The Big Book of Science Fiction

by The Big Book of Science Fiction (retail) (epub)

  “What?” Shar blurted. “What’s the matter? What’s happening?”

  “Eaters!”

  The cry went through the ship like a galvanic shock. The rotifers back in Lavon’s own world were virtually extinct, but everyone knew thoroughly the grim history of the long battle man and Proto had waged against them.

  The girl spotted the ship suddenly and paused, obviously stricken with despair at the sight of this new monster. She drifted with her own momentum, her eyes alternately fixed upon the ship and jerking back over her shoulder, toward where the buzzing snarled louder and louder in the dimness.

  “Don’t stop!” Lavon shouted. “This way, this way! We’re friends! We’ll help!”

  Three great semitransparent trumpets of smooth flesh bored over the rise, the many thick cilia of their coronas whirring greedily. Dicrans, arrogant in their flexible armor, quarreling thickly among themselves as they moved, with the few blurred, pre-symbolic noises which made up their own language.

  Carefully, Lavon wound the crossbow, brought it to his shoulder, and fired. The bolt sang away through the water. It lost momentum rapidly, and was caught by a stray current which brought it closer to the girl than to the Eater at which Lavon had aimed.

  He bit his lip, lowered the weapon, wound it up again. It did not pay to underestimate the range; he would have to wait. Another bolt, cutting through the water from a side port, made him issue orders to cease firing “until,” he added, “you can see their eyespots.”

  The irruption of the rotifers decided the girl. The motionless wooden monster was of course strange to her, but it had not yet menaced her—and she must have known what it would be like to have three Dicrans over her, each trying to grab from the others the largest share. She threw herself towards the bull’s-eye port. The three Eaters screamed with fury and greed and bored in after her.

  She probably would not have made it, had not the dull vision of the lead Dicran made out the wooden shape of the ship at the last instant. The Dicran backed off, buzzing, and the other two sheered away to avoid colliding with her. After that they had another argument, though they could hardly have formulated what it was that they were fighting about; they were incapable of exchanging any thought much more complicated than the equivalent of “Yaah,” “Drop dead,” and “You’re another.”

  While they were still snarling at each other, Lavon pierced the nearest one all the way through with an arablast bolt. The surviving two were at once involved in a lethal battle over the remains.

  “Than, take a party out and spear me those two Eaters while they’re still fighting,” Lavon ordered. “Don’t forget to destroy their eggs, too. I can see that this world needs a little taming.”

  The girl shot through the port and brought up against the far wall of the cabin, flailing in terror. Lavon tried to approach her, but from somewhere she produced a flake of stonewort chipped to a nasty point. Since she was naked, it was hard to tell where she had been hiding it, but she obviously knew how to use it, and meant to. Lavon retreated and sat down on the stool before his control board, waiting while she took in the cabin, Lavon, Shar, the other pilots, the senescent Para.

  At last she said: “Are—you—the gods—from beyond the sky?”

  “We’re from beyond the sky, all right,” Lavon said. “But we’re not gods. We’re human beings, just like you. Are there many humans here?”

  The girl seemed to assess the situation very rapidly, savage though she was. Lavon had the odd and impossible impression that he should recognize her: a tall, deceptively relaxed, tawny woman, not after all quite like this one…a woman from another world, to be sure, but still…

  She tucked the knife back into her bright, matted hair—aha, Lavon thought confusedly, there’s a trick I may need to remember—and shook her head.

  “We are few. The Eaters are everywhere. Soon they will have the last of us.”

  Her fatalism was so complete that she actually did not seem to care.

  “And you’ve never cooperated against them? Or asked the Protos to help?”

  “The Protos?” She shrugged. “They are as helpless as we are against the Eaters, most of them. We have no weapons that kill at a distance, like yours. And it’s too late now for such weapons to do any good. We are too few, the Eaters too many.”

  Lavon shook his head emphatically. “You’ve had one weapon that counts, all along. Against it, numbers mean nothing. We’ll show you how we’ve used it. You may be able to use it even better than we did, once you’ve given it a try.”

  The girl shrugged again. “We dreamed of such a weapon, but never found it. Are you telling the truth? What is the weapon?”

  “Brains, of course,” Lavon said. “Not just one brain, but a lot of them. Working together. Cooperation.”

  “Lavon speaks the truth,” a weak voice said from the deck.

  The Para stirred feebly. The girl watched it with wide eyes. The sound of the Para using human speech seemed to impress her more than the ship itself, or anything else that it contained.

  “The Eaters can be conquered,” the thin, burring voice said. “The Protos will help, as they helped in the world from which we came. The Protos fought this flight through space, and deprived man of his records; but man made the trip without the records. The Protos will never oppose man again. We have already spoken to the Protos of this world, and have told them that what man can dream, man can do. Whether the Protos will it or not.

  “Shar—your metal record is with you. It was hidden in the ship. My brothers will lead you to it.

  “This organism dies now. It dies in confidence of knowledge, as an intelligent creature dies. Man has taught us this. There is nothing. That knowledge. Cannot do. With it…men…have crossed…have crossed space….”

  The voice whispered away. The shining slipper did not change, but something about it was gone. Lavon looked at the girl; their eyes met. He felt an unaccountable warmth.

  “We have crossed space,” Lavon repeated softly.

  Shar’s voice came to him across a great distance. The young-old man was whispering: “But—have we?”

  Lavon was looking at the girl. He had no answer for Shar’s question. It did not seem to be important.

  Beyond Lies the Wub

  PHILIP K. DICK

  Philip Kindred Dick (1928–1982) was a US writer of science fiction, especially surreal science fiction, who started out as a cult author and became a dominant influence throughout pulp culture because of the films based on his work, including Blade Runner and Total Recall. But Dick was highly respected and influential within the sphere of science fiction before popular success found him late in his life. Dick received the Hugo Award in 1963 for his novel The Man in the High Castle and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award in 1975 for his novel Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. Early on, Dick tried to enter the mainstream literary world with his fiction, but his work was rejected and his mainstream novels appeared only after his death.

  Strongly interested in theology and philosophy, Dick explored political and metaphysical themes in novels in which individuals, sometimes in altered states of being, confront or flee dysfunctional corporations or fascistic governments. These altered states of being often manifest in Dick’s fiction, including A Scanner Darkly (1977) and VALIS (1981), through drug use, conspiracy theories, transcendent moments of epiphany, and mental illness. Published after his death, Dick’s The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick explored these ideas in nonfiction form. His Ubik (1969)—on Time magazine’s 2005 list of the top one hundred English-language novels since 1923—bears some resemblance to Stepan Chapman’s later novel The Troika (1997) in how it manipulates different levels of reality in a unique way. The posthumous legitimizing of Dick became complete in 2007 when he was included in the Library of America series.

  Although they did not know each other at the time, Dick and Ursula K. Le Guin graduated in the same high school class (Berkeley High School, class of 1947). Le Guin would later famously admonish Dick for perc
eived misogyny in his work, but in taking her criticism to heart some critics feel he may have lost, in his late-era novels, some underlying existential element or purely misanthropic impulse that energized his fiction on a subconscious level.

  “Beyond Lies the Wub,” included here, was Dick’s first published story, appearing in Planet Stories (1952). Dick recalled in notes for a reprint of the story in the short story anthology First Voyages that Planet Stories was “the most lurid of all pulp magazines on the stands at the time…As I carried four copies into the record store where I worked, a customer gazed at me and them, with dismay, and said, ‘Phil, you read that kind of stuff?’ I had to admit I not only read it, I wrote it.”

  “Beyond Lies the Wub” is interesting for several reasons, not just in that it is an excellent example of an impulse in science fiction to explore humankind’s relationship to animal species, whether terrestrial or alien. The wub makes another appearance in Dick’s fiction in the story “Not by Its Cover,” considered a sequel. Others point to “Beyond Lies the Wub” as the precursor to Dick’s interest in exploring metaphysics in his later stories. The wub not only explores the idea of individuation but deals with the question of how what we eat affects our brains long before it became an important area of inquiry in the sciences.

  BEYOND LIES THE WUB

  Philip K. Dick

  They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “You’re getting paid for all this.”

  The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The captain put his boot on the hem of the robe.

  “Just a minute. Don’t go off. I’m not finished.”

  “Oh?” The Optus turned with dignity. “I am going back to the village.” He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. “I must organize new hunts.”

  Franco lit a cigarette. “Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth—”

  The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

  “How’s it coming?” he said. He looked at his watch. “We got a good bargain here.”

  The mate glanced at him sourly. “How do you explain that?”

  “What’s the matter with you? We need it more than they do.”

  “I’ll see you later, Captain.” The mate threaded his way up the plank, between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward the port, when he saw it.

  “My God!” He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.

  “What is it?”

  The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.

  It sat. There was silence.

  “It’s a wub,” Peterson said. “I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected.”

  “This?” Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. “It’s a pig! A huge dirty pig!”

  “Yes, sir, it’s a pig. The natives call it a wub.”

  “A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds.” Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.

  A tear rolled down the wub’s cheek and splashed on the floor.

  “Maybe it’s good to eat,” Peterson said nervously.

  “We’ll soon find out,” Franco said.

  —

  The wub survived the takeoff, sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was.

  The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

  “Come on,” Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the anteroom, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

  “Good Lord,” French said. “What is it?”

  “Peterson says it’s a wub,” Jones said. “It belongs to him.” He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

  “What’s the matter with it?” French came over. “Is it going to be sick?”

  They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.

  “I think it’s thirsty,” Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.

  “No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations.”

  Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.

  Captain Franco appeared at the door.

  “Let’s have a look at it.” He advanced, squinting critically. “You got this for fifty cents?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peterson said. “It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes to sleep.”

  “I see,” Captain Franco said. “Now, as to its taste. That’s the real question. I doubt if there’s much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where’s the cook? I want him here. I want to find out—”

  The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the captain.

  “Really, Captain,” the wub said. “I suggest we talk of other matters.”

  The room was silent.

  “What was that?” Franco said. “Just now.”

  “The wub, sir,” Peterson said. “It spoke.”

  They all looked at the wub.

  “What did it say? What did it say?”

  “It suggested we talk about other things.”

  Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

  “I wonder if there’s a native inside it,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should open it up and have a look.”

  “Oh, goodness!” the wub cried. “Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?”

  Franco clenched his fists. “Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!”

  Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon,” the wub said.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone in there,” Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.

  The cook came in.

  “You wanted me, Captain?” he said. “What’s this thing?”

  “This is a wub,” Franco said. “It’s to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—”

  “I think we should have a talk,” the wub said. “I’d like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues.”

  The captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.

  “Come into my office,” the captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

  “I wonder what the outcome will be,” the cook said. “Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

  “Sure,” Jones said. “Sure.”

  —

  The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. “You must forgive me,” it said. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—”

  The captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

>   “All right,” he said. “Let’s get started. You’re a wub? Is that correct?”

  The wub shrugged. “I suppose so. That’s what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term.”

  “And you speak English? You’ve been in contact with Earthmen before?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you do it?”

  “Speak English? Am I speaking English? I’m not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—”

  “My mind?”

  “I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—”

  “I see,” the captain said. “Telepathy. Of course.”

  “We are a very old race,” the wub said. “Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—”

  “How do you live?”

  “Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We’re very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That’s how we’ve gotten along.”

  The wub eyed the captain.

  “And that’s why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—”

  “So you read minds?” the captain said. “How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?”

  “A few odds and ends,” the wub said absently, staring around the room. “A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—”

  “Indeed.” The captain nodded. “But to get back to the problem—”

  “Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—”