The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

  It was a strange thought—strange and frightening. But it excited him, and his paws trembled while he ate the rest of the carcass. He ate slowly, savoring the pleasure of food, feeling the thrill and the wonder of his new thought.

  Perhaps there was something beyond the edge of the world. Perhaps the creature had come from there.

  Life was hard, here in this world. A being starved all his life, and died of hunger. A person spent all his life seeking food, building traps, while the dull ache of hunger gnawed his belly, driving him endlessly on, never satisfied.

  Kosh-korrozasch paused when he had finished eating. Using the turquoise blood-dribble of his eating for a bait, he rebuilt the ice-block deadfall. He might never come back here—he knew that—but he might. And if he came back, he might be needing desperately the food it might kill while he was gone.

  When it was built, he went away. Climbing upslope, he followed the tendril of land that reached up into the mountains toward the edge of the world. If an animal could enter from outside, perhaps he could leave it the same way.

  A person searched for food all his life. Slowly, Kosh-korrozasch climbed toward the edge of the world.

  * * * *

  5

  In thirty-two hours, the supply ship would leave this planet for Lambda Serpentis. Adam Hitchcock felt fine.

  He would be glad to leave. The dome was like a prison. Outside, the wind was bitter cold and the sea crashed endlessly on the island’s rocky shore. The domesticated Floppers were always underfoot, brainlessly stupid. His quarters had none of the comforts a civilized man was accustomed to, and the food he got was abominably plain.

  His endurance had been rudely tested. He was impatient to return to civilization.

  But he was satisfied. His mission had been a complete success. He had found out the facts—-he knew the truth, and as soon as he returned home everyone would know the truth. The suffering natives would be given—finally—the aid denied them for so long.

  And the record of his Society for Humane Practices would remain a record of unblemished success. Truly, he had reason to be proud.

  Before he left, though, he had one more task. It was not important—actually only a mere formality: to give the scientists a chance to correct the conditions he had exposed. They would refuse him, of course—he expected that—but when they refused, they would lose their right to protest when he aroused public censure against them.

  He walked into the office of Ben Reese. Reese, engrossed in a mound of papers, did not see him at once.

  “I’m a fair man,” Hitchcock proclaimed.

  Ben Reese looked up, startled. His paperwork was like a fortress around him. “Did I ever say you weren’t?” he wondered innocently.

  Implacably, Hitchcock went on. “I have proof,” he declared, “absolute proof—that the natives of this planet are being maltreated and enslaved, that their needs have been ignored, and that your people have been hounding them to death. Nevertheless, I give you fair warning: if you do not correct these conditions, I shall be compelled to make a public report of my findings. If you force me to do that, I will not be responsible for anything that happens afterward.”

  Reese listened in silence. “We’re concerned with scientific research here,” he explained apologetically. “Not welfare. To... to follow your demands would mean the end of everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve hoped—”

  Doubletalk, of course. Hitchcock had expected that. He wasn’t fooled.

  “Everything you’ve worked for!” he repeated scathingly. “The deliberate suppression of a people as deserving of human rights as you or I! In clear conscience, I cannot stand by and permit this to go on! I shall—”

  Reese raised a placating hand. “That is not true,” he protested. He actually seemed embarrassed. “You forget, Mr. Hitchcock—they are animals, not people. Their minds are primitive... undeveloped.”

  “That,” Hitchcock accused, “is a lie! I have definite proof that they are even more intelligent than men. Any men. I say you are deliberately suppressing them because you fear what they could become!”

  Gesturing helplessly, Reese said softly, “I have not seen this evidence.”

  “Another lie!” Hitchcock accused. He shook his fist. “Do you expect me to believe,” he stormed, “that one of your men could have this evidence and you did not know of it? The whole idea is preposterous.”

  “But I don’t know of it,” Reese insisted. He sounded almost reasonable. “What proof? Where did you get it?”

  “Your man in charge of intelligence testing showed me some of his records,” Hitchcock stated. “And some photographs of brain tissue. They prove conclusively that the floppers...that the natives of this planet have minds as good as yours or mine.”

  Ben Reese was like a man stunned. “I know nothing about this,” he protested blankly. “Are you... are you sure the evidence really proves that? I mean, perhaps you didn’t understand—”

  “If Dr. Muller had not helped me,” Hitchcock replied, “the evidence would have meant nothing at all.”

  Reese shook his head. “This is hard to believe,” he confessed. “Did he say why he showed you these things?”

  “He showed them to me,” Hitchcock said, “because I asked him to. He was very co-operative, in spite of his contempt for them, which... he made absolutely no attempt to conceal. He said—almost in so many words—that you are doing everything you can to suppress them. He was proud of it!”

  Reese looked worried. His idle hands, unnoticed, were nervously tearing notepad paper into progressively smaller and smaller bits. A pile of confetti-sized fragments collected on his blotter.

  Hitchcock felt a wonderful exhilaration. He had the man totally helpless.

  He was about to rise, repeat his ultimatum, and walk out, when Reese turned to the phone at his elbow, saying, “Excuse me a moment. Please.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he punched out a number. The phone’s light blinked. A voice rasped from the speaker.

  “Brains department. Muller speaking.”

  “Sigurd?” Reese asked. “This is Ben. Would you mind coming down here? Something has come up.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “I’d much rather you came down,” Reese said mildly. “It’s rather complicated.”

  Muller made an annoyed sound, but then he said, “I’ll come.” The phone’s light went out.

  Reese turned back to Hitchcock. “We’ll wait till he gets here,” he proposed. “All right?”

  Reluctantly, Hitchcock sat back and folded his arms. Scowling, he waited.

  This was something he hadn’t expected.

  Not that it made any difference, of course. Reese was caught in an impossible position. All he could possibly do was try to justify himself.

  Hitchcock settled back to wait. He was supremely confident. Just let him try to justify himself. Just let him try!

  He could not do it.

  * * * *

  6

  Ben Reese was deeply troubled. Adam Hitchcock was a well-intentioned fool, and his ability to understand was limited, but Sigurd must have shown him something. Whatever else had happened—whatever else he had been told—Hitchcock must have seen something. Ben Reese tried to imagine what it could have been. He couldn’t. He would have to wait. Sigurd Muller would have to explain.

  Reese pretended to be busy with his papers. It was all the excuse he could think of not to talk to Hitchcock while they waited. But he couldn’t work. There was a lot that still had to be gone over before the Wayfarer went back to Lambda Serpentis, but until Muller came and the matter was settled, he could not put his mind to it. ‘

  Then Muller walked in, his pointed beard jutting like a prow. He glanced around quickly, noticed Hitchcock, but didn’t even pause. “What’s up?” he asked jauntily. He grabbed a chair, whirled it around, and straddled it.

  Reese put his papers aside. “Mr. Hitchcock tells me the floppers are intelligent,” he explained. “That you showe
d him proof it.”

  Muller’s eyes shifted from Reese to Hitchcock, then back again. “He did, huh?” he said neutrally.

  “This was the first I’d heard of it,” Reese said pointedly.

  Muller shrugged. “So what?” he said. “If you’d look at the reports I turn in—” He gestured at the papers on the desk.

  “I have read your reports,” Reese said. “I studied them carefully. You did not mention this development.”

  “Yeah?” Muller challenged. “Who’re you saying that for? Me or him?” He jerked a thumb at Hitchcock.

  Reese didn’t let himself be steered off. “Do you confirm it?” he persisted.

  Muller glanced at Hitchcock again before he answered. “Yeah,” he admitted. “There’s been a few smart ones turn up.”

  So it was true! Reese wanted to shout with excitement. “How many?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Three,” Muller said, holding up fingers. “Three of ‘em so smart they scare you. And all from the same country. There’s a lot more up there, too—running loose.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Reese asked. It was more than he dared to believe.

  “Yeah,” Muller said grimly. “There’s been a population jump, up there, and everything else has stayed the same. How would you figure it?”

  Reese nodded slowly. He sighed. Put together like that, the evidence was good enough—the conclusion was valid. He turned to Hitchcock. “Is this what he told you?”

  “Substantially,” Hitchcock affirmed.

  Reese turned back to Muller. A suspicion had grown in him, ugly and fearful. Now he had to destroy it—or see it confirmed.

  “He tells me you showed him test records,” he said cautiously. “And photos of brain tissue. Were they authentic?”

  “Sure they’re authentic,” Muller retorted. “You think I’d fake a thing like that? Look—all I did was show him around, and show him how we work, and I answered his questions and let him see everything he wanted to see. You got any objections to that?” ,

  Reese shook his head. ‘To that? No,” he conceded. “But these brain tissue samples—I presume you took them from the different sections of their brains.”

  “I know how to take specimens,” Muller answered defiantly.

  Reese felt sick and old. “You killed them,” he decided. “All three.”

  “Right,” Muller snapped. He smiled with clenched teeth, fiercely proud of himself.

  “Sigurd,” Reese said reproachfully, “you’ve done a terrible thing.” He turned to Hitchcock again.

  “I wish this hadn’t come out while you were here,” he confessed. “I can only say that I heard nothing about these intelligent ones until now, and that Sigurd killed them without my knowledge. If I had known, I would have stopped him. He acted against regulations and against our policies. I am grateful to you for exposing him “

  Muller shot to his feet, his hands fisted. “Exposing me!” he snarled. “Why you little—”

  With an effort, Reese kept his voice even. “You may go now, Sigurd,” he said. “I... I suggest that you start packing. You have”—he glanced at the clock—”thirty hours before the ship leaves. If anyone asks, tell them that you resigned, and that I accepted your resignation.”

  Muller’s face turned savage with rage. He hurled the chair out of his way and walked up to the desk until it bumped his knees. “You don’t make a goat of me that easy,” he threatened through his teeth. He jerked a thumb ut Hitchcock. “What about him? You can’t shut him up. What are you going to do? Pat him on the head and tell him be good?”

  Reese glanced at Hitchcock. There was a firmness of decision on the man’s hollow-jowled face—a look of holy purpose about his eyes. As he watched, the man rose to his feet with solemn dignity, a bone-lean figure clad in black.

  “You’re a very clever man, Mr. Reese,” he conceded with gleeful ferocity. “But not clever enough. You cannot deny the things I have seen with my own eyes. Nor can you lay all the blame at the feet of your underlings. What this man has done”—he gestured at Muller—”has no bearing on the fundamental fact that the welfare of this planet’s natives has been willfully and shamefully ignored—and that you have refused to do anything about it. If you do not correct this situation at once, I will expose you to every civilized community in the universe!”

  “But you don’t understand,” Reese protested.

  “I have not yet finished,” Hitchcock snapped. “In addition, if you still refuse, we—my Society for Humane Practices and I—shall do it ourselves. We shall sponsor a public subscription. We shall send food, clothes—all the things these poor people need. As many shiploads as necessary. And we shall see that you and all your scientists are removed from this planet. Your presence here will not be tolerated.”

  “Have you any idea how much it would cost?” Reese wondered.

  “The cost is not important,” Hitchcock said. ‘The public will gladly pay whatever is needed.”

  Reese conceded the point. The knowledge that he could not win against this man was strong in him. It paralyzed his will. He wished he were a woman, or a child, so he could retreat into the weakness of frustrated tears.

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you?” he said bitterly, remembering what he had heard of Hitchcock’s doings on other planets.

  “I have,” Hitchcock confirmed. “I have been very successful at it.” He paused, waiting for Reese to speak. Reese said nothing.

  “If you have nothing more to say—” he said. He turned toward the door.

  Desperately, then, Reese spoke.

  “Only this,” he said with a firmness he did not feel. Hitchcock turned back and faced him. He tapped a finger on the desk. “I gather from what Sigurd has said that some floppers may be intelligent,” he said. He spoke very slowly, deliberately. “Some, but not all. In fact, speaking in terms of the entire planetary population, only a very few are intelligent. All the rest are still animals.”

  Hitchcock was not impressed. “All of them need our help,” he stated. “We cannot and we shall not give it to some and deny it to others, no matter what criterion you propose. I can think of nothing so unthinkable.”

  “The point I’m trying to make,” Reese persisted patiently, “is that... that the floppers are in a period of transition. Right now, only some of them are intelligent—only a few. But some day, all of them will be intelligent, because ... because they are living under arduous conditions, and the intelligent ones are better able to survive—the population increase Sigurd mentioned is evidence of that. So, comparatively speaking, a greater proportion of the intelligent ones will survive to maturity. And the mature ones will tend to live longer than... than the ordinary ones—so they will tend to produce more young. It’s a perfect example of the natural selection process. But it won’t happen if we try to help them.”

  “What?” Hitchcock demanded. “Preposterous!”

  “It... it’s very true,” Reese assured him. “You see, if we gave them everything they need, the intelligent ones wouldn’t have an advantage over the ordinary ones—they’d all have an equal life-expectancy. Add the ordinary ones outnumber the intelligent ones by a fantastic margin, so— even if the intelligence gene-complex is a dominant—the intelligent ones would be absorbed into the race within a few generations. There wouldn’t be anything left of them.”

  Hitchcock appeared to consider the argument, but his face was set stubbornly. Bitterly, Reese wondered if the man understood a thing he’d said.

  Then Hitchcock spoke. “Am I to conclude, then,” he said, “that you want the natives to suffer? To starve? To... to die? To battle each other for a scrap of food? Do you admit that this is what you want?”

  He had understood part of it, Reese concluded glumly. The ugly part. “I think it is necessary,” he had to admit. “I think it is the only way the floppers can advance. Remember, something like this must have happened to our own ancestors. If it hadn’t, we would still be mindless brutes.”


  “Nonsense,” Hitchcock snapped. “The fact that our ancestors had no one to help them has nothing to do with it. They would have become men no matter what happened. It was their destiny to become men—the same destiny as these poor people, here. Nothing can possibly stand in their way—no man can interfere with destiny. They are suffering and dying because you deliberately neglect their welfare. You have the power to end that suffering and you are morally bound to do it. To refuse, Mr. Reese, is to turn your back on humanity.”

  Reese sat perfectly still, a feeling of blind hopelessness crushing down on him. “I think,” he said slowly. “I think I know why Sigurd helped you so much. He wants to suppress the intelligent ones. Am I right, Sigurd?”