The soft red sun made everything look like the décor in a nightclub I know. It’s decorated as Mars ought to be, as Mars was before space flight. A distance illusion: red sand; straight canals running with improbably clear, pure water; crystal towers reaching high, high, toward big fat crescent moons. Suddenly I wanted a drink.
I dug in my saddlebags, hoping to find a flask. It was there, and it was heavy with fluid. I pinched the top open, tilted it to my lips—and almost choked. Martini! A half-pint martini, a little too sweet, but far colder than ice cold. I sipped at it, twice, and put it away. “I like Downers,” I said.
“Good. Why?”
“No flatlander would think to put a martini in a rental skycycle unless he was asked to.”
“Harry’s a nice guy. Woop, there’s a cone.”
I looked down and right, searching for sand-colored hair against sand. The cone was in its own shadow; it practically jumped at me. And equally suddenly, I knew what had awakened me in the dark morning.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jilson. I realized that I’d gasped.
“Nothing. Jilson, I don’t know all I should about Downer animals. Do they excrete solids?”
“Do they—? Hey, that was nicely put. Yes, they do.” He tilted his vehicle down toward the cone.
It sat firmly on a tilted flat rock, which lifted one edge out of the sand.
The rock was absolutely clean.
“Then Grogs do too.”
“Right.” Jilson landed.
I drifted in beside him, dropping the skycycle joltingly hard. The Grog sat facing us, faintly smiling.
“Well, where’s the evidence? Who cleans up after this thing?”
Jilson scratched his head. He walked around the base of the Grog and came back, looking puzzled. “Funny, I never thought of that.
Scavengers?”
“Maybe.”
“Is it important?”
“Maybe. Most sessile animals live in water. The water carries everything away.”
“There’s a sessile thing from Gummidgy—”
“I’ve got one. But the orchid-thing lives in trees. It attaches itself to a nice thick horizontal tree-branch, with its tail hanging over the edge.”
“Mmm.” He seemed uninterested. No doubt he was right; some scavenger cleaned up after the Grog. But it didn’t sound right. Why would the parasite animal do such a good job?
The Grog and I faced each other.
As a rule the Handicapped seem to suffer from sensory deprivation. Cetaceans live underwater; bandersnatchi live in heated, pressurized fog. Maybe it’s too early to make such rules, but it’s for sure that a Handicapped will have trouble experimenting with his environment. Experiments generally require tools.
But the Grog had real troubles. Blind, numb in all its extremities—due to the nearly useless spinal cord—unable even to move to a different location, what could be its picture of the universe?
Somehow I found myself staring at its hands.
Hands. Useless, of course, but still hands. Four fingers with tiny claws set around the tiny palm like the fingers of a mechanical grab.
“It didn’t evolve at all. It devolved!”
Jilson looked up. He was using his skycycle as the only convenient thing to sit on for miles around. “What are you talking about?”
“The Grog. It’s got vestigial hands. Once it must have been a higher form of life.”
“Or a climbing animal, like a monkey.”
“I don’t think so. I think it had a brain and hands and mobility. Then something happened, and it lost its civilization. Now it’s lost its mobility and its hands.”
“Why would it stop moving?”
“Maybe there was a shortage of food. Not moving conserved energy.” And because that was the sheerest guesswork, I added, “Or maybe it got in the habit of watching too much tridee. I know people who don’t move for weeks.”
“During the Interworld Playoffs my cousin Earnie—Hell with it! You think that’s the answer, do you?”
“Yes. It’s in a trap. No eyes, no sensory input, no way to do anything with what it does think about. It’s like a blind, deaf, and dumb baby with glove anesthesia all over.”
“It’s still got the brain.”
“Like our appendix. It’ll lose that too.”
“You’re the one who was worried about the Handicapped. Can’t you do anything for it?”
“Euthanasia, maybe. No, not even that. Let’s go back to Downtown.” I walked through sand toward my cycle sick with discouragement. Bandersnatchi had needed men to tell them about the stars. But what could you tell a hairy cone?
No, it was back to Downtown for me, and then back to Earth. There are people no doctor and no psychiatrist can help, and there are species equally beyond aid. With the Grogs there was no place to start.
A few feet from the cycle I sat down cross-legged in the sand. Jilson got down beside me. We faced the Grog, waiting.
By and by Jilson said, “What are we waiting for?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know. But Jilson didn’t move, and neither did I. I knew with a crystalline certainty that we were doing the right thing.
Simultaneously, we turned from the Grog to look into the desert.
Something the size of a rat came hopping toward us, kicking up dust. Behind it, another and another. They hopped laboriously across the sand, springing high, and stopped in an arc facing the Grog.
The Grog turned toward them—not the way you’d turn your neck, but turning all over. It looked sightlessly at the sand rats, and the sand rats perched on their hind legs and looked back.
The Grog’s mouth opened. It was a cavern, and the tongue was coiled on its pink floor. The tongue moved like a lash, invisibly fast, flick, flick. Two of the rats were gone. The mouth (not too small for a man) dropped shut, smiling gently.
The third rat was there on its hind legs. None of them had tried to run. They might just as well have—
Again the Grog’s mouth dropped open. The last sand rat took a running leap and landed on the coiled tongue. The mouth closed for the last time, and the cone turned back to face us.
I had the answers all at once, intuitively, with the same force of conviction that now had me sitting cross-legged on the sand.
The Grog was psychic or something similar. It could control minds, even minds as insignificant as a sand rat’s.
That was the purpose of the Grog’s large brain. Its intelligence was a side effect of its power. For aeons the Grogs had called their food to them. They did not hunt after childhood. Once the brain had developed, they never needed to move again.
They didn’t need eyes; they had little need of other sensory perceptions. They used the senses of other animals.
They directed the scavengers who cleaned their rocks, and their pelts too, when necessary. Their mind control brought meat animals to their presessile female young, directed their breeding habits, and guided them to proper anchor rocks.
They were now feeding information directly into my brain.
I said, “But why me?”
I knew, with a crystalline certainty I was learning to recognize. The Grogs were aware of what they were missing. They had read the minds of passers-by: first Kzinti warriors, then human miners, explorers, sightseers. And my business was the Handicapped. They had learned of the Dolphin’s Hands. They had primed Jilson and others to know, without evidence, that the Grogs were sentient, and to say so when the right person should appear.
Without evidence: that was important. They had to know what they were getting into before they committed themselves. Men like Dr. Fuller could investigate if they liked; it would look suspicious if they were prevented. But something kept them from noticing the handlike appearance of those tiny forepaws, the lack of biological wastes around a wild Grog.
Could I help them?
The question was suddenly an obsession. I shook my head to fight it off. “I don’t know. Why did you wait so long to show yourselves?”
> Fear.
“Why? Are we that terrifying?”
I waited for an answer. None came. There was no sudden, utterly convincing bit of information in my brain.
Then they feared even me. Me, helpless before a flicking tongue and an iron mind. Why?
I was sure that the Grogs had devolved from some higher, bipedal form of life. The tiny hands, like mechanical grabs, were characteristic. As was that eerie mental control…
I tried to stand up, to run. My legs wouldn’t lift me. I tried to blank my thoughts, to hide what I’d guessed, but that was useless. They could read my mind. They knew.
“It’s the Slaver power. Your ancestors were Slavers.” And here I sat, with my mind wide open and helpless.
Soothingly, with characteristic crystal certainty, I realized:
That the Grogs knew nothing of Slavers. That as far as they knew, they had been there forever.
That the Grogs couldn’t be idiot enough to try for a takeover bid. They were sessile. They couldn’t move. Their leftover Slaver power could reach less than halfway around the world, with all the Grog individuals working together. How could they dream of attacking a species who controlled all space in a thirty-light-year-diameter sphere? Fear alone had kept them from letting mankind know what they were—fear of extermination.
“You could be lying about how far you can reach. I’d never know.”
Nothing. Nothing touched my mind. I stood up. Jilson watched me, then got up and mechanically brushed himself off. He looked at the Grog, opened his mouth, closed it, gulped, and said, “Garvey! What did it do to us?”
“Didn’t it tell you?” In the same moment I was certain it hadn’t.
“It made me sit down; it put on a show with sand rats … you saw it too, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then it left us sitting awhile. You talked to it. Then suddenly we could get up.”
“That’s right. But it talked to me, too.”
“I told you it was intelligent!”
“Jilson, can you find your way back here in the morning?’
“Absolutely not. But I’ll set your skycycle to record your course so you can get back. If you’re sure you want to.”
“I’m not. But I want the choice.”
The sun was a smoky red glow in the west, fading over a blue-black horizon.
I’d laughed.
The hotel rooms didn’t have sleeping plates. If you slept at all, you slept on a flat, cushiony surface, and liked it. I’d slept all right last night, until the Grog’s call came to wake me in the small hours. But how could I sleep now?
Unbeknownst to yours truly, Sharon and Lois had been expecting us for dinner. Jilson had phoned them before we set out for the zoo. Tonight we’d eaten some kind of small bird, one each. Delicious. You didn’t dare touch anything afterward, not until you’d wiped your hands on hot towels.
And we’d talked about the Grogs. The cone had left Jilson’s mind practically untouched, so that he’d have something like an unbiased opinion. His unbiased opinion was that he wasn’t going back there for anything, and I shouldn’t either. The girls agreed.
I’d laughed at the Grog. Who wouldn’t?
Dolphins, bandersnatchi, Grogs—you laugh at them, the Handicapped. You laugh with a dolphin, really; he’s the greatest clown in known space. You laugh the first time you see a bandersnatch. He looks like something God forgot to finish; there’s no detail, just that white shape. But you’re laughing partly out of nervousness, because that moving white mound would no more notice you than a land tank would notice a snail under its treads. And you laugh at a Grog. No nervousness there. A Grog is a cartoon.
Like a doctor using a stomach pump in reverse, the Grog had shoved its information down my throat. I could feel the bits of cold certainty floating in my mind like icebergs in dark water.
I could doubt what I had been told. I could doubt, for instance, that all the Grogs on Down could not reach out to twist the minds of humans on, say, Jinx. I could doubt their terror, their utter helplessness, their need for my help. But I had to keep remembering to doubt. Otherwise the doubt would go, and the cold bits of certainty remained.
Not funny.
We ought to exterminate them. Now. Get all men off Down, then do something to the sun. Or bring in an old STL ramscoop-fusion ship and land it somewhere, leave the ramscoop running, twist every vertebrate on the planet inside out.
But: They had come to me. To me!
They were so secretive, so mortally afraid of being treated like savage, resurrected Slavers. Dr. Fuller could have been told half the truth, and he would have stopped his experimenting; or he could have been stopped in his tracks by the reaching Grog minds. But, no; they preferred to starve, to keep their secrets.
Yet they’d come to me at the first opportunity.
The Grogs were eager. Man, what a chance they’d taken! But they needed—something. Something only mankind could provide. I wasn’t sure what, but of one thing I was sure: It was a seller’s market. They wanted to do business. It was no guarantee of their good faith; but if I could think of such guarantees, I could force them through.
Then I felt those crystalline certainties again, floating in my mind. I didn’t want any more of those.
I got up and ordered a peanut-butter, bacon, tomato, and lettuce sandwich. It arrived without mayonnaise. I tried to order mayonnaise, but the kitchen dispenser had never heard of it.
A good thing the Grogs hadn’t revealed themselves to the Kzinti, back when they owned the planet. The Kzinti would have wiped them out or, worse, used them as allies against human space. Had the Kzinti used Grogs for food? If they had, then… But no. The Grogs would make poor prey. They couldn’t run.
My eyes were still seeing red light, so that the stars beyond the porch seemed blue and bright above a black plain. I thought of going down to the port and renting a room on some grounded ship, so that at least I could float between sleeping plates. Nuts.
I could not face a Grog. Not when it had to talk to me by—
That was at least part of the answer. I phoned the desk computer and told it what I wanted.
By and by other parts of the answer came. There was a mutated alfalfa grass which would grow under red sunlight; the seeds had been in the cargo hold of the ship that brought me. It was part of Down’s agricultural program. Well…
I flew back to the desert the next morning, alone. The guy who owned the skycycles had set mine aside, with the course record intact so I could find my way back.
The Grog was there. Or I’d found another by accident. I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. I grounded the skycycle and got off, tensing for the feel of little tendrils probing at my mind. There was nothing. I was sure it was reading my mind, but I couldn’t feel it.
With crystalline certainty there came the knowledge that I was welcome. I said, “Get out of there. Get out and stay out.”
The Grog did nothing. Like the knowledge I’d gained yesterday afternoon, the conviction stayed: I was welcome, welcome, welcome. Great.
I dug in my saddlebags and pulled out a heavy oblong. “I had a lot of trouble finding this,” I told the Grog. “It’s a museum piece. If Downers weren’t so hell-bent on doing everything with their hands, I’d never have found one at all.”
I opened it a few feet from the Grog’s mouth, inserted a piece of paper in the rollers, and plugged the cord into a hand battery. “My mind will tell you how to work this. Let’s see how good your tongue is.” I looked for a good seat, finally settling my back against the Grog, under its mouth. I could read the print from there. There was no feeling of lese majesty. If the Grog wanted me, I was doomed—period.
The tongue lashed out, invisibly fast. PLEASE KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE TYPEWRITER, it printed. OTHERWISE I CANNOT SEE IT. WOULD YOU MOVE THE MACHINE FARTHER AWAY.
I did. “How’s that?”
GOOD ENOUGH. YOU ARE OVERCONCERNED WITH PRIVACY.
“Maybe. This seems to work. Now, b
efore we begin, would you read my mind about ramscoop motors?”
I SEE. CONSIDER THE POINT MADE.
“Then I will. What can you offer us in trade?
JUST WHAT YOU THINK. WE WILL HERD YOUR CATTLE. IN TIME THERE MAY BE OTHER THINGS WE CAN DO. WE COULD MONITOR THE HEALTH OF ZOO ANIMALS AND BE EXHIBITS AT THE SAME TIME. WE CAN DO POLICE WORK. WE WILL GUARD DOWN. AN ENEMY COULD DESTROY DOWN, BUT NO ENEMY COULD INVADE DOWN. Despite the speed of its flicking tongue, the Grog typed as slowly as a one-finger typer.
“Okay. You wouldn’t object to our seeding your property with mutated grass?”
NO, NOR TO YOUR MOVING CATTLE INTO OUR TERRITORY. WE WILL NEED SOME OF THE CATTLE FOR FOOD, AND WE WOULD PREFER THAT THE PRESENT DESERT ANIMALS REMAIN. WE DO NOT WISH TO LOSE ANY OF OUR PRESENT TERRITORY.
“Will you need new land?”
NO. PLANNED PARENTHOOD IS EASY FOR US, WE NEED ONLY RESTRICT THE PRESESSILES.
“We don’t trust you, you know. We’ll be taking steps to see that you don’t control human minds. I’m going to get myself checked over very carefully when I go home.”
NATURALLY. YOU WILL BE HAPPY TO KNOW THAT WE CANNOT LEAVE THIS WORLD WITHOUT SPECIAL PROTECTION. ULTRAVIOLET WOULD KILL US. IF YOU WISH A GROG IN THE ZOO OF EARTH.
“We can take care of that. It’s a good idea, too. Now, what can we do for you? How about some modified Dolphin’s Hands?”
NO, THANK YOU. A DESERT ANIMAL WITH SOMETHING LIKE HANDS WOULD BE BETTER. WHAT WE REQUIRE IS KNOWLEDGE. A TAPE ENCYCLOPEDIA, ACCESS TO HUMAN LIBRARIES. BETTER YET, HUMAN GUEST LECTURERS WHO DO NOT MIND HAVING THEIR MINDS READ.
“Guest lecturers. That’ll be expensive.”
HOW EXPENSIVE? HOW MUCH ARE OUR SERVICES WORTH AS HERDERS?
“Good point.” I settled myself more comfortably against the Grog’s hairy side. “Okay. Let’s talk business.”
It was a year before I touched Down again. By then, Garvey Limited was almost ready to show a profit.
I’d driven through the roughest deal I could think of. As far as the planet Down was concerned, Garvey Limited had a monopoly on Grogs. They couldn’t have bought a pack of tabac sticks except through us. We paid fat taxes to the Downer human government, but that expense was almost minor.