Who wants to know any human being can go where he wants to, do what he wants to, now? Who wants to know disease is finished, age is calm, and death is always a falling asleep, now? Not the medical quacks, not the lonely hearts bureaus, not the burial insurance companies. Not the people who live on fear. Who wants a brother who doesn't hesitate to slap you down if you need it while you're growing up?
Should the Endeavor have brought riot and war back with it? Better a little panic now, damping itself out before it even gets out of the Southwest.
No, you don't tell people about this. You simply give it.
"Well?" Paulson demanded again.
Cable smiled at him. "Relax, Major. There's all the time in the world. My friend's where you can't ever get him unless I let you. What's going on up around the base?"
Paulson grunted his anger. "I don't know," he said harshly. "We were all in the outer quarantine circle."
"The outer circle. It's getting to one circle after another, is it?"
"Yes!"
"What's it like? The disease. What does it do?"
"You know better than I do."
"Men walking in their sleep? Doing things? Getting past guards and sentries, getting out of locked rooms? Some of them building funny kinds of electronic rigs?"
"What do you think?" Paulson was picturing himself doing it. It was plain on his face.
"I think so. Frighten you?"
Paulson didn't answer.
"It shouldn't. It's a little rough, going it alone, but with others around you, I don't imagine you'll have any trouble."
It wasn't the man who momentarily disorganized his body and passed under a door who was frightened. Not after he could do it of his own volition instead of unconsciously, at his brother's direction. It was the man who watched him do it, just as it was the men on the ground who were terrified for the Wright brothers. Paulson was remembering what he'd seen. He had no idea of how it felt to be free.
Cable thought of the stars he'd seen glimmering as he rode Endeavor's prototype, and the curtains and clouds of galaxies beyond them. He'd wanted to go to them all, and stand on every one of their planets.
Well, he couldn't quite have that. There wasn't time enough in a man's life. But his brother, too, had been a member of a race chained to one planet. The two of them could see quite a bit before they grew too old.
So we were born in a Solar System with one habitable planet, and we developed the star drive. And on Alpha's planet, a race hung on, waiting for someone to come along and give it hands and bodies.
What price the final plan of the universe? Will my brother and I find the next piece of the ultimate jigsaw puzzle?
Cable looked at the three men, grinning at the thought of the first time one of them discovered a missing tooth was growing back in.
Starting with Paulson, he sent them each a part of his brother.
STRANGER STATION
by Damon Knight
In the evolution of science-fantasy through thirty years of existence as popular magazine fiction, one of the most noticeable changes has been in the treatment and characterization of e-t’s (extraterrestrials). At one time, all “aliens” were either implacable enemies of mankind, bent on invading and destroying Earth, or subjugated slave-”natives” of a Glorious Earth Empire.
This year, the theme of contact between Terrestrials and Others was a favorite one, but the old-fashioned bug-eyed monster was hardly to be found in print, although the species still appears to be extant in Hollywood.
Mr. Knight’s e-t is the exception—a traditional monster-type, horrifically described herein with that gleeful attention to unpleasant detail for which Knight (as writer and critic) is deservedly well-known.
The clang of metal echoed hollowly down through the Station’s many vaulted corridors and rooms. Paul Wesson stood listening for a moment as the rolling echoes died away. The maintenance rocket was gone, heading back to Home; they had left him alone in Stranger Station.
Stranger Station! The name itself quickened his imagination. Wesson knew that both orbital stations had been named a century ago by the then-British administration of the satellite service; “Home” because the larger, inner station handled the traffic of Earth and its colonies; “Stranger” because the outer station was designed specifically for dealings with foreigners-beings from outside the solar system. But even that could not diminish the wonder of Stranger Station, whirling out here alone in the dark-waiting for its once-in-two-decades visitor…
One man, out of all Sol’s billions, had the task and privilege of enduring the alien’s presence when it came. The two races, according to Wesson’s understanding of the subject, were so fundamentally different that it was painful for them to meet. Well, he had volunteered for the job, and he thought he could handle it-the rewards were big enough.
He had gone through all the tests, and against his own expectations he had been chosen. The maintenance crew had brought him up as dead weight, drugged in a survival hamper; they had kept him the same way while they did their work and then had brought him back to consciousness. Now they were gone. He was alone.
But not quite.
“Welcome to Stranger Station, Sergeant Wesson,” said a pleasant voice. ‘This is your alpha network speaking. I’m here to protect and serve you in every way. If there’s anything you want, just ask me.” It was a neutral voice, with a kind of professional friendliness in it, like that of a good schoolteacher or rec supervisor.
Wesson had been warned, but he was still shocked at the human quality of it. The alpha networks were-the last word in robot brains-computers, safety devices, personal servants, libraries, all wrapped up in one, with something so close to “personality” and “free will” that experts were still arguing the question. They were rare and fantastically expensive; Wesson had never met one before.
“Thanks,” he said now, to the empty air. “Uh-what do I call you, by the way? I can’t keep saying, ‘Hey, alpha network.’”
“One of your recent predecessors called me Aunt Nettie,” was the response.
Wesson grimaced. Alpha network-Aunt Nettie. He hated puns; that wouldn’t do. “The aunt part is all right,” he said. “Suppose I call you Aunt Jane. That was my mother’s sister; you sound like her, a little bit.”
“I am honored,” said the invisible mechanism politely. “Can I serve you any refreshments now? Sandwiches? A drink?”
“Not just yet,” said Wesson. “I think I’ll look the place over first.”
He turned away. That seemed to end the conversation as far as the network was concerned. A good thing; it was all right to have it for company, speaking when spoken to, but if it got talkative…
The human part of the Station was in four segments: bedroom, living room, dining room, bath. The living room was comfortably large and pleasantly furnished in greens and tans; the only mechanical note in it was the big instrument console in one corner. The other rooms, arranged in a ring around the living room, were tiny; just space enough for Wesson, a narrow encircling corridor, and the mechanisms that would serve him. The whole place was spotlessly clean, gleaming and efficient in spite of its twenty-year layoff.
This is the gravy part of the run, Wesson told himself. The month before the alien came-good food, no work, and an alpha network for conversation. “Aunt Jane, I’ll have a small steak now,” he said to the network. “Medium rare, with hashed brown potatoes, onions and mushrooms, and a glass of lager. Call me when it’s ready.”