And the ones who fought those wars were members of the same race—not members of two races separated by different origins, by different metabolisms, by different minds.
«No,» he said, «there is no way. Some day, perhaps, we will be gone. Some day we will find another and a cheaper source of power and you will be left in peace. Until that day—» He left the words unspoken.
Page turned away, headed for the lock, followed by the three big Candles and the little pink one.
Ranged together at the port, the three Terrestrials watched the Candles come out of the lock. Page was still in the form of a man, but as he walked away the form ran together and puddled down until he was a sphere.
Creepy cackled at Craig’s elbow. «By cracky,» he yelped, «he was a purple one!»
Craig sat at his desk, writing his report to the Solar power board, his pen travelling rapidly over the paper:
—they waited for five hundred years before they acted. Perhaps this was merely caution or in the hope they might find a better way. Or it may be that time has a different value for them than it has for us. In an existence which stretches into eternity, time would have but little value.
For all those five hundred years they have watched and studied us. They have read our minds, absorbed our thoughts, dug out our knowledge, soaked up our personalities. Perhaps they know us better than we know ourselves. Whether their crude mimicry of our thoughts is merely a clever ruse to make us think they are harmless or whether it reflects differing degrees of the art of mimicry—the difference between a cartoon and a masterpiece of painting—I cannot say. I cannot even guess.
Heretofore we have never given thought to protect ourselves against them, for we have considered them, in general, as amusing entities and little else. Whether or not the cat in the refrigerator was the Candle or Mathilde I do not know, but it was the cat in the refrigerator that gave me the idea of using liquid oxygen. Undoubtedly there are better ways. Anything that would swiftly deprive them of energy would serve. Convinced they will try again, even if they have to wait another five hundred years, I urgently suggest—
He stopped and laid down the pen.
From the kitchen below came the faint clatter of pots and pans as Rastus engineered a dinner. Bellowed snatches of unmusical song, sandwiched between the clatter of utensils, floated up the ramp:
«Chicken in de bread pan,
Kickin’ up de dough—»
The wastebasket in the corner moved slightly and Mathilde slunk out, tail at half mast. With a look of contempt at Craig, she stalked to the door and down the ramp.
Creepy was tuning up his fiddle, but only half-heartedly. Creepy felt badly about Knut. Despite their checker arguments, the two had been good friends.
Craig considered the things he’d have to do. He’d have to go out and bring in Knut’s body, ship it back to Earth for burial. But first he was going to sleep. Lord, how he needed sleep!
He picked up the pen and proceeded with his writing:
—that every effort be bent to the development of some convenient weapon to be used against them. But to be used only in defense. A program of extermination, such as has been carried out on other planets, is unthinkable.
To do this it will be necessary that we study them even as they have studied us. Before we can fight them we must know them. For the next time their method of attack undoubtedly will be different.
Likewise we must develop a test, to be applied to every person before entering the Center, that will reveal whether he is a Candle or a man.
And, lastly, every effort should be made to develop some other source of universal power against the day when Mercury may become inaccessible to us.
He reread the report and put it down.
«They won’t like that,» he told himself. «Especially that last paragraph. But we have to face the truth.»
Rastus’ voice rose shrilly. «You, Mathilde! You get out of there! Can’t turn my back but you’re in that icebox—»
A broom thudded with a whack.
There was no sound from the control room. Creepy apparently had put away his fiddle. Probably didn’t have the heart to play it.
For a long time Craig sat at his desk, thinking. Then he arose and went to the port.
Outside, on the bitter plains of Mercury, the Candles had paired off, two and two, were monstrous dice, rolling in the dust. As far as the eye could see, the plains were filled with galloping dominos. And every pair, at every toss, were rolling sevens!
THE END
The Fence
Originally published in the September 1952 issue of Space Science Fiction—only the second issue of that magazine—this story presents several strange, even perverse, concepts, starting with what seems to have been the application of capitalistic principles to hobbies. But it gets really surreal when the protagonist finds himself completely unable to walk in a straight line, and I find myself wondering whether Cliff was asking—in some metaphorical form—where we are going.
This warped kind of play-world is a strange place to get to, for an author so frequently referred to as the «pastoralist of science fiction.» On the other hand, Cliff apparently saw a lot of nonsense in the way that people have come to live in our society.
—dww
He came down the stairway into the hushed sanctuary of the lounge and stood for a moment to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the perpetual twilight of the place.
A robot waiter went past, tall glasses balanced on the tray.
«Good afternoon, Mr. Craig,» he said.
«How are you, Herman?» asked Craig.
«Will you wish something, sir?»
«No, thank you,» said Craig. «I’m going out directly.»
Herman left. Craig crossed the room and he walked almost on tiptoe. He realized now, for the first time, that he almost always walked on tiptoe here.
The only noise that ever was allowed was a cough and even then it must be a cough that was most discreet. To have spoken to anyone within the confines of the lounge would have been high treason.
The ticker stood in one corner of the room and, in keeping with the place, it was an almost silent ticker. The tape came out and went into a basket, but the basket was well watched and often emptied and the tape never, never spilled out on the carpet.
He picked up the strand of tape and ran it through his fingers, bending low to read the characters, backing through the alphabet until he came to C and then he went more slowly.
Cox, 108-½; Cotton, 97; Colfield, 92; Cratchfield, 111-¼; Craig, 75 … Craig, 75!
It had been 78 yesterday and 81 the day before and 83 the day before that.
A month ago it had been 96-½ and a year ago 120.
He stood with the tape in his hand and looked out over the room. The place seemed, at first glance, to be deserted. But as he looked, he saw them.
There was a bald head peeking over the back of one chair and over the back of another rose a telltale trail of smoke from an invisible cigar. There was one who sat facing Craig, but he seemed so much a part of the chair that at first he seemed invisible. He sat quietly, with his gleaming black shoes and white shirt front and the folded paper held stiffly before him.
Craig turned his head slowly and saw, with a sinking feeling, that there was someone in his chair, just three removed from the right wing of the fireplace. A month ago it would not have happened, a year ago it would have been unthinkable. His personal satisfaction had been high, then.
But they knew that he was slipping. They had seen the tape and talked about it. And they felt contempt for him despite their mealy mouths.