The Second H. Beam Piper Omnibus

by H. Beam Piper

  "So it is,” Dorver, who had been mourning his departed telepathy theory, said brightly. “And look how it explains their society. Peaceful, everybody in quick agreement—” He looked at the screen and gulped. The Lord Mayor and his party had formed one clump, and the opposition was grouped at the other side of the plaza; they were screaming in unison at each other. “They make their decisions by endurance; the party that can resist the feelings of the other longest converts their opponents."

  "Pure democracy,” Gofredo declared. “Rule by the party that can make the most noise."

  "And I'll bet that when they're sick, they go around chanting, ‘I am well; I feel just fine!'” Anna said. “Autosuggestion would really work, here. Think of the feedback, too. One Svant has a feeling. He verbalizes it, and the sound of his own voice re-enforces it in him. It is induced in his hearers, and they verbalize it, re-enforcing it in themselves and in him. This could go on and on."

  "Yes. It has. Look at their technology.” He felt more comfortable, now he was on home ground again. “A friend of mine, speaking about a mutual acquaintance, once said, ‘When they installed her circuits, they put in such big feeling circuits that there was no room left for any thinking circuits.’ I think that's a perfect description of what I estimate Svant mentality to be. Take these bronze knives, and the musical instruments. Wonderful; the work of individuals trying to express feeling in metal or wood. But get an idea like the wheel, or even a pair of tongs? Poo! How would you state the First Law of Motion, or the Second Law of Thermodynamics, in tickle-pinch-rub terms? Sonny could grasp an idea like that. Sonny's handicap, if you call it that, cuts him off from feel-thinking; he can think logically instead of sensually."

  He sipped his cocktail and continued: “I can understand why the village is mounded up, too. I realized that while I was watching Dave's gang bury the pump house. I'd been bothered by that, and by the absence of granaries for all the grain they raise, and by the number of people for so few and such small houses. I think the village is mostly underground, and the houses are just entrances, soundproofed, to shelter them from uncomfortable natural noises-thunderstorms, for instance."

  The horn was braying in the snooper-screen speaker; somebody wondered what it was for. Gofredo laughed.

  "I thought, at first, that it was a war-horn. It isn't. It's a peace-horn,” he said. “Public tranquilizer. The first day, they brought it out and blew it at us to make us peaceable."

  "Now I see why Sonny is rejected and persecuted,” Anna was saying. “He must make all sorts of horrible noises that he can't hear ... that's not the word; we have none for it ... and nobody but his mother can stand being near him."

  "Like me,” Lillian said. “Now I understand. Just think of the most revolting thing that could be done to you physically; that's what I do to them every time I speak. And I always thought I had a nice voice,” she added, pathetically.

  "You have, for Terrans,” Ayesha said. “For Svants, you'll just have to change it."

  "But how-?"

  "Use an analyzer; train it. That was why I took up sonics, in the first place. I had a voice like a crow with a sore throat, but by practicing with an analyzer, an hour a day, I gave myself an entirely different voice in a couple of months. Just try to get some pump-sound frequencies into it, like Luis'."

  "But why? I'm no use here. I'm a linguist, and these people haven't any language that I could ever learn, and they couldn't even learn ours. They couldn't learn to make sounds, as sounds."

  "You've been doing very good work with Mom on those ideographs,” Meillard said. “Keep it up till you've taught her the Lingua Terra Basic vocabulary, and with her help we can train a few more. They can be our interpreters; we can write what we want them to say to the others. It'll be clumsy, but it will work, and it's about the only thing I can think of that will."

  "And it will improve in time,” Ayesha added. “And we can make vocoders and visibilizers. Paul, you have authority to requisition personnel from the ship's company. Draft me; I'll stay here and work on it."

  The rumpus in the village plaza was getting worse. The Lord Mayor and his adherents were being out-shouted by the opposition.

  "Better do something about that in a hurry, Paul, if you don't want a lot of Svants shot,” Gofredo said. “Give that another half hour and we'll have visitors, with bows and spears."

  "Ayesha, you have a recording of the pump,” Meillard said. “Load a record-player onto a jeep and fly over the village and play it for them. Do it right away. Anna, get Mom in here. We want to get her to tell that gang that from now on, at noon and for a couple of hours after sunset, when the work's done, there will be free public pump-concerts, over the village plaza."

  * * * *

  Ayesha and her warrant-officer helper and a Marine lieutenant went out hastily. Everybody else faced the screen to watch. In fifteen minutes, an airjeep was coming in on the village. As it circled low, a new sound, the steady thugg-thugg, thugg-thugg of the pump, began.

  The yelling and twittering and the blaring of the peace-horn died out almost at once. As the jeep circled down to housetop level, the two contending faction-clumps broke apart; their component individuals moved into the center of the plaza and squatted, staring up, letting the delicious waves of sound caress them.

  "Do we have to send a detail in a jeep to do that twice a day?” Gofredo asked. “We keep a snooper over the village; fit it with a loud-speaker and a timer; it can give them their thugg-thugg, on schedule, automatically."

  "We might give the Lord Mayor a recording and a player and let him decide when the people ought to listen-if that's the word-to it,” Dorver said. “Then it would be something of their own."

  "No!” He spoke so vehemently that the others started. “You know what would happen? Nobody would be able to turn it off; they'd all be hypnotized, or doped, or whatever it is. They'd just sit in a circle around it till they starved to death, and when the power-unit gave out, the record-player would be surrounded by a ring of skeletons. We'll just have to keep on playing it for them ourselves. Terrans’ Burden."

  "That'll give us a sanction over them,” Gofredo observed. “Extra thugg-thugg if they're very good; shut it off on them if they act nasty. And find out what Lillian has in her voice that the rest of us don't have, and make a good loud recording of that, and stash it away along with the rest of the heavy-weapons ammunition. You know, you're not going to have any trouble at all, when we go down-country to talk to the king or whatever. This is better than fire-water ever was."

  "We must never misuse our advantage, Luis,” Meillard said seriously. “We must use it only for their good."

  He really meant it. Only-You had to know some general history to study technological history, and it seemed to him that that pious assertion had been made a few times before. Some of the others who had made it had really meant it, too, but that had made little difference in the long run.

  Fayon and Anna were talking enthusiastically about the work ahead of them.

  "I don't know where your subject ends and mine begins,” Anna was saying. “We'll just have to handle it between us. What are we going to call it? We certainly can't call it hearing."

  "Nonauditory sonic sense is the only thing I can think of,” Fayon said. “And that's such a clumsy term."

  "Mark; you thought of it first,” Anna said. “What do you think?"

  "Nonauditory sonic sense. It isn't any worse than Domesticated Type C, and that got cut down to size. Naudsonce."

  DEAREST

  Colonel Ashley Hampton chewed his cigar and forced himself to relax, his glance slowly traversing the room, lingering on the mosaic of book-spines in the tall cases, the sunlight splashed on the faded pastel colors of the carpet, the soft-tinted autumn landscape outside the French windows, the trophies of Indian and Filipino and German weapons on the walls. He could easily feign relaxation here in the library of “Greyrock,” as long as he looked only at these familiar inanimate things and avoided the five people gath
ered in the room with him, for all of them were enemies.

  There was his nephew, Stephen Hampton, greying at the temples but youthfully dressed in sports-clothes, leaning with obvious if slightly premature proprietorship against the fireplace, a whiskey-and-soda in his hand. There was Myra, Stephen's smart, sophisticated-looking blonde wife, reclining in a chair beside the desk. For these two, he felt an implacable hatred. The others were no less enemies, perhaps more dangerous enemies, but they were only the tools of Stephen and Myra. For instance, T. Barnwell Powell, prim and self-satisfied, sitting on the edge of his chair and clutching the briefcase on his lap as though it were a restless pet which might attempt to escape. He was an honest man, as lawyers went; painfully ethical. No doubt he had convinced himself that his clients were acting from the noblest and most disinterested motives. And Doctor Alexis Vehrner, with his Vandyke beard and his Viennese accent as phony as a Soviet-controlled election, who had preempted the chair at Colonel Hampton's desk. That rankled the old soldier, but Doctor Vehrner would want to assume the position which would give him appearance of commanding the situation, and he probably felt that Colonel Hampton was no longer the master of “Greyrock.” The fifth, a Neanderthal type in a white jacket, was Doctor Vehrner's attendant and bodyguard; he could be ignored, like an enlisted man unthinkingly obeying the orders of a superior.

  "But you are not cooperating, Colonel Hampton,” the psychiatrist complained. “How can I help you if you do not cooperate?"

  Colonel Hampton took the cigar from his mouth. His white mustache, tinged a faint yellow by habitual smoking, twitched angrily.

  "Oh; you call it helping me, do you?” he asked acidly.

  "But why else am I here?” the doctor parried.

  "You're here because my loving nephew and his charming wife can't wait to see me buried in the family cemetery; they want to bury me alive in that private Bedlam of yours,” Colonel Hampton replied.

  "See!” Myra Hampton turned to the psychiatrist. “We are persecuting him! We are all envious of him! We are plotting against him!"

  "Of course; this sullen and suspicious silence is a common paranoid symptom; one often finds such symptoms in cases of senile dementia,” Doctor Vehrner agreed.

  Colonel Hampton snorted contemptuously. Senile dementia! Well, he must have been senile and demented, to bring this pair of snakes into his home, because he felt an obligation to his dead brother's memory. And he'd willed “Greyrock,” and his money, and everything, to Stephen. Only Myra couldn't wait till he died; she'd Lady-Macbethed her husband into this insanity accusation.

  "...however, I must fully satisfy myself, before I can sign the commitment,” the psychiatrist was saying. “After all, the patient is a man of advanced age. Seventy-eight, to be exact."

  Seventy-eight; almost eighty. Colonel Hampton could hardly realize that he had been around so long. He had been a little boy, playing soldiers. He had been a young man, breaking the family tradition of Harvard and wangling an appointment to West Point. He had been a new second lieutenant at a little post in Wyoming, in the last dying flicker of the Indian Wars. He had been a first lieutenant, trying to make soldiers of militiamen and hoping for orders to Cuba before the Spaniards gave up. He had been the hard-bitten captain of a hard-bitten company, fighting Moros in the jungles of Mindanao. Then, through the early years of the Twentieth Century, after his father's death, he had been that rara avis in the American service, a really wealthy professional officer. He had played polo, and served a turn as military attache at the Paris embassy. He had commanded a regiment in France in 1918, and in the post-war years, had rounded out his service in command of a regiment of Negro cavalry, before retiring to “Greyrock.” Too old for active service, or even a desk at the Pentagon, he had drilled a Home Guard company of 4-Fs and boys and paunchy middle-agers through the Second World War. Then he had been an old man, sitting alone in the sunlight ... until a wonderful thing had happened.

  "Get him to tell you about this invisible playmate of his,” Stephen suggested. “If that won't satisfy you, I don't know what will."

  * * * *

  It had begun a year ago last June. He had been sitting on a bench on the east lawn, watching a kitten playing with a crumpled bit of paper on the walk, circling warily around it as though it were some living prey, stalking cautiously, pouncing and striking the paper ball with a paw and then pursuing it madly. The kitten, whose name was Smokeball, was a friend of his; soon she would tire of her game and jump up beside him to be petted.

  Then suddenly, he seemed to hear a girl's voice beside him:

  "Oh, what a darling little cat! What's its name?"

  "Smokeball,” he said, without thinking. “She's about the color of a shrapnel-burst.... “Then he stopped short, looking about. There was nobody in sight, and he realized that the voice had been inside his head rather than in his ear.

  "What the devil?” he asked himself. “Am I going nuts?"

  There was a happy little laugh inside of him, like bubbles rising in a glass of champagne.

  "Oh, no; I'm really here,” the voice, inaudible but mentally present, assured him. “You can't see me, or touch me, or even really hear me, but I'm not something you just imagined. I'm just as real as ... as Smokeball, there. Only I'm a different kind of reality. Watch."

  The voice stopped, and something that had seemed to be close to him left him. Immediately, the kitten stopped playing with the crumpled paper and cocked her head to one side, staring fixedly as at something above her. He'd seen cats do that before-stare wide-eyed and entranced, as though at something wonderful which was hidden from human eyes. Then, still looking up and to the side, Smokeball trotted over and jumped onto his lap, but even as he stroked her, she was looking at an invisible something beside him. At the same time, he had a warm and pleasant feeling, as of a happy and affectionate presence near him.

  "No,” he said, slowly and judicially. “That's not just my imagination. But who-or what-are you?"

  "I'm.... Oh, I don't know how to think it so that you'll understand.” The voice inside his head seemed baffled, like a physicist trying to explain atomic energy to a Hottentot. “I'm not material. If you can imagine a mind that doesn't need a brain to think with.... Oh, I can't explain it now! But when I'm talking to you, like this, I'm really thinking inside your brain, along with your own mind, and you hear the words without there being any sound. And you just don't know any words that would express it."

  He had never thought much, one way or another, about spiritualism. There had been old people, when he had been a boy, who had told stories of ghosts and apparitions, with the firmest conviction that they were true. And there had been an Irishman, in his old company in the Philippines, who swore that the ghost of a dead comrade walked post with him when he was on guard.

  "Are you a spirit?” he asked. “I mean, somebody who once lived in a body, like me?"

  "N-no.” The voice inside him seemed doubtful. “That is, I don't think so. I know about spirits; they're all around, everywhere. But I don't think I'm one. At least, I've always been like I am now, as long as I can remember. Most spirits don't seem to sense me. I can't reach most living people, either; their minds are closed to me, or they have such disgusting minds I can't bear to touch them. Children are open to me, but when they tell their parents about me, they are laughed at, or punished for lying, and then they close up against me. You're the first grown-up person I've been able to reach for a long time."

  "Probably getting into my second childhood,” Colonel Hampton grunted.

  "Oh, but you mustn't be ashamed of that!” the invisible entity told him. “That's the beginning of real wisdom-becoming childlike again. One of your religious teachers said something like that, long ago, and a long time before that, there was a Chinaman whom people called Venerable Child, because his wisdom had turned back again to a child's simplicity."

  "That was Lao Tze,” Colonel Hampton said, a little surprised. “Don't tell me you've been around that long."


  "Oh, but I have! Longer than that; oh, for very long.” And yet the voice he seemed to be hearing was the voice of a young girl. “You don't mind my coming to talk to you?” it continued. “I get so lonely, so dreadfully lonely, you see."

  "Urmh! So do I,” Colonel Hampton admitted. “I'm probably going bats, but what the hell? It's a nice way to go bats, I'll say that.... Stick around; whoever you are, and let's get acquainted. I sort of like you."

  A feeling of warmth suffused him, as though he had been hugged by someone young and happy and loving.

  "Oh, I'm glad. I like you, too; you're nice!"

  * * * *

  "Yes, of course.” Doctor Vehrner nodded sagely. “That is a schizoid tendency; the flight from reality into a dream-world peopled by creatures of the imagination. You understand, there is usually a mixture of psychotic conditions, in cases like this. We will say that this case begins with simple senile dementia-physical brain degeneration, a result of advanced age. Then the paranoid symptoms appear; he imagines himself surrounded by envious enemies, who are conspiring against him. The patient then withdraws into himself, and in his self-imposed isolation, he conjures up imaginary companionship. I have no doubt...."

  In the beginning, he had suspected that this unseen visitor was no more than a figment of his own lonely imagination, but as the days passed, this suspicion vanished. Whatever this entity might be, an entity it was, entirely distinct from his own conscious or subconscious mind.

  At first she-he had early come to think of the being as feminine-had seemed timid, fearful lest her intrusions into his mind prove a nuisance. It took some time for him to assure her that she was always welcome. With time, too, his impression of her grew stronger and more concrete. He found that he was able to visualize her, as he might visualize something remembered, or conceived of in imagination-a lovely young girl, slender and clothed in something loose and filmy, with flowers in her honey-colored hair, and clear blue eyes, a pert, cheerful face, a wide, smiling mouth and an impudently up-tilted nose. He realized that this image was merely a sort of allegorical representation, his own private object-abstraction from a reality which his senses could never picture as it existed.