"It's sentient. It builds tools."
"Right."
"And if Jim hears you talking like this, you'll be in psychistry treatment."
"That's the best argument you've given me," Steve grinned, and stroked her under the ear with two fingertips. He felt her go suddenly stiff, saw the pain in her face; and at the same time his own pain struck, a real tiger of a headache, as if his brain were trying to swell beyond his skull.
"I've got them, sir," the Telepath said blurrily. "Ask me anything."
The Captain hurried, knowing that the Telepath couldn't stand this for long. "How do they power their ship?"
"It's a light-pressure drive powered by incomplete hydrogen fusion. They use an electromagnetic ramscoop to get their own hydrogen from space."
"Clever . . . Can they get away from us?"
"No. Their drive is on idle, ready to go, but it won't help them. It's pitifully weak."
"What kind of weapons do they have?"
The Telepath remained silent for a long time. The others waited patiently for his answer. There was sound in the control dome, but it was the kind of sound one learns not to hear: the whine of heavy current, the muted purr of voices from below, the strange sound like continuously ripping cloth which came from the gravity motors.
"None at all, sir." The Kzin's voice became clearer; his hypnotic relaxation was broken by muscle twitches. He twisted as if in a nightmare. "Nothing aboard ship, not even a knife or a club. Wait, they've got cooking knives. But that's all they use them for. They don't fight."
"They don't fight?"
"No, sir. They don't expect us to fight, either. The idea has occurred to three of them, and each has dismissed it from his mind."
"But why?" the Captain asked, knowing the question was irrelevant, unable to hold it back.
"I don't know, sir. It's a science they use, or a religion—. I don't understand," the Telepath whimpered. "I don't understand at all."
Which must be tough on him, the Captain thought. Completely alien thoughts. . . "What are they doing now?"
"Waiting for us to talk to them. They tried to talk to us, and they think we must be trying just as hard."
"But why?—never mind, it's not important. Can they be killed by heat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Break contact."
The Telepath shook his head violently. He looked like he'd been in a washing machine. The Captain touched a sensitized surface and bellowed, "Weapons Officer!"
"Here."
"Use the inductors on the enemy ship."
"But, sir! They're so slow! What if the alien attacks?"
"Don't argue with me, you—" Snarling, the Captain delivered an impassioned monologue on the virtues of unquestioning obedience. When he switched off, the Alien Technologies Officer was back at the viewer and the Telepath had gone to sleep.
The Captain purred happily, wishing that they were all this easy.
When the occupants had been killed by heat he would take the ship. He could tell everything he needed to know about their planet by examining their life-support system. He could locate it by tracing the ship's trajectory. Probably they hadn't even taken evasive action!
If they came from a Kzin-like world it would become a Kzin world. And he, as Conquest Leader, would command one percent of its wealth for the rest of his life! Truly, the future looked rich. No longer would he be called by his profession. He would bear a name . . .
"Incidental information," said the A-T Officer. "The ship was generating one and twelve sixty-fourth gee before it stopped rotating."
"Little heavy," the Captain mused. "Might be too much air, but it :should be easy to Kzinform it. A-T, we find the strangest life forms. Remember the Chunquen?"
"Both sexes were sentient. They fought constantly."
"And that funny religion on Altair One. They thought they could travel in time."
"Yes, sir. When we landed the infantry they were all gone."
"They must have all committed suicide with disintegrators. But why? They knew we only wanted slaves. And I'm still trying to figure out how they got rid of the disintegrators afterward."
"Some beings," said the A-T Officer, "will do anything to keep their beliefs."
Eleven years beyond Pluto, eight years from her destination, the fourth colony ship to We Made It fell between the stars. Before her the stars were green-white and blue-white, blazing points against nascent black. Behind they were sparse, dying red embers. To the sides the constellations were strangely flattened. The universe was shorter than it had been.
For a while Jim Davis was very busy. Everyone, including himself, had a throbbing blinding headache. To each patient Dr. Davis handed a tiny pink pill from the dispenser slot of the huge autodoc which covered the back wall of the infirmary. They milled outside the door waiting for the pills to take effect, looking like a full-fledged mob in the narrow corridor; and then someone thought it would be a good idea to go to the lounge, and everyone followed him. It was an unusually silent mob. Nobody felt like talking while the pain was with them. Even the sound of magnetic sandals was lost in the plastic pile rug.
Steve saw Jim Davis behind him. "Hey, Doc," he called softly. "How long before the pain stops?"
"Mine's gone away. You got your pills a little after I did, right?"
"Right. Thanks, Doc."
They didn't take pain well, these people. They were too unused to it.
In single file they walked or floated into the lounge. Low-pitched conversations started. People took couches, using the sticky plastic strips on their falling jumpers. Others stood or floated near walls. The lounge was big enough to hold them all in comfort.
Steve wriggled near the ceiling, trying to pull on his sandals.
"I hope they don't try that again," he heard Sue say. "It hurt."
"Try what?" Someone Steve didn't recognize, half-listening as he was.
"Whatever they tried. Telepathy, perhaps."
"No. I don't believe in telepathy. Could they have set up ultrasonic vibrations in the walls?"
Steve had his sandals on. He left the magnets turned off.
". . . a cold beer. Do you realize we'll never taste beer again?" Jim Davis's voice.
"I miss waterskiing." Ann Harrison sounded wistful. "The feel of a pusher unit shoving into the small of your back, the water beating against your feet, the sun . . ."
Steve pushed himself toward them. "Taboo subject," he called.
"We're on it anyway," Jim boomed cheerfully. "Unless you'd rather talk about the alien, which everyone else is doing. I'd rather drop it for the moment. What's your greatest regret at leaving Earth?"
"Only that I didn't stay long enough to really see it."
"Oh, of course." Jim suddenly remembered the drinking bulb in his hand. He drank from it, hospitably passed it to Steve.
"This waiting makes me restless," said Steve. "What are they likely to try next? Shake the ship in Morse code?"
Jim smiled. "Maybe they won't try anything next. They may give up and leave."
"Oh, I hope not!" said Ann.
"Would that be so bad?"
Steve had a start. What was Jim thinking?
"Of course!" Ann protested. "We've got to find out what they're like! And think of what they can teach us, Jim!"
When conversation got controversial it was good manners to change the subject. "Say," said Steve, "I happened to notice the wall was warm when I pushed off: Is that good or bad?"
"That's funny. It should be cold, if anything," said Jim. "There's nothing out there but starlight. Except—" A most peculiar expression flitted across his face. He drew his feet up and touched the magnetic soles with his fingertips.
"Eeeee! Jim! Jim!"
Steve tried to whirl around and got nowhere. That was Sue! He switched on his shoes, thumped to the floor, and went to help.
Sue was surrounded by bewildered people. They split to let Jim Davis through, and he tried to lead her out of the lounge. He looked frightened. Su
e was moaning and thrashing, paying no attention to his efforts.
Steve pushed through to her. "All the metal is heating up," Davis shouted. "We've got to get her hearing aid out."
"Infirmary," Sue shouted.
Four of them took Sue down the hall to the infirmary. She was still crying and struggling feebly when they got her in, but Jim was there ahead of them with a spray hypo. He used it and she went to sleep.
The four watched anxiously as Jim went to work. The autodoc would have taken precious time for diagnosis. Jim operated by hand. He was able to do a fast job, for the tiny instrument was buried just below the skin behind her ear. Still, the scalpel must have burned his fingers before he was done. Steve could feel the growing warmth against the soles of his feet.
Did the aliens know what they were doing?
Did it matter? The ship was being attacked. His ship.
Steve slipped into the corridor and ran for the control room. Running on magnetic soles, he looked like a terrified penguin, but he moved fast. He knew he might be making a terrible mistake; the aliens might be trying desperately to reach the Angel's Pencil; he would never know. They had to be stopped before everyone way roasted.
The shoes burned his feet. He whimpered with the pain, but otherwise ignored it. The air burned in his mouth and throat. Even his teeth were hot.
He had to wrap his shirt around his hands to open the control-room door. The pain in his feet was unbearable; he tore off his sandals and swam to the control board. He kept his shirt over his hands to work the controls. A twist of a large white knob turned the drive on full, and he slipped into the pilot seat before the gentle light pressure could build up.
He turned to the rear-view telescope. It was aimed at the solar system, for the drive could be used for messages at this distance. He set it for short range and began to turn the ship.
The enemy ship glowed in the high infrared.
"It will take longer to heat the crew-carrying section," reported the Alien Technologies Officer. "They'll have temperature control there."
"That's all right. When you think they should all be dead, wake up the Telepath and have him check." The Captain continued to brush his fur, killing time. "You know, if they hadn't been so completely helpless I wouldn't have tried this slow method. I'd have cut the ring free of the motor section first. Maybe I should have done that anyway. Safer."
The A-T Officer wanted all the credit he could get. "Sir, they couldn't have any big weapons. There isn't room. With a reaction drive, the motor and the fuel tanks take up most of the available space.
The other ship began to turn away from its tormentor. Its drive end glowed red.
"They're trying to get away," the Captain said, as the glowing end swung toward them. "Are you sure they can't?"
"Yes sir. That light drive won't take them anywhere."
The Captain purred thoughtfully. "What would happen if the light hit our ship?"
"Just a bright light, I think. The lens is flat, so it must be emitting a very wide beam. They'd need a parabolic reflector to be dangerous. Unless—" His ears went straight up.
"Unless what?" The Captain spoke softly, demandingly.
"A laser. But that's all right, sir. They don't have any weapons."
The Captain sprang at the control board. "Stupid!" he spat. "They don't know weapons from sthondat blood. Weapons Officer! How could a telepath find out what they don't know? WEAPONS OFFICER!"
"Here, sir."
"Burn —"
An awful light shone in the control dome. The Captain burst into flame, then blew out as the air left through a glowing split in the dome.
Steve was lying on his back. The ship was spinning again, pressing him into what felt like his own bunk.
He opened his eyes.
Jim Davis crossed the room and stood over him. "You awake?"
Steve sat bolt upright, his eyes wide.
"Easy." Jim's gray eyes were concerned.
Steve blinked up at him. "What happened?" he asked, and discovered how hoarse he was.
Jim sat down in one of the chairs. "You tell me. We tried to get to the control room when the ship started moving. Why didn't you ring the strap-down? You turned off the drive just as Ann came through the door. Then you fainted."
"How about the other ship?" Steve tried to repress the urgency in his voice, and couldn't.
"Some of the others are over there now, examining the wreckage." Steve felt his heart stop. "I guess I was afraid from the start that alien ship was dangerous. I'm more psychist than emdee, and I qualified for history class, so maybe I know more than is good for me about human nature. Too much to think that beings with space travel will automatically be peaceful. I tried to think so, but they aren't. They've dot things any self-respecting human being would be ashamed to have nightmares about. Bomb missiles, fusion bombs, lasers, that induction projector they used on us. And antimissiles. You know what that means? They've got enemies like themselves, Steve. Maybe nearby."
"So I killed them." The room seemed to swoop around him, but his voice came out miraculously steady.
"You saved the ship."
"It was an accident. I was trying to get us away."
"No, you weren't." Davis's accusation was as casual as if he were describing the chemical makeup of urea. "That ship was four hundred miles away. You would have had to sight on it with a telescope to hit it. You knew what you were doing, too, because you turned off the drive as soon as you'd burned through the ship."
Steve's back muscles would no longer support him. He flopped back to horizontal. "All right, you know," he told the ceiling. "Do the others?"
"I doubt it. Killing in self-defense is too far outside their experience. I think Sue's guessed."
"Oooo."
"If she has, she's taking it well," Davis said briskly. "Better than most of them will, when they find out the universe is full of warriors. This is the end of the world, Steve."
"Mat?"
"I'm being theatrical. But it is. Three hundred years of the peaceful life for everyone. They'll call it the Golden Age. No starvation no war, no physical sickness other than senescence, no permanent mental sickness at all, even by our rigid standards. When someone over fourteen tries to use his fist on someone else we say he's sick, and we cure him. And now it's over. Peace isn't a stable condition, not for us. Maybe not for anything that lives."
"Can I see the ship from here?"
"Yes. It's just behind us."
Steve rolled out of bed, went to the window.
Someone had steered the ships much closer together. The Kzinti ship was a huge red sphere with ugly projections scattered at seeming random over the hull. The beam had sliced it into two unequal halves, sliced it like an ax through an egg. Steve watched, unable to turn aside, as the big half rotated to show its honeycombed interior.
"In a little while," said Jim, "the men will be coming back. They'll be frightened. Someone will probably insist that we arm ourselves against the next attacks, using weapons from the other ship. I'll have to agree with him.
"Maybe they'll think I'm sick myself. Maybe I am. But it's the kind of sickness we'll need." Jim looked desperately unhappy. "We're going to become an armed society. And of course we'll have to warn the Earth . . ."
Telepath's Dance
by
Hal Colebatch
Easter Island
Arthur Guthlac, who could never hope to go further into Space than a cheap package holiday to the Moon, envied his sister Selina more than he could easily say.
Apart from the ramrobots and the few, incredibly expensive, colony-ships, journeys beyond the Solar System were rare, and the queue of scientists with projects for Space was always growing. It was a staggering accolade for the gravity-anomaly project to have been selected for funding.
But the museum attendant and his brilliant sister had always been close, and the separation would be long. They stayed together for the last few days before the Happy Gatherer left Earth. He produced t
he model the night before the research ship’s departure.
“Take this,” Arthur said. “A small gift for you.”
It was an ancient sea-going ship, cast in metal, a little more than the length of her hand.
“An antique? You haven’t stolen it from the museum, have you?”
She put a laugh in her voice. So did he.
“Antique, but not stolen. I was at a conference at Greenwich Museum in London on automated security for children’s galleries, and they gave the delegates mementos. So I hand it on to you, setting out on a voyage, like those old pioneers of the sea. I got one for each of us. They were two sibling-ships, I gather: built to the same design.”
“Nice of them to give you two.”
“They were throwing them away to make space for dance history exhibits. I saw hundreds in a trash-compactor... Perhaps,” he added with seeming carelessness, “they were Military Fantasy cult objects.”
“A depiction of a... military ship? You wouldn’t have such things in a responsible museum, would you?”
“I don’t know if there ever were real military ships. There have been Fant stories, of course. If they did exist, they would have been much earlier. This ship is from the iron-age. The steel-age in fact... No, it’s not that.
“Anyway,” he continued in the official voice of an ARM, “it’s impossible that pirates or banditos could have had the resources to build a ship like this. It was very big engineering for its time. Only major companies or governments could have built such a thing. Besides, the Military Fantasy was about sociopathic ideas, and this doesn’t look to me like the idea, however diseased, of a military ship. Where would the war-men fire their weapons from?
“I guess this was some sort of bulk cargo-carrier. These devices here would have been to pour grain or ore or something into hoppers. This is unless they are meant to be giant ‘gun-barrel’ weapons.”
He gave a cautious, almost furtive smile and inflected his voice with mockery as if to show anyone monitoring the conversation that he was making a tasteless private joke.