent spots on their scales.'

  'It sounds most beautiful, monsieur,' Duplessin said with politeness.

  'It is most beautiful. And the young Triop swims until he sees--Her.'

  'Ah, monsieur.' He was more than polite, I considered, he was interested.

  'They speak not a word,' I added, 'for the water is all around and they wear masks, otherwise they could not breathe. They cannot speak, no, and one cannot see the other's eyes. They approach in silence and in mystery.'

  He sighed and sipped his cassis.

  'They,' I said, 'they know, although there is no way that they can know.

  But they do. They swim about each other searchingly, tenderly, sadly. Yes.

  Sadly--is beauty not always in some way sad? A moment. And then they are one.'

  'They do not speak?'

  I shook my head.

  'Ever?'

  'Never until all is over, and they meet elsewhere again.'

  'Ah, monsieur!' He stared into his small glass of tincture. 'Monsieur,'

  he said, 'may one hope--that is, is it possible--oh, monsieur! Might one go there, soon?'

  I said with all my cunning: 'All the things are possible, M. Duplessin, if the Triops can be saved from destruction. Consider for yourself, if you please, that to turn such a people over to the brutes wit
h the Red Star--or these with the forty-nine white stars--what difference?--is to destroy them.'

  'Never, my friend, never!' he cried strongly. 'Let them come! Let them entrust themselves to France! France will protect them, my friend, or France will die!'

  • • • •

  It was all very simple after that, I was free within an hour after lunch and, certainly, z-z-z-z-zit.

  My spaceship deposited me in this desert, Mojave, I think. Or almost Mojave, in its essential Americanness. Yes. It was in America, for what other place would do? I had accomplished much, but there was yet a cosmetic touch or two before I could say I had accomplished all.

  I scanned the scene, everything was well, there was no one. Distantly planes howled, but of no importance: stratosphere jets, what would they know of one man on the sand four miles below? I worked.

  Five round trips, carrying what was needed between this desert place and my bigger ship. And where was that? Ah. Safe. It hurled swinging around Mars: yes, quite safe. Astronomers might one day map it, but on that day it would not matter, no. Oh, it would not matter at all.

  Since there was time, on my first trip I reassumed my shape and ate, it was greatly restful. Seven useful arms and ample feet, it became easy; quickly I carried one ton of materials, two thousand pounds, from my armchair ferry to the small shelter in which I constructed my cosmetic appliance. Shelter? Why a shelter, you may ask? Oh, I say, for artistic reasons, and in the remote chance that some low-flying plane might blundersomely pass, though it would not. But it might. Let's see, I said, let me think, uranium and steel, strontium and cobalt, a touch of sodium for yellow, have I everything? Yes. I have everything, I said, everything, and I assembled the cosmetic bomb and set the fuse. Good-bye, bomb, I said with affection and, z-z-z-z-zit, armchair and Plinglot were back aboard my ship circling Mars. Nearly done, nearly done!

  There, quickly I assembled the necessary data for the Aldebaranian rocket, my penultimate--or Next to Closing--task.

  Now. This penultimate task, it was not a difficult one, no but it demanded some concentration. I had a ship. No fake, no crude imitation! It was an authentic rocket ship of the Aldebaranians, designed to travel to their six moons, with vent baffles for underwater takeoff due to certain exigencies (e.g., inimical animals ashore) of their culture. Yes. It was real. I had brought it on purpose all the way.