Citizen in Space

by Robert Sheckley

  No one has ever tried to sue me, because I’ve always been lucky. But I wish someone would. I’d just like to try out those law books.

  Building is another matter. When I first arrived here, I had to live in a Quonset hut. But I unpacked some of the marvelous building machines, and found materials that anyone could work. I built myself a bombproof house of five rooms, with an inlaid tile bathroom. It isn’t real inlaid tile, of course, but it looks real enough, and is amazingly simple to put down. The wall-to-wall carpeting goes down easily too, once you’ve read up on it.

  The thing that surprised me the most was the plumbing for my house. Plumbing always seemed the most complicated thing in the world to me—more complicated even than medicine or dentistry. But I had no trouble at all with it. Perhaps it wouldn’t seem too perfect by professional standards, but it satisfies me. And the series of filters, sterilizers, purifiers, fortifiers, and so on, gives me water free of even the toughest germs. And I installed them all myself.

  At times I get lonely down here, and there’s not much the scientists can do about that. There’s no substitute for companionship.

  But perhaps if the creative scientists had tried real hard they could have worked up something for isolated guys like me just a little better than complete loneliness.

  There aren’t even any Patagonians around for me to talk to. They went North after the tidal waves—the few who were left. And music isn’t much good. But then, I’m a person who doesn’t too much mind being alone. Perhaps that’s why they sent me down here.

  I wish there were some trees, though.

  Painting! I forgot to mention painting! Everyone knows how complicated that subject is. You have to know about perspective and line, color and mass, and I don’t know what else. You have to practically be a genius before you can get anything out of it.

  Now, I just select my brushes, set up my canvas, and I can paint anything that appeals to me. Everything you have to do is in the book. The oils I have of sunsets here are spectacular. They’re good enough for a gallery. You never saw such sunsets! Flaming colors, impossible shapes! It’s all the dust in the air.

  My ears are better, too. Didn’t I say I was lucky? The eardrums were completely shattered by the first concussion. But the hearing aid I wear is so small you can hardly see it, and I can hear better than ever.

  This brings me to the subject of medicine, and nowhere has science done a better job. The book tells me what to do about everything. I performed an appendectomy on myself that would have been considered impossible a few years ago. I just had to look up the symptoms, follow the directions, and it was done. I’ve doctored myself for all sorts of ailments, but of course there’s nothing I can do about the radiation poisoning. That’s not the fault of the books, however. It’s just that there’s nothing anyone can do about radiation poisoning. If I had the finest specialists in the world here, they couldn’t do anything about it

  If there were any specialists left. There aren’t, of course.

  It isn’t so bad. I know what to do so that it doesn’t hurt. And my luck didn’t run out or anything. It’s just that everyone’s luck ran out.

  Well, looking over this, it doesn’t seem much of a credo, which is what it was meant to be. I guess I’d better study one of those writing books. I’ll know how to say it all then, as well as it can be said. Exactly how I feel about science, I mean, and how grateful I am. I’m thirty-nine. I’ve lived longer than just about everyone, even if I die tomorrow. But that’s because I was lucky, and in the right places at the right times.

  I guess I won’t bother with the writing book, since there’s no one around to read a word of manuscript. What good is a writer without an audience?

  Photography is more interesting.

  Besides, I have to unpack some gravedigging tools, and build a mausoleum, and carve a tombstone for myself.

  Hands Off

  The ship’s mass detector flared pink, then red. Agee had been dozing at the controls, waiting for Victor to finish making dinner. Now he looked up quickly. “Planet coming,” he called, over the hiss of escaping air.

  Captain Barnett nodded. He finished shaping a hot patch, and slapped it on Endeavor’s worn hull. The whistle of escaping air dropped to a low moan, but was not entirely stopped. It never was.

  When Barnett came over, the planet was just visible beyond the rim of a little red sun. It glowed green against the black night of space and gave both men an identical thought.

  Barnett put the thought into words. “Wonder if there’s anything on it worth taking,” he said, frowning.

  Agee lifted a white eyebrow hopefully. They watched as the dials began to register.

  They would never have spotted the planet if they had taken Endeavor along the South Galactic Trades. But the Confederacy police were becoming increasingly numerous along that route and Barnett preferred to give them a wide berth.

  The Endeavor was listed as a trader—but the only cargo she carried consisted of several bottles of an extremely powerful acid used in opening safes, and three medium-sized atomic bombs. The authorities looked with disfavor upon such goods and they were always trying to haul in the crew on some old charge—a murder on Luna, larceny on Omega, breaking and entering on Samia II. Old, almost forgotten crimes that the police drearily insisted on raking up.

  To make matters worse, Endeavor was outgunned by the newer police cruisers. So they had taken an outside route to New Athens, where a big uranium strike had opened.

  “Don’t look like much,” Agee commented, inspecting the dials critically.

  “Might as well pass it by,” Barnett said.

  The readings were uninteresting. They showed a planet smaller than Earth, uncharted, and with no commercial value other than oxygen atmosphere.

  As they swung past, their heavy-metals detector came to life.

  “There’s stuff down there!” Agee said, quickly interpreting the multiple readings. “Pure. Very pure—and on the surface!”

  He looked at Barnett, who nodded. The ship swung toward the planet.

  Victor came from the rear, wearing a tiny wool cap crammed on his big shaven head. He stared over Barnett’s shoulder as Agee brought the ship down in a tight spiral. Within half a mile of the surface, they saw their deposit of heavy metal.

  It was a spaceship, resting on its tail in a natural clearing.

  “Now this is interesting,” Barnett said. He motioned Agee to make a closer approach.

  Agee brought the ship down with deft skill. He was well past the compulsory retirement limit for master pilots, but it didn’t affect his coordination. Barnett, who found him stranded and penniless, had signed him on. The captain was always glad to help another human, if it was convenient and likely to be profitable. The two men shared the same attitude toward private property, but sometimes disagreed on ways of acquiring it. Agee preferred a sure thing. Barnett, on the other hand, had more courage than was good for a member of a relatively frail species like Homo sapiens.

  Near the surface of the planet, they saw that the strange ship was larger than Endeavor and bright, shining new. The hull shape was unfamiliar, as were the markings.

  “Ever see anything like it?” Barnett asked.

  Agee searched his capacious memory. “Looks a bit like a Cephean job, only they don’t build ’em so squat. We’re pretty far out, you know. That ship might not even be from the Confederacy.”

  Victor stared at the ship, his big lips parted in wonder. He sighed noisily. “We could sure use a ship like that, huh, Captain?”

  Barnett’s sudden smile was like a crack appearing in granite. “Victor,” he said, “in your simplicity, you have gone to the heart of the matter. We could use a ship like that. Let’s go down and talk with its skipper.”

  Before strapping in, Victor made sure the freeze-blasters were on full charge.

  On the ground, they sent up an orange and green parley flare, but there was no answer from the alien ship. The planet’s atmosphere tested breatha
ble, with a temperature of 72 degrees Fahrenheit. After waiting a few minutes, they marched out, freeze-blasters ready under their jumpers.

  All three men wore studiously pleasant smiles as they walked the fifty yards between ships.

  Up close, the ship was magnificent. Its glistening silver-gray hide had hardly been touched by meteor strikes. The airlock was open and a low hum told them that the generators were recharging.

  “Anyone home?” Victor shouted into the airlock. His voice echoed hollowly through the ship. There was no answer—only the soft hum of the generators and the rustle of grass on the plain.

  “Where do you suppose they went?” Agee asked.

  “For a breath of air, probably,” Barnett said. “I don’t suppose they’d expect any visitors.”

  Victor placidly sat down on the ground. Barnett and Agee prowled around the base of the ship, admiring its great drive ports.

  “Think you can handle it?” Barnett asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” Agee said. “For one thing, it’s conventional drive. The servos don’t matter—oxygen-breathers use similar drive-control systems. It’s just a matter of time until I figure it out.”

  “Someone coming,” Victor called.

  They hurried back to the airlock. Three hundred yards from the ship was a ragged forest. A figure had just emerged from among the trees, and was walking toward them.

  Agee and Victor drew their blasters simultaneously.

  Barnett’s binoculars resolved the tiny figure into a rectangular shape, about two feet high by a foot wide. The alien was less than two inches thick and had no head.

  Barnett frowned. He had never seen a rectangle floating above tall grass.

  Adjusting the binoculars, he saw that the alien was roughly humanoid. That is, it had four limbs. Two, almost hidden by the grass, were being used for walking, and the other two jutted stiffly into the air. In its middle, Barnett could just make out two tiny eyes and a mouth. The creature was not wearing any sort of suit or helmet.

  “Queer-looking,” Agee muttered, adjusting the aperture of his blaster. “Suppose he’s all there is?”

  “Hope so,” Barnett said, drawing his own blaster.

  “Range about two hundred yards.” Agee leveled his weapon, then looked up. “Did you want to talk to him first, Captain?”

  “What’s there to say?” Barnett asked, smiling lazily. “Let him get a little closer, though. We don’t want to miss.”

  Agee nodded and kept the alien steadily in his sights.

  Kalen had stopped at this deserted little world hoping to blast out a few tons of erol, a mineral highly prized by the Mabogian people. He had had no luck. The unused thetnite bomb was still lodged in his body pouch, next to a stray kerla nut. He would have to return to Mabog with ballast instead of cargo.

  Well, he thought, emerging from the forest, better luck next—

  He was shocked to see a thin, strangely tapered spaceship near his own. He had never expected to find anyone else on this deadly little world.

  And the inhabitants were waiting in front of his own airlock! Kalen saw at once they were roughly Mabogian in form. There was a race much like them in the Mabogian Union, but their spaceships were completely different. Intuition suggested that these aliens might well be representative of that great civilization rumored to be on the periphery of the Galaxy.

  He advanced eagerly to meet them.

  Strange, the aliens were not moving. Why didn’t they come forward to meet him? He knew that they saw him, because all three were pointing at him.

  He walked faster, realizing that he knew nothing of their customs. He only hoped that they didn’t run to long-drawn-out ceremonies. Even an hour on this inimical world had tired him. He was hungry, badly in need of a shower….

  Something intensely cold jarred him backward. He looked around apprehensively. Was this some unknown property of the planet?

  He moved forward again. Another bolt lanced into him, frosting the outer layer of his hide.

  This was serious. Mabogians were among the toughest life-forms in the Galaxy, but they had their limits. Kalen looked around for the source of the trouble.

  The aliens were shooting at him!

  For a moment, his thinking centers refused to accept the evidence of his senses. Kalen knew what murder was. He had observed this perversity with stunned horror among certain debased animal forms. And, of course, there were the abnormal psychology books, which documented every case of premeditated murder that had occurred in the history of Mabog.

  But to have such a thing actually happen to him! Kalen was unable to believe it.

  Another bolt lanced into him. Kalen stood still, trying to convince himself that this was really happening. He couldn’t understand how creatures with sufficient sense of cooperation to run a spaceship could be capable of murder.

  Besides, they didn’t even know him!

  Almost too late, Kalen whirled and ran toward the forest. All three aliens were firing now and the grass around him was crackling white with frost. His skin surface was completely frosted over. Cold was something the Mabogian constitution was not designed for and the chill was creeping into his internal organs.

  But he could still hardly believe it.

  Kalen reached the forest and a double blast caught him as he slid behind a tree. He could feel his internal system laboring desperately to restore warmth to his body and, with profound regret, he allowed the darkness to take him.

  “Stupid kind of alien,” Agee observed, holstering his blaster.

  “Stupid and strong,” Barnett said. “But no oxygen-breather can take much of that.” He grinned proudly and slapped the silver-gray side of the ship. “We’ll christen her EndeavorII.”

  “Three cheers for the captain!” Victor cried enthusiastically.

  “Save your breath,” Barnett said. “You’ll need it.” He glanced overhead. “We’ve got about four hours of light left. Victor, transfer the food, oxygen, and tools from Endeavor I and disarm her piles. We’ll come back and salvage the old girl some day. But I want to blast off by sundown.”

  Victor hurried off. Barnett and Agee entered the ship.

  The rear half of Endeavor II was filled with generators, engines, converters, servos, fuel and air tanks. Past that was an enormous cargo hold, occupying almost another half of the ship. It was filled with nuts of all shapes and colors, ranging in size from two inches in diameter to some twice the size of a man’s head. That left only two compartments in the bow of the ship.

  The First should have been a crew room, since it was the only available living space. But it was completely bare. There were no deceleration cots, no tables or chairs—nothing but polished metal floor. In the walls and ceiling were several small openings, but their purpose was not readily apparent.

  Connected to this room was the pilot’s compartment. It was very small, barely large enough for one man, and the panel under the observation blister was packed solidly with instruments.

  “It’s all yours,” Barnett said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Agee nodded, looked for a chair, then squatted in front of the panel. He began to study the layout.

  In several hours, Victor had transferred all their stores to Endeavor II. Agee still had not touched anything. He was trying to figure out what controlled what, from the size, color, shape and location of the instruments. It wasn’t easy, even accepting similar nervous systems and patterns of thought. Did the auxiliary step-up system run from left to right? If not, he would have to unlearn his previous flight coordination. Did red signify danger to the designers of the ship? If it did, that big switch could be for dumping fuel. But red could also mean hot fuel, in which case the switch might control coarse energy flow.

  For all he knew, its purpose was to overload the piles in case of enemy attack.

  Agee kept all this in mind as he studied the controls. He wasn’t too worried. For one thing, spaceships were tough beasts, practically indestructible from the inside. Fo
r another, he believed he had caught onto the pattern.

  Barnett stuck his head in the doorway, with Victor close behind him. “You ready?”

  Agee looked over the panel. “Guess so.” He touched a dial lightly. “This should control the airlocks.”

  He turned it. Victor and Barnett waited, perspiring, in the chilly room.

  They heard the smooth flow of lubricated metal. The airlocks had closed.

  Agee grinned and blew on his fingertips for luck. “Here’s the air-control system.” He closed a switch.

  Out of the ceiling, a yellow smoke began to trickle.

  “Impurities in the system,” Agee muttered, adjusting a dial. Victor began to cough.

  “Turn it off,” Barnett said.

  The smoke poured out in thick streams, filling the two rooms almost instantly.

  “Turn it off!”

  “I can’t see it!” Agee thrust at the switch, missed and struck a button under it. Immediately the generators began to whine angrily. Blue sparks danced along the panel and jumped to the wall.

  Agee staggered back from the panel and collapsed. Victor was already at the door to the cargo hold, trying to hammer it down with his fists. Barnett covered his mouth with one hand and rushed to the panel. He fumbled blindly for the switch, feeling the ship revolve giddily around him.

  Victor fell to the deck, still beating feebly at the door.

  Barnett jabbed blindly at the panel.

  Instantly the generators stopped. Then Barnett felt a cold breeze on his face. He wiped his streaming eyes and looked up.

  A lucky stab had closed the ceiling vents, cutting off the yellow gas. He had accidentally opened the locks, and the gas in the ship was being replaced by the cold night air of the planet. Soon the atmosphere was breathable.

  Victor climbed shakily to his feet, but Agee didn’t move. Barnett gave the old pilot artificial respiration, cursing softly as he did. Agee’s eyelids finally fluttered and his chest began to rise and fall. A few minutes later, he sat up and shook his head.