“Nothing is happening,” said the Captain, in deep dissatisfaction, “and this seems an imperfect specimen.”
Botax felt the slur on his own efficiency. “I brought you two perfect specimens. What’s wrong with the creature?”
“The bosom does not consist of globes or spheres. I know what globes or spheres are and in these pictures you have shown me, they are so depicted. Those are large globes. On this creature, though, what we have are nothing but small flaps of dry tissue. And they’re discolored, too, partly.”
“Nonsense,” said Botax. “You must allow room for natural variation. I will put it to the creature herself.”
He turned to Marge, “Madam, is your bosom imperfect?”
Marge’s eyes opened wide and she struggled vainly for moments without doing anything more than gasp loudly. “Really!” she finally managed. “Maybe I’m no Gina Lollobrigida or Anita Ekberg, but I’m perfectly all right, thank you. Oh boy, if my Ed were only here.” She turned to Charlie. “Listen, you, you tell this bug-eyed slimy thing here, there ain’t nothing wrong with my development.”
“Lady,” said Charlie, softly. “I ain’t looking, remember?”
“Oh, sure, you ain’t looking. You been peeking enough, so you might as well just open your crummy eyes and stick up for a lady, if you’re the least bit of a gentleman, which you probably ain’t.”
“Well,” said Charlie, looking sideways at Marge, who seized the opportunity to inhale and throw her shoulders back, “I don’t like to get mixed up in a kind of delicate matter like this, but you’re all right--I guess.”
“You guess? You Hind or something? I was once runner-up for Miss Brooklyn, in case you don’t happen to know, and where I missed out was on waist-line, not on--”
Charlie said, “All right, all right. They’re fine. Honest.” He nodded vigorously in Botax’s direction. “They’re okay. I ain’t that much of an expert, you understand, but they’re okay by me.”
Marge relaxed.
Botax felt relieved. He turned to Garm. “The bigger form expresses interest, Captain. The stimulus is working. Now for the final step.”
“And what is that?”
“There is no flash for it, Captain. Essentially, it consists of placing the speaking-and-eating apparatus of one against the equivalent apparatus of the other. I have made up a flash for the process, thus: kiss.”
“Will nausea never cease?” groaned the Captain.
“It is the climax. In all the tales, after the skins are removed by force, they clasp each other with limbs and indulge madly in burning kisses, to translate as nearly as possible the phrase most frequently used. Here is one example, just one, taken at random: ‘He held the girl, his mouth avid on her lips.’“
“Maybe one creature was devouring the other,” said the Captain.
“Not at all,” said Botax impatiently. “Those were burning kisses.”
“How do you mean, burning? Combustion takes place?”
“I don’t think literally so. I imagine it is a way of expressing the fact that the temperature goes up. The higher the temperature, I suppose, the more successful the production of young. Now that the big form is properly stimulated, he need only place his mouth against hers to produce young. The young will not be produced without that step. It is the cooperation I have been speaking of.”
“That’s all? Just this--” The Captain’s hands made motions of coming together, but he could not bear to put the thought into flash form.
“That’s all,” said Botax. “In none of the tales; not even in ‘Recreationlad,’ have I found a description of any further physical activity in connection with young-bearing. Sometimes after the kissing, they write a line of symbols like little stars, but I suppose that merely means more kissing; one kiss for each star, when they wish to produce a multitude of young.”
“Just one, please, right now.”
“Certainly, Captain.”
Botax said with grave distinctness, “Sir, would you kiss the lady?”
Charlie said, “Listen, I can’t move.”
“I will free you, of course.”
“The lady might not like it.”
Marge glowered. “You bet your damn boots, I won’t like it. You just stay away.”
“I would like to, lady, but what do they do if I don’t? Look, I don’t want to get them mad. We can just--you know--make like a little peck.”
She hesitated, seeing the justice of the caution. “All right. No funny stuff, though. I ain’t in the habit of standing around like this in front of every Tom, Dick and Harry, you know.”
“I know that, lady. It was none of my doing. You got to admit that.”
Marge muttered angrily, “Regular slimy monsters. Must think they’re some kind of gods or something, the way they order people around. Slime gods is what they are!”
Charlie approached her. “If it’s okay now, lady.” He made a vague motion as though to tip his hat. Then he put his hands awkwardly on her bare shoulders and leaned over in a gingerly pucker.
Marge’s head stiffened so that lines appeared in her neck. Their lips met.
Captain Garm flashed fretfully. “I sense no rise in temperature.” His heat-detecting tendril had risen to full extension at the top of his head and remained quivering there.
“I don’t either,” said Botax, rather at a loss, “but we’re doing it just as the space travel stories tell us to. I think his limbs should be more extended-- Ah, like that. See, it’s working.”
Almost absently, Charlie’s arm had slid around Marge’s soft, nude torso. For a moment, Marge seemed to yield against him and then she suddenly writhed hard against the pinioning field that still held her with fair firmness.
“Let go.” The words were muffled against the pressure of Charlie’s lips. She bit suddenly, and Charlie leaped away with a wild cry, holding his lower lip, then looking at his fingers for blood.
“What’s the idea, lady?” he demanded plaintively.
She said, “We agreed just a peck, is all. What were you starting there? You some kind of playboy or something? What am I surrounded with here? Playboy and the slime gods?”
Captain Garm flashed rapid alternations of blue and yellow. “Is it done? How long do we wait now?”
“It seems to me it must happen at once. Throughout all the universe, when you have to bud, you bud, you know. There’s no waiting.”
“Yes? After thinking of the foul habits you have been describing, I don’t think I’ll ever bud again. Please get this over with.”
“Just a moment, Captain.”
But the moments passed and the Captain’s flashes turned slowly to a brooding orange, while Botax’s nearly dimmed out altogether.
Botax finally asked hesitantly, “Pardon me, madam, but when will you bud?”
“When will I what?”
“Bear young?”
“I’ve got a kid.”
“I mean bear young now.”
“I should say not. I ain’t ready for another kid yet.”
“What? What?” demanded the Captain. “What’s she saying?”
“It seems,” said Botax, “she does not intend to have young at the moment.”
The Captain’s color patch blazed brightly. “Do you know what I think, Investigator? I think you have a sick, perverted mind. Nothing’s happening to these creatures. There is no cooperation between them, and no young to be borne. I think they’re two different species and that you’re playing some kind of foolish game with me.”
“But, Captain--” said Botax.
“Don’t but Captain me,” said Garm. “I’ve had enough. You’ve upset me, turned my stomach, nauseated me, disgusted me with the whole notion of budding and wasted my time. You’re just looking for headlines and personal glory and I’ll see to it that you don’t get them. Get rid of these creatures now. Give that one its skins back and put them back where you found them. I ought to take the expense
of maintaining Time-stasis all this time out of your salary.”
“But, Captain--”
“Back, I say. Put them back in the same place and at the same instant of time. I want this planet untouched, and I’ll see to it that it stays untouched.” He cast one more furious glance at Botax. “One species, two forms, bosoms, kisses, cooperation, BAH-- You are a fool, Investigator, a dolt as well and, most of all, a sick, sick, sick creature.”
There was no arguing. Botax, limbs trembling, set about returning the creatures.
They stood there at the elevated station, looking around wildly. It was twilight over them, and the approaching train was just making itself known as a faint rumble in the distance.
Marge said, hesitantly, “Mister, did it really happen?”
Charlie nodded. “I remember it.”
Marge said, “We can’t tell anybody.”
“Sure not. They’d say we was nuts. Know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh. Well,” she edged away.
Charlie said, “Listen. I’m sorry you was embarrassed. It was none of my doing.”
“That’s all right. I know.” Marge’s eyes considered the wooden platform at her feet. The sound of the train was louder.
“I mean, you know, lady, you wasn’t really bad. In fact, you looked good, but I was kind of embarrassed to say that.”
Suddenly, she smiled. “It’s all right.”
“You want maybe to have a cup of coffee with me just to relax you? My wife, she’s not really expecting me for a while.”
“Oh? Well, Ed’s out of town for the weekend so I got only an empty apartment to go home to. My little boy is visiting at my mother’s.” She explained.
“Come on, then. We been kind of introduced.”
“I’ll say.” She laughed.
The train pulled in, but they turned away, walking down the narrow stairway to the street.
They had a couple of cocktails actually, and then Charlie couldn’t let her go home in the dark alone, so he saw her to her door. Marge was bound to invite him in for a few moments, naturally.
Meanwhile, back in the spaceship, the crushed Botax was making a final effort to prove his case. While Garm prepared the ship for departure Botax hastily set up the tight-beam visiscreen for a last look at his specimens. He focused in on Charlie and Marge in her apartment. His tendril stiffened and he began flashing in a coruscating rainbow of colors. “Captain Garm! Captain! Look what they’re doing now!” But at that very instant the ship winked out of Time-stasis.
---
Toward the end of the 1950s some rather unexpected changes took place in my life. My writing career had been constantly expanding. I had been driven on by my own compulsion and by editorial cooperation to undertake more and more tasks in greater and greater variety and by 1958 I found that I could no longer do the writing I wanted to do and maintain a full academic schedule.
The Medical School and I came to an amicable understanding, therefore. I kept my title (Associate Professor of Biochemistry, if you’re curious) and continued to do odd jobs, like giving several lectures a year, sitting on committees, and so on. In the main, however, I became a full-time writer and relieved them of the trouble of paying me a salary.
For a while, it seemed to me that with virtually no academic duties and an infinite amount of time each and every day, I could finally do all the writing I had to do with plenty of time left over for fun and games.
It didn’t work out. One of Parkinson’s laws is: “Work expands to fill the time available.” It did in my case. In no time at all, I found I was typing as assiduously full-time as I had previously been typing half-time and I quickly discovered the Asimov corollary to Parkinson’s law: “In ten hours a day you have time to fall twice as far behind your commitments as in five hours a day.”
The worst of it was that just about the time I was arranging to make myself a full-time writer, the Soviet Union sent up Sputnik I and the United States went into a kind of tizzy, and so did I.
I was overcome by the ardent desire to write popular science for an America that might be in great danger through its neglect of science, and a number of publishers got an equally ardent desire to publish popular science for the same reason. As a result of combining the two ardencies I found myself plunging into a shoreless sea in which I am still immersed.
The trouble is--it’s all non-fiction. In the last ten years, I’ve done a couple of novels, some collections, a dozen or so stories, but that’s nothing.
From the aggrieved letters I get, one would think I was doing this on purpose. I’m not. I try desperately not to lose touch with science fiction altogether. It’s my life in a way that nothing else can quite be. There’s my monthly article in F & SF, of course, but that’s not quite the same thing.
And so it happens that each short individual piece of fiction I manage to get the typewriter to put out for me is dearer to me in the nowadays of my dimness, than in the old times when I did two dozen or more long ones a year.
“The Machine That Won the War” is one of those that serves as my periodic proof to the world of fandom that I am, too, alive.
First appearance--The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, October 1961. @, 1961, by Mercury Press, Inc.
The Machine That Won the War
The celebration had a long way to go and even in the silent depths of Multivac’s underground chambers, it hung in the air.
If nothing else, there was the mere fact of isolation and silence. For the first time in a decade, technicians were not scurrying about the vitals of the giant computer, the soft lights did not wink out their erratic patterns, the flow of information in and out had halted.
It would not be halted long, of course, for the needs of peace would be pressing. Yet now, for a day, perhaps for a week, even Multivac might celebrate the great time, and rest.
Lamar Swift took off the military cap he was wearing and looked down the long and empty main corridor of the enormous computer. He sat down rather wearily in one of the technician’s swing-stools, and his uniform, in which he had never been comfortable, took on a heavy and wrinkled appearance.
He said, “I’ll miss it all after a grisly fashion. It’s hard to remember when we weren’t at war with Deneb, and it seems against nature now to be at peace and to look at the stars without anxiety.”
The two men with the Executive Director of the Solar Federation were both younger than Swift. Neither was as gray. Neither looked quite as tired.
John Henderson, thin-lipped and finding it hard to control the relief he felt in the midst of triumph, said, “They’re destroyed! They’re destroyed! It’s what I keep saying to myself over and over and I still can’t believe it. We all talked so much, over so many years, about the menace hanging over Earth and all its worlds, over every human being, and all the time it was true, every word of it. And now we’re alive and it’s the Denebians who are shattered and destroyed. They’ll be no menace now, ever again.”
“Thanks to Multivac,” said Swift, with a quiet glance at the imperturbable Jablonsky, who through all the war had been Chief Interpreter of science’s oracle. “Right, Max?”
Jablonsky shrugged. Automatically, he reached for a cigarette and decided against it. He alone, of all the thousands who had lived in the tunnels within Multivac, had been allowed to smoke, but toward the end he had made definite efforts to avoid making use of the privilege.
He said, “Well, that’s what they say.” His broad thumb moved in the direction of his right shoulder, aiming upward.
“Jealous, Max?”
“Because they’re shouting for Multivac? Because Multivac is the big hero of mankind in this war?” Jablonsky’s craggy face took on an air of suitable contempt. “What’s that to me? Let Multivac be the machine that won the war, if it pleases them.”
Henderson looked at the other two out of the corners of his eyes. In this short interlude that the three had instinctively sought out in the one p
eaceful corner of a metropolis gone mad; in this entr’acte between the dangers of war and the difficulties of peace; when, for one moment, they might all find surcease; he was conscious only of his weight of guilt.
Suddenly, it was as though that weight were too great to be borne longer. It had to be thrown off, along with the war; now!
Henderson said, “Multivac had nothing to do with victory. It’s just a machine.”
“A big one,” said Swift.
“Then just a big machine. No better than the data fed it.” For a moment, he stopped, suddenly unnerved at what he was saying.
Jablonsky looked at him, his thick fingers once again fumbling for a cigarette and once again drawing back. “You should know. You supplied the data. Or is it just that you’re taking the credit?”
“No,” said Henderson, angrily. “There is no credit. What do you know of the data Multivac had to use; predigested from a hundred subsidiary computers here on Earth, on the Moon, on Mars, even on Titan. With Titan always delayed and always that feeling that its figures would introduce an unexpected bias.”
“It would drive anyone mad,” said Swift, with gentle sympathy.
Henderson shook his head. “It wasn’t just that. I admit that eight years ago when I replaced Lepont as Chief Programmer, I was nervous. But there was an exhilaration about things in those days. The war was still long-range; an adventure without real danger. We hadn’t reached the point where manned vessels had had to take over and where interstellar warps could swallow up a planet clean, if aimed correctly. But then, when the real difficulties began--”
Angrily--he could finally permit anger--he said, “You know nothing about it.”
“Well,” said Swift. “Tell us. The war is over. We’ve won.”
“Yes.” Henderson nodded his head. He had to remember that. Earth had won so all had been for the best. “Well, the data became meaningless.”