The Second Science Fiction Megapack

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “The world has been fighting for a long time, first with itself, then with the Martians, then with these beings from Proxima Centauri, whom we know nothing about. The human society has evolved war as a cultural institution, like the science of astronomy, or mathematics. War is a part of our lives, a career, a respected vocation. Bright, alert young men and women move into it, putting their shoulders to the wheel as they did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. It has always been so.

  “But is it innate in mankind? I don’t think so. No social custom is innate. There were many human groups that did not go to war; the Eskimos never grasped the idea at all, and the American Indians never took to it well.

  “But these dissenters were wiped out, and a cultural pattern was established that became the standard for the whole planet. Now it has become ingrained in us.

  “But if someplace along the line some other way of settling problems had arisen and taken hold, something different than the massing of men and material to—”

  “What’s your plan?” Kramer said. “I know the theory. It was part of one of your lectures.”

  “Yes, buried in a lecture on plant selection, as I recall. When you came to me with this proposition I realized that perhaps my conception could be brought to life, after all. If my theory were right that war is only a habit, not an instinct, a society built up apart from Terra with a minimum of cultural roots might develop differently. If it failed to absorb our outlook, if it could start out on another foot, it might not arrive at the same point to which we have come: a dead end, with nothing but greater and greater wars in sight, until nothing is left but ruin and destruction everywhere.

  “Of course, there would have to be a Watcher to guide the experiment, at first. A crisis would undoubtedly come very quickly, probably in the second generation. Cain would arise almost at once.

  “You see, Kramer, I estimate that if I remain at rest most of the time, on some small planet or moon, I may be able to keep functioning for almost a hundred years. That would be time enough, sufficient to see the direction of the new colony. After that—Well, after that it would be up to the colony itself.

  “Which is just as well, of course. Man must take control eventually, on his own. One hundred years, and after that they will have control of their own destiny. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps war is more than a habit. Perhaps it is a law of the universe, that things can only survive as groups by group violence.

  “But I’m going ahead and taking the chance that it is only a habit, that I’m right, that war is something we’re so accustomed to that we don’t realize it is a very unnatural thing. Now as to the place! I’m still a little vague about that. We must find the place, still.

  “That’s what we’re doing now. You and I are going to inspect a few systems off the beaten path, planets where the trading prospects are low enough to keep Terran ships away. I know of one planet that might be a good place. It was reported by the Fairchild Expedition in their original manual. We may look into that, for a start.”

  The ship was silent.

  * * * *

  Kramer sat for a time, staring down at the metal floor under him. The floor throbbed dully with the motion of the turbines. At last he looked up.

  “You might be right. Maybe our outlook is only a habit.” Kramer got to his feet. “But I wonder if something has occurred to you?”

  “What is that?”

  “If it’s such a deeply ingrained habit, going back thousands of years, how are you going to get your colonists to make the break, leave Terra and Terran customs? How about this generation, the first ones, the people who found the colony? I think you’re right that the next generation would be free of all this, if there were an—” He grinned. “—An Old Man Above to teach them something else instead.”

  Kramer looked up at the wall speaker. “How are you going to get the people to leave Terra and come with you, if by your own theory, this generation can’t be saved, it all has to start with the next?”

  The wall speaker was silent. Then it made a sound, the faint dry chuckle.

  “I’m surprised at you, Philip. Settlers can be found. We won’t need many, just a few.” The speaker chuckled again. “I’ll acquaint you with my solution.”

  At the far end of the corridor a door slid open. There was sound, a hesitant sound. Kramer turned.

  “Dolores!”

  Dolores Kramer stood uncertainly, looking into the control room. She blinked in amazement. “Phil! What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

  They stared at each other.

  “What’s happening?” Dolores said. “I received a vidcall that you had been hurt in a lunar explosion—”

  The wall speaker rasped into life. “You see, Philip, that problem is already solved. We don’t really need so many people; even a single couple might do.”

  Kramer nodded slowly. “I see,” he murmured thickly. “Just one couple. One man and woman.”

  “They might make it all right, if there were someone to watch and see that things went as they should. There will be quite a few things I can help you with, Philip. Quite a few. We’ll get along very well, I think.”

  Kramer grinned wryly. “You could even help us name the animals,” he said. “I understand that’s the first step.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” the toneless, impersonal voice said. “As I recall, my part will be to bring them to you, one by one. Then you can do the actual naming.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dolores faltered. “What does he mean, Phil? Naming animals. What kind of animals? Where are we going?”

  Kramer walked slowly over to the port and stood staring silently out, his arms folded. Beyond the ship a myriad fragments of light gleamed, countless coals glowing in the dark void. Stars, suns, systems. Endless, without number. A universe of worlds. An infinity of planets, waiting for them, gleaming and winking from the darkness.

  He turned back, away from the port. “Where are we going?” He smiled at his wife, standing nervous and frightened, her large eyes full of alarm. “I don’t know where we are going,” he said. “But somehow that doesn’t seem too important right now…. I’m beginning to see the Professor’s point, it’s the result that counts.”

  And for the first time in many months he put his arm around Dolores. At first she stiffened, the fright and nervousness still in her eyes. But then suddenly she relaxed against him and there were tears wetting her cheeks.

  “Phil…do you really think we can start over again—you and I?”

  He kissed her tenderly, then passionately.

  And the spaceship shot swiftly through the endless, trackless eternity of the void….

  BRKNK’S BOUNTY, by Jerry Sohl

  I never thought I’d like circus life, but a year of it has changed me. It’s in my blood now, and I suppose I’ll never give it up—even if they’d let me.

  This job is better than anything I could get in the newspaper racket. I work all summer, it’s true, but I get the winter off, though some of the offers for winter work are mighty tempting. Maybe if I hadn’t been kicked off the paper, I’d be city editor now, knocking my brains out. Who knows? But maybe I’d just be a rewrite man, or in the slot, writing heads, or copyreading. But the thought of newspaper work after all this appalls me.

  Trlk, the Sybillian, should be thanked for the whole thing, I suppose, though it would be a grudging thank-you I’d give him, considering all the trouble he caused. Still.…

  I first saw him on a July morning at the beginning of the vacation schedule, when four of us on the local side were trying to do five people’s work.

  My first inkling anything was wrong came when I returned from the courthouse beat and stuck a sheet of paper in the typewriter to write the probate court notes.

  I struck the keys. They wouldn’t go all the way down. I opened the cover plate, looked in to see what was wrong. I saw nothing, so I tried again. Oscar Phipps, the city editor, was giving me the eye. I figured maybe he was pulling a trick on me. But then I knew h
e hadn’t. He wasn’t the type.

  * * * *

  The back space, tabular, margin release, shift and shift lock worked perfectly. But the keys only went down a short way before they stopped. All except one key. The cap D.

  I hit the D. It worked fine the first time, but not the second. I tried all the keys again. This time only the i worked. Now I had Di. I went ahead testing. Pretty soon I had

  Dimly.

  Then came a space. A few letters more and it was

  Dimly drouse the dreary droves

  Phipps had one eyebrow raised. I lifted the cover plate again. Quickly.

  There I saw a fuzzy thing. It whisked out of sight. I snapped the plate down and held it down. The party I had been on the night before hadn’t been that good and I had had at least three hours’ sleep.

  I tried typing again. I got nothing until I started a new line. Then out came

  Primly prides the privy prose

  I banged up the plate, saw a blur of something slinking down between the type bar levers again. Whatever it was, it managed to squeeze itself out of sight in a most amazing way.

  “Hey!” I said. “I know you’re down there. What’s the big idea?”

  Fuzzy squeezed his head up from the levers. The head looked like that of a mouse, but it had teeth like a chipmunk and bright little black beads for eyes. They looked right at me.

  “You go right ahead,” he said in a shrill voice. “This is going to be a great poem. Did you get all that alliteration there in those two lines?”

  “Listen, will you get out of there? I’ve got work to do!”

  “Yes, I think I’ve hit it at last. It was that four-stress iambic that did it. It was iambic, wasn’t it?”

  “Go away,” I said miserably.

  Fuzzy pulled the rest of himself out of the bars and stood on hind feet. He crossed his forepaws in front of him, vibrated his long, furry tail, and said defiantly, “No.”

  “Look,” I pleaded, “I’m not Don Marquis and you’re not Archie and I have work to do. Now will you please get out of this typewriter?”

  His tiny ears swiveled upward. “Who’s Don Marquis? And Archie?”

  “Go to hell,” I said. I slammed the cover down and looked up into the cold eyes of Oscar Phipps who was standing next to my desk.

  “Who, may I ask,” he said ominously, “do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Take a look.” I lifted the plate once again. Fuzzy was there on his back, his legs crossed, his tail twitching.

  “I don’t see anything,” Phipps said.

  “You mean you can’t see Fuzzy here?” I pointed to him, the end of my finger an inch from his head. “Ouch!” I drew my hand away. “The little devil bit me.”

  “You’re fired, Mr. Weaver,” Phipps said in a tired voice. “Fired as of right now. I’ll arrange for two weeks’ severance pay. And my advice to you is to stay off the bottle or see a psychiatrist—or both. Not that it’ll do you any good. You never amounted to anything and you never will.”

  I would have taken a swipe at Fuzzy, but he had slunk out of sight.

  * * * *

  During the two erratic years I had been on the newspaper, I had passed the city park every morning on my way to work, feeling an envy for those who had nothing better to do than sit on the benches and contemplate the nature of the Universe. Now I took myself there and sat as I had seen others do, hoping to feel a kinship with these unfortunates.

  But all I did was feel alone, frustrated and angry at Phipps. Maybe I had been too convivial, maybe I had enjoyed night life too much, maybe I hadn’t given the paper my all. But I wasn’t ready for the booby hatch even if I had seen a fuzzy little thing that could talk.

  I drew a copy of Editor and Publisher from my pocket and was scanning the “Help Wanted: Editorial” columns when out of the corner of my eye I saw a blob of black moving along the walk.

  Turning handsprings, balancing himself precariously on the end of his vibrating tail, running and waving his forepaws to get my attention was Fuzzy.

  I groaned. “Please go away!” I covered my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “Why?” he piped.

  “Because you’re a hallucination.”

  “I’m not a hallucination,” he said indignantly. “I’m real flesh and blood. See?” He vibrated his tail so fast, I could hardly see it. Then it stopped and stood straight out. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Look,” I said, leaning far off the bench to speak to him, “I can prove you’re a hallucination.”

  “You can?” he quavered. “How?”

  “Because Phipps couldn’t see you.”

  “That square? Hah! He would not have believed it if he had seen me.”

  “You mean you—”

  He disappeared and reappeared like a flashing neon sign. “There!” he said triumphantly.

  “Why didn’t you let him see you then?” I asked, a little angry, but pleased nonetheless with his opinion of Phipps. “Because you didn’t, you cost me my job.”

  He waved a forepaw deprecatingly. “You didn’t want to stay on that hick sheet anyway.”

  “It was a job.”

  “Now you’ve got a better one.”

  “Who’s kidding whom?”

  “Together we’ll write real literature.”

  “I don’t know anything about literature. My job is writing the news.”

  “You’ll be famous. With my help, of course.”

  “Not with that ‘dimly drouse’ stuff.”

  “Oh, that!”

  “Where did you come from, Fuzzy?”

  “Do I ask you where you come from?”

  “Well, no—”

  “And my name’s not Fuzzy. It’s Trlk, pronounced Turlick and spelled T-r-l-k.”

  “My name’s Larry Weaver, pronounced Lar-ree—”

  “I know. Look, you got a typewriter?”

  “A portable. At the apartment.”

  “That will do.”

  “Aren’t you taking things for granted? I haven’t said yet whether I liked the idea.”

  “Do you have any choice?”

  I looked at him, a couple of ounces of harmless-looking fur that had already cost me my immediate future in the newspaper business.

  “I guess not,” I said, hoping I could find a way to get rid of him if things didn’t work out right.

  And so began a strange collaboration, with Trlk perched on my shoulder dictating stories into my ear while I typed them. He had definite ideas about writing and I let him have his way. After all, I didn’t know anything about literature.

  Sometimes, when he’d get stuck, he’d get down and pace the living room rug. Other times he’d massage his tail, which was as long as he, smoothing it with his tongue and meticulously arranging every hair on it.

  “It’s lovely, don’t you think?” he often asked.

  And I’d say, “If you spent as much time working on this story as you do admiring your tail, we’d get something done.”

  “Sorry,” he’d say, hopping on my shoulder again. “Where were we?”

  I’d read the last page and we’d be off again.

  * * * *

  One day, Trlk crawled on a shelf to watch me shave, whiffed the shaving lotion bottle, became excited and demanded I put a drop of it in front of him. He lapped it up, sank blissfully back on his tail and sighed.

  “Wonnerful,” he squeaked. “Shimply wonnerful.” He hiccupped.

  I let him sleep it off, but was always careful with the lotion after that.

  Days stretched into weeks, my money was running low and the apartment superintendent was pressing me for payment of the month’s rent. I kept telling him I’d pay as soon as the first checks came in.

  But only rejection slips came. First one, then two, then half a dozen.

  “They don’t even read them!” Trlk wailed.

  “Of course they read them,” I said. I showed him the sheets. They were wrinkled from handling.

  “
The post office did that,” he countered.

  I showed him coffee spots on one page, cigarette burns on another.

  “Well, maybe—” he said, but I don’t think anything would have convinced him.

  When the last story came back, Trlk was so depressed, I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself.

  It was time. We had been working hard. I got out a bottle.

  I poured a little lotion for Trlk.

  The next afternoon, we tackled the problem in earnest. We went to the library, got a book on writing and took it home. After reading it from cover to cover, I said, “Trlk, I think I’ve found the trouble with your stories.”

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t write about things you know, things that happened to you, that you have observed.” I showed him where it advised this in the book.

  His eyes brightened. We went right to work.

  This time the stories glowed, but so did my cheeks. The narratives all involved a man who lived in a hotel room. They recounted the seemingly endless love affairs with his female visitors.

  “Why, Trlk!” I exclaimed. “How come you know about things like this?”

  He confessed he had lived with such a man, a freelance writer who never made the grade with his writing, but who had plenty of girl friends who paid the freight.

  “He had a way with women,” Trlk explained.

  “He certainly had,” I said, reading again the last page he had dictated.

  “He finally married an older woman with money. Then he gave up trying to write.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I said wistfully.

  “I had to find another writer. This time I decided to try a newspaper. That’s where I ran into you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Things got better after that. We began to get a few checks from magazines. They were small checks, but they paid a few bills.

  The big blow fell, however, when Mr. Aldenrood, the superintendent, came roaring upstairs one day clutching a sheaf of papers.

  “This stuff!” he screamed, waving the sheets before me. “The kids found it in the waste paper. They’re selling them a dime a sheet around the neighborhood.”