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    Worlds of If Super Pack #3
    Worlds of If Super Pack #3
    Worlds of If Super Pack #3
    Ebook916 pages13 hours

    Worlds of If Super Pack #3

    By H. B. Fyfe, Milton Lesser, Arthur Dekker Savage and

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    About this ebook

    Worlds of If was a three time winner of the Hugo Award for best science fiction magazine. Worlds of If discovered many talented writers who would go on to dominate genre fiction. This is the third in our Worlds of If series with even more memorable stories from its tremendous run.

    ‘The Yillian Way’ by Keith Laumer
    ‘Homo Inferior’ by Mari Wolf
    ‘The Talkative Tree’ by H.B. Fyfe
    ‘Show Business’ by Boyd Ellanby
    ‘The One and the Many’ by Milton Lesser
    ‘The Stowaway’ by Alvin Heiner
    ‘Sound of Terror’ by Don Berry
    ‘Planet of Dreams’ by James McKimmey, Jr
    ‘Off Course’ by Mack Reynolds
    ‘Thy Name Is Woman’ by Kenneth O'Hara
    ‘Uniform of a Man’ by Dave Dryfoos
    ‘The Planet with No Nightmare’ by Jim Harmon
    ‘The Kenzie Report’ by Mark Clifton
    ‘The Six Fingers of Time’ by R.A. Lafferty
    ‘Fly’ by Night’ by Arthur Dekker Savage
    ‘Lonesome Hearts’ by Russ Winterbotham
    ‘Double Take’ by Richard Wilson
    ‘McIlvaine's Star’ by August Derleth
    ‘An Empty Bottle’ by Mari Wolf
    ‘Progress Report’ by Mark Clifton and Alex Apostolides
    ‘The Peacemaker’ by Alfred Coppel
    ‘The Worlds of Joe Shannon’ by Frank M. Robinson
    ‘’Mid Pleasures and Palaces’ by James McKimmey, Jr.
    ‘The Clean and Wholesome Land’ by Ralph Sholto
    ‘Weak on Square Roots’ by Russell Burton
    ‘Black Eyes and the Daily Grind’ by Milton Lesser
    ‘Sinister Paradise’ by Robert Moore Williams
    ‘Pipe of Peace’ by James McKimmey, Jr.
    ‘Atom Drive’ by Charles Fontenay
    ‘DP’ by Arthur Dekker Savage
    ‘Forsyte’s Retreat’ by Winston Marks
    ‘Where There’s Hope’ by Jerome Bixby
    ‘The Day of the Dog’ by Andersen Horne
    ‘Meeting of the Board’ by Alan E. Nourse
    ‘Holes Incorporated’ by L. Major Reynolds
    ‘The Thing in the Attic’ by James Blish
    ‘To Choke an Ocean’ by J. F. Bone
    ‘Gambler’s World’ by Keith Laumer
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateJun 26, 2017
    ISBN9781515412342
    Worlds of If Super Pack #3

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      Worlds of If Super Pack #3 - H. B. Fyfe

      The Yillian Way

      by Keith Laumer

      The ceremonious protocol of the Yills was impressive, colorful—and, in the long run, deadly!

      I

      Jame Retief, vice-consul and third secretary in the Diplomatic Corps, followed the senior members of the terrestrial mission across the tarmac and into the gloom of the reception building. The gray-skinned Yill guide who had met the arriving embassy at the foot of the ramp hurried away. The councillor, two first secretaries and the senior attaches gathered around the ambassador, their ornate uniforms bright in the vast dun-colored room.

      Ten minutes passed. Retief strolled across to the nearest door and looked through the glass panel at the room beyond. Several dozen Yill lounged in deep couches, sipping lavender drinks from slender glass tubes. Black-tunicked servants moved about inconspicuously, offering trays. A party of brightly-dressed Yill moved toward the entrance doors. One of the party, a tall male, made to step before another, who raised a hand languidly, fist clenched. The first Yill stepped back and placed his hands on top of his head. Both Yill were smiling and chatting as they passed through the doors.

      Retief turned away to rejoin the Terrestrial delegation waiting beside a mound of crates made of rough greenish wood stacked on the bare concrete floor.

      As Retief came up, Ambassador Spradley glanced at his finger watch and spoke to the man beside him.

      Ben, are you quite certain our arrival time was made clear?

      Second Secretary Magnan nodded emphatically. I stressed the point, Mr. Ambassador. I communicated with Mr. T’Cai-Cai just before the lighter broke orbit, and I specifically—

      I hope you didn’t appear truculent, Mr. Magnan, the ambassador said sharply.

      No indeed, Mr. Ambassador. I merely—

      You’re sure there’s no VIP room here? The ambassador glanced around the cavernous room. Curious that not even chairs have been provided.

      If you’d care to sit on one of these crates—

      Certainly not. The ambassador looked at his watch again and cleared his throat.

      I may as well make use of these few moments to outline our approach for the more junior members of the staff; it’s vital that the entire mission work in harmony in the presentation of the image. We Terrestrials are a kindly, peace-loving race. The ambassador smiled in a kindly, peace-loving way.

      We seek only a reasonable division of spheres of influence with the Yill. He spread his hands, looking reasonable.

      We are a people of high culture, ethical, sincere. The smile was replaced abruptly by pursed lips.

      We’ll start by asking for the entire Sirenian System, and settle for half. We’ll establish a foothold on all the choicer worlds. And, with shrewd handling, in a century we’ll be in a position to assert a wider claim.

      The ambassador glanced around. If there are no questions—

      *

      Retief stepped forward. It’s my understanding, Mr. Ambassador, that we hold the prior claim to the Sirenian System. Did I understand your Excellency to say that we’re ready to concede half of it to the Yill without a struggle?

      Ambassador Spradley looked up at Retief, blinking. The younger man loomed over him. Beside him, Magnan cleared his throat in the silence.

      Vice-Consul Retief merely means—

      I can interpret Mr. Retief’s remark, the ambassador snapped. He assumed a fatherly expression.

      Young man, you’re new to the Service. You haven’t yet learned the team play, the give-and-take of diplomacy. I shall expect you to observe closely the work of the experienced negotiators of the mission. You must learn the importance of subtlety.

      Mr. Ambassador, Magnan said, I think the reception committee is arriving. He pointed. Half a dozen tall, short-necked Yill were entering through a side door. The leading Yill hesitated as another stepped in his path. He raised a fist, and the other moved aside, touching the top of his head perfunctorily with both hands. The group started across the room toward the Terrestrials. Retief watched as a slender alien came forward and spoke passable Terran in a reedy voice.

      I am P’Toi. Come this way.... He turned, and the group moved toward the door, the ambassador leading. As he reached for the door, the interpreter darted ahead and shouldered him aside. The other Yill stopped, waiting.

      The ambassador almost glared, then remembered the image. He smiled and beckoned the Yill ahead. They milled uncertainly, muttering in the native tongue, then passed through the door.

      The Terran party followed.

      — give a great deal to know what they’re saying, Retief overheard as he came up.

      Our interpreter has forged to the van, the ambassador said. I can only assume he’ll appear when needed.

      A pity we have to rely on a native interpreter, someone said.

      Had I known we’d meet this rather uncouth reception, the ambassador said stiffly, I would have audited the language personally, of course, during the voyage out.

      Oh, no criticism intended, of course, Mr. Ambassador.

      Heavens, Magnan put in. Who would have thought—

      Retief moved up behind the ambassador.

      Mr. Ambassador, he said, I—

      Later, young man, the ambassador snapped. He beckoned to the first councillor, and the two moved off, heads together.

      Outside, a bluish sun gleamed in a dark sky. Retief watched his breath form a frosty cloud in the chill air. A broad doughnut-wheeled vehicle was drawn up to the platform. The Yill gestured the Terran party to the gaping door at the rear, then stood back, waiting.

      Retief looked curiously at the gray-painted van. The legend written on its side in alien symbols seemed to read egg nog.

      *

      The ambassador entered the vehicle, the other Terrestrials following. It was as bare of seats as the Terminal building. What appeared to be a defunct electronic chassis lay in the center of the floor.

      Retief glanced back. The Yill were talking excitedly. None of them entered the car. The door was closed, and the Terrans braced themselves under the low roof as the engine started up with a whine of worn turbos.

      The van moved off.

      It was an uncomfortable ride. Retief put out an arm as the vehicle rounded a corner, just catching the ambassador as he staggered, off-balance. The ambassador glared at him, settled his heavy tri-corner hat and stood stiffly until the car lurched again.

      Retief stooped, attempting to see out through the single dusty window. They seemed to be in a wide street lined with low buildings.

      They passed through a massive gate, up a ramp, and stopped. The door opened. Retief looked out at a blank gray facade, broken by tiny windows at irregular intervals. A scarlet vehicle was drawn up ahead, the Yill reception committee emerging from it. Through its wide windows Retief saw rich upholstery and caught a glimpse of glasses clamped to a tiny bar.

      P’Toi, the Yill interpreter, came forward, gestured to a small door. Magnan opened it, waiting for the ambassador.

      As he stepped to it, a Yill thrust himself ahead and hesitated. Ambassador Spradley drew himself up, glaring. Then he twisted his mouth into a frozen smile and stepped aside.

      The Yill looked at each other then filed through the door.

      Retief was the last to enter. As he stepped inside, a black-clad servant slipped past him, pulled the lid from a large box by the door and dropped in a paper tray heaped with refuse. There were alien symbols in flaking paint on the box. They seemed, Retief noticed, to spell egg nog.

      II

      The shrill pipes and whining reeds had been warming up for an hour when Retief emerged from his cubicle and descended the stairs to the banquet hall.

      Standing by the open doors, he lit a slender cigar and watched through narrowed eyes as obsequious servants in black flitted along the low wide corridor, carrying laden trays into the broad room, arranging settings on a great four-sided table forming a hollow square that almost filled the room. Rich brocades were spread across the center of the side nearest the door, flanked by heavily decorated white cloths. Beyond, plain white extended to the far side, where metal dishes were arranged on the bare table top.

      A richly dressed Yill approached, stepped aside to allow a servant to pass and entered the room.

      Retief turned at the sound of Terran voices behind him. The ambassador came up, trailed by two diplomats. He glanced at Retief, adjusted his ruff and looked into the banquet hall.

      Apparently we’re to be kept waiting again, he muttered. After having been informed at the outset that the Yill have no intention of yielding an inch, one almost wonders....

      Mr. Ambassador, Retief said. Have you noticed—

      However, Ambassador Spradley said, eyeing Retief, a seasoned diplomatist must take these little snubs in stride. In the end— Ah, there, Magnan. He turned away, talking.

      Somewhere a gong clanged.

      In a moment, the corridor was filled with chattering Yill who moved past the group of Terrestrials into the banquet hall. P’Toi, the Yill interpreter, came up and raised a hand.

      Waitt heere....

      More Yill filed into the dining room to take their places. A pair of helmeted guards approached, waving the Terrestrials back. An immense gray-jowled Yill waddled to the doors and passed through, followed by more guards.

      The Chief of State, Retief heard Magnan say. The Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau.

      I have yet to present my credentials, Ambassador Spradley said. One expects some latitude in the observances of protocol, but I confess.... He wagged his head.

      The Yill interpreter spoke up.

      You now whill lhie on yourr intesstinss, and creep to fesstive board there. He pointed across the room.

      Intestines? Ambassador Spradley looked about wildly.

      Mr. P’Toi means our stomachs, I wouldn’t wonder, Magnan said. He just wants us to lie down and crawl to our seats, Mr. Ambassador.

      What the devil are you grinning at, you idiot? the ambassador snapped.

      *

      Magnan’s face fell.

      Spradley glanced down at the medals across his paunch.

      This is.... I’ve never....

      Homage to godss, the interpreter said.

      Oh. Oh, religion, someone said.

      Well, if it’s a matter of religious beliefs.... The ambassador looked dubiously around.

      Golly, it’s only a couple of hundred feet, Magnan offered.

      Retief stepped up to P’Toi.

      His Excellency the Terrestrial Ambassador will not crawl, he said clearly.

      Here, young man! I said nothing—

      Not to crawl? The interpreter wore an unreadable Yill expression.

      It is against our religion, Retief said.

      Againsst?

      We are votaries of the Snake Goddess, Retief said. It is a sacrilege to crawl. He brushed past the interpreter and marched toward the distant table.

      The others followed.

      Puffing, the ambassador came to Retief’s side as they approached the dozen empty stools on the far side of the square opposite the brocaded position of the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau.

      Mr. Retief, kindly see me after this affair, he hissed. "In the meantime, I hope you will restrain any further rash impulses. Let me remind you Iam chief of mission here."

      Magnan came up from behind.

      Let me add my congratulations, Retief, he said. That was fast thinking—

      Are you out of your mind, Magnan? the ambassador barked. I am extremely displeased!

      Why, Magnan stuttered, I was speaking sarcastically, of course, Mr. Ambassador. Didn’t you notice the kind of shocked little gasp I gave when he did it?

      The Terrestrials took their places, Retief at the end. The table before them was of bare green wood, with an array of shallow pewter dishes.

      Some of the Yill at the table were in plain gray, others in black. All eyed them silently. There was a constant stir among them as one or another rose and disappeared and others sat down. The pipes and reeds were shrilling furiously, and the susurration of Yillian conversation from the other tables rose ever higher in competition.

      A tall Yill in black was at the ambassador’s side now. The nearby Yill fell silent as he began ladling a whitish soup into the largest of the bowls before the Terrestrial envoy. The interpreter hovered, watching.

      That’s quite enough, Ambassador Spradley said, as the bowl overflowed. The Yill servant rolled his eyes, dribbled more of the soup into the bowl.

      Kindly serve the other members of my staff, the ambassador said. The interpreter said something in a low voice. The servant moved hesitantly to the next stool and ladled more soup.

      *

      Retief watched, listening to the whispers around him. The Yill at the table were craning now to watch. The soup ladler was ladling rapidly, rolling his eyes sideways. He came to Retief, reached out with the full ladle for the bowl.

      No, Retief said.

      The ladler hesitated.

      None for me, Retief said.

      The interpreter came up and motioned to the servant, who reached again, ladle brimming.

      I ... DON’T ... LIKE ... IT! Retief said, his voice distinct in the sudden hush. He stared at the interpreter, who stared back, then waved the servant away.

      Mr. Retief! a voice hissed.

      Retief looked down at the table. The ambassador was leaning forward, glaring at him, his face a mottled crimson.

      I’m warning you, Mr. Retief, he said hoarsely. "I’ve eaten sheep’s eyes in the Sudan, ka swe in Burma, hundred-year cug on Mars and everything else that has been placed before me in the course of my diplomatic career. And, by the holy relics of Saint Ignatz, you’ll do the same!" He snatched up a spoon-like utensil and dipped it into his bowl.

      Don’t eat that, Mr. Ambassador, Retief said.

      The ambassador stared, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, guided the spoon toward it—

      Retief stood, gripped the table under its edge and heaved. The immense wooden slab rose and tilted, dishes sliding. It crashed to the floor with a ponderous slam.

      Whitish soup splattered across the terrazzo. A couple of odd bowls rolled across the room. Cries rang out from the Yill, mingling with a strangled yell from Ambassador Spradley.

      Retief walked past the wild-eyed members of the mission to the sputtering chief. Mr. Ambassador, he said. I’d like—

      You’d like! I’ll break you, you young hoodlum! Do you realize—

      Pleass.... The interpreter stood at Retief’s side.

      My apologies, Ambassador Spradley said, mopping his forehead. My profound apologies.

      Be quiet, Retief said.

      Wha—what?

      Don’t apologize, Retief said. P’Toi was beckoning.

      Pleasse, arll come.

      Retief turned and followed him.

      The portion of the table they were ushered to was covered with an embroidered white cloth, set with thin porcelain dishes. The Yill already seated there rose, amid babbling, and moved down the table. The black-clad Yill at the end table closed ranks to fill the vacant seats. Retief sat down and found Magnan at his side.

      What’s going on here? the second secretary said angrily.

      They were giving us dog food, Retief said. I overheard a Yill. They seated us at the bottom of the servants’ table—

      You mean you know their language?

      I learned it on the way out. Enough, at least.

      The music burst out with a clangorous fanfare, and a throng of jugglers, dancers and acrobats poured into the center of the hollow square, frantically juggling, dancing and back-flipping. Black-clad servants swarmed suddenly, heaping mounds of fragrant food on the plates of Yill and Terrestrials alike, pouring a pale purple liquor into slender glasses. Retief sampled the Yill food. It was delicious.

      Conversation was impossible in the din. He watched the gaudy display and ate heartily.

      III

      Retief leaned back, grateful for the lull in the music. The last of the dishes were whisked away, and more glasses filled. The exhausted entertainers stopped to pick up the thick square coins the diners threw.

      Retief sighed. It had been a rare feast.

      Retief, Magnan said in the comparative quiet, what were you saying about dog food as the music came up?

      Retief looked at him. Haven’t you noticed the pattern, Mr. Magnan? The series of deliberate affronts?

      Deliberate affronts! Just a minute, Retief. They’re uncouth, yes, crowding into doorways and that sort of thing.... He looked at Retief uncertainly.

      They herded us into a baggage warehouse at the terminal. Then they hauled us here in a garbage truck—

      Garbage truck!

      Only symbolic, of course. They ushered us in the tradesman’s entrance, and assigned us cubicles in the servants’ wing. Then we were seated with the coolie class sweepers at the bottom of the table.

      You must be.... I mean, we’re the Terrestrial delegation! Surely these Yill must realize our power.

      Precisely, Mr. Magnan. But—

      With a clang of cymbals the musicians launched a renewed assault. Six tall, helmeted Yill sprang into the center of the floor and paired off in a wild performance, half dance, half combat. Magnan pulled at Retief’s arm, his mouth moving.

      Retief shook his head. No one could talk against a Yill orchestra in full cry. He sampled a bright red wine and watched the show.

      There was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and collapsed, their partner-opponents whirling away to pair off again, describe the elaborate pre-combat ritual, and abruptly set to, dulled sabres clashing—and two more Yill were down, stunned. It was a violent dance.

      Retief watched, the drink forgotten.

      The last two Yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed and spun, feinted and postured—and on the instant, clashed, straining chest-to-chest—then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as the music mounted to a frenzy.

      Evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow for blow, across the floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out.

      And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. The other, a giant, muscular Yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins showered—then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace and bow-bedecked Yill in the same instant that the music stopped.

      In utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the seated Yill.

      With a shout, the Yill leaped up, raised a clenched fist. The dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet.

      Retief took a deep gulp of a pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to watch. The beribboned Yill waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful of coins across the table and sat down.

      The challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. Retief caught his eye for an instant as he passed.

      And then the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table—and the music stopped off short as the sabre slammed down before a heavy Yill in ornate metallic coils. The challenged Yill rose and raised a fist. The other ducked his head, put his hands on his helmet. Coins rolled. The dancer moved on.

      Twice more the dancer struck the table in ritualistic challenge, exchanged gestures, bent his neck and passed on. He circled the broad floor, sabre twirling, arms darting in an intricate symbolism. The orchestra blared shrilly, unmuffled now by the surf-roar of conversation. The Yill, Retief noticed suddenly, were sitting silent, watching. The dancer was closer now, and then he was before Retief, poised, towering, sabre above his head.

      The music cut, and in the startling instantaneous silence, the heavy sabre whipped over and down with an explosive concussion that set dishes dancing on the table-top.

      The Yill’s eyes held on Retief’s. In the silence, Magnan tittered drunkenly. Retief pushed back his stool.

      Steady, my boy, Ambassador Spradley called. Retief stood, the Yill topping his six foot three by an inch. In a motion almost too quick to follow, Retief reached for the sabre, twitched it from the Yill’s grip, swung it in a whistling cut. The Yill ducked, sprang back, snatched up a sabre dropped by another dancer.

      Someone stop the madman! Spradley howled.

      Retief leaped across the table, sending fragile dishes spinning.

      The other danced back, and only then did the orchestra spring to life with a screech and a mad tattoo of high-pitched drums.

      Making no attempt to following the weaving pattern of the Yill bolero, Retief pressed the other, fending off vicious cuts with the blunt weapon, chopping back relentlessly. Left hand on hip, Retief matched blow for blow, driving the other back.

      Abruptly, the Yill abandoned the double role. Dancing forgotten, he settled down in earnest, cutting, thrusting, parrying; and now the two stood toe to toe, sabres clashing in a lightning exchange. The Yill gave a step, two, then rallied, drove Retief back, back—

      And the Yill stumbled. His sabre clattered, and Retief dropped his point as the other wavered past him and crashed to the floor.

      The orchestra fell silent in a descending wail of reeds. Retief drew a deep breath and wiped his forehead.

      Come back here, you young fool! Spradley called hoarsely.

      Retief hefted the sabre, turned, eyed the brocade-draped table. He started across the floor. The Yill sat as if paralyzed.

      Retief, no! Spradley yelped.

      Retief walked directly to the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau, stopped, raised the sabre.

      Not the chief of state, someone in the Terrestrial mission groaned.

      Retief whipped the sabre down. The dull blade split the cloth and clove the hardwood table. There was utter silence.

      The Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau rose, seven feet of obese gray Yill. Broad face expressionless to any Terran eyes, he raised a fist like a jewel-studded ham.

      Retief stood rigid for a long moment. Then, gracefully, he inclined his head, placed his finger tips on his temples.

      Behind him, there was a clatter as Ambassador Spradley collapsed. Then the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau cried out and reached across the table to embrace the Terrestrial, and the orchestra went mad.

      Gray hands helped Retief across the table, stools were pushed aside to make room at F’Kau-Kau-Kau’s side. Retief sat, took a tall flagon of coal-black brandy pressed on him by his neighbor, clashed glasses with The Admirable and drank.

      IV

      Retief turned at the touch on his shoulder.

      The Ambassador wants to speak to you, Retief, Magnan said.

      Retief looked across to where Ambassador Spradley sat glowering behind the plain tablecloth.

      Under the circumstances, Retief said, you’d better ask him to come over here.

      The ambassador? Magnan’s voice cracked.

      Never mind the protocol, Retief said. The situation is still delicate. Magnan went away.

      The feast ends, F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. Now you and I, Retief, must straddle the Council Stool.

      I’ll be honored, Admirable, Retief said. I must inform my colleagues.

      Colleagues? F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. It is for chiefs to parley. Who shall speak for a king while he yet has tongue for talk?

      The Yill way is wise, Retief said.

      F’Kau-Kau-Kau emptied a squat tumbler of pink beer. I will treat with you, Retief, as viceroy, since as you say your king is old and the space between worlds is far. But there shall be no scheming underlings privy to our dealings. He grinned a Yill grin. Afterwards we shall carouse, Retief. The Council Stool is hard and the waiting handmaidens delectable. This makes for quick agreement.

      Retief smiled. The king is wise.

      Of course, a being prefers wenches of his own kind, F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. He belched. The Ministry of Culture has imported several Terry—excuse me, Retief—Terrestrial joy-girls, said to be top-notch specimens. At least they have very fat watchamacallits.

      The king is most considerate, Retief said.

      Let us to it then, Retief. I may hazard a fling with one of your Terries, myself. I fancy an occasional perversion. F’Kau-Kau-Kau dug an elbow into Retief’s side and bellowed with laughter.

      Ambassador Spradley hurried to intercept Retief as he crossed to the door at F’Kau-Kau-Kau’s side.

      Retief, kindly excuse yourself, I wish a word with you. His voice was icy. Magnan stood behind him, goggling.

      Mr. Ambassador, forgive my apparent rudeness, Retief said. I don’t have time to explain now—

      Rudeness! Spradley barked. Don’t have time, eh? Let me tell you—

      Lower your voice, Mr. Ambassador, Retief said.

      Spradley quivered, mouth open, speechless.

      If you’ll sit down and wait quietly, Retief said, I think—

      "You think!" Spradley spluttered.

      Silence! Retief said. Spradley looked up at Retief’s face. He stared for a moment into Retief’s gray eyes, closed his mouth and swallowed.

      The Yill seem to have gotten the impression I’m in charge, Retief said, We’ll have to keep it up.

      But—but— Spradley stuttered. Then he straightened. That is the last straw, he whispered hoarsely. "I am the Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. Magnan has told me that we’ve been studiedly insulted, repeatedly, since the moment of our arrival. Kept waiting in baggage rooms, transported in refuse lorries, herded about with servants, offered swill at table. Now I and my senior staff, are left cooling our heels, without so much as an audience while this—this multiple Kau person hobnobs with—with—"

      Spradley’s voice broke. I may have been a trifle hasty, Retief, in attempting to restrain you. Blaspheming the native gods and dumping the banquet table are rather extreme measures, but your resentment was perhaps partially justified. I am prepared to be lenient with you. He fixed a choleric eye on Retief.

      I am walking out of this meeting, Mr. Retief. I’ll take no more of these deliberate personal—

      That’s enough, Retief snapped. You’re keeping the king waiting. Get back to your chair and sit there until I come back.

      Magnan found his voice. What are you going to do, Retief?

      I’m going to handle the negotiation, Retief said. He handed Magnan his empty glass. Now go sit down and work on the Image.

      *

      At his desk in the VIP suite aboard the orbiting Corps vessel, Ambassador Spradley pursed his lips and looked severely at Vice-Consul Retief.

      Further, he said, you have displayed a complete lack of understanding of Corps discipline, the respect due a senior agent, even the basic courtesies. Your aggravated displays of temper, ill-timed outbursts of violence and almost incredible arrogance in the assumption of authority make your further retention as an officer-agent of the Diplomatic Corps impossible. It will therefore be my unhappy duty to recommend your immediate—

      There was a muted buzz from the communicator. The ambassador cleared his throat.

      Well?

      A signal from Sector HQ, Mr. Ambassador, a voice said.

      Well, read it, Spradley snapped. Skip the preliminaries.

      Congratulations on the unprecedented success of your mission. The articles of agreement transmitted by you embody a most favorable resolution of the difficult Sirenian situation, and will form the basis of continued amicable relations between the Terrestrial States and the Yill Empire. To you and your staff, full credit is due for a job well done. Signed, Deputy Assistant Secretary—

      Spradley cut off the voice impatiently.

      He shuffled papers, eyed Retief sharply.

      Superficially, of course, an uninitiated observer might leap to the conclusion that the—ah—results that were produced in spite of these ... ah ... irregularities justify the latter. The Ambassador smiled a sad, wise smile. This is far from the case, he said. I—

      The communicator burped softly.

      Confound it! Spradley muttered. Yes?

      Mr. T’Cai-Cai has arrived, the voice said. Shall I—

      Send him in at once. Spradley glanced at Retief. Only a two-syllable man, but I shall attempt to correct these false impressions, make some amends....

      The two Terrestrials waited silently until the Yill Protocol chief tapped at the door.

      I hope, the ambassador said, that you will resist the impulse to take advantage of your unusual position. He looked at the door. Come in.

      T’Cai-Cai stepped into the room, glanced at Spradley, turned to greet Retief in voluble Yill. He rounded the desk to the ambassador’s chair, motioned him from it and sat down.

      *

      I have a surprise for you, Retief, he said, in Terran. I myself have made use of the teaching machine you so kindly lent us.

      That’s fine. T’Cai-Cai, Retief said. I’m sure Mr. Spradley will be interested in hearing what we have to say.

      Never mind, the Yill said. I am here only socially. He looked around the room.

      So plainly you decorate your chamber. But it has a certain austere charm. He laughed a Yill laugh.

      Oh, you are a strange breed, you Terrestrials. You surprised us all. You know, one hears such outlandish stories. I tell you in confidence, we had expected you to be overpushes.

      Pushovers, Spradley said, tonelessly.

      Such restraint! What pleasure you gave to those of us, like myself of course, who appreciated your grasp of protocol. Such finesse! How subtly you appeared to ignore each overture, while neatly avoiding actual contamination. I can tell you, there were those who thought—poor fools—that you had no grasp of etiquette. How gratified we were, we professionals, who could appreciate your virtuosity—when you placed matters on a comfortable basis by spurning the cats’-meat. It was sheer pleasure then, waiting, to see what form your compliment would take.

      The Yill offered orange cigars, stuffed one in his nostril.

      I confess even I had not hoped that you would honor our Admirable so signally. Oh, it is a pleasure to deal with fellow professionals, who understand the meaning of protocol!

      Ambassador Spradley made a choking sound.

      This fellow has caught a chill, T’Cai-Cai said. He eyed Spradley dubiously. "Step back, my man. I am highly susceptible.

      There is one bit of business I shall take pleasure in attending to, my dear Retief, T’Cai-Cai went on. He drew a large paper from his reticule. The Admirable is determined than none other than yourself shall be accredited here. I have here my government’s exequatur confirming you as Terrestrial consul-general to Yill. We shall look forward to your prompt return.

      Retief looked at Spradley.

      I’m sure the Corps will agree, he said.

      Then I shall be going, T’Cai-Cai said. He stood up. Hurry back to us, Retief. There is much that I would show you of Yill.

      I’ll hurry, Retief said and, with a Yill wink: Together we shall see many high and splendid things!

      Homo Inferior

      by Mari Wolf

      The world of the new race was peaceful, comfortable, lovely—and completely static. Only Eric knew the haunting loneliness that had carried the old race to the stars, and he couldn’t communicate it, even if he had dared to!

      The Starship waited. Cylindrical walls enclosed it, and a transparent plastic dome held it back from the sky and the stars. It waited, while night changed to day and back again, while the seasons merged one into another, and the years, and the centuries. It towered as gleaming and as uncorroded as it had when it was first built, long ago, when men had bustled about it and in it, their shouting and their laughter and the sound of their tools ringing against the metallic plates.

      Now few men ever came to it. And those who did come merely looked with quiet faces for a few minutes, and then went away again.

      The generations kaleidoscoped by. The Starship waited.

      *

      Eric met the other children when he was four years old. They were out in the country, and he’d slipped away from his parents and started wading along the edge of a tiny stream, kicking at the water spiders.

      His feet were soaked, and his knees were streaked with mud where he’d knelt down to play. His father wouldn’t like it later, but right now it didn’t matter. It was fun to be off by himself, splashing along the stream, feeling the sun hot on his back and the water icy against his feet.

      A water spider scooted past him, heading for the tangled moss along the bank. He bent down, scooped his hand through the water to catch it. For a moment he had it, then it slipped over his fingers and darted away, out of his reach.

      As he stood up, disappointed, he saw them: two boys and a girl, not much older than he. They were standing at the edge of the trees, watching him.

      He’d seen children before, but he’d never met any of them. His parents kept him away from them—and from all strangers. He stood still, watching them, waiting for them to say something. He felt excited and uncomfortable at the same time.

      They didn’t say anything. They just watched him, very intently.

      He felt even more uncomfortable.

      The bigger boy laughed. He pointed at Eric and laughed again and looked over at his companions. They shook their heads.

      Eric waded up out of the water. He didn’t know whether to go over to them or run away, back to his mother. He didn’t understand the way they were looking at him.

      Hello, he said.

      The big boy laughed again. See? he said, pointing at Eric. He can’t.

      Can’t what? Eric said.

      The three looked at him, not saying anything. Then they all burst out laughing. They pointed at him, jumped up and down and clapped their hands together.

      What’s funny? Eric said, backing away from them, wishing his mother would come, and yet afraid to turn around and run.

      You, the girl said. You’re funny. Funny, funny, funny! You’re stu-pid.

      The others took it up. Stu-pid, stu-pid. You can’t talk to us, you’re too stu-pid....

      They skipped down the bank toward him, laughing and calling. They jumped up and down and pointed at him, crowded closer and closer.

      Silly, silly. Can’t talk. Silly, silly. Can’t talk....

      Eric backed away from them. He tried to run, but he couldn’t. His knees shook too much. He could hardly move his legs at all. He began to cry.

      They crowded still closer around him. Stu-pid. Their laughter was terrible. He couldn’t get away from them. He cried louder.

      Eric! His mother’s voice. He twisted around, saw her coming, running toward him along the bank.

      Mama! He could move again. He stumbled toward her.

      He wants his mama, the big boy said. Funny baby.

      His mother was looking past him, at the other children. They stopped laughing abruptly. They looked back at her for a moment, scuffing their feet in the dirt and not saying anything. Suddenly the big boy turned and ran, up over the bank and out of sight. The other boy followed him.

      The girl started to run, and then she looked at Eric’s mother again and stopped. She looked back at Eric. I’m sorry, she said sulkily, and then she turned and fled after the others.

      Eric’s mother picked him up. It’s all right, she said. Mother’s here. It’s all right.

      He clung to her, clutching her convulsively, his whole body shaking. Why, Mama? Why?

      You’re all right, dear.

      She was warm and her arms were tight around him. He was home again, and safe. He relaxed, slowly.

      Don’t leave me, Mama.

      I won’t, dear.

      She crooned to him, softly, and he relaxed still more. His head drooped on her shoulder and after a while he fell asleep.

      But it wasn’t the same as it had been. It wouldn’t ever be quite the same again. He knew he was different now.

      *

      That night Eric lay asleep. He was curled on his side, one chubby hand under his cheek, the other still holding his favorite animal, the wooly lamb his mother had given him for his birthday. He stirred in his sleep, threshing restlessly, and whimpered.

      His mother’s face lifted mutely to her husband’s.

      Myron, the things those children said. It must have been terrible for him. I’m glad at least that he couldn’t perceive what they were thinking.

      Myron sighed. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her close against him. Don’t torture yourself, Gwin. You can’t make it easier for him. There’s no way.

      But we’ll have to tell him something.

      He stroked her hair. The four years of their shared sorrow lay heavily between them as he looked down over her head at his son.

      Poor devil. Let him keep his childhood while he can, Gwin. He’ll know he’s all alone soon enough.

      She nodded, burying her face against his chest. I know....

      Eric whimpered again, and his hands clenched into fists and came up to protect his face.

      Instinctively Gwin reached out to him, and then she drew back. She couldn’t reach his emotions. There was no perception. There was no way she could enter his dreams and rearrange them and comfort him.

      Poor devil, his father said again. He’s got his whole life to be lonely in.

      *

      The summer passed, and another winter and another summer. Eric spent more and more time by himself. He liked to sit on the glassed-in sunporch, bouncing his ball up and down and talking to it, aloud, pretending that it answered him back. He liked to lie on his stomach close to the wall and look out at the garden with its riotous mass of flowers and the insects that flew among them. Some flew quickly, their wings moving so fast that they were just blurs. Others flew slowly, swooping on outspread bright-colored wings from petal to petal. He liked these slow-flying ones the best. He could wiggle his shoulder blades in time with their wings and pretend that he was flying too.

      Sometimes other children came by on the outside of the wall. He could look out at them without worrying, because they couldn’t see him. The wall wasn’t transparent from the outside. He liked it when three or four of them came by together, laughing and chasing each other through the garden. Usually, though, they didn’t stay long. After they had played a few minutes his father or his mother went out and looked at them, and then they went away.

      Eric was playing by himself when the old man came out to the sunporch doorway and stood there, saying nothing, making no effort to interrupt or to speak. He was so quiet that after a while Eric almost didn’t mind his being there.

      The old man turned back to Myron and Gwin.

      Of course the boy can learn. He’s not stupid.

      Eric bounced the ball, flung it against the transparent glass, caught it, bounced it again.

      But how, Walden? Gwin shook her head. You offer to teach him, but—

      Walden smiled. "Remember these?"

      ... Walden’s study. The familiar curtains drawn aside, and the shelves behind them. The rows of bright-backed, box-like objects, most of them old and spotted, quite unhygienic ...

      Gwin shook her head at the perception, but Myron nodded.

      Books. I didn’t know there were any outside the museums.

      Walden smiled again. Only mine. Books are fascinating things. All the knowledge of a race, gathered together on a few shelves....

      Knowledge? Myron shrugged. Imagine storing knowledge in those—boxes. What are they? What’s in them? Just words....

      The books faded as Walden sighed. You’d be surprised what the old race did, with just those—boxes.

      He looked across at Eric, who was now bouncing his ball and counting, out loud, up to three, and then going back and starting again.

      The boy can learn what’s in those books. Just as if he’d gone to school back in the old times.

      Myron and Gwin looked doubtfully at each other, and then over at the corner where Eric played unheeding. Perhaps Walden could help. Perhaps....

      Eric, Gwin said aloud.

      Yes, mother?

      We’ve decided you’re going to go to school, the way you want to. Mr. Walden here is going to be your teacher. Isn’t that nice?

      Eric looked at her and then at the old man. Strangers didn’t often come out on the sunporch. Strangers usually left him alone.

      He bounced the ball again without answering.

      Say something, Eric, his mother commanded.

      Eric looked back at Walden. He can’t teach me to be like other children, can he?

      No, Walden said. I can’t.

      Then I don’t want to go to school. Eric threw the ball across the room as hard as he could.

      "But there once were other people like you, Walden said. Lots of them. And you can learn about them, if you want to."

      Other people like me? Where?

      Myron and Gwin looked helplessly at each other and at the old man. Gwin began to cry and Myron cursed softly, on the perception level so that Eric wouldn’t hear them.

      But Walden’s face was gentle and understanding as he answered, so understanding that Eric couldn’t help wanting desperately to believe him.

      Everyone was like you once, Walden said. A long time ago.

      *

      It was a new life for Eric. Every day he would go over to Walden’s and the two of them would pull back the curtains in the study and Walden would lift down some of the books. It was as if Walden was giving him the past, all of it, as fast as he could grasp it.

      I’m really like the old race, Walden?

      Yes, Eric. You’ll see just how much like them....

      Identity. Here in the past, in the books he was learning to read, in the pictures, the pages and pages of scenes and portraits. Strange scenes, far removed from the gardens and the quiet houses and the wordless smile of friend to friend.

      Great buildings and small. The Parthenon in the moonlight, not too many pages beyond the cave, with its smoky fire and first crude wall drawings. Cities bright with a million neon lights, and still later, caves again—the underground stations of the Moon colonies. All unreal, and yet—

      They were his people, these men in the pictures. Strange men, violent men: the barbarian trampling his enemy to death beneath his horse’s hooves, the knight in armor marching to the Crusade, the spaceman. And the quieter men: the farmer, the artisan, the poet—they too were his people, and far easier to understand than the others.

      The skill of reading mastered, and the long, sweeping vistas of the past. Their histories. Their wars. Why did they fight, Walden? And Walden’s sigh. I don’t know, Eric, but they did.

      So much to learn. So much to understand. Their art and music and literature and religion. Patterns of life that ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, but never in quite the same way. Why did they change so much, Walden? And the answer, You probably know that better than I, Eric....

      Perhaps he did. For he went on to the books that Walden ignored. Their mathematics, their science. The apple’s fall, and the orbits of planets. The sudden spiral of analysis, theory, technology. The machines—steamships, airplanes, spaceships....

      And the searching loneliness that carried the old race from the caves of Earth to the stars. The searching, common to the violent man and the quiet man, to the doer and the dreaming poet.

      Why do we hunger, who own the Moon and trample the shifting dust of Mars?

      Why aren’t we content with the worlds we’ve won? Why don’t we rest, with the system ours?

      We have cast off the planets like outgrown toys, and now we want the stars....

      Have you ever been to the stars, Walden?

      Walden stared at him. Then he laughed. Of course not, Eric. Nobody goes there now. None of our race has ever gone. Why should we?

      There was no explaining. Walden had never been lonely.

      And then one day, while he was reading some fiction from the middle period of the race, Eric found the fantasy. Speculation about the future, about their future.... About the new race!

      He read on, his heart pounding, until the same old pattern came clear. They had foreseen conflict, struggle between old race and new, suspicion and hatred and tragedy. The happy ending was superficial. Everyone was motivated as they had been motivated.

      He shut the book and sat there, wanting to reach back across the years to the old race writers who had been so right and yet so terribly, blindly wrong. The writers who had seen in the new only a continuation of the old, of themselves, of their own fears and their own hungers.

      Why did they die, Walden? He didn’t expect an answer.

      Why does any race die, Eric?

      His own people, forever removed from him, linked to him only through the books, the pictures, and his own backward-reaching emotions.

      "Walden, hasn’t there ever been anyone else like me, since they died?"

      Silence. Then, slowly, Walden nodded.

      I wondered how long it would be before you asked that. Yes, there have been others. Sometimes three or four in a generation.

      Then, perhaps....

      No, Walden said. There aren’t any others now. We’d know it if there were. He turned away from Eric, to the plastic wall that looked out across the garden and the children playing and the long, level, flower-carpeted plain.

      Sometimes, when there’s more than one of them, they go out there away from us, out to the hills where it’s wild. But they’re found, of course. Found, and brought back. He sighed. The last of them died when I was a boy.

      Others like him. Within Walden’s lifetime, others, cut off from their own race, lonely and rootless in the midst of the new. Others like him, but not now, in his lifetime. For him there were only the books.

      The old race was gone, gone with all its conflicts, all its violence, its stupidity—and its flaming rockets in the void and its Parthenon in the moonlight.

      *

      Eric came into the study and stopped. The room was filled with strangers. There were half a dozen men besides Walden, most of them fairly old, white-haired and studious looking. They all turned to look at him, watched him gravely without speaking.

      Well, there he is. Walden looked from face to face. Are you still worried? Do you still think that one small boy constitutes a threat to the race? What about you, Abbot?

      I don’t know. I still think he should have been institutionalized in the beginning.

      Why? So you could study the brain processes of the lower animals? Walden’s thoughts were as sarcastic as he could send them.

      No, of course not. But don’t you see what you’ve done, by teaching him to read? You’ve started him thinking of the old race. Don’t deny it.

      I don’t.

      The thin man, Drew, broke in angrily. He’s not full grown yet. Just fourteen, isn’t he? How can you be sure what he’ll be like later? He’ll be a problem. They’ve always been problems.

      They were afraid. That was what was the matter with them. Walden sighed. Tell them what you’ve been studying, Eric, he said aloud.

      For a minute Eric was too tongue-tied to answer. He stood motionless, waiting for them to laugh at him.

      Go on. Tell them.

      I’ve been reading about the old race, Eric said. All about the stars. About the people who went off in the starships and explored our whole galaxy.

      What’s a galaxy? the thin man said. Walden could perceive that he really didn’t know.

      Eric’s fear lessened. These men weren’t laughing at him. They weren’t being just polite, either. They were interested. He smiled at them, shyly, and told them about the books and the wonderful, strange tales of the past that the books told. The men listened, nodding from time to time. But he knew that they didn’t understand. The world of the books was his alone....

      Well? Walden looked at the others. They looked back. Their emotions were a welter of doubt, of indecision.

      You’ve heard the boy, Walden said quietly, thrusting his own uneasiness down, out of his thoughts.

      Yes. Abbot hesitated. He seems bright enough—quite different from what I’d expected. At least he’s not like the ones who grew up wild in the hills. This boy isn’t a savage.

      Walden shrugged. Maybe they weren’t savages either, he suggested. After all, it’s been fifty years since the last of them died. And a lot of legends can spring up in fifty years.

      Perhaps we have been worrying unnecessarily. Abbot got up to go, but his eyes still held Walden’s. But, he added, it’s up to you to watch him. If he reverts, becomes dangerous in any way, he’ll have to be locked up. That’s final.

      The others nodded.

      I’ll watch him, Walden told them. Just stop worrying.

      He stood at the door and waited until they were out of sight. Then and only then did he allow himself to sigh and taste the fear he’d kept hidden. The old men, the men with authority, were the dangerous ones.

      Walden snorted. Even with perception, men could be fools.

      *

      The summer that Eric was sixteen Walden took him to the museum. The aircar made the trip in just a few hours—but it was farther than Eric had ever traveled in his life, and farther than most people ever bothered traveling.

      The museum lay on an open plain where there weren’t many houses. At first glance it was far from impressive. Just a few big buildings, housing the artifacts, and a few old ruins of ancient constructions, leveled now and half buried in the sands.

      It’s nothing. Eric looked down at it, disappointed. Nothing at all.

      What did you expect? Walden set the aircar down between the two largest buildings. You knew it wouldn’t be like the pictures in the books. You knew that none of the old race’s cities are left.

      I know, Eric said. But I expected more than this.

      He got out of the car and followed Walden around to the door of the first building. Another man, almost as old as Walden, came toward them smiling. The two men shook hands and stood happily perceiving each other.

      This is Eric, Walden said aloud. Eric, this is Prior, the caretaker here. He was one of my schoolmates.

      It’s been years since we’ve perceived short range, Prior said. Years. But I suppose the boy wants to look around inside?

      Eric nodded, although he didn’t care too much. He was too disappointed to care. There was nothing here that he hadn’t seen a hundred times before.

      They went inside, past some scale models of the old cities. The same models, though a bit bigger, that Eric had seen in the three-dimensional view-books. Then they went into another room, lined with thousands of books, some very old, many the tiny microfilmed ones from the middle periods of the old race.

      How do you like it, Eric? the caretaker said.

      It’s fine, he said flatly, not really meaning it. He was angry at himself for feeling disappointment. Walden had told him what to expect. And yet he’d kept thinking that he’d walk into one of the old cities and be able to imagine that it was ten thousand years ago and others were around him. Others like him....

      Ruins. Ruins covered by dirt, and no one of the present race would even bother about uncovering them.

      Prior and Walden looked at each other and smiled. Did you tell him? the caretaker telepathed.

      No. I thought we’d surprise him. I knew all the rest would disappoint him.

      Eric, the caretaker said aloud. Come this way. There’s another room I want to show you.

      He followed them downstairs, down a long winding ramp that spiraled underground so far that he lost track of the distance they had descended. He didn’t much care anyway. Ahead of him, the other two were communicating, leaving him alone.

      Through here, Prior said, stepping off the ramp.

      They entered a room that was like the bottom of a well, with smooth stone sides and far, far above them a glass roof, with clouds apparently drifting across its surface. But it wasn’t a well. It was a vault, forever preserving the thing that had been the old race’s masterpiece.

      It rested in the center of the room, its nose pointing up at the sky. It was like the pictures, and unlike them. It was big, far bigger than Eric had ever visualized it. It was tall and smooth and as new looking as if its builders had just stepped outside for a minute and would be back in another minute to blast off for the stars.

      A starship, Walden said. One of the last types.

      There aren’t many left, Prior said. We’re lucky to have this one in our museum.

      Eric wasn’t listening. He was looking at the ship. The old race’s ship. His ship.

      The old race built strange things, Prior said. This is one of the strangest. He shook his head. Imagine the time they put in on it.... And for what?

      Eric didn’t try to answer him. He couldn’t explain why the old ones had built it. But he knew. He would have built it himself, if he’d lived then. We have cast off the planets like outgrown toys, and now we want the stars....

      His people. His ship. His dream.

      *

      The old caretaker showed him around the museum and then left him alone to explore by himself. He had all the time he wanted.

      He studied. He worked hard all day long, scarcely ever leaving the museum grounds. He studied the subjects that now were the most fascinating to him of all the old race’s knowledge—the subjects that related to the starships. Astronomy, physics, navigation, and the complex charts of distant stars, distant planets, worlds he’d never heard of before. Worlds that to the new race were only pin-pricks of light in the night sky.

      All day long he studied. But in the evening he would go down the winding ramp to the ship. The well was lighted with a softer, more diffuse illumination than that of the houses. In the soft glow the walls and the glass-domed roof seemed to disappear and the ship looked free, pointing up at the stars.

      He didn’t try to tell the caretaker what he thought. He just went back to his books and his studies. There was so much he had to learn. And now there was a reason for his learning. Someday, when he was fully grown and strong and had mastered all he needed from the books, he was going to fly the ship. He was going to look for his people, the ones who had left Earth before the new race came....

      He told no one. But Walden watched him, and sighed.

      They’ll never let you do it, Eric. It’s a mad dream.

      What are you talking about?

      The ship. You want to go to the stars, don’t you?

      Eric stared at him, more surprised than he’d been in years. He had said nothing. There was no way for Walden to know. Unless he’d perceived it—and Eric couldn’t be perceived, any more than he could perceive other people....

      Walden shook his head. It wasn’t telepathy that told me. It was your eyes. The way you look at the ship. And besides, I’ve known you for years now. And I’ve wondered how long it would be before you thought of this answer.

      Well, why not? Eric looked across at the ship, and his throat caught, choking him, the way it always did. I’m lonely here. My people are gone. Why shouldn’t I go?

      You’d be lonelier inside that ship, by yourself, away from Earth, away from everything, and with no assurance you’d ever find anyone at all, old race or new or alien....

      Eric didn’t answer. He looked back at the ship, thinking of the books, trying to think of it as a prison, a weightless prison carrying him forever into the unknown, with no one to talk to, no one to see.

      Walden was right. He would be too much alone in the ship. He’d have to postpone his dream.

      He’d wait until he was old, and take the ship and die in it....

      Eric smiled at the thought. He was seventeen, old enough to know that his idea was adolescent and melodramatic. He knew, suddenly, that he’d never fly the ship.

      *

      The years passed. Eric spent most of his time at the museum. He had his own aircar now, and sometimes he flew it home and visited with his parents. They liked to have him come. They liked it much better than having to travel all the way to the museum to visit him.

      Yet, though he wasn’t dependent on other people any more, and could fly the aircar as he chose, he didn’t do much exploring. He didn’t have any desire to meet strangers. And there were always the books.

      You’re sure you’re all right? his mother said. You don’t need anything?

      No. I’m fine.

      He smiled, looking out through the sunporch wall into the garden. It seemed years and years since he’d pressed his nose to the glass, watching the butterflies. It had been a long time.

      I’ve got to get going, he said. I want to be back at the museum by dark.

      Well, if you’re sure you won’t stay....

      They said goodbye and he went out and got into the aircar and started back. He flew slowly, close to the ground, because he really had plenty of time and he felt lazy. He skimmed along over a valley and heard laughter and dipped lower. A group of children was playing. Young ones—they even talked aloud sometimes as they played. Children.... There were so many children, always in groups, laughing....

      He flew on, quickly, until he was in a part of the country where he didn’t see any houses. Just a stream and a grove of trees and bright flowers. He dropped lower, stopped, got out and walked down to the stream.

      It was by another stream that he’d met the children who had laughed at him, years ago. He smiled, sadly.

      He felt alone, but in a different sense from his usual isolation. He felt free, away from people, away even from the books and their unspoken insistence that their writers were dead and almost forgotten. He stood by the edge of the stream, watching water spiders scoot across the rippled surface.

      This was the same. This stream had probably been here when the old race was here, maybe even before the old race had even come into existence.

      Water spiders. Compared to man, their race was immortal....

      The sun was low when he turned away from the stream and walked back to where he had parked the aircar. He scarcely looked about him as he walked. He was sure he was alone, and he felt no caution, no need to watch and listen.

      But as he turned toward the car he saw the people. Two. Young, about his own age. A boy and a girl, smiling at each other, holding hands.

      They weren’t a dozen feet in front of him. But they didn’t notice him. They were conscious of no one but each other. As Eric watched, standing frozen, unwilling to draw attention to himself by even moving or backing up, the two leaned closer together. Their arms went around each other, tightly, and they kissed.

      They said nothing. They kissed, and then stood apart and went on looking at each other. Even without being able to perceive, Eric could feel their emotion.

      Then they turned, slowly, toward him. In a moment they would be aware of him. He didn’t want them to think he was spying on them, so he went toward them, making no effort to be quiet, and as he moved they stepped still farther apart and looked at him, startled.

      They looked at each other as he passed, even more startled, and the girl’s hand went up to her mouth in surprise.

      They know, Eric thought bitterly. They know I’m different.

      He didn’t want to go back to the museum. He flew blindly, not looking down at the neat domed houses and the gardens and the people, but ahead, to the eastern sky and the upthrust scarp of the hills. The hills, where people like him had fled, for a little while.

      The occasional aircars disappeared. The gardens dropped away, and the ordered color, and there was grass and bare dirt and, ahead, the scraggly trees and out-thrust rocks of the foothills. No people. Only the birds

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