“We’ll get you to a phone,” Dave said in the same quiet voice. “You’re safe and there’s nothing to worry about. Why not forget about everything else?”
“Well—it’s the damndest thing I ever heard of. I—I never did anything like this before.”
Nor had any of them, Dave knew. Out on the lake, or in the heavens, or in the woods, the two creatures responsible for their experience were racing through the darkness—or continuing the epic of guilt and vengeance and pursuit which had begun in some untold century of the distant future.
STAR CHILD
First published in the December 1953-January 1954 issue of Amazing Stories.
THE FIRST recorded contact with thinking matter from outer space came at 7:03 P.M., EDT. No one on Earth was prepared for it, of course, and the first reactions were a blend of skeptical astonishment and excitement, plus a vague but almost pleasurable sense of terror.
Perhaps it isn’t completely accurate to say that the people of earth were unprepared; after all, they had been inundated over the years by floods of predictions and theorizings concerning the nature of the great stellar systems, and of the creatures who probably inhabited those distant galaxies.
So, considering this, the people of earth had been conditioned to the concept that other creatures might be living useful and/or interesting lives somewhere in the space that stretched endlessly away from their own tiny planet.
But their interest in these creatures was hardly acute. Rather it was like a boy’s awareness of the existence of whole living cultures in the microscopic world; it was remarkable to speculate about, and so forth, but these fabulous little worlds had no significance except as natural curiosities. The microscopic world, and the world of outer space were alike in this respect as far as most of the people on earth were concerned. Apply the Jamesian test-question (If the opposite were true, what difference would it make?) and one saw instantly that whether or not creatures existed in outer space made absolutely no difference at all.
Then came the contact!
It occurred suddenly and dramatically.
At 7:01 P.M., EDT, every television screen in the world went dark. Those which hadn’t been turned on at the time underwent the same change; the normal gray color of the screen deepened to a shade that was nearly black. Also, all movie screens went dark. This occurred to home-projectors as well as those screens in commercial theatres.
All radios became silent.
All telegraph equipment ceased to operate.
The trans-Atlantic and transpacific cables went dead.
For one confusing moment every medium of communication in the world was out of order.
Engineers and maintenance men moved quickly to restore proper operations, but were stumped from the outset by the fact that nothing seemed to be wrong; no fuses were blown, no lines were down, no generators had exploded. The quick tests indicated that all equipment was in normal operating shape—with the exception of course that it simply wasn’t operating.
After about thirty seconds of this quite a lot of exasperated TV viewers tried to phone their local stations, but found that their telephones were dead. Worried telegraphers tried to get in touch with supervisors, but that wasn’t possible.
It was very odd. Had the situation lasted longer it is probable that panic would have set in; after all, this was the Twentieth Century, and the people weren’t accustomed to having their infallible little marvels suddenly go out of whack.
BUT before anyone became too upset, a message came over the network of frozen communication apparatus. It was given by a voice that spoke calmly from dark TV and movie screens, and which clattered over long-distance wires, over the trans-oceanic cables, and over the great steel web of Western Union.
The message was repeated in the dozen or so major languages of Earth. Later (when normal communications were resumed) the capitols of the world compared what they had heard and, allowing for small distortions in translations, agreed that they had all heard the same message.
And this was the message:
The speaker, who gave no name, announced that he was speaking to earth from the star, Sirius. In a flat, unemotional voice he said that Sirius was due to explode within the next forty-eight hours. The population of Sirius (a reasonable, intelligent bunch, the people of earth were to agree) would be destroyed. There was no escape. The catastrophe was too imminent. Despite their scientific progress, despite all their knowhow and skill, they were helpless to save themselves. This, the speaker announced calmly, was a great pity. For the thinking life on Sirius had solved all of its problems millions of years ago; they had conquered disease, poverty and war. They had learned the secrets of happiness. Their communities existed in peace, plenty and contentment.
For some time (the speaker continued) the councils of Sirius had planned to transmit their knowledge to earth. Earth could use their techniques to great advantage—obviously. However, extinction was near; there was no time for them to complete their long-contemplated plans.
But while there was no hope for Sirius, there was still hope for earth. The scientists of Sirius, working grimly against a deadline of destruction, had completed a space ship which could transport one of them across the void to earth. But not an adult; the pressures of the trip precluded that. Therefore they were going to attempt a desperate expedient; one of their infants would be dispatched to earth. The child might survive the trip. And if it did, in a few years’ time it would be the equal, mentally, of the most intelligent man in the world. When it applied its vastly higher reasoning powers to the problems of earth a new era for mankind would be born. The child, when it came to maturity, would tell earth how to live in peace, how to solve its problems, how to conquer its diseases.
Respect and nurture this child, the last flower of an older and better order. This was almost the conclusion of the speaker’s remarks. He added this last sentence: do these things and you will be saved.
And that was the end of the message from the anonymous voice from Sirius.
Reactions to this phenomenon were mingled. A good number of people were glad to have their radios and TV sets working again, and settled down with another beer to watch the fights, or listen to some high-priced comedian. No one was sure that the whole thing hadn’t been a hoax. The press associations’ put out dope stories on it right away. Qrson Welles was contacted, and said he’d had nothing to do with it. Some commentators called it a Russian trick. Pravda-called it a capitalist dodge to take people’s mind off the chicanery of their masters. Einstein had no comment. The authorities on Ellis Island admitted they wouldn’t know how to classify a child from outer Space.
For twenty-four hours the episode got every conceivable kind of play, and then people pretty much forgot about it. After all, it was a bit like the world in the lens of a microscope—interesting but not really significant. People shrugged it off. A cab driver from Brooklyn, on a national TV show, summed up the general attitude when he said, “Look, don’t bother me with kids from Siri—ri—well, whatever you call it. I got problems of my own. The Dodgers are three games out of first place, so who cares about Sirius?”
That was the attitude.
Then Sirius exploded.
That was a fact, ascertained by cameras mounted in high-power telescopes at observation points throughout the world.
THIS development caused a marked change in most people’s reactions. Now they became uneasy. A great star had disappeared from the heavens, a familiar landmark of schoolboys and sauntering lovers had vanished for all time. The repercussions of its passing had started vast storms billions of miles out on the seas of space. And the people were fearful. They watched the stars suspiciously. Their concept of these heavenly bodies had come under drastic revision. A star was, by its nature, remote, constant, unchanging. But Sirius had exploded, after one of its inhabitants had talked to the people of earth—and that behavior was the antithesis of remote, constant, and unchanging. Supposing all the planets and all the stars should get it in
to their heads to behave in this whimsical manner? Earth might then be tossed about like a chip in a storm, or destroyed like a clay pigeon in a shooting gallery.
It was a time of fear. Everyone of course remembered the content of the message from Sirius. A child from this ancient star was on its way to earth—if that anonymous voice had told the truth. And the implications in that were worrisome. Theoretically, it was difficult to become terrified by a baby, whether it was launched from Sirius, or in the more conventional manner. But people managed it, nevertheless. The child might be radioactive, it might be infested with germs that would destroy the population of earth, it might . . . it might be anything.
Three weeks passed, during which time the governments of the world discussed the ramifications of the situation. These sessions were marked by a spirit of friendly courtesy. If some superior being was coming to earth, then this was something to be cheerful about. Even the least astute observer could see that the tensions existing between nations were growing more dangerous by the day. The question of who was in the right and who was in the wrong had become very muddled. But everyone knew that these conflicts had to be resolved immediately and peacefully. Otherwise the spark might flash and the powder keg on which the world sat would go up with a roar. And that was why the delegates to these first councils were optimistic and happy. The world needed help; that was obvious. And there was a possibility that help was on the way. That was fine.
THEN astronomers picked up the path of a tiny object that was neither a star, a planet, a comet or an asteroid. Mathematicians checked its orbit quickly, and announced that it had passed through (or originated from) the area that had formerly been occupied by the star Sirius. And they further concluded that it would enter the atmosphere of earth in exactly sixty-four days, nine hours and thirteen minutes.
Where would it land? This was the question everyone asked.
The astronomers and mathematicians checked their figures carefully, re-checked them again, and announced that the object (which no One termed a space ship) would strike the earth (if it were not incinerated by passage through the atmosphere) in a mountainous, unpopulated area of the state of Nevada.
The United Nations set up a committee to investigate and control whatever happened after the object had landed on earth. This was an obvious necessity. The committee was designated as the Sirius Authority, and was composed of a delegate from each member nation of the UN.
The Sirius Authority convened and immediately faced the problem of having nothing to do. While TV cameras hummed and flash bulbs blazed, various delegates stood and talked in generalities. “We must reserve judgment . . .” “Full Inquiries must be initiated . . .” “The interests of the world demand . . .” These were phrases that studded every speech.
The only excitement was furnished by a delegate from an Iron Curtain country. With a heavy-handed attempt at humor, he began by saying, “My government is not ready to accuse the United States of blowing-up Sirius. That, we agree, is one instance of destruction in which the United States has had no hand.”
No one smiled at this, and he went on in a stronger voice, frowning now and waggling a forefinger at the assembly. “However, my government wishes me to express its concern over the fact that this inhabitant of Sirius is coming to land in the United States. We are not suspicious of the intentions of the United States, nor do we assume that it will take advantage of this coincidental development. However, we must watch all future actions in connection with this event with the greatest vigilance.”
He sat down on this note. The delegates from Great Britain and the United States exchanged weary little smiles . . .
No one on earth, with the possible exception of some remote African tribesmen, slept for three days before the arrival of the ship from Sirius.
The army had cleared everybody out of the area in which it was expected to land. Those persons who had business there were screened and installed in barracks which had been erected along the police lines. This was a formidable group, consisting of newspapermen, scientists, demolition experts, doctors, mechanics, guided missile specialists, army, navy and marine observers, plus the full membership of the Sirius Authority. Feeding and barracking them became a minor problem in logistics.
THE ATMOSPHERE was tense and vaguely apprehensive. Conversations were carried on in lowered voices, and few people were smiling. Everyone watched the skies.
However, the actual arrival of the ship was somewhat undramatic. It came into sight exactly nine minutes before the mathematicians had predicted it would land. It was large, cigar-shaped and gleamed in the sunlight. Three minutes after it was first seen, the forward section of the ship disappeared. There was no explosion or blast. The nose just melted away. This caused a stir of alarm. It was thought that the intense heat generated by the passage through the earth’s atmosphere might reduce the ship to a cinder. But nothing of the sort happened. The tail-structure of the ship melted away also, and what was left—a gleaming cylinder about sixty-feet long—settled gently out of sight beyond a range of low hills.
Mechanized columns set out after it immediately. Geiger counters were in use, and several companies of tanks fanned out to converge in a pincer movement on the invisible ship. Planes roared overhead and reported by radio that the gleaming cylinder had come to rest on an easily accessible ledge.
The first elements reached it within half an hour. For a few moments they hesitated, staring at the ship which looked like a giant aluminum cigar. Their voices died away, and a soft heavy silence settled over the scene. Someone with a sense of history might have made an immortal statement then, but the general in charge was a man of action.
“Let’s go, men,” he said quietly.
The group approached the ship, and saw then that its hull was dotted with plaques on which were printed lists of precise directions. These directions related to a control panel in the nose of the ship. “Turn this rheostat so many degrees. . . move this lever to such-and-such a position . . .”
A child could have followed the orders.
But nothing was done precipitately. Scientists inspected the ship from all angles for an hour or so and then, having learned very little, recommended that the directions on the plaques be followed.
This was done promptly. And when the final instruction had been obeyed a section of the top of the ship slid back, revealing a glass panel. The general, using a ladder, clambered up and peered through the glass.
Then he yelled, “Hey, there’s a kid in here!” in a voice that was, for no good reason, both surprised and indignant . . .
The next steps were blanketed in security measures. Newspapermen were herded away at rifle-point, and a team of doctors removed the child from the ship. (It had been packed in a jelly-like substance, which apparently had begun to dissolve when the cylinder was opened.) By ambulance the child was taken to a waiting plane, and then flown to an hospital in Manhattan. An entire floor had been set aside for the child, and the dozens of important people who had been appointed to assay the significance of its arrival and existence on earth.
Press, radio and TV was barred from this floor, while a number of brilliant medical specialists examined the visitor from space.
The world’s eyes and ears and hearts strained toward that vast building in Manhattan. Crowds surged along the streets that bordered it, laughing, shouting, speculating. Their mood was nearly riotous, and mounted police were on hand to prevent them from assaulting the entrance to the hospital.
Two hours later a bulletin was issued.
The child was male, and seemed to have suffered no ill effects from its long journey.
That was all, but it was enough!
A cheer roared up from the crowds around the hospital, a cheer that was echoed throughout the world.
EVERYONE felt wonderful. The news was exciting; it broke the humdrum routine of living; and, in some curious way, it brought hope to the hearts of men.
Dr. Mark MacNeill could hardly believe it when his chief, D
r. Masterson, told him that he had been appointed as one of the physicians to the child from Sirius. It was the kind of luck you didn’t even bother dreaming about. Too good, too miraculous, you thought, and pushed even the ghost of it from your head. But it had happened—amazingly, it had happened.
The two men were in Dr. Masterson’s office at the time, which was three days after the arrival of the baby from space.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dr. Masterson said with a little smile.
“I couldn’t begin to thank you enough,” Mark said.
“Well, we’ll see,” Dr. Masterson said. He ran a hand through his white hair, and looked out at the shining bend of the East river. And now he wasn’t smiling. “You’ll be working with a lot of temperamental big-shots from all over the world,” he said. “That won’t be fun. And there’ll be the politicians, newspapermen, things like that.” He shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet.”
“But I’m a doctor,” Mark said. “Politics and the press don’t concern me.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Masterson said slowly. “This is a very significant development. Anybody close to that child is going to become a world-famous figure. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, sir.”
Dr. Masterson smiled. “Frankly, that’s why I picked you. Because I knew you would give me that answer. Now go on up to work. They’re expecting you.” He shook his head, grinning now. “I’m the chief here, but I probably won’t see that kid for another ten years. Maybe you’re lucky at that. We’ll see.’”
The two men shook hands.
Three hours later, after he had filled out innumerable forms and talked with representatives from a half-dozen different agencies, Mark was allowed to enter the large, antiseptically clean chamber in which the child from Sirius had been installed. The boy had been given a name by this time, not by any official blessing, but by the newspapers. There had been a dozen attempts to dub him in advance: the Comet kid, the Space Stray, the Void Orphan, Star Baby—all of these had been tried out by eager headline writers. But the name that stuck was one which had a touch of whimsical splendor about it—Little Star. This caught the people’s fancy. It acknowledged the almost terrifying fact of his origin, but the diminutive adjective reduced the concept to something that could be assimilated by human minds.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 308
