Buy Jupiter and Other Stories Part 9

Then, on February 19, 1955, my daughter, Robyn Joan, was born, and I moved into the corridor in antic.i.p.ation. It was the only place left to me. The fourth of my Lucky Start novels was begun on the very day she was brought home from the hospital. It was LUCKY STARR AND THE BIG SUN OF MERCURY (Doubleday, 1956) and it was dedicated "To Robyn Joan, who did her best to interfere."

The interfering was entirely too efficient. With a child in each bedroom and me in the corridor it was bad enough, but eventually Robyn Joan would be large enough to need a room of her own, so we made up our mind to look for a house.

That was traumatic. I had never lived in a house. For all my thirty-five years of life, I had lived in a series of rented apartments. What had to be, however, had to be. In January 1956 we found a house in Newton, Ma.s.sachusetts, just west of Boston, and on March 12, 1956, we moved in.

On March 16, 1956, Boston had one of its worst blizzards in memory, and three feet of snow fell. Having never had to shovel snow before, I found myself starting with a lulu in a deep, broad driveway. I had barely dug myself out when, on March 20, 1956, a second blizzard struck and four more feet fell.

The melting snow packed against the outer walls of the house found its way past the wood and into the bas.e.m.e.nt and we had a small flood. Heavens, how we wished ourselves back in the apartment.

But we survived that, and then came a graver worry for me at least. My life had changed so radically, what with two children, a house, and a mortgage, that I began to wonder if I would still be able to write. (My novel THE NAKED SUN, Doubleday, 1957, had been finished two days before the move.) You know, one gets such a feeling that a writer is a delicate plant who must be carefully nurtured or he will wither, that any traumatic change in one's way of life is bound to give the feeling of all the blossoms being lopped off. the move.) You know, one gets such a feeling that a writer is a delicate plant who must be carefully nurtured or he will wither, that any traumatic change in one's way of life is bound to give the feeling of all the blossoms being lopped off.

What with the blizzards and the snow-shoveling and the bas.e.m.e.nt pumping and everything else, I didn't get a chance to try to write for a while.

But then Bob Lowndes asked me to do a story for Future, Future, and in June 1956 I began my first writing job in the new house. It was the first heat wave of the season but the bas.e.m.e.nt was cool, so I set up my typewriter there in the unique luxury of being able to feel cool in a heat wave. and in June 1956 I began my first writing job in the new house. It was the first heat wave of the season but the bas.e.m.e.nt was cool, so I set up my typewriter there in the unique luxury of being able to feel cool in a heat wave.

There was no trouble. I could still write. I turned out EACH AN EXPLORER and it appeared in issue #30 of Future Future (the issues of this magazine were so irregular at this time that it was not felt safe to put a month-designation on the issues). (the issues of this magazine were so irregular at this time that it was not felt safe to put a month-designation on the issues).

EACH AN EXPLORER.

Herman Chouns was a man of hunches. Sometimes he was right; sometimes he was wrong-about fifty-fifty. Still, considering that one has the whole universe of possibilities from which to pull a right answer, fifty-fifty begins to look pretty good.

Chouns wasn't always as pleased with the matter as might be expected. It put too much of a strain on him. People would huddle around a problem, making nothing of it, then turn to him and say, "What do you think, Chouns? Turn on the old intuition."

And if he came up with something that fizzled, the responsibility for that was made clearly his.

His job, as field explorer, rather made things worse. "Think that planet's worth a closer look?" they would say. "What do you think, Chouns?"

So it was a relief to draw a two-man spot for a change (meaning that the next trip would be to some low-priority place, and the pressure would be off) and, on top of it, to get Allen Smith as partner.

Smith was as matter-of-fact as his name. He said to Chouns the first day out, "The thing about you is that the memory files in your brain are on extraspecial can. Faced with a problem, you remember enough little things that maybe the rest of us don't come up with to make a decision. Calling it a hunch just makes it mysterious, and it isn't."

He rubbed his hair slickly back as he said that. He had light hair that lay down like a skull cap.

Chouns, whose hair was very unruly, and whose nose was snub and a bit off-center, said softly (as was his way) , "I think maybe it's telepathy."

"What!"

"Nuts!" said Smith, with loud derision (as was his his way)." Scientists have been tracking psionics for a thousand years and gotten nowhere. There's no such thing: no precognition; no telekinesis; no clairvoyance; way)." Scientists have been tracking psionics for a thousand years and gotten nowhere. There's no such thing: no precognition; no telekinesis; no clairvoyance; and and no telepathy." no telepathy."

"I admit that, but consider this. If I get a picture of what each of a group of people are thinking-even though I might not be aware of what was happening-I could integrate the information and come up with an answer. I would know more than any single individual in the group, so I could make a better judgment than the others-sometimes."

"Do you have any evidence at all for that?" Chouns turned his mild brown eyes on the other. "Just a hunch."

They got along well. Chouns welcomed the other's refres.h.i.+ng practicality, and Smith patronized the other's speculations. They often disagreed but never quarreled, Even when they reached their objective, which was a globular cl.u.s.ter that had never felt the energy thrusts of a human-designed nuclear reactor before, increasing tension did not worsen matters.

Smith said, "Wonder what they do with all this data back on Earth. Seems a waste sometimes."

Chouns said, "Earth is just beginning to spread out. No telling how far humanity will move out into the galaxy, given a million years or so. All the data we can get on any world will come in handy someday,"

"You sound like a recruiting manual for the Exploration Teams, Think there'll be anything interesting in that thing?" He indicated the visi-plate on which the no-longer distant cl.u.s.ter was centered like spilled talc.u.m powder.

"Maybe. I've got a hunch-" Chouns stopped, gulped, blinked once or twice, and then smiled weakly.

Smith snorted, "Let's get a fix on the nearest stargroups and make a random pa.s.s through the thickest of it. One gets you ten, we find a McKomin ratio under 0.2,"

"You'll lose," murmured Chouns. He felt the quick stir of excitement that always came when new worlds were about to be spread beneath them. It was a most contagious feeling, and it caught hundreds of youngsters each year. Youngsters, such as he had been once, flocked to the Teams, eager to see the worlds their descendants someday would call their own, each an explorer- They got their fix (made their first close-quarters hyperspatial jump into the cl.u.s.ter, and began scanning stars for planetary systems. The computers did their work; the information files grew steadily, and all proceeded in satisfactory routine-until at system 23, shortly after completion of the jump, the s.h.i.+p's hyperatomic motors failed.

Chouns muttered, "Funny. The a.n.a.lyzers don't say what's wrong."

He was right. The needles wavered erratically, never stopping once for a reasonable length of time, so that no diagnosis was indicated. And, as a consequence, no repairs could be carried through.

"Never saw anything like it," growled Smith. "We'll have to shut everything off and diagnose manually."

"We might as well do it comfortably," said Chouns, who was already at the telescopes. "Nothing's wrong with the ordinary s.p.a.cedrive, and there are two decent planets in this system."

"Oh? How decent and which ones?"

"The first and second out of four: Both water-oxygen. The first is a bit warmer and larger than Earth; the second a bit colder and smaller. Fair enough?"

"Life?"

"Both. Vegetation, anyway." Smith grunted. There was nothing in that to surprise anyone; vegetation occurred more often than not on water-oxygen worlds. And, unlike animal life, vegetation could be seen telescopically-or, more precisely, spectroscopically. Only four photochemical pigments had ever been found in any plant form, and each could be detected by the nature of the light it reflected.

Chouns said, "Vegetation on both planets is chlorophyll type, no less. It'll be just like Earth; real homey."

Smith said, "Which is closer?"

"Number two, and we're on our way. I have a feeling it's going to be a nice planet."

"I'll judge that by the instruments, if if you don't mind," said Smith. you don't mind," said Smith.

But this seemed to be one of Chouns's correct hunches.

The planet was a tame one with an intricate ocean network that insured a climate of small temperature range. The mountain ranges were low and rounded, and the distribution of vegetation indicated high and widespread fertility.

Chouns was at the controls for the actual landing.

Smith grew impatient. "What are you picking and choosing for? One place is like another."

"I'm looking for a bare spot, " said Chouns. "No use burning up an acre of plant life."

"What if you do?"

"What if I don't?" said Chouns, and found his bare spot.

It was only then, after landing, that they realized a small part of what they had tumbled into.

"Jumping s.p.a.ce-warps," said Smith.

Chouns felt stunned. Animal life was much rarer than vegetation, and even the glimmerings of intelligence were far rarer still; yet here, not half a mile away from landing point, was a cl.u.s.tering of low, thatched huts that were obviously the product of a primitive intelligence.

"Careful, " said Smith dazedly.

"I don't think there's any harm," said Chouns. He stepped out onto the surface of the planet with firm confidence; Smith followed.

Chouns controlled his excitement with difficulty. "This is terrific. No one's ever reported anything better than caves or woven tree-branches before."

"I hope they're harmless."

"It's too peaceful for them to be anything else. Smell the air."

Coming down to landing, the terrain-to all points of horizon, except where a low range of hills broke the even line-had been colored a soothing pale pink, dappled against the chlorophyll green. At closer quarters the pale pink broke up into individual flowers, fragile and fragrant. Only the areas in the immediate neighborhood of the huts were amber with something that looked like a cereal grain.

Creatures were emerging from the huts, moving closer to the s.h.i.+p with a kind of hesitating trust. They had four legs and a sloping body which stood three feet high at the shoulders. Their heads were set firmly on those shoulders, with bulging eyes (Chouns counted six) set in a circle and capable of the most disconcertingly independent motion. (That makes up for the immovability of the head, (That makes up for the immovability of the head, thought Chouns.) thought Chouns.) Each animal had a tail that forked at the end, forming two st.u.r.dy fibrils that each animal held high. The fibrils maintained a rapid tremor that gave them a hazy, blurred look.

"Come on," said Chouns. "They won't hurt us; I'm sure of it."

The animals surrounded the men at a cautious distance. Their tails made a modulated humming noise.

"They might communicate that way," said Chouns. " And I think it's obvious they're vegetarians." He pointed toward one of the huts, where a small member of the species sat on its haunches, plucking at the amber grain with his tails, and flickering an ear of it through his mouth like a man sucking a series of maraschino cherries off a toothpick.

"Human beings eat lettuce," said Smith, "but that doesn't prove anything."

More of the tailed creatures emerged, hovered about the men for a moment, then vanished off into the pink and green.

"Vegetarians," said Chouns firmly. "Look at the way they cultivate the main crop."

The main crop, as Chouns called it, consisted of a coronet of soft green spikes, close to the ground. Out of the center of the coronet grew a hairy stem which, at two-inch intervals, shot out fleshy, veined buds that almost pulsated, they seemed so "Vitally alive. The stem ended at the tip with the pale pink blossoms that, except for the color, were the most Earthly thing about the plants.

The plants were laid out in rows and files with geometric precision. The soil about each was well loosened and powdered with a foreign substance that could be nothing but fertilizer. Narrow pa.s.sageways, just wide enough for an animal to pa.s.s along, crisscrossed the field, and each pa.s.sageway was lined with narrow sluiceways, obviously for water.

The animals were spread through the fields now, working diligently, heads bent. Only a few remained in the neighborhood of the two men.

Chouns nodded. "They're good farmers."

"Not bad," agreed Smith. He walked briskly toward the nearest of the pale pink blooms and reached for one; but six inches short of it he was stopped by the sound of tail vibrations keening to shrillness, and by the actual touch of a tail upon his arm. The touch was delicate but firm, interposing itself between Smith and the plants.

Smith fell back. "What in s.p.a.ce--" He had half reached for his blaster when Chouns said, "No cause for excitement; take it easy."

Half a dozen of the creatures were now gathering about the two, offering stalks of grain humbly and gently, some using their tails, some nudging it forward with their muzzles.

Chouns said, "They're friendly enough. Picking a bloom might be against their customs; the plants probably have to be treated according to rigid rules. Any culture that has agriculture probably has fertility rites, and Lord knows what that involves. The rules governing the cultivation of the plants must be strict, or there wouldn't be those accurate measured rows. ...s.p.a.ce, won't they sit up back home when they hear this?"

The tail humming shot up in pitch again, and the creatures near them fell back. Another member of the species was emerging from a larger hut in the center of the group.

"The chief, I suppose," muttered Chouns. The new one advanced slowly, tail high, each fibril encircling a small black object. At a distance of five feet its tail arched forward.

"He's giving it to us," said Smith in astonishment, "and Chouns, for G.o.d's sake, look look at it." at it."

Chouns was doing so, feverishly. He choked out, out, "They're Gamow hyperspatial sighters. Those are ten-thousand-dollar instruments." "They're Gamow hyperspatial sighters. Those are ten-thousand-dollar instruments."

Smith emerged from the s.h.i.+p again, after an hour within. He shouted from the ramp in high excitement, "They work. They're perfect. We're rich."

Chouns called back, "I've been checking through their huts. I can't find any more."

"Don't sneeze at just two. Good Lord, these are as negotiable as a handful of cash."

But Chouns still looked about, arms akimbo, exasperated. Three of the tailed creatures had dogged him from hut to hut-patiently, never interfering, but remaining always between him and the geometrically cultivated pale pink blossoms. Now they stared multiply at him.

Smith said, "It's the latest model, too. Look here." He pointed to the raised lettering which said Model X-20. Gamow Products. Warsaw. European Sector. Model X-20. Gamow Products. Warsaw. European Sector.

Chouns glanced at it and said impatiently, "What interests me is getting more. I know know there are more Gamow sighters somewhere, I want them." His cheeks were flushed and his breathing heavy. there are more Gamow sighters somewhere, I want them." His cheeks were flushed and his breathing heavy.

The sun was setting; the temperature dropped below the comfortable point. Smith sneezed twice, then Chouns.

"We'll catch pneumonia," snuffled Smith.

"I've got to make them understand," said Chouns stubbornly. He had eaten hastily through a can of pork sausage, had gulped down a can of coffee, and was ready to try again.

He held the sighter high. "More," he said, "more," making encircling movements with his arms. He pointed to one sighter, then to the other, then to the imaginary additional ones lined up before him. "More."

Then, as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, a vast hum arose from all parts of the field as every creature in sight ducked its head, lifted its forked tail, and vibrated it into screaming invisibility in the twilight.

"What in s.p.a.ce," muttered Smith uneasily. "Hey, look at the blooms!" He sneezed again.

The pale pink flowers were shriveling visibly. Chouns shouted to make himself heard above the hum, "It may be a reaction to sunset. You know, the blooms close at night. The noise may be a religious observance of the fact."

A soft flick of a tail across his wrist attracted Chouns's instant attention. The tail he had felt belonged to the nearest creature; and now it was raised to the sky, toward a bright object low on the western horizon. The tail bent downward to point to the sighter, then up again to the star.

Chouns said excitedly, "Of course-the inner planet; the other habitable one. These must have come from there." Then, reminded by the thought, he cried in sudden shock, "Hey, Smith, the hyperatomic motors are still out."

Smith looked shocked, as though he had forgotten, too; then he mumbled, "Meant to tell you-they're allright."

"You fixed them?"

"Never touched them. But when I was testing the sighters I used the hyperatomics and they worked. I didn't pay any attention at the time; I forgot there was anything wrong. Anyway, they worked."

"Then let's go," said Chouns at once. The thought of sleep never occurred to him.

Neither one slept through the six-hour trip. They remained at the controls in an almost drug-fed pa.s.sion. Once again they chose a bare spot on which to land.

It was hot with an afternoon subtropical heat; and a broad, muddy river moved placidly by them. The near bank was of hardened mud, riddled with large cavities.