by J F Bone
“Wal, there’s nothin’ wolflike about ’em right now. Look, Dan’l, yuh know what a wolf pack’s like. They’re smart, tough, and mean—an’ the old boss wolf is the smartest, toughest, and meanest critter in the hull pack. The others respect him ’cuz he’s proved his ability to lead. But take a sheep flock now—the bellwether is jest a nice gentle old castrate thet’ll do jest whut the sheepherder wants. He’s got no originality. He’s jest a noise thet the rest foller.”
“Could be.”
“It shore is! Jes fr instance, an’ speakin’ of bellwethers, have yuh ever heard of a character called Throckmorton Bixbee?”
“Can’t say I have. He sounds like a nance.”
“Whutever a nance is—he’s it! But yuh’re talkin’ about our next President, unless all the prophets are wrong. He’s jest as bad as his name. Of all the gutless wonders I’ve ever heard of that pilgrim takes the prize. He even looks like a rabbit!”
“I can see where I had better catch up on some contemporary history,” Matson said. “I’ve been out in the sticks too long.”
“If yuh know what’s good fer yuh, yuh’ll stay here. The rest of the country’s goin’ t’hell. Brother Bixbee’s jest a sample. About the only thing that’d recommend him is that he’s hot fer peace—an’ he’s got those furriners’ blessing. Seems like those freaks swing a lotta weight nowadays, an’ they ain’t shy about tellin’ folks who an’ what they favor. They’ve got bold as brass this past year.”
Matson nodded idly—then stiffened—turning a wide eyed stare on Seth. A blinding light exploded in his brain as the words sank in.
With crystal clarity he knew the answer! He laughed harshly.
Winters stared at him with mild surprise. “What’s bit yuh, Dan’l?”
But Matson was completely oblivious, busily buttressing the flash of inspiration. Sure—that was the only thing it could be! Those aliens were working on a program—one that was grimly recognizable once his attention was focussed on it. There must have been considerable pressure to make them move so fast that a short-lived human could see what they were planning—but Matson had a good idea of what was driving them, an atomic war that could decimate the world would be all the spur they’d need!
They weren’t playing for penny ante stakes. They didn’t want to exploit Mankind. They didn’t give a damn about Mankind! To them humanity was merely an unavoidable nuisance—something to be pushed aside, to be made harmless and dependent, and ultimately to be quietly and bloodlessly eliminated. Man’s civilization held nothing that the star men wanted, but man’s planet—that was a different story! Truly the aliens were right when they considered man a savage. Like the savage, man didn’t realize his most valuable possession was his land!
The peaceful penetration was what had fooled him. Mankind, faced with a similar situation, and working from a position of overwhelming strength would have reacted differently. Humanity would have invaded and conquered. But the aliens had not even considered this obvious step.
Why?
The answer was simple and logical. They couldn’t! Even though their technology was advanced enough to exterminate man with little or no loss to themselves, combat and slaughter must be repulsive to them. It had to be. With their telepathic minds they would necessarily have a pathologic horror of suffering. They were so highly evolved that they simply couldn’t fight—at least not with the weapons of humanity. But they could use the subtler weapon of altruism!
And even more important—uncontrolled emotions were poison to them. In fact Ixtl had admitted it back in Seattle. The primitive psi waves of humanity’s hates, lusts, fears, and exultations must be unbearable torture to a race long past such animal outbursts. That was—must be—why they were moving so fast. For their own safety, emotion had to be damped out of the human race.
Matson had a faint conception of what the aliens must have suffered when they first surveyed that crowd at International Airport. No wonder they looked so strangely immobile at that first contact! The raw emotion must have nearly killed them! He felt a reluctant stir of admiration for their courage, for the dedicated bravery needed to face that crowd and establish a beachhead of tranquility. Those first few minutes must have had compressed in them the agonies of a lifetime!
Matson grinned coldly. The aliens were not invulnerable. If Mankind could be taught to fear and hate them, and if that emotion could be focussed, they never again would try to take this world. It would be sheer suicide. As long as Mankind kept its emotions it would be safe from this sort of invasion. But the problem was to teach Mankind to fear and hate. Shock would do it, but how could that shock be applied?
The thought led inevitably to the only possible conclusion. The aliens would have to be killed, and in such a manner as to make humanity fear retaliation from the stars. Fear would unite men against a possible invasion, and fear would force men to reach for the stars to forestall retribution.
Matson grinned thinly. Human nature couldn’t have changed much these past years. Even with master psychologists like the Aztlans operating upon it, changes in emotional pattern would require generations. He sighed, looked into the anxious face of Seth Winters, and returned to the reality of the desert night. His course was set. He knew what he had to do.
HE LAID THE rifle across his knees and opened the little leather box sewn to the side of the guncase. With precise, careful movements he removed the silencer and fitted it to the threaded muzzle of the gun. The bulky, blue excrescence changed the rifle from a thing of beauty to one of murder. He looked at it distastefully, then shrugged and stretched out on the mattress, easing the ugly muzzle through the hole in the brickwork.
It wouldn’t be long now . . .
He glanced upward through the window above him at the Weather Bureau instruments atop a nearby building. The metal cups of the anemometer hung motionless against the metallic blue of the sky. No wind stirred in the deep canyons of the city streets as the sun climbed in blazing splendor above the towering buildings. He moved a trifle, shifting the muzzle of the gun until it bore upon the sidewalks. The telescopic sight picked out faces from the waiting crowd with a crystal clarity. Everywhere was the same sheeplike placidity. He shuddered, the sights jumping crazily from one face to another,—wondering if he had misjudged his race, if he had really come too late, if he had underestimated the powers of the Aztlans.
Far down the avenue, an excited hum came to his ears, and the watching crowd stirred. Faces lighted and Matson sighed. He was not wrong. Emotion was only suppressed, not vanished. There was still time!
The aliens were coming. Coming to cap the climax of their pioneer work, to drive the first nail in humanity’s coffin! For the first time in history man’s dream of the brotherhood of man was close to reality.
And he was about to destroy it! The irony bit into Matson’s soul, and for a moment he hesitated, feeling the wave of tolerance and good will rising from the street below. Did he have the right to destroy man’s dream? Did he dare tamper with the will of the world? Had he the right to play God?
The parade came slowly down the happy street, a kaleidoscope of color and movement that approached and went past in successive waves and masses. This was a gala day, this eve of world union! The insigne of the UN was everywhere. The aliens had used the organization to further their plans and it was now all-powerful. A solid bank of UN flags led the van of delegates, smiling and swathed in formal dress, sitting erect in their black official cars draped with the flags of native lands that would soon be furled forever if the aliens had their way.
And behind them came the Aztlans!
They rode together, standing on a pure white float, a bar of dazzling white in a sea of color. All equal, their inhumanly beautiful faces calm and remote, the Aztlans rode through the joyful crowd. There was something inspiring about the sight and for a moment, Matson felt a wave of revulsion sweep through him.
He sighed and thumbed the safety to “off”, pulled the cocking lever and slid the first cartridge in
to the breech. He settled himself drawing a breath of air into his lungs, letting a little dribble out through slack lips, catching the remainder of the exhalation with closed glottis. The sights wavered and steadied upon the head of the center alien, framing the pale noble face with its aureole of golden hair. The luminous eyes were dull and introspective as the alien tried to withdraw from the emotions of the crowd. There was no awareness of danger on the alien’s face. At 600 yards he was beyond their esper range and he was further covered by the feelings of the crowd. The sights lowered to the broad chest and centered there as Matson’s spatulate fingers took up the slack in the trigger and squeezed softly and steadily.
A coruscating glow bathed the bodies of three of the aliens as their tall forms jerked to the smashing impact of the bullets! Their metallic tunics melted and sloughed as inner fires ate away the fragile garments that covered them! Flexible synthetic skin cracked and curled in the infernal heat, revealing padding, wirelike tendons, ropelike cords of flexible tubing and a metallic skeleton that melted and dripped in white hot drops in the heat of atomic flame—
“Robots!” Matson gasped with sudden blinding realization. “I should have known! No wonder they seemed inhuman. Their builders would never dare expose themselves to the furies and conflicts of our emotionally uncontrolled world!”
One of the aliens crouched on the float, his four-fingered hands pressed against a smoking hole in his metal tunic. The smoke thickened and a yellowish ichor poured out bursting into flame on contact with the air. The fifth alien, Ixtl, was untouched, standing with hands widestretched in a gesture that at once held command and appeal.
Matson reloaded quickly, but held his fire. The swarming crowd surrounding the alien was too thick for a clear shot and Matson, with sudden revulsion, was unwilling to risk further murder in a cause already won. The tall, silver figure of the alien winced and shuddered, his huge body shaking like a leaf in a storm! His builders had never designed him to withstand the barrage of focussed emotion that was sweeping from the crowd. Terror, shock, sympathy, hate, loathing, grief, and disillusionment—the incredible gamut of human feelings wrenched and tore at the Aztlan, shorting delicate circuits, ripping the poised balance of his being as the violent discordant blasts lanced through him with destroying energy! Ixtl’s classic features twisted in a spasm of inconceivable agony, a thin curl of smoke drifted from his distorted tragic mask of a mouth as he crumpled, a pitiful deflated figure against the whitness of the float.
The cries of fear and horror changed their note as the aliens’ true nature dawned upon the crowd. Pride of flesh recoiled as the swarming humans realized the facts. Revulsion at being led by machines swelled into raw red rage. The mob madness spread as an ominous growl began rising from the streets.
A panicky policeman triggered it, firing his Aztlan-built shock tube into the forefront of the mob. A dozen men fell, to be trampled by their neighbors as a swarm of men and women poured over the struggling officer and buried him from sight. Like wildfire, pent-up emotions blazed out in a flame of fury. The parade vanished, sucked into the maelstrom and torn apart. Fists flew, flesh tore, men and women screamed in high bitter agony as the mob clawed and trampled in a surging press of writhing forms that filled the street from one line of buildings to the other.
Half-mad with triumph, drunk with victory, shocked at the terrible form that death had taken in coming to Ixtl, Matson raised his clenched hands to the sky and screamed in a raw inhuman voice, a cry in which all of man’s violence and pride were blended! The spasm passed as quickly as it came, and with its passing came exhaustion. The job was done. The aliens were destroyed. Tomorrow would bring reaction and with it would come fear.
Tomorrow or the next day man would hammer out a true world union, spurred by the thought of a retribution that would never come. Yet all that didn’t matter. The important thing—the only important thing—was preserved. Mankind would have to unite for survival—or so men would think—and he would never disillusion them. For this was man’s world, and men were again free to work out their own destiny for better or for worse, without interference, and without help. The golden dream was over. Man might fail, but if he did he would fail on his own terms. And if he succeeded—Matson looked up grimly at the shining sky. . .
Slowly he rose to his feet and descended to the raging street below. END
THE TOOL OF CREATION
Philosophy and science don’t agree as to how worlds are created. It had to be hard-working spacemen who discovered it the hard way by an actual experience!
DEACON PARSONS sat motionless, half stunned at the speed with which the living section had emptied. The astrogator’s eyes flickered from Buenaventura’s empty chair to the tense backs of the pilot and co-pilot as they wrestled with the problem of turnover in Cth space. Unlike Adams, the significance of the color change didn’t register at once, which was one of the reasons he would never make a Cth space pilot. Not only was his color perception far from sensitive enough,—but he had none of the “feeling”,—the rapport between man and metal that made hyperspace pilotage an art rather than a skill.
The skipper had it to a high degree,—which was one reason why the Old Man had survived better than two subjective decades of hyperjumps. Adams had been through it all,—even through the time when jumps were made without fourspace navigation techniques that eliminated time-lag. Objectively, he could count several centuries back to his birthdate, although he was still a youngster in his early forties. Like the “Manitowoc” herself, he was a modernized antique—an anachronism that had survived from the remote past of spaceflight.
On the Galactic registry the “Manitowoc” was listed as a 10,000 ton single converter freighter of Terran registry. She was almost as old as her pilot, and nearly as well preserved. As an owner-operated tramp, she had been across the galactic lens half a dozen times, and bad made God knew how many short jumps between inhabited worlds of planetary systems. She’s a sound ship, slow perhaps, but well-built, one of the old semi-streamlined jobs that operated in middle green Cth at maximum converter output.
A moment ago she had been loafing along at an economical fifty lumes in middle yellow component, halfway through the seven weeks jump between Fanar and Lyrane. A moment ago, the crew, like all hyperspace crews was doing nothing sweating out the dead time. Their duties had ended when the “Manitowoc” had made Cth-shift,—and wouldn’t begin again until Breakout some three weeks hence. But that was a moment ago . . .
DEAD time in a hypership is a period of utter boredom, with the crew sealed and blind behind shields and hull as the automatics drive the ship on a pre-set course through the Cth continuum. It is worse on a freighter where living space is concentrated in the so-called main cabin,—a bleakly functional, insulated, soundproofed room in the nose of the ship that does extra duty as crew’s quarters, galley, control room, and saloon, and is a concrete illustration of the lack of privacy and too close companionship that are the penalties of a spaceman’s life.
The curved control board set within the vision screen lining the nose of the ship was locked and lifeless. The screen was blank. Only the rectangular telltale with its rows of gleaming green lights showed that the ship was functioning normally. Despite the incredibly tight shields and the radiation resistant metal of the double hull, there was a distinct yellowish tinge to the main cabin and its equipment. Even the thick, undulating layer of tobacco smoke disappearing into the air regenerator had a yellowish tinge, and the red “No Smoking” sign painted above the hatchway leading aft to the drives glowed orange in the sickly yellow light.
And with the color, a few of the mind-wrenching distortions of the Cth continuum seeped through the shields, to turn the prosaic control room and the men within it into oddly surrealistic caricatures that wavered and changed in a random pattern. Seated in their shockchairs the crew faced the blank, featureless bulkhead separating the main cabin from the cargo holds. Even though the space was cramped, it was better to face that blank wall than t
o look at the protean shapes of the instruments and controls. They could play havoc with a normal mind if one looked at them too long. The subtly undulating bulkhead was bad enough.
Captain Derek Adams cast a quick glance at the control panel, scanned the green glowing telltale, and hastily returned his gaze to the blank wall before him. He puffed leisurely at a stubby pipe crusted with the reeking residues of countless refillings, idly watching the beautiful ogive curve formed by the smoke from the charred bowl before it joined the undulating layer.
overhead.
Things were never normal in Cth space, he reflected. Like the three men who formed his crew, normally they were passable specimens of Homo sapiens, but not . . . Take Hank Jorgenson for instance. Under normal conditions, the lean copilot was ugly enough with his stubby yellow hair and flat Scandinavian face, but now he was a twisted caricature of humanity, a lopsided asymmetrical oddity that was faintly obscene, as the hyperspatial distortions conspired to make him appear somewhat less than human.
Carlos Buenaventura was worse,—half a man high, a man and a half wide, the Cth phenomena made him appear as though some giant hand had flattened him into the chair in which he sat. He was a reflection in a sideshow mirror.
And last but not least was Deacon Parsons. By some quirk of Cth, the astrogator looked almost angelically beautiful, as though he had absorbed into himself all the good points the others had lost. The classic purity of his face and body was almost sickening.
Adams grinned. Of course, none of them really resembled their present shapes,—it was just Cth. He wondered how he appeared to his companions. It would be hard to say, since he probably looked different to each of them.
He sighed. Twenty years in hyperspace and he still wasn’t used to it. But then no one got used to Cth. There was an inherent strangeness about it that never became familiar, an insanity potential that lay waiting in the ever changing shapes produced by the monochromatic distortions.
