SQuALITY: Building a Long-Document Summarization Dataset the Hard Way
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CULTURAL EXCHANGE
BY KEITH LAUMER
It was a simple student exchange—but
Retief gave them more of
an education than they expected!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered
beret from the clothes tree. "I'm off now, Retief," he said. "I hope
you'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without any
unfortunate incidents."
"That seems a modest enough hope," Retief said. "I'll try to live up to
it."
"I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division," Magnan
said testily. "When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization
Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I
fancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the
wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two
weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function."
"In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple of
weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure
to bear."
"I assume you jest, Retief," Magnan said sadly. "I should expect even
you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may
be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more
cultivated channels."
"I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land," Retief said,
glancing at the Memo for Record. "That's a sizable sublimation."
Magnan nodded. "The Bogans have launched no less than four military
campaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of
the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that
precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy."
"Breaking and entering," Retief said. "You may have something there.
But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial
world of the poor but honest variety."
"Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,"
Magnan said. "Our function is merely to bring them together. See
that you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This will
be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic
restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree."
A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. "What is it, Miss Furkle?"
"That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again." On the small desk
screen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.
"This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,"
Magnan said. "Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here
at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you."
"If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit," Retief said.
Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's
button.
"Send the bucolic person in."
A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers
of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,
stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at
sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held
out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face
to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.
Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.
"That's nice knuckle work, mister," the stranger said, massaging his
hand. "First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I
started it, I guess." He grinned and sat down.
"What can I do for you?" Retief said.
"You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were
all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.
What I wanted to see you about was—" He shifted in his chair. "Well,
out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just
about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't
know if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?"
"No," Retief said. "Have a cigar?" He pushed a box across the desk.
Arapoulous took one. "Bacchus vines are an unusual crop," he said,
puffing the cigar alight. "Only mature every twelve years. In between,
the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.
We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.
Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—"
"Sounds very pleasant," Retief said. "Where does the Libraries and
Education Division come in?"
Arapoulous leaned forward. "We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks
can't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the
land area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable
forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.
Retief."
"It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—"
"Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our
year's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric
orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly
painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.
Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season for
woodworkers. Our furniture—"
"I've seen some of your furniture," Retief said. "Beautiful work."
Arapoulous nodded. "All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil
and those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then
comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting
closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?
That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay
inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach
on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.
The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have
the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to the
center of a globular cluster, you know...."
"You say it's time now for the wine crop?"
"That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the
ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't
take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new
places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a
lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this
year's different. This is Wine Year."
Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. "Our wine
crop is our big money crop," he said. "We make enough to keep us going.
But this year...."
"The crop isn't panning out?"
"Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only
twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's
not the crop."
"Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the
Commercial—"
"Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever
settled for anything else!"
"It sounds like I've been missing something," said Retief. "I'll have
to try them some time."
Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. "No
time like the present," he said.
Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both
dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.
"Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous," he said.
"This isn't
drinking
. It's just wine." Arapoulous pulled the wire
retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the
air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.
"Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me." He winked.
Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. "Come
to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint
native customs."
Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep
rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked
at Arapoulous thoughtfully.
"Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted
port."
"Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief," Arapoulous said. He took a
mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. "It's Bacchus
wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy." He pushed the second
bottle toward Retief. "The custom back home is to alternate red wine
and black."
Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,
caught it as it popped up.
"Bad luck if you miss the cork," Arapoulous said, nodding. "You
probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years
back?"
"Can't say that I did, Hank." Retief poured the black wine into two
fresh glasses. "Here's to the harvest."
"We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy," Arapoulous said,
swallowing wine. "But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.
We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a
force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than
we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.
But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men."
"That's too bad," Retief said. "I'd say this one tastes more like roast
beef and popcorn over a Riesling base."
"It put us in a bad spot," Arapoulous went on. "We had to borrow
money from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to start
exporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when
you're doing it for strangers."
"Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy," Retief
said. "What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?"
"Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But
we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you can
turn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintage
season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.
First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards
covering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens
here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep
grass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine
to the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets on
who can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,
and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,
the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:
roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of
fruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's
done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes
for the best crews.
"Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostly
for the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start to
get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are
born after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his
toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer
of grape juice?"
"Never did," Retief said. "You say most of the children are born after
a vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—"
"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning."
"I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight," Retief
said.
"Forty-two, Terry years," Arapoulous said. "But this year it looks bad.
We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a big
vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Then
next vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—"
"You hocked the vineyards?"
"Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time."
"On the whole," Retief said, "I think I prefer the black. But the red
is hard to beat...."
"What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan
to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd
repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—"
"Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling
side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci
nose-flute players—"
"Can they pick grapes?"
"Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this over
with the Labor Office?"
"Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronics
specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.
Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thought
I was trying to buy slaves."
The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.
"You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes," she said. "Then
afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet."
"Thanks." Retief finished his glass, stood. "I have to run, Hank," he
said. "Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.
Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottles
here. Cultural exhibits, you know."
II
As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague
across the table.
"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.
What are they getting?"
Whaffle blinked. "You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over
at MUDDLE," he said. "Properly speaking, equipment grants are the
sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and
Exchanges." He pursed his lips. "However, I suppose there's no harm in
telling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment."
"Drill rigs, that sort of thing?"
"Strip mining gear." Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,
blinked at it. "Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE
interested in MEDDLE's activities?"
"Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up
earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over
on—"
"That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir," Whaffle cut in. "I have sufficient
problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business."
"Speaking of tractors," another man put in, "we over at the Special
Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'
General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for
mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—"
"SCROUNGE was late on the scene," Whaffle said. "First come, first
served. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen." He strode
off, briefcase under his arm.
"That's the trouble with peaceful worlds," the SCROUNGE committeeman
said. "Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out
to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist
peace-loving d'Land—comes to naught." He shook his head.
"What kind of university do they have on d'Land?" asked Retief. "We're
sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an
institution."
"University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college."
"Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?"
"Two thousand students? Hah! Two
hundred
students would overtax the
facilities of the college."
"I wonder if the Bogans know that?"
"The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwise
trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students
indeed!" He snorted and walked away.
Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the
elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a
cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them
lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half
an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and
ordered a beer.
A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.
"Happy days," he said.
"And nights to match."
"You said it." He gulped half his beer. "My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.
Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place
waiting...."
"You meeting somebody?"
"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on
me."
"Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?"
"I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know—" he turned
to Retief—"not one of those kids is over eighteen." He hiccupped.
"Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?"
"Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?"
The young fellow blinked at Retief. "Oh, you know about it, huh?"
"I represent MUDDLE."
Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. "I came on ahead. Sort of
an advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it like
a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act under
pressure. If I had my old platoon—"
He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. "Had enough," he said. "So
long, friend. Or are you coming along?"
Retief nodded. "Might as well."
At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of
the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to
attention, his chest out.
"Drop that, mister," Karsh snapped. "Is that any way for a student to
act?"
The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.
"Heck, no," he said. "Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to
town? We fellas were thinking—"
"You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Now
line up!"
"We have quarters ready for the students," Retief said. "If you'd like
to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid
on."
"Thanks," said Karsh. "They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't
have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about
going over the hill." He hiccupped. "I mean they might play hookey."
"We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long
wait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner."
"Sorry," Karsh said. "As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off." He
hiccupped again. "Can't travel without our baggage, y'know."
"Suit yourself," Retief said. "Where's the baggage now?"
"Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter."
"Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here."
"Sure," Karsh said. "That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?" Karsh
winked. "And bring a few beers."
"Not this time," Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging
from Customs. "They seem to be all boys," he commented. "No female
students?"
"Maybe later," Karsh said. "You know, after we see how the first bunch
is received."
Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.
"Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound
for?"
"Why, the University at d'Land, of course."
"Would that be the Technical College?"
Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. "I'm sure I've never pried into these
details."
"Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?" Retief
said. "Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students are
travelling so far to study—at Corps expense."
"Mr. Magnan never—"
"For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves
me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for
a world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.
But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation
to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on
Lovenbroy."
"Well!" Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.
"I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!"
"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question," Retief said. "But
never mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors
will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?"
"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business," Miss Furkle said. "Mr. Magnan
always—"
"I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can."
Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the
office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the Corps
Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored over
indices.
"Can I help you?" someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.
"Thank you, ma'am," Retief said. "I'm looking for information on a
mining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor."
"You won't find it in the industrial section," the librarian said.
"Come along." Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit
section lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, plugged
it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored
vehicle.
"That's the model WV," she said. "It's what is known as a continental
siege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower."
"There must be an error somewhere," Retief said. "The Bolo model I want
is a tractor. Model WV M-1—"
"Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for
demolition work. That must be what confused you."
"Probably—among other things. Thank you."
Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. "I have the information you
wanted," she said. "I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under the
impression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—"
"Sure," Retief said. "Shoot. How many tractors?"
"Five hundred."
"Are you sure?"
Miss Furkle's chins quivered. "Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—"
"Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five
hundred tractors is a lot of equipment."
"Was there anything further?" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.
"I sincerely hope not," Retief said.
III
Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and
hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled "CERP
7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general)." He paused at a page headed Industry.
Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of
Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and
sipped the black wine meditatively.
It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the
production of such vintages....
Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put
through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial
Attache.
"Retief here, Corps HQ," he said airily. "About the MEDDLE shipment,
the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records show
we're shipping five hundred units...."
"That's correct. Five hundred."
Retief waited.
"Ah ... are you there, Retief?"
"I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundred
tractors."
"It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—"
"One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,"
Retief said. "Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps
half a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, they
could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had any
ore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining
outfit? I should think—"
"See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?
And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the
equipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—"
"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four
hundred and ninety tractors?"
"I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!"
"I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatic
tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a
gift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme
cooking—"
"Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction."
"What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a
blade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit."
"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have us
branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?"
"Certainly. You may speak freely."
"The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a
difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodation
to a group with which we have rather strong business ties."
"I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,"
Retief said. "Any connection?"
"Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha."
"Who gets the tractors eventually?"
"Retief, this is unwarranted interference!"
"Who gets them?"
"They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—"
"And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorized
transshipment of grant material?"
"Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan
representative."
"And when will they be shipped?"
"Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. But
look here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!"
"How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself." Retief rang
off, buzzed the secretary.
"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any new
applications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placement
of students."
"Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.
Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in."
"Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him."
"I'll ask him if he has time."
"Great. Thanks." It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-faced
man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab
shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.
"What is it you wish?" he barked. "I understood in my discussions with
the other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for these
irritating conferences."
"I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How
many this time?"
"Two thousand."
"And where will they be going?"
"Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job is
to provide transportation."
"Will there be any other students embarking this season?"
"Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business." Gulver looked at Retief with
pursed lips. "As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another
two thousand to Featherweight."
"Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,"
Retief said. "Your people must be unusually interested in that region
of space."
"If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters of
importance to see to."
After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. "I'd like to have a
break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the
present program," he said. "And see if you can get a summary of what
MEDDLE has been shipping lately."
Miss Furkle compressed her lips. "If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm sure
he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.
I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie
Legation—"
"The lists, Miss Furkle."
"I'm not accustomed," Miss Furkle said, "to intruding in matters
outside our interest cluster."
"That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But never
mind. I need the information, Miss Furkle."
"Loyalty to my Chief—"
"Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the material
I've asked for," Retief said. "I'm taking full responsibility. Now
scat."
The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. "MUDDLE, Retief speaking...."
Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.
"How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?"
"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you."
In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. "Sorry if I'm rushing you,
Retief," he said. "But have you got anything for me?"
Retief waved at the wine bottles. "What do you know about Croanie?"
"Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like
fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon
time. Over a foot long."
"You on good terms with them?"
"Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge."
"So?"
"Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here
a dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot of
bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easy
game."
Miss Furkle buzzed. "I have your lists," she said shortly.
"Bring them in, please."
The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye
and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.
"What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash," Arapoulous
observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time
to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.
"How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?" Retief inquired.
Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.
"A hundred would help," he said. "A thousand would be better. Cheers."
"What would you say to two thousand?"
"Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?"
"I hope not." He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked
for the dispatch clerk.
"Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that
contingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDT
transports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.
Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait."
Jim came back to the phone. "Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.
But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketed
clear through to Lovenbroy."
"Listen, Jim," Retief said. "I want you to go over to the warehouse and
take a look at that baggage for me."
Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The
level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to
the phone.
"Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.
Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—"
"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,
I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for a
friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, you
understand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning that
will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do...."
Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.
"As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get down
to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally."
IV
Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. "There's some funny business with
my baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feeling
it's not being loaded."
"You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh," Retief said. "You're scheduled to
blast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?"
"Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't moving
without it!"
"No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.
Karsh?" Retief said blandly. "Still, if you're worried—" He turned to
Arapoulous.
"Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...
ah ... take care of him?"
"I know just how to handle it," Arapoulous said.
The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. "I caught the tractor equipment,"
he said. "Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're being
off-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He said
they weren't looking for any students."
"The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage was
consigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office will
have a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eye
out for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to."
"Here!" a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in a
tight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.
"Hi there, Mr. Gulver," Retief called. "How's Boge's business coming
along?"
"Piracy!" Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. "You've
got a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?"
"What seems to be the problem?" Retief said.
"Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggage
shipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoys
diplomatic free entry!"
"Who told you it was impounded?"
"Never mind! I have my sources!"
Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. "Are you Mr. Retief of
CDT?" one said.
"That's right."
"What about my baggage!" Gulver cut in. "And I'm warning you, if those
ships lift without—"
"These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission," Retief
said. "Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?"
"From where? I—" Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.
"Armaments?"
"The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal," Retief
said. "Now if you claim this is your baggage...."
"Why, impossible," Gulver said in a strained voice. "Armaments?
Ridiculous. There's been an error...."
At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases of
guns. "No, of course not," he said dully. "Not my baggage. Not my
baggage at all."
Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.
"What—what's this?" Gulver spluttered. "Karsh? What's happened?"
"He had a little fall. He'll be okay," Arapoulous said.
"You'd better help him to the ship," Retief said. "It's ready to lift.
We wouldn't want him to miss it."
"Leave him to me!" Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. "I'll
see he's dealt with."
"I couldn't think of it," Retief said. "He's a guest of the Corps, you
know. We'll see him safely aboard."
Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identical
drab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.
"Take this man," Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at him
dazedly, reached up to rub his head.
"We take our hospitality seriously," Retief said. "We'll see him aboard
the vessel."
Gulver opened his mouth.
"I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books in
your luggage," Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. "You'll be busy
straightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoid
further complications."
"Ah. Ulp. Yes," Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.
Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.
"Your man—he's going too?" Gulver blurted.
"He's not our man, properly speaking," Retief said. "He lives on
Lovenbroy."
"Lovenbroy?" Gulver choked. "But ... the ... I...."
"I know you said the students were bound for d'Land," Retief said. "But
I guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. The
course plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad to
know they're still headed there—even without the baggage."
"Perhaps," Gulver said grimly, "perhaps they'll manage without it."
"By the way," Retief said. "There was another funny mix-up. There
were some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe you
co-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. They
were erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. I
saved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to have
them off-loaded at d'Land."
"D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!"
"But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't that
correct?"
"That's ... correct." Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. "Hold the
ships!" he yelled. "I'm canceling the student exchange—"
His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monster
transports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by the
second, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.
"They're off," he said. "Let's hope they get a liberal education."
V
Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tall
figure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.
"Retief!" Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,
slapping him on the back. "I heard you were here—and I've got news
for you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundred
bushels! That's a record!"
"Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's about
to start."
In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief and
Arapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tall
girl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up to
Arapoulous.
"Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow that
got those workers for us."
Delinda smiled at Retief. "I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. We
weren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and all
confused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to like
the picking." She smiled again.
"That's not all. Our gals liked the boys," Hank said. "Even Bogans
aren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. But
how come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid on
some kind of big welcome."
"I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnan
was a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority."
Arapoulous laughed. "I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,
Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it."
"No trouble," Retief said. "A few people were a little unhappy with
me. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmental
level. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little more
experience."
"Delinda, look after Retief," said Arapoulous. "I'll see you later.
I've got to see to the wine judging." He disappeared in the crowd.
"Congratulations on winning the day," said Delinda. "I noticed you at
work. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize."
"Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie of
yours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?"
"I had a special assignment."
"Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize."
Delinda took Retief's hand. "I wouldn't have anyway," she said. "I'm
the prize."
| [
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} | THE RECRUIT
BY BRYCE WALTON
It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.
The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgut and bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervously polite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailty that he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all, marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.
The old man said, "He'll be okay. Let him alone."
"But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time."
"Hell," the old man said. "Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waiting for the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough."
Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.
"We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to remember about all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere to go, like they say. You read the books."
"But he's unhappy."
"Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? What do we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed or we'll be late."
Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposeless noises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say. Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in the same old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all the way to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or with eyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retire into limbo.
How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? One thing—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pants off Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget his punkie origins in teeveeland.
But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressed impulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was no doubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion. So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alone waiting for the breakout call from HQ.
"Well, dear, if you say so," Mother said, with the old resigned sigh that must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.
They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.
"Relax," Wayne said. "You're not going anywhere tonight."
"What, son?" his old man said uneasily. "Sure we are. We're going to the movies."
He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn't answer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then was silent.
"Okay, go," Wayne said. "If you wanta walk. I'm taking the family boltbucket."
"But we promised the Clemons, dear," his mother said.
"Hell," Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. "I just got my draft call."
He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. "Oh, my dear boy," Mother cried out.
"So gimme the keys," Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. His understanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.
"Do be careful, dear," his mother said. She ran toward him as he laughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomed the Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramp onto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-calling neon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailed the glaring wonders of escape.
He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strode under a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casually to the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and a pansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.
"Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?"
Wayne grinned down. "Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey."
"Well," the sergeant said. "How tough we are this evening. You have a pass, killer?"
"Wayne Seton. Draft call."
"Oh." The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wrote on a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. "Go to the Armory and check out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report to Captain Jack, room 307."
"Thanks, sarge dear," Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.
A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne. Finally he said, "So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kid breaking out tonight?"
"Hold your teeth, pop," Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting a cigarette. "I've decided."
The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.
"Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city and you're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babes are clever hellcats in a dark alley."
"You must be a genius," Wayne said. "A corporal with no hair and still a counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad."
The corporal sighed wearily. "You can get that balloon head ventilated, bud, and good."
Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward the shelves and racks of weapons. "I'll remember that crack when I get my commission." He blew smoke in the corporal's face. "Bring me a Smith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw in a Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with the double springs."
The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchblade disguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger, while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled the cylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slipped the knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at its gleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refracted incandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting and scary.
He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his left armpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling the way the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacket back on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward the elevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, "Good luck, tiger."
Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive with stuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. Captain Jack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It had a head shaped like a grinning bear.
Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed to shrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a pea among bowling balls.
Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggy head. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.
"Wayne Seton," said Captain Jack as if he were discussing something in a bug collection. "Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you? Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?"
"Yes, sir," Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos. His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fear the way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'll show you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat until he screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him, ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. But that wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy, what was he doing holding down a desk?
"Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterfly collection."
The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inch from Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clamped a knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.
Captain Jack chuckled. "All right, superboy." He handed Wayne his passcard. "Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to make out."
"Yes, sir."
"Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the West Side. Know where that is, punk?"
"No, sir, but I'll find it fast."
"Sure you will, punk," smiled Captain Jack. "She'll be wearing yellow slacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a hefty psycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people. They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go and they're your key to the stars."
"Yes, sir," Wayne said.
"So run along and make out, punk," grinned Captain Jack.
A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of bright respectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.
Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop's quivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. The Olds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.
The air through the open window was chill and damp coming from Slumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind. He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale, secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pitted potholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells. Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breath through the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling with the shadows of mysterious promise.
He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiously into it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy as he spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.
FOUR ACES CLUB
He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, digging the sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brass filtering through windows painted black.
He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out of a bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoaked shirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grub balanced on one end.
The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight had a dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in a grotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror and doom.
"I gotta hide, kid. They're on me."
Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.
The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.
"Help me, kid."
He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blast of headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushed past Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tires squealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out and crouched as he began stalking the old rummy.
"This is him! This is him all right," the teener yelled, and one hand came up swinging a baseball bat.
A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.
The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. The teener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the air as the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.
Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonder at finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfew and no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything. Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless, until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. He held his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved in spirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a hunting license and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.
The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teener laughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yell clogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouth still open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curled up with stick arms over his rheumy face.
The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and down with his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into the Cad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of falling glass.
"Go, man!"
The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as it bounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished like bright wind-blown sparks.
Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying in scummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, made his heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.
He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... and pursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.
He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness and stood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt and yellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.
He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift. The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a red slash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager for running, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table near her, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.
She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitude of being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in a weirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.
Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirty T-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouse heavy.
"What's yours, teener?" the slug-faced waiter asked.
"Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo," Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.
"Sure, teener."
Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched and fed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. She sat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.
Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttons imbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on one side. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furious cat's.
Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk at his lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentrated on staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes bright but dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared little mouse.
The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was in the pay of the state.
"What else, teener?"
"One thing. Fade."
"Sure, teener," the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.
Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled his veins, became hot wire twisting in his head.
He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumped fast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped the air. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, the white eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at her throat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.
"Okay, you creep," Wayne said.
He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a table crashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blast filled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the door holding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and was out the door.
Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt the cold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinted down the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.
He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now and then, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with the life-or-death animation of a wild deer.
Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots. Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling, sliding down a brick shute.
He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And her scream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.
She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire with terror.
"You, baby," Wayne gasped. "I gotcha."
She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall, her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gave a squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked. He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitated in the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose trickling plaster, a whimpering whine.
"No use running," Wayne said. "Go loose. Give, baby. Give now."
She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her, feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through a sagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse's shadow floated ahead.
He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railing ripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. He heard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded from cracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into the third-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under the jagged skylight.
Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listening to his creeping, implacable footfalls.
Then he yelled and slammed open the door.
Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. In the corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More like a nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior, shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under the moon-streaming skylight.
She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. He snickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent's tongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rotten cloth.
"Do it quick, hunter," she whispered. "Please do it quick."
"What's that, baby?"
"I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know the difference."
"I'm gonna bruise and beat you," he said.
"Kill me first," she begged. "I don't want—" She began to cry. She cried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouth open.
"You got bad blood, baby," he snarled. He laughed but it didn't sound like him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.
"Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry."
She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring up at him.
He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned and shuffled away from her.
He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging and clutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.
"Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh, God, I'm so tired waiting and running!"
"I can't," he said, and sickness soured in his throat.
"Please."
"I can't, I can't!"
He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.
Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center, studied Wayne with abstract interest.
"You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?"
"Yes, sir."
"But you couldn't execute them?"
"No, sir."
"They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?"
"Yes, sir."
"The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girl killed her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing can be done for them? That they have to be executed?"
"I know."
"Too bad," the doctor said. "We all have aggressive impulses, primitive needs that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in all of us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around, Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter, Seton?"
"I—felt sorry for her."
"Is that all you can say about it?"
"Yes, sir."
The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.
"You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's still in there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shed clean innocent blood, can I?"
"No, sir," Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. "I'm sorry I punked out."
"Give him the treatment," the doctor said wearily. "And send him back to his mother."
Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to split open some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But there was no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and his poker-playing pals.
They had all punked out.
Like him. | [
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Monster Maker
By RAY BRADBURY
"Get Gunther," the official orders read. It
was to laugh! For Click and Irish were
marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only
weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or get
scared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listening
to it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting a
damned sweet picture of everything that was happening.
The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,
wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in the
dark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and this
meteor coming like blazing fury.
Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal's
skin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked the
rear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.
There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he was
picked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn't
long in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on to
his camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that had
been of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out of
the controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.
It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroids
rushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking a
tom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.
Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was the
nearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and you
ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk of
metal death. What a fade-out!
"Irish!" he heard himself say. "Is this IT?"
"Is this
what
?" yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.
"Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?"
Marnagan fumed. "I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'm
ready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!"
They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of
gravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.
The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end over
and stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattled
around—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,
air and energy flung out.
Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinking
quick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reach
film, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like
this
one! His
brain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of his
camera.
Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.
Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera locked
to his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, cold
that pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of the
wreckage into that silence.
He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in his
fingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,
thinking "Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—"
A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated seven
feet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.
"Hold it!" cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camera
whirred. "Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathed
from asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!"
"From the toe of me boot!" snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shoulders
flexed inside his vac-suit. "I might've died in there, and you nursin'
that film-contraption!"
Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. "I never thought of that.
Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You always
have. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to." Hathaway
stared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy he
couldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,
pale. "Where are we?"
"A million miles from nobody."
They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain that
stretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.
Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it look
sick.
"If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shaking
hands the other side of this rock in two hours." Marnagan shook his mop
of dusty red hair. "And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'd
capture that Gunther lad!"
His voice stopped and the silence spoke.
Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. "I checked
my oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left."
The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoric
rocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supply
mashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or
was
suffocation a better death...?
Sixty minutes.
They stood and looked at one another.
"Damn that meteor!" said Marnagan, hotly.
Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:
"Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, looked
it right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.
Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I've
got it here, on film."
Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. "It's not proof we need
now, Click. Oxygen. And then
food
. And then some way back to Earth."
Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: "This is Gunther's work. He's
here somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.
Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get back
to Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a pirate
whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins
through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by
yours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice."
They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward a
bony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn't
much to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.
Marnagan said, "We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweat
with except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We got
fifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'll
be Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk all
you like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, any
words, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk about
it. As for me—" he twisted his glossy red face. "Keeping alive is me
hobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order."
Click nodded. "Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.
It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor and
the crash this way."
Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, far
down, and the green eyes blazed.
They stopped, together.
"Oops!" Click said.
"Hey!" Marnagan blinked. "Did you feel
that
?"
Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless and
limbless, suddenly. "Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!"
They ran back. "Let's try it again."
They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.
"Gravity should not act this way, Click."
"Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! No
wonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!
Gunther'd do anything to—did I say
anything
?"
Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his hand
came up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievable
horrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts with
numerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, some
tubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing along
in the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.
Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat broke
cold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmed
after him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, in
Click's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurt
the creatures at all.
"Irish!" Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an incline
toward the mouth a small cave. "This way, fella!"
Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. "They're
too big; they can't get us in here!" Click's voice gasped it out,
as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.
Instinctively, Hathaway added, "Asteroid monsters! My camera! What a
scene!"
"Damn your damn camera!" yelled Marnagan. "They might come in!"
"Use your gun."
"They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,
eh, Click?"
"Yeah. Sure.
You
enjoyed it, every moment of it."
"I did that." Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. "Now, what
will we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?"
"Let me think—"
"Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact."
They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt
funny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monsters
and Gunther and—
"Which one will you be having?" asked Irish, casually. "A red one or a
blue one?"
Hathaway laughed nervously. "A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,
now you've got
me
doing it. Joking in the face of death."
"Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck."
That didn't please the photographer. "I'm an Anglo-Swede," he pointed
out.
Marnagan shifted uneasily. "Here, now. You're doing nothing but
sitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so take
me a profile shot of the beasties and myself."
Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. "What in hell's the use? All
this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it."
"Then," retorted Marnagan, "we'll develop it for our own benefit; while
waitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to our
rescue!"
Hathaway snorted. "U.S. Cavalry."
Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. "Snap me this pose," he
said. "I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,
my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peace
negotiations betwixt me and these pixies."
Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaver
for nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking running
around in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, but
his mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture of
Marnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.
Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smiling
for the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, without
much effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing death
wall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not saying
anything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and they
had sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.
When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used it
up arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:
"Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we felt
back on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,
what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Space
war isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectory
is lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, which
dispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?
Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.
It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikes
unseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces."
Marnagan rumbled. "Where is the dirty son, then!"
"He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them." Hathaway nodded at
the beasts. "People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or from
wounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animals
tend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtle
his attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if the
Patrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,
then."
"I don't see no Base around."
Click shrugged. "Still doubt it? Okay. Look." He tapped his camera and
a spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he stripped
it out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while it
developed, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developing
film. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,
leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured the
impressions. Quick stuff.
Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,
Click handed the whole thing over. "Look."
Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. "Ah,
Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented."
"Huh?"
"It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroid
monsters complete."
"What!"
Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:
Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationally
with
nothing
; Marnagan shooting his gun at
nothing
; Marnagan
pretending to be happy in front of
nothing
.
Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!
The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hair
like a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.
Maybe—
Hathaway said it, loud: "Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of this
mess! Here—"
He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,
the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said the
monsters weren't there, they weren't there.
"Yeah," said Marnagan. "But step outside this cave—"
"If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid," said Click.
Marnagan scowled. "You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet or
infra-red or something that won't come out on film?"
"Nuts! Any color
we
see, the camera sees. We've been fooled."
"Hey, where
you
going?" Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller man
tried pushing past him.
"Get out of the way," said Hathaway.
Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. "If anyone is going anywhere,
it'll be me does the going."
"I can't let you do that, Irish."
"Why not?"
"You'd be going on my say-so."
"Ain't your say-so good enough for me?"
"Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—"
"If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, stand
aside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle their
bones." He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't exist
except under an inch of porous metal plate. "Your express purpose on
this voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol later
for teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-hand
education. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give me
profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The
Lion's Den."
"Irish, I—"
"Shut up and load up."
Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.
"Ready, Click?"
"I—I guess so," said Hathaway. "And remember, think it hard, Irish.
Think it hard. There aren't any animals—"
"Keep me in focus, lad."
"All the way, Irish."
"What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!"
Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,
two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters were
waiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.
Right out into the middle of them....
That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and the
monsters!
Only now it was only Marnagan.
No more monsters.
Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. "Hey, Click, look
at me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and
ran away!"
"Ran, hell!" cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed and
animated. "They just plain vanished. They were only imaginative
figments!"
"And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, you
coward!"
"Smile when you say that, Irish."
"Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears in
your sweet grey eyes?"
"Damn," swore the photographer, embarrassedly. "Why don't they put
window-wipers in these helmets?"
"I'll take it up with the Board, lad."
"Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in one
hunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part
of his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back
into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing
suspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animals
kill them."
"Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill."
"Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they could
have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If
that isn't being dangerous—"
The Irishman whistled.
"But, we've got to
move
, Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.
In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,
Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters." Click
attached his camera to his mid-belt. "Gunther probably thinks we're
dead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they never
had a chance to disbelieve them."
"If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—"
"Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident—" Click
stopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head and
felt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steady
himself, and swayed. "I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.
This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick."
Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. "Hold tight, Click. The
guy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach."
"Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animals
came from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to come
back!"
"Come back? How?"
"They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if we
believe in them again, they'll return."
Marnagan didn't like it. "Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—if
we believe in 'em?"
Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. "Not if we believe
in them to a
certain point
. Psychologically they can both be seen and
felt. We only want to
see
them coming at us again."
"
Do
we, now?"
"With twenty minutes left, maybe less—"
"All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?"
Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. "Just think—I will see
the monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.
Think it over and over."
Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. "And—what if I forget to remember
all that? What if I get excited...?"
Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking at
Irish.
Marnagan cursed. "All right, lad. Let's have at it!"
The monsters returned.
A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming
in malevolent anticipation about the two men.
"This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, a
sending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!"
Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contorted
faces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.
Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped and
raised his gun and made quick moves with it. "Click! This one here!
It's real!" He fell back and something struck him down. His immense
frame slammed against rock, noiselessly.
Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered the
helmet glass with his hands, shouting:
"Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force into
your mind! It's not real, I tell you!"
"Click—" Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.
"Click—" He was fighting hard. "I—I—sure now. Sure—" He smiled.
"It—it's only a shanty fake!"
"Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up."
Marnagan's thick lips opened. "It's only a fake," he said. And then,
irritated, "Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!"
Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, and
little bubbles danced in his eyes. "Irish,
you
forget the monsters.
Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you might
forget."
Marnagan showed his teeth. "Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? And
besides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty."
The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.
Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.
"We'll be taking our chances on guard," hissed Irish. "I'll go ahead,
draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,
you
show up with
your
gun...."
"I haven't got one."
"We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. They
probably got scanners out. Let them see me—"
And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked about
five hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heaved
up, and there was a door opening in the rock.
His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. "A
door, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!"
Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard the
thud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.
Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.
"All right, put 'em up!" a new harsh voice cried over a different
radio. One of Gunther's guards.
Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.
The strange harsh voice said, "That's better. Don't try and pick that
gun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.
How'd you get past the animals?"
Click started running. He switched off his
sending
audio, kept his
receiving
on. Marnagan, weaponless.
One
guard. Click gasped. Things
were getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept running
and listening to Marnagan's lying voice:
"I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundles
and stacked them up to dry, ya louse!" Marnagan said. "But, damn you,
they killed my partner before he had a chance!"
The guard laughed.
The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his head
swimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. He
let himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn't
have a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!
A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in that
yellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,
air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, a
proton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guard
had his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: "I think I'll let
you stand right there and die," he said quietly. "That what Gunther
wanted, anway. A nice sordid death."
Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.
"Don't move!" he snapped. "I've got a weapon stronger than yours. One
twitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behind
you! Freeze!"
The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, dropped
his gun to the floor.
"Get his gun, Irish."
Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.
Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. "Thanks for
posing," he said. "That shot will go down in film history for candid
acting."
"What!"
"Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the door
leading into the Base?"
The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.
Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.
"Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Double
time! Double!"
Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen on
their backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,
hid him in a huge trash receptacle. "Where he belongs," observed Irish
tersely.
They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothing
more than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.
Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and was
short-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships to
rocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them for
cargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and the
swarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren't
wanted. They were scared off.
The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank of
intricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored film
with images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated them
into thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.
"So here we are, still not much better off than we were," growled
Irish. "We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turn
up any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project the
monsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?"
"What good would that do?" Hathaway gnawed his lip. "They wouldn't fool
the engineers who created them, you nut."
Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. "Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would come
riding over the hill—"
"Irish!" Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. "Irish. The U.S.
Cavalry it is!" His eyes darted over the machines. "Here. Help me.
We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century."
Marnagan winced. "You breathing oxygen or whiskey?"
"There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete picture
of Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's face
when you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good an
actor are you?"
"That's a silly question."
"You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front of
you, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heart
and fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall down
and twitch on the ground. Is that clear?"
"Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula...."
An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into a
sort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,
lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in a
wide, green-lawned Plaza.
Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walked
across the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building that
was pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.
He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.
He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination and
pushed him into a room where Gunther sat.
Hathaway looked at him. "So you're Gunther?" he said, calmly. The
pirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,
questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds of
metal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before he
could speak, Hathaway said:
"Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now and
we're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand men
against your eighty-five."
Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin hands
twitched in his lap. "You are bluffing," he said, finally, with a firm
directness. "A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was the
last. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were being
pursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed."
"Both. The other guy went after the Patrol."
"Impossible!"
"I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther."
A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, lounging
on carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet and
started yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one side
of his office. He stared, hard.
The Patrol was coming!
Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.
Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysis
guns with them in their tight hands.
Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.
"Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!"
Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathaway
had to credit them on that. They took it, standing.
Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.
His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped him
from filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther was
throwing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of his
fragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.
Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw three
of the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground and
twitch. God, what photography!
Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. He
fired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.
Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaos
taking place immediately outside his window.
The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. And
out of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, "Here!"
One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and the
Building. He got inside. "Did you see them run, Click boy? What an
idea. How did we do?"
"Fine, Irish. Fine!"
"So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,
eh?" Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. "I'll have to hand it to
you, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was to
fight with such splendid men as these—" He gestured toward the Plaza.
Click laughed with him. "You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmen
with hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broad
shoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as your
stories!"
Marnagan roared. "I always said, I said—if ever there could be an
army of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did you
photograph it, Click?"
"I did." Hathaway tapped his camera happily.
"Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol so
they can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from Cosmic
Films for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!
Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathically
into the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing the
whole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?"
"You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing!" said
Click. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the air
to develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. "Have a look—"
Marnagan looked. "Ah, now. Ah, now," he said over and over. "There's
the Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turning
and running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. Irish
Marnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. One
against a hundred, and the cowards running from me!
"Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the film
wouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. It
makes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,
look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am."
Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. "Look here, you egocentric son
of Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. The
Patrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if they
looked too close and saw all that red hair."
"All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're a
combination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,
Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and inserting
it into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here I
go...."
Hathaway stopped him. "Hold it. Until I load my camera again."
Irish grinned. "Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.
I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art of
uppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?"
"Ready."
Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.
The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.
What a sweet fade-out this was!
| [
{
"question_text": "What is the plot of the story?",
"question_number": 1,
"responses": [
{
"worker_id": "7",
"uid": "2395af6d550e4c6b9137b6d7a2e785d1",
"response_text": "“Click” Hathaway, a photographer, is on a spaceship with “Irish” Marnagan, the ship’s pilot, as the shi... |
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{"passage_id":"62198","uid":"c9a0ca8952b64bd6a83f7e4ccf8673b9","license":"This eBook is for the use (...TRUNCATED) | "QUEST OF THIG\n \n\n By BASIL WELLS\n \n \n Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering \"HORD(...TRUNCATED) | [{"question_text":"What is the plot of the story?","question_number":1,"responses":[{"worker_id":"9"(...TRUNCATED) |
{"passage_id":"62324","uid":"208ff03739df490dac3926ffd34d8b78","license":"This eBook is for the use (...TRUNCATED) | "\n\n\n\nProduced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http:/(...TRUNCATED) | [{"question_text":"What is the plot of the story?","question_number":1,"responses":[{"worker_id":"1"(...TRUNCATED) |
{"passage_id":"61007","uid":"26978d33590c4f7187331a3cc21e1861","license":"This eBook is for the use (...TRUNCATED) | "IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS\n \n \n IN T(...TRUNCATED) | [{"question_text":"What is the plot of the story?","question_number":1,"responses":[{"worker_id":"5"(...TRUNCATED) |
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End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
YAML Metadata Warning: The task_categories "text2text-generation" is not in the official list: text-classification, token-classification, table-question-answering, question-answering, zero-shot-classification, translation, summarization, feature-extraction, text-generation, fill-mask, sentence-similarity, text-to-speech, text-to-audio, automatic-speech-recognition, audio-to-audio, audio-classification, audio-text-to-text, voice-activity-detection, depth-estimation, image-classification, object-detection, image-segmentation, text-to-image, image-to-text, image-to-image, image-to-video, unconditional-image-generation, video-classification, reinforcement-learning, robotics, tabular-classification, tabular-regression, tabular-to-text, table-to-text, multiple-choice, text-ranking, text-retrieval, time-series-forecasting, text-to-video, image-text-to-text, image-text-to-image, image-text-to-video, visual-question-answering, document-question-answering, zero-shot-image-classification, graph-ml, mask-generation, zero-shot-object-detection, text-to-3d, image-to-3d, image-feature-extraction, video-text-to-text, keypoint-detection, visual-document-retrieval, any-to-any, video-to-video, other
SQuALITY - v1.3
Original paper here
This is v1.3, the 'text' edition .jsonl files. See description from the original repo:
v1.3 fixes some bugs in v1.2. In v1.2, 10 out of 127 articles (each ~5k-word-long) are missing a few hundreds words each, so summaries may not be fully contained in the article. To fix this issue, we have updated the 10 articles.
contents
again, this is taken from the repo
Each data file ({train/dev/test}.jsonl) is formatted as a JSON lines file. Each row in the data file is a JSON dictionary with the following fields:
- metadata: the Gutenberg story ID, an internal UID, and the Project Gutenberg license
- document: the Gutenberg story
questions: a list of questions and accompanying responses
- question text
- question number: the order in which that question was answered by the writers
- responses: list of worker's response, where each response is a dictionary containing the (anonymized) worker ID, an internal UID, and their response to the question
dataset contents
DatasetDict({
train: Dataset({
features: ['metadata', 'document', 'questions'],
num_rows: 50
})
test: Dataset({
features: ['metadata', 'document', 'questions'],
num_rows: 52
})
validation: Dataset({
features: ['metadata', 'document', 'questions'],
num_rows: 25
})
})
- Downloads last month
- 118
Size of downloaded dataset files:
7.41 MB
Size of the auto-converted Parquet files:
4.17 MB
Number of rows:
127