The Second Fredric Brown Megapack: 27 Classic Science Fiction Stories

by Fredric Brown

  He turned again to the professor. “You see? A liddle, nodt mudch, he raises der lefel of indelligence of der gray mice. Der zero-two leffel, vhich iss his—so he iss chusdt a liddle smarter than der other vhite mice, und many dimes as smardt as der ordinary mice, who they vill use as solchers und vorkers. Iss diabolical, no?”

  “It is diabolical, Mitkey. I—I did not thingk mice could be so low—so low as some men, Mitkey.”

  “Brofessor, I am ashamed of mine kind. I see now mine ideas of Moustralia, und men und mice liffing in beace—they vere dreams. I vas wrong, Brofessor. Budt no dime to think aboudt dreams—ve must act!”

  “How, Mitkey? Shall I delephone der bolice und ask them to arrest —”

  “No. Men can nodt stop them, Brofessor. Mice can hide from men. They haf hidden from men all their lifes. A million bolicemen, a million solchiers could not vind Vhitey der First. I must do it meinself.”

  “You, Mitkey? Alone?”

  “It iss for that I came back from der moon, Brofessor. I am as smardt as he iss—I am der only mouse as smardt as Vhitey iss.”

  “But he has der vhite mice—der other vhite mice mit him. He has guards, probably. Vot could you do alone?”

  “I could vind der machine. Der eggsnineteen brojector vot raised their indelligence. You see?”

  “But vot could you do, Mitkey, mit der machine? They are already—”

  “I could shordt-circuit it, Brofessor. Referse der derminals und shordt-circuit it, und it vould kick oudt in von flash—und make normal again all der artificially-raised indelligence mitin a mile from it.”

  “Budt, Mitkey, you vould be there, too. It vould destroy your own indelligence. You vould do dot?”

  “I vould, und I vill. For der vorld, und for beace. Budt I haff an ace up der sleefe, maybe. Maybe I get mine indelligence back.”

  “How, Mitkey?”

  Little gray man with his head bent low over a white-painted little gray mouse, the two of them discussing high heroism and the fate of the world. And neither saw that it was funny—or was it?

  “How Mitkey?”

  “Ve renew der vhite paint virst. So I can vool them und get by der guards.”

  I vill be in or near der Hartford Laboratories, I belief—vhere Vhitey came from, und vhere he finds der other white mice to vork mit him.

  “Und segund, also before I leafe here, I make another brojector, see? Und I raise Minnie’s leffel of indelligence to mine, und teach her how to oberate der brojector, See?”

  “Und vhen I lose mine indelligence in shordting der machine at der laboratories, I still haff mine normal indelligence und mine instinct—und I think these vill brings me back here to mine house und mine Minnie!”

  The professor nodded. “Eggcellent. Und der laboratories iss three miles avay from here, und der shordt vill nodt affect Minnie. Then she can restore you, hein?”

  “Yess. I need vire, der vinest vire you haff. Und—”

  Rapidly this time, the projector grew. This time Mitkey had help, expert help, and could ask for what he wanted instead of having to steal it in darkness.

  Once while they worked the professor remembered something. “Mitkey!” he said suddenly, “you vere on der moon! I almost forgodt to ask you aboudt it. Vot vas it like?”

  “Brofessor, I vas so vorried aboudt getting back, I did nodt notice. I forgodt to look!”

  And then the final connections, which Mitkey insisted on making himself. “Nodt that I do nodt trust you, Brofessor,” he explained earnestly, “But it vas a bromise, to der Prxl scientists who taught me. Und I do nodt know how it vorks myself, und you vould nodt understand, either. It iss beyond der science of men and mice. But I bromised, so I make der connections alone.”

  “I understand, Mitkey. Iss all right. But der other brojector, der vun you vill shordt—maybe somevun might find it und rebair der shordt?”

  Mitkey shook his head.

  “Iss hobeless. Vunce it is ruined, no vun vill ever make head or tail of how it vorked. Nodt effen you could, Brofessor.”

  Near the cage—now with the door closed again—in which Minnie waited. The final wire, and a click.

  And gradually, Minnie’s eyes changed.

  Mitkey talking rapidly, explaining to her. Giving her the facts and the plans…

  * * * *

  Under the floor of the main building of the Hartford laboratories, it was dark, but enough light came through a few cracks for the keen eyes of Mitkey to see that the mouse who had just challenged him was a white mouse, carrying a short club.

  “Who iss?”

  “Iss me,” said Mitkey. “I chust eggscaped vrom der pig cage ubstairs. Vot giffs?”

  “Goot,” said the white mouse. “I vill take you to der Emperor of der Mices. To him, und to der machine he made, you owe your indelligence und your allechiance.”

  “Who iss he?” asked Mitkey innocently.

  “Whitey der First. Emperor of der vhite mices, who are der rulers of all der mice und layder der rulers of all der—But you vill learn all vhen you take der oath.”

  “You sboke of a machine,” said Mitkey. “Vot iss, und vhere iss it?”

  “In der party headquarters, vhere I now take you. This vay.”

  And Mitkey followed the white mouse.

  As he followed, he asked, “How many of us intelligent vhite mice iss there?”

  “You vill be der twenty-virst.”

  “Und all tventy iss here?”

  “Yess, und ve are draining der slafe battalion of gray mice, who vill vork und fight for us. Iss now a hundred of them already. Der barracks is vhere they liff.”

  “How far iss der barracks from der headquarters?”

  “Ten, maybe tvellf yards.”

  “Iss goot,” said Mitkey.

  The last turn of the passage, and there was the machine, and there was Whitey. Other white mice were seated in a semi-circle around him, listening. “—und der negst moof iss to—Vot iss this, Guard?”

  “A new recruit, Your Highness. He chust eggscaped, and he vill choin us.”

  “Goot,” said Whitey. “Ve are discussing vorld blans, but ve vill vait until ve haff giffen you der oath. Stand by der machine, mit vun hand on der cylinder und vun hand raised tovard me, palm vorward.”

  “Yess, Your Highness,” said Mitkey, and he moved around the semi-circle of mice toward the machine.

  “Iss so.” said Whitey. “Der hand higher. Dot’s it. Now rebeat: Der vhite mice iss to rule der vorld.”

  “Der vhite mice iss to rule der vorld.”

  “Gray mice, und other creatures including men, vill be their slafes.”

  “Gray mice, und other creatures including men, vill be their slafes.”

  “Those who obchect vill be tortured und killed.”

  “Those who obchect vill be tortured und killed.”

  “Und Vhitey der First shall rule ofer all.”

  “Dot’s vot you think,” said Mitkey, and he reached in among the wires of the X-19 projector and touched two of them together…

  The professor and Minnie were waiting. The professor seated in his chair, Minnie on the table beside the new projector Mitkey had made before he left.

  “Three hours und tventy minutes,” said the professor. “Minnie, do you subbose anything could haff gone wrong?”

  “I hobe nodt, Brofessor…Brofessor, iss mice habbier mit indelligence? Vould nodt indelligent mice be unhabby?”

  “You are unhabby, mein Minnie?”

  “Und Mitkey, too, Brofessor. I could tell. Indelligence is vorry und drouble—und in der vail und mit all der cheese you pudt under der icebox, ve vas so habby, Brofessor.”

  “Maybe, Minnie. Maybe only drouble do brains bring to mice. As to men, Minnie.”

  “But men, they cannot help it, Brofessor. They are born that vay. If it vas meant for mice to be smardt, they vould be born so, iss not?”

  The professor sighed. “Maybe you are a smardter mouse, effen, than Mitkey. Und I am vorried, Minnie, aboudt—Loo
k, iss him!”

  Small gray mouse, most of the paint worn off of him and the rest dirtied to his own gray color, slinking along the wall.

  Pop, into the mouse-hole in the baseboard.

  “Minnie, iss him! He sugceeded! Now I set der cage drap, so I can pudt him on der table by der machine—Or vait, iss not necessary. It vill broject to affect Mitkey behind der vail. Chust svitch it on und—”

  “Gootbye, Brofessor,” said Minnie. She reached forward to the machine, and too late the professor saw what she was going to do.

  “Squeak!”

  And just a small gray mouse on a table, running frantically around looking for a way down. In the center of the table, a small, complex short-circuited machine that would never work again.

  “Squeak!”

  The professor picked her up gently.

  “Minnie, mein Minnie! Yess, you vere right. You und Mitkey vill be habbier so. But I vish you had vaited—chust a liddle. I vanted to talk to him vunce more, Minnie. But—”

  The professor sighed and put the gray mouse down on the floor.

  “Veil, Minnie, now to your Mitkey you can—”

  But instructions were too late, and quite unnecessary, even if Minnie had understood them. The little gray mouse was now a little gray streak in the direction of the baseboard mousehole.

  And then from a sheltered darkness deep within the wall the professor heard two joyful little squeaks…

  PLACET IS A CRAZY PLACE

  Even when you’re used to it, it gets you down sometimes. Like that morning—if you can call it a morning. Really it was night. But we go by Earth time on Placet because Placet time would be as screwy as everything else on that goofy planet. I mean, you’d have a six-hour day and then a two-hour night and then a fifteen-hour day and a one-hour night and—well, you just couldn’t keep time on a planet that does a figure-eight orbit around two dissimilar suns, going like a bat out of hell around and between them, and the suns going around each other so fast and so comparatively close that Earth astronomers thought it was only one sun until the Blakeslee expedition landed here twenty years ago.

  You see, the rotation of Placet isn’t any even fraction of the period of its orbit and there’s the Blakeslee Field in the middle between the suns—a field in which light rays slow down to a crawl and get left behind and—well—

  If you’ve not read the Blakeslee reports on Placet, hold on to something while I tell you this:

  Placet is the only known planet that can eclipse itself twice at the same time, run headlong into itself every forty hours, and then chase itself out of sight.

  I don’t blame you.

  I didn’t believe it either and it scared me stiff the first time I stood on Placet and saw Placet coming head-on to run into us. And yet I’d read the Blakeslee reports and knew what was really happening and why. It’s rather like those early movies when the camera was set up in front of a train and the audience saw the locomotive heading right toward them and would feel an impulse to run even though they knew the locomotive wasn’t really there.

  But I started to say, like that morning, I was sitting at my desk, the top of which was covered with grass. My feet were—or seemed to be—resting on a sheet of rippling water. But it wasn’t wet.

  On top of the grass of my desk lay a pink flowerpot, into which, nose-first, stuck a bright green Saturnian lizard. That—reason and not my eyesight told me—was my pen and inkwell. Also an embroidered sampler that said, “God Bless Our Home” in neat cross-stitching. It actually was a message from Earth Center which had just come in on the radiotype. I didn’t know what it said because I’d come into my office after the B. F. effect had started. I didn’t think it really said, “God Bless Our Home” because it seemed to. And just then I was mad, I was fed up, and I didn’t care a holler what it actually did say.

  You see—maybe I’d better explain—the Blakeslee Field effect occurs when Placet is in mid-position between Argyle I and Argyle II, the two suns it figure eights around. There’s a scientific explanation of it, but it must be expressed in formulas, not in words. It boils down to this; Argyle I is terrene matter and Argyle II contraterrene, or negative matter. Halfway between them—over a considerable stretch of territory—is a field in which light rays are slowed down, way down. They move at about the speed of sound. The result is that if something is moving faster than sound—as Placet itself does—you can still see it coming after it has passed you. It takes the visual image of Placet twenty-six hours to get through the field. By that time, Placet has rounded one of its suns and meets its own image on the way back. In midfield, there’s an image coming and an image going, and it eclipses itself twice, occulting both suns at the same time. A little farther on, it runs into itself coming from the opposite direction—and scares you stiff if you’re watching, even if you know it’s not really happening.

  Let me explain it this way before you get dizzy. Say an old-fashioned locomotive is coming toward you, only at a speed much faster than sound. A mile away, it whistles. It passes you and then you hear the whistle, coming from the point a mile back where the locomotive isn’t any more. That’s the auditory effect of an object traveling faster than sound; what I’ve just described is the visual effect of an object traveling—in a figure-eight orbit—faster than its own visual image.

  That isn’t the worst of it; you can stay indoors and avoid the eclipsing and the head-on collisions, but you can’t avoid the physio-psychological effect of the Blakeslee Field.

  And that, the physio-psychological effect, is something else again. The field does something to the optic nerve centers, or to the part of the brain to which the optic nerves connect, something similar to the effect of certain drugs. You have—you can’t exactly call them hallucinations, because you don’t ordinarily see things that aren’t there, but you get an illusory picture of what is there.

  I knew perfectly well that I was sitting at a desk the top of which was glass, and not grass; that the floor under my feet was ordinary plastiplate and not a sheet of rippling water; that the objects on my desk were not a pink flowerpot with a Saturnian lizard sticking in it, but an antique twentieth century inkwell and pen—and that the “God Bless Our Home” sampler was a radiotype message on ordinary radiotype paper. I could verify any of those things by my sense of touch, which the Blakeslee Field doesn’t affect.

  You can close your eyes, of course, but you don’t—because even at the height of the effect, your eyesight gives you the relative size and distance of things and if you stay in familiar territory your memory and your reason tell you what they are.

  So when the door opened and a two-headed monster walked in, I knew it was Reagan. Reagan isn’t a two-headed monster, but I could recognize the sound of his walk.

  I said, “Yes, Reagan?”

  The two-headed monster said, “Chief, the machine shop is wobbling. We may have to break the rule not to do any work in midperiod.”

  “Birds?” I asked.

  Both of his heads nodded. “The underground part of those walls must be like sieves from the birds flying through ’em, and we’d better pour concrete quick. Do you think those new alloy reinforcing bars the Ark’ll bring will stop them?”

  “Sure,” I lied. Forgetting the field, I turned to look at the clock, but there was a funeral wreath of white lilies on the wall where the clock should have been. You can’t tell time from a funeral wreath. I said, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to reinforce those walls till we had the bars to sink in them. The Ark’s about due; they’re probably hovering outside right now waiting for us to come out of the field. You think we could wait till—”

  There was a crash.

  “Yeah, we can wait,” Reagan said. “There went the machine shop, so there’s no hurry at all.”

  “Nobody was in there?”

  “Nope, but I’ll make sure.” He ran out.

  That’s what life on Placet is like. I’d had enough of it; I’d had too much of it. I made up my mind while Reagan was gone.<
br />
  When he came back, he was a bright blue articulated skeleton.

  He said, “O.K., Chief. Nobody was inside.”

  “Any of the machines badly smashed?”

  He laughed. “Can you look at a rubber beach horse with purple polka dots and tell whether it’s an intact lathe or a busted one? Say, Chief, you know what you look like?”

  I said, “If you tell me, you’re fired.”

  I don’t know whether I was kidding or not; I was plenty on edge. I opened the drawer of my desk and put the “God Bless Our Home” sampler in it and slammed the drawer shut. I was fed up. Placet is a crazy place and if you stay there long enough you go crazy yourself. One out of ten of Earth Center’s Placet employees has to go back to Earth for psychopathic treatment after a year or two on Placet. And I’d been there three years, almost. My contract was up. I made up my mind, too.

  “Reagan,” I said.

  He’d been heading for the door. He turned. “Yeah, Chief?”

  I said, “I want you to send a message on the radiotype to Earth Center. And get it straight, two words: I quit.”

  He said, “O.K., Chief.” He went on out and closed the door.

  I sat back and closed my eyes to think. I’d done it now. Unless I ran after Reagan and told him not to send the message, it was done and over and irrevocable. Earth Center’s funny that way; the board is plenty generous in some directions; but once you resign they never let you change your mind. It’s an ironclad rule and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s justified on interplanetary and intragalactic projects. A man must be 100 per cent enthusiastic about his job to make a go of it, and once he’s turned against it, he’s lost the keen edge.

  I knew the midperiod was about over, but I sat there with my eyes closed just the same. I didn’t want to open them to look at the clock until I could see the clock as a clock and not as whatever it might be this time. I sat there and thought.

  I felt a bit hurt about Reagan’s casualness in accepting the message. He’d been a good friend of mine for ten years; he could at least have said he was sorry I was going to leave. Of course there was a fair chance that he might get the promotion, but even if he was thinking that, he could have been diplomatic about it. At least, he could have—