Goodwin: “—Of a certain female crew member? Namely Laurilu Nagula? Oh, I can understand that well enough. But can’t you see the relevance, I mean aside from just the psychology? Can’t you see the parallels, the analogy?”
Dr. S, wonderingly: “Parallels? Analogy?”
Goodwin, thoughtfully: “Well, maybe not. Because it doesn’t—or didn’t—apply to you. But it certainly applies to me. I think that if you can find the time, assuming we’re to be given enough time, maybe you should read those papers again, Doc. And especially Laurilu’s concerns about all the waste, how much she hated it.” (Goodwin’s laughter.) “Well, me too, Laurilu! But on a far more personal level, right?”
Dr. S: “Jim, I—”
Goodwin: “Read what she wrote, and what she said to Michael Gilchrist, the ship’s so-called ‘exobioecologist,’ that time in her bunk; what she said about the shark fishermen. And not only that but what he said about them: how they threw back what they didn’t want, just tossed them back alive or dead, back into, or maybe I should say onto—”
Dr. S, faintly: “Back onto the…the…oh my God!”
Goodwin: “Now you’re getting it! Now you’re seeing it, Doc! It’s our position in the universal food chain, that’s all. What a tree fern is to us—”
Dr. S: “—We are to…to…?”
Goodwin: “Exactly! Except with us there’s this problem with the waste, that’s all. Makes you wonder what the French do with all those soft little bodies, now doesn’t it?”
Dr. S, weakly, wonderingly: “The French?”
Goodwin: “Sure. I mean, they know the parts that suit their taste buds, but what do they do with the bits that don’t, eh?”
Dr. S: “The bits that don’t? You mean the rest of the f-f-f—for God’s sake!”
Goodwin: “Just one more thing before I go, Doc. How many of these prosthetics is the Corps working on? I mean apart from my new, lightweight model—which I’m sure I won’t be needing.”
Dr. S, dazedly: “How m-many?”
Goodwin, revving his motor: “Because if you want my advice, Doc, I reckon you need to be building those things on an automated production line or lines, and that you should get them up and running just as soon as possible.”
Dr. S: “Jim, what are you saying? What are you d-doing?”
Goodwin: “Goodbye, Doc. It’s me for the compost heap, while there’s still some room on it.”
(The sound of his tractor’s motor revving more yet, then of grinding gears, glass shattering, torn metal, and moments later a jarring near-distant crash.) And finally:
Dr. S, his sobbing voice repeating over and over again: “Oh Jesus! Oh my God! Oh Jesus! Oh my G-g-god…!”
XII
FEASIBILITY REPORT
Sol III Equivalents, Haquar Standard:
Diameter……………1.215 approx.
Day…………..0.922 approx.
Mass……………1.163 approx.
Atmos.……………Acceptable, if a little high in nitrogen, which will be of small consequence once our automated farms and domed processing units are established.
Life:—
A surprising diversity of flora and fauna! The higher or “dominant” lifeforms are bipedal; indeed, their pedal extremities are a delicacy and highly recommended. A shame that the flavor and texture of their vital organs should be unappetizing to Haquarian tastes and even somewhat toxic in concentrated chemical and bacterial content; a great waste. Likewise the trunk, head, and stringy upper appendages: too bony, messy, time-consuming; generally unsatisfactory.
There has been among my team some facetious conjecture that perhaps these creatures have passed too far along the multiversal evolutionary path to be considered mere pabulum, provender, or gourmet pap. Such speculation was put to the test, as usual, by measuring the species’ progress against that of the Haquari.
They have two sexes: an utterly inefficient means of reproduction. Even the most primitive, amoeban lifeforms are capable of fission. Having no telepathic capability, no hive awareness, no Oneness, their principal means of communication is by sounds produced by the expulsion of gases from their mouths; while for mass communication they rely on a system of ponderous electronic transmissions.
With regard to evolution, this species would appear to have reached its peak. In exploration—having no concept of Dimensional Instantaneity—it can never conceivably occupy anything larger than a tiny niche in one small corner of what it unimaginatively perceives as the universe…in other words a single space-time plane of existence with no parallels except in semi-metaphysical theory! As for the IQ of the species: compared with an average Haquari intelligence quotient set at 10, the human score would be 0.0025 approximately. Therefore my assessment—based not only on the degree of Haquari necessity but principally on multiversal levels of progress, intelligence, and achievement—is that this species may only be placed in the ‘non-sentient livestock’ category.
END NOTE:—
With a population in excess of eight billion, Sol III has to be recognized as a major Haquari food source. Automated farming is not only feasible but practical, and in the light of the accelerating decline in sustainable home world resources, I recommend this world’s immediate exploitation. Under modern, managed farming procedures—processing bone as fertilizer and undesirable protein as provender for the livestock, etc.—we should enjoy at least two hundred years usage before the source of this par-ticularly nutritious comestible is exhausted….
This Being the Pronouncement of Ak’n N’Ghar XXVII,
Exobioecologist of Haquar Prime, 2731st Parallel,
on the 7138th Day of the 2nd Haquari Billennium.
Gaddy’s Gloves
This next one was written in the summer of 1988 and appeared in the pamphlet-cum-program book of the World Fantasy Convention when the traveling con came to London in 1991. Since the pamphlet was distributed to attendees only and “Gaddy’s Gloves” wasn’t reprinted, this is virtually an “unknown” Lumley. And of course its “science” element is now dated by virtue of all the incredible advances in communication technology, computer gaming, and like that. In fact, and if memory serves, even back in 1991 the kids were playing some pretty fantastic arcade games! Ah, but there was never a player like Gunner Gaddy….
I
Down in the cargo hold, Grint Pavanaz let himself out of his crate, ate a sandwich and hooked up his ’Vader to the nearest power point. An hour later and halfway through his tenth game, a hatch clanged open and crewmen came clattering with blasters drawn and primed. And they dragged him in front of Captain Cullis. The Captain—bald, fat, red-faced—was more than somewhat peeved and threatened to turn Pavanaz into flotsam. “What if we’d stowed that crate in vacuum?” he snapped through his gash of a mouth.
“You couldn’t.” Pavanaz shrugged. “I paid seven creds for that air-storage sticker.”
“Oh?” Cullis snorted. “And every air-storage sticker gets stored in air, right? Let me tell you something, Puffernuts: sometimes we vacuum all of our crates to kill off the roaches! Especially coming off a swamp like Gizzich IV. And sometimes we irradiate ’em too, and decon before delivery!”
Pavanaz was unrepentant; he shrugged again and said: “Wow!” but very dryly. “You irradiate seeds, yeah? And you vacuum temperate atmosphere tools? Well no wonder your freighters have a better than fifty percent ‘damaged in transit’ record!”