The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty

by R. A. Lafferty

  “The rules state that a live and competent agent must be in residence at all times or the asteroid can be declared abandoned,” Netter said. “The asteroid was plainly abandoned when Kalbfleish arrived; you were gone. He so reported it, and he claimed it for us. The claim was approved and accepted.”

  “True,” said the creature Porcellus. “What is that thing you play with in your hands? But Captain Kalbfleish — following the awkward interval after I had returned — also abandoned the station by dying. I so reported his death, and claimed the station for ourselves once more. The claim was approved and accepted. Now you are here as my guest only and, I tell you in all kindness, not a very welcome one.

  “But a proved murder will void your claim,” said Netter.

  “So prove it, fine man,” said the creature Porcellus. “Yours is a smaller head than Kalbfleish's but it has a certain distinction. I could make room for it among my trophies. We have each of us sent various reports, and the matter is under litigation. In the meanwhile, the accidental death of either of us would void his claim and settle the matter. We cannot kill directly. Investigators are already on the way and we are both prime suspects; we are the only ones here. What is the leather thing with which you play?”

  “A romal, Porcellus. A short quirt braided onto a rein. They made them in Old Mexico and in California and Texas, but they were mostly ornamental.”

  “Earth places all three, my translator says. Were they used with a creature?”

  “With a pony, a horse.”

  “Haven't I stumbled onto the information that the horse is extinct?”

  “Yes. The braiding of the little thing is only a hobby of mine.”

  “A hobby, according to my comprehensive translator, is a sort of vicarious horse — a mental surrogate which one rides. Is that correct?”

  “Correct, Porcellus. Haven't you a hobby?”

  “My hobby is heads,” said the thing.

  Netter started to leave the creature then to go to his own camp. “To the early and accidental death of one of us,” he toasted with the last of the drink that Porcellus had given him.

  “Shoals!” toasted Porcellus. “I believe that is your word. And a warning: stay away from the low dome which you will see on the plain. It's dangerous.”

  Netter went to his own camp.

  Now Porcellus wanted him to go to the curious dome — or he would not have warned him away from it. Was it dangerous? Or did the thing merely want to divert him? Porcellus must have known that he would explore every feature of landscape on the small asteroid. Perhaps it was only to worry him, as Porcellus himself had seemed to be worried. And what in hog heaven can worry a hog? Netter had it after a while. “He knows when he's going to die. He's surprised that humans haven't that knowledge. But can I depend on it? It's only a twice removed guess.” Netter left the dome till last. He circumnavigated the asteroid in a brisk six-mile walk and found nothing of interest. He came thoughtfully to the dome on the plain.

  The dome rose to no more than the height of his head in the center, was about sixty feet in diameter, was symmetrical in general outline but with a slightly roughened surface, and was probably artificial. “I believe it is an old direction beacon of the Porcines.” he said. “Yes, this is certainly the top of an obsolete hemisphere, and the most of it is under ground. They were no good. I believe that we had them once.”

  Netter stepped gingerly onto the sphere. It was certainly firm enough. He knew a firm thing when he met one. There was no danger of him crashing through. He climbed the steep, then the less steep elevation of it and came to the center. “Nice,” he said, “but nothing.” Then he felt it activated. “So Porcellus still uses it,” he said, “I didn't realize that they were so backward.”

  He walked around on it, and it rotated gently under him, compensating for him. He strode down the side a little way, and it quickly brought him back to the top. “This could be fun,” he said.

  He could take three, four quick steps away from the top, and he would still be on top. He could tense to jump sideways, and the sphere would compensate before he left the surface; he'd still land exactly on the center whichever way he jumped. The thing rolled easily and noiselessly and anticipated or reacted immediately to every movement. He walked, he ran, he laughed, he trotted half a mile and stood where he had stood before.

  “You know tricks and I know tricks, old sphere,” he shouted, “let's see who's the smarter.” He feinted, he broke, he dodged, he ran crazy-legged as though he were broken-field dribbling at Galactic-rules football. He shucked off tacklers, he scored countless goals in his mind, but he always ended on the very center top of the dome.

  He lay down and rolled, trying to go down the steep far slopes as though they were grass banks. He stopped rolling and lay on his back, and he was still on the top of the rotating compensating sphere or dome.

  “I haven't had so much fun since I was a boy in an amusement park,” he said.

  He hadn't? Then why did he suddenly begin to tremble? Why did he begin to whistle so off-key if he wasn't scared? “Stone walls do not a pokey make nor locks a—” it was the Cross-Bar Hotel Blues he was whistling and he had to stop it.

  He was locked tight in jail on a little hillock in the middle of a plain, and there was no barrier in sight. There was no possible way he could get off the compensating dome.

  He was imprisoned in the highest most open spot on the asteroid. In an hour of cavorting and hopping about he had not got one full step from where he started, and there was no possible way that he could.

  He thought about it for a full Hippodamia day and night — forty-five minutes basic time. He couldn't come up with a thing.

  “If I had a rope and you had a stump,” he said talking to no one, “I'd rope the stump — I'm good at that — and pull myself off this thing.”

  But he didn't have a rope and the plain sure didn't have a stump. It had hardly a pebble as big as his thumb.

  “This is where Kalbfleish died,” said Netter. “You said it right, pig man, my friend had a violent heart and it finally ruptured on him. You didn't have to murder him directly. You let him run himself to death. He was uncommonly energetic, as you said, and especially so on the day of his death. I can see it all now. He could never stand to be confined. He would have gone wild when he found himself confined in what seemed the most open space on the asteroid. He'd have run till he ruptured every thing in him. It is no wonder that he died with that look of horror.”

  This was a jail that nobody could break. Why try more tricks on the sphere? It could compensate for every trick that was.

  “Only a creature that could fly in zero atmosphere could get off of this,” he mused. “Even a worm couldn't crawl off unless he were too small to affect the compensators. If I had two cant hooks I might be able to fool the thing, but it could no doubt compensate for the resolution of forces. If I had a weight on a line I might puzzle it a little, but not much. Porkey has it made. I'll die either of starvation or exertion or insanity, but the investigation will not show that I was murdered. ‘Why have two humans died of heart attack here?’ is the most they can ask him, and Porkey will rub his hands and say ‘Bad climate.’ ”

  But what Porky Porcellus really said was: “Fine man, why do you play like a boy on top of that thing? Is that any way for a hopeful asteroid agent to conduct himself?”

  “Porcellus, you think you've trapped me, do you?” flared Netter.

  “I trap you? My hands are clean. Is it my fault that two humans develop the strange mania of running themselves to death in a weird game?”

  How far away was Porcellus from the edge of the dome? Too far. Too far by several yards.

  “Porcellus, what is this thing?” Netter cried out.

  “Once it was a beam sphere, as you have probably guessed, and it is obsolete. I have altered it to something else. Now it is an intelligence test. To fail it is to die.”

  “Did anyone ever get off it?” Netter called. He had to get Porcellus int
erested. He had to get him to come several feet closer before he turned away.

  “Only one passed the intelligence test,” said the creature, “and he had unusual natural advantages. He was a peculiar fellow of the species Larrik who visited me some basic years ago. He simply broke himself into two pieces and walked off in opposite directions. The globe couldn't compensate for both of them. One got clear, obtained a line, pulled his other half off; both halves laughed at me, and then they rejoined themselves. But you haven't his advantage, Netter. You have failed the test.”

  “I'll find a way,” swore Netter. “I'll find a trick.” Just a little bit closer now would do it.

  “You lose, Netter,” said Porcellus. “There is no fixed thing on the plain you could tie to even if you had a way of reaching it. The longest thing you have with you is what you call the romal, and it's no longer than your arm.

  Porcellus was close enough. Right at the end of the dome. When he turned it would be perfect — somewhere between thirty-two and thirty-five feet. There was no fixed thing on the plain, but there was a thing heavy enough to serve for a fixed thing. The romal of Netter was no longer than his arm, but it was a romal rey, a king romal.

  Porcellus turned away in his triumph. The light-thin lariat flew and dropped over his bulk. And Netter pulled himself off the dome in less time than you can say Porky Porcellus.

  The fat hulk was no match for Netter when he was on solid non-compensating ground. He hog-tied the Hog-man with the thin leather line and rolled him onto the dome. And Porcellus was immediately on the center top of the dome to stay there till he died of hunger or uncommon exertion or porcine apoplexy.

  Netter was moving things about in the fine Trophy Room which he had recently inherited. He set a fine hard wood peg into the wall and hung on it the king romal for which he now had especial affection. The king romal is so intricately braided that one moment it will be a thick quirt no longer than your arm; but unlace one keeper and it immediately becomes a thin strand lariat forty foot long counting the loop. Hardly anyone knows how to braid a romal rey nowadays. He moved many things in the trophy room. He wanted the set thing to be just right. He knew just what space it should occupy on that great wall. The investigation was over with and Netter's claim had been accepted. He was now asteroid station-master — a good job.

  The head was ready. It had been cured out and tanned and treated, and the eye-tushers were polished till they gleamed.

  Porcellus had a truly magnificent head!

  The Primary Education of the Camiroi

  ABSTRACT FROM JOINT REPORT TO THE GENERAL DUBUQUE PTA CONCERNING THE PRIMARY EDUCATION OF THE CAMIROI, Subtitled Critical Observations of a Parallel Culture on a Neighboring World, and Evaluations of THE OTHER WAY OF EDUCATION.

  Extract from the Day Book:

  “Where,” we asked the Information Factor at Camiroi City Terminal, “is the office of the local PTA?”

  “Isn't any,” he said cheerfully.

  “You mean that in Camiroi City, the metropolis of the planet, there is no PTA?” our chairman Paul Piper asked with disbelief.

  “Isn't any office of it. But you're poor strangers, so you deserve an answer even if you can't frame your questions properly. See that elderly man sitting on the bench and enjoying the sun? Go tell him you need a PTA. He'll make you one.”

  “Perhaps the initials convey a different meaning on Camiroi,” said Miss Munch the first surrogate chairman. “By them we mean—”

  “Parent Teachers Apparatus, of course. Colloquial English is one of the six Earthian languages required here, you know. Don't be abashed. He's a fine person, and he enjoys doing things for strangers. He'll be glad to make you a PTA.”

  We were nonplussed, but we walked over to the man indicated.

  “We are looking for the local PTA, sir,” said Miss Smice, our second surrogate chairman. “We were told that you might help us.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said the elderly Camiroi gentleman. “One of you arrest that man walking there, and we'll get started with it.”

  “Do what?” asked our Mr. Piper.

  “Arrest him. I have noticed that your own words sometimes do not convey a meaning to you. I often wonder how you do communicate among yourselves. Arrest, take into custody, seize by any force physical or moral, and bring him here.”

  “Yes, sir,” cried Miss Hanks our third surrogate chairman. She enjoyed things like this. She arrested the walking Camiroi man with force partly physical and partly moral and brought him to the group.

  “It's a PTA they want, Meander,” the elder Camiroi said to the one arrested. “Grab three more, and we'll get started. Let the lady help. She's good at it.”

  Our Miss Hanks and the Camiroi man named Meander arrested three other Camiroi men and brought them to the group.

  “Five. It's enough,” said the elderly Camiroi. “We are hereby constituted a PTA and ordered into random action. Now, how can we accommodate you, good Earth people?”

  “But are you legal? Are you five persons competent to be a PTA?” demanded our Mr. Piper.

  “Any Camiroi citizen is competent to do any job on the planet of Camiroi,” said one of the Camiroi men (we learned later that his name was Talarium). “Otherwise Camiroi would be in a sad shape.”

  “It may be,” said our Miss Smice sourly. “It all seems very informal. What if one of you had to be World President?”

  “The odds are that it won't come to one man in ten,” said the elderly Camiroi (his name was Philoxenus). “I'm the only one of this group ever to serve as president of this planet, and it was a pleasant week I spent in the Office. Now to the point. How can we accommodate you?”

  “We would like to see one of your schools in session,” said our Mr. Piper. “We would like to talk to the teachers and the students. We are here to compare the two systems of education.”

  “There is no comparison,” said old Philoxenus, “—meaning no offense. Or no more than a little. On Camiroi, we practice Education. On Earth, they play a game, but they call it by the same name. That makes the confusion. Come. We'll go to a school in session.”

  “And to a public school,” said Miss Smice suspiciously. “Do not fob off any fancy private school on us as typical.”

  “That would be difficult,” said Philoxenus. “There is no public school in Camiroi City and only two remaining on the Planet. Only a small fraction of one per cent of the students of Camiroi are in public schools. We maintain that there is no more reason for the majority of children to be educated in a public school than to be raised in a public orphanage. We realize, of course, that on Earth you have made a sacred buffalo of the public school.”

  “Sacred cow,” said our Mr. Piper.

  “Children and Earthlings should be corrected when they use words wrongly,” said Philoxenus. “How else will they learn the correct forms? The animal held sacred in your own near Orient was of the species bos bubalus rather than bos bos, a buffalo rather than a cow. Shall we go to a school?”

  “If it cannot be a public school, at least let it be a typical school,” said Miss Smice.

  “That again is impossible,” said Philoxenus. “Every school on Camiroi is in some respect atypical.”

  We went to visit an atypical school.

  Incident:

  Our first contact with the Camiroi students was a violent one. One of them, a lively little boy about eight years old, ran into Miss Munch, knocked her down, and broke her glasses. Then he jabbered something in an unknown tongue.

  “Is that Camiroi?” asked Mr. Piper with interest. “From what I have heard, I supposed the language to have a harsher and fuller sound.”

  “You mean you don't recognize it?” asked Philoxenus with amusement “What a droll admission from an educator. The boy is very young and very ignorant. Seeing that you were Earthians, he spoke in Hindi, which is the tongue used by more Earthians than any other. No, no, Xypete, they are of the minority who speak English. You can tell it by their colorless texture and the nar
row heads on them.”

  “I say you sure do have slow reaction, lady,” the little boy Xypete explained. “Even subhumans should react faster than that. You just stand there and gape and let me bowl you over. You want me analyze you and see why you react so slow?”

  “No! No!”

  “You seem unhurt in structure from the fall,” the little boy continued, “but if I hurt you I got to fix you. Just strip down to your shift, and I'll go over you and make sure you're all right.”

  “No! No! No!”

  “It's all right,” said Philoxenus. “All Camiroi children learn primary medicine in the first grade, setting bones and healing contusions and such.”

  “No! No! I'm all right. But he's broken my glasses.”

  “Come along Earthside lady, I'll make you some others,” said the little boy. “With your slow reaction time you sure can't afford the added handicap of defective vision. Shall I fit you with contacts?”

  “No. I want glasses just like those which were broken. Oh heavens, what will I do?”

  “You come, I do,” said the little boy. It was rather revealing to us that the little boy was able to test Miss Munch's eyes, grind lenses, make frames and have her fixed up within three minutes. “I have made some improvements over those you wore before,” the boy said, “to help compensate for your slow reaction time.”

  “Are all the Camiroi students so talented?” Mr. Piper asked. He was impressed.

  “No. Xypete is unusual,” Philoxenus said. “Most students would not be able to make a pair of glasses so quickly or competently till they were at least nine.”

  Random interviews:

  “How rapidly do you read?” Miss Hanks asked a young girl.

  “One hundred and twenty words a minute,” the girl said.