“What I’ve got,” Nick’s dad said, “is what is called a high inertial quality, or, as it is sometimes called, an introversion of my mind. It’s something I can’t help. I’ll feel better about it after we’ve been there a while. But right now—”
“Cool it, mac,” a crewman called as he made his way up the aisle between the seats. “You’re scaring the cat.”
Nick’s dad said grumpily, “I am not known as a person who causes fear to arise in cats.”
From a loudspeaker at the far end of the ship, a voice boomed, “Take-off in two minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Make sure that you are strapped in tightly. If you have an animal with you, a dog or a cat or a parakeet, hold on to it with both hands, because it has been our experience, over the years, that a dog or a cat or a parakeet slides out of its straps during take-off. And, because of this, they are known to fall on their nose.”
The huge engine of the ship roared on. The ship vibrated.
“Here we go,” Nick’s dad said loudly, over the roar.
At this important moment, Horace had a coughing fit. Eyes shut, head down, he coughed and coughed.
“Horace,” Nick’s dad said reprovingly, “do you always have to have a coughing fit when something major happens?”
On and on Horace coughed, without looking up. Or answering.
Like released thunder, the ship climbed into Earth’s morning sky.
THE trip took ten days. Nick spent most of his time in the ship’s games-room, playing ping pong with an electronic adversary who never missed. His mother and father watched entertainment tapes, and, when that bored them, educational tapes which told all about their destination.
Horace, when released from his chair, hid in the laundry room. Nick lured him out with a ping pong ball, which Horace played with during the long, empty hours.
I hope it’s more exciting than this on Plowman’s Planet, Nick said to himself several times.
“Miaow,” Horace said, waiting for the ping pong ball to be rolled towards him.
Since leaving Earth, a strange change had overcome Horace. When not playing with the ping pong ball, he sat staring at the wall of the ship, as if expecting something to emerge from it. Maybe he hears something, Nick thought once. Something outside the ship which Horace thinks is trying to get in. And, after the sleep period, Nick sometimes found Horace high up on a shelf in one of the supply cupboards. Horace, at such times, seemed deep in thought. He sat with his front paws tucked under him, and his eyes…round and large, they were. Not like the eyes of a cat, but more like human eyes, except, of course, for the fact that they were dark green. And at these times, Horace’s mouth turned down, like a little old lady’s.
“Horace,” Nick said to him, one time, looking up at the high shelf on which Horace sat, “you must adapt yourself to new conditions. Things can’t always be the same. We all must adapt ourselves, my dad included.”
His eyes large, his mouth turned down, Horace stared at Nick in silence, no part of him moving, not even his tail.
“We’re pioneers,” Nick told the cat. “My dad says we’ll clear the land and plant crops. You can ride on the plough, Horace; you can tell my dad which way to go.” He waited, but the cat did not respond. “You can chase wubs,” Nick added hopefully.
Horace gazed down at him. Silently.
“Printers,” Nick said. “You can chase printers.” Horace said nothing. Nor did he stir.
“Trobes.” Nick said.
Slowly, Horace shut his eyes.
“Father-things,” Nick said.
Horace settled down for sleep.
“And nunks,” Nick said loudly, to wake Horace up. “And spiddles, Horace; what do you say about the spiddles? That’s the real question; what about the spiddles? Think about that.”
Horace opened his green eyes, wide and round. And his mouth turned down even more. He looked very worried, and not a bit self-composed. Clearly, spiddles worried him.
“You’re going to need our help,” Nick said to him, “in combating spiddles. So don’t be aloof. Don’t plan to rely on your claws and your clever cattish evasive tactics.” He had heard his dad speak this way to Horace, and it always seemed to promote the right attitude in the cat—for a while at least.
Coming up behind Nick, his mother said, “There’s no use trying to reason with a cat, any cat. He’ll have to find out for himself.”
“You’ll come flying to us for help,” Nick said to the cat, “as soon as the first spiddle tries lo carry you off.”
Once more Horace’s green eyes began to close. But not entirely. Uneasily, Horace continued to watch him, and to listen.
The voice of the ship’s captain suddenly boomed from the loud-speakers dotted here and there in the ship. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will soon be setting down briefly at Plowman’s Planet, where we will discharge three passengers and a cat, pick up mail and food, and make certain minor repairs. Please reseat yourselves and strap in tightly.”
“We’re there,” Nick breathed, hardly able to believe it. “Come on, Horace,” he said. “Back to your seat.”
Chapter 5
BELOW them an orange world hung amidst mists, as if steaming in the light of its nearby sun.
“It looks alive,” Nick’s mother said, and shivered excitedly. “Orange forests; how odd. They didn’t mention that in the educational tapes, I suppose they forgot to.”
“The orange,” Nick’s dad explained, “comes from the fact that most of the plant-life on the planet is silicon-based in its metabolism, rather than carbon-based.”
Nick knew what that meant, or thought he did. “But carbon-based plant-life will grow there,” he said to his dad.
“Yes,” his dad agreed. “We’re bringing wheat seed and the seed of various vegetables, which we will plant, and which will grow far larger than on Earth, due to certain properties in the atmosphere.”
“Cool it, mac,” a crewman said, passing by their seats. “You’re confusing the boy and scaring the cat.”
Nick’s dad said sternly, “I do not confuse boys.” With a low rumble from its retrojets, the ship backed down to a soft landing on the surface of the planet. Looking out of the window Nick saw distant trees and tangled, yellow bushes. And, at the edge of the flat landing-field, a great animal waiting.
“A wub,” Nick said aloud, and his heart raced.
The wub had a vast bland face, with a sort of gentle goodness about it. It did not appear to be too bright, but at least it had a kindly look. As the hatch of the ship opened, the wub stumped forward on its short legs, its barrel-like body swaying from side to side. Behind it a foolish and tiny tail lapped, and Nick laughed. So far so good, he decided. This particular life form did not seem harmful at all.
“It’s pulling a cart,” Nick’s mother said, in wonder.
The four of them—Nick held Horace tightly in his arms— walked down the ramp until they stood on the dusty ground. Behind them, crewmen carried their baggage; they set the suitcases and boxes down and counted them. Various packages, stacked nearby, were then taken aboard.
A few minutes later, with a huge and terrible noise, the ship climbed up into the sky, its jets winking with fire. It hung stationary for a moment, then again rose. Nick watched it go until, at last, it disappeared from sight and the noise of its jets died into silence.
We’re here, Nick said to himself. He forgot about the ship, and turned to face the wub.
Its crude cart bouncing along after it, the wub stumped forward until at last it reached them. There it seated itself, looking hot and dusty, but friendly.
“Can it talk?” Nick asked his dad.
To the wub, his dad said in a slow, clear voice, “Your cart will hold us all? Including our baggage?”
For a moment the wub eyed him and then it reached into a small bag which it carried about its neck. From the bag it brought a card, which it held up. The printing on the card read:
HOW ARE YOU? I AM FINE. FOR A NICKEL I WILL TAKE YOU WHERE YOU WANT TO GO
.
Nick and his father loaded their baggage into the cart. Then the four of them, with Nick still holding tightly on to Horace, got into the cart along with their possessions.
The wub now produced a second card.
I’D LIKE THE NICKEL NOW.
Nick’s father paid it the nickel, which it placed within the bag it carried around its neck. Very slowly, its legs pumping with effort, the wub started off. The cart, with them in it, bumped noisily along behind.
“How will it know where to go?” Nick’s mother wondered.
“I’ll ask it,” Nick’s father said. He got out a map of Plowman’s Planet, then unrolled and studied it. “Just a moment!” he called to the wub. “I want to show you where our land is!”
The wub halted. It stood resting, looking winded by the effort of pulling them and their possessions. Then, with a groan, it rummaged in the bag around its neck and brought out a third card, which it handed to Nick’s father. Nick read it, too. The card said:
NO, THERE ISN’T.
Frowning, Nick’s father said, “What does that mean, ‘no, there isn’t’?” He turned to Nick.
“Maybe it got out the wrong card,” Nick suggested.
To the wub, his dad said loudly, “I think you have the wrong card. I said I wanted to show you where our land is.” He spoke the words crisply and slowly, so as to make the wub understand; it did not seem too well supplied with intelligence.
The wub whisked the card back, inspected it, then popped it back into its bag. Quickly, it brought out another one, which it held up for them to read.
I DO NOT HAVE THE PROPER CARD WITH WHICH TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION.
“I didn’t ask a question!” Nick’s father said, with exasperation, “I just want to show you the map!” He held the map out for the wub to see; with his finger he traced the area to which they wanted to go. “See?” he said. “This is the land the U.N. has given us. I understand there’s a basalt block house there, plus water, and a certain amount of robot farm-machinery. Can you take us there? Is it far?”
For a time the wub chewed its cud and pondered, and then it rummaged once more in its bag for the proper card. This one read:
I WILL RETURN YOUR NICKEL.
Nick’s father said, “I can’t seem to communicate with this creature.” He turned to Nick. “You try; I give up. Show it the map. Point out the spot I marked.”
“Maybe it doesn’t understand maps,” Nick’s mother said. “Maybe it thinks in a different way, not at all as we do; maybe maps have no meaning to it.”
“If that’s so,” Nick’s father said, “then I don’t see how we can get it to take us to our land. And I don’t see transportation of any other kind.” He looked upset.
The wub was industriously going through all its cards; it put one after another back in its bag, finally coming down to one, which it presented to Nick, in a hopeful sort of way.
NO, I NEVER GET LOST. NOT IN FIVE WHOLE YEARS.
“It’s trying to help,” Nick’s mother said. “I think actually it’s a very good animal, but it just doesn’t have enough cards to deal with all the different situations that come up.”
“Hand it the map,” Nick’s father said. “Make it actually take hold of it.”
Nick did so. The wub fingered the map—or rather, like Horace, pawed it—and then it ate the map.
The four of them watched in silence, until the last shred of map had disappeared. Then the wub hiccoughed, shook its head as if to clear it, and from its neck-bag brought one more card.
WUBS EAT EVERYTHING.
“Evidently so.” Nick’s dad said, more bewildered than angry. He did not seem to know what to do, now that the map was gone.
To the wub, Nick’s mother said, in a careful and distinct voice, “We have come to this planet to settle. Now that you’ve eaten our map we have no way of knowing where to go. Can you help us?” She waited, but the wub made no response; it continued to chew its cud nervously, as if wishing to be of help but not knowing how. “There must be other humans near here,” she continued, at last. “Could you take us to them?” To Nick’s father she said, “They’ll be able to help us.”
“I think I see some sort of buildings over there.” Nick said, pointing. He saw vague outlines against the horizon. “Let’s head that way,” he said. At least he hoped they were buildings, and if so, made by human beings.
His dad, with a dark and somber expression on his face, said, “I think those are werj dwellings.” From the queer, pipe-like outlines of buildings a trail of flickering dots now ascended into the sky.
The wub at once whipped out another card.
WERJES!
“I was right,” his dad said. The dots danced towards them, growing larger. There were many of them, a swarm against the late-afternoon sky. Like bits of soot, Nick thought, as if from a twisted chimney. He shivered.
Chapter 6
THE dots came closer and closer until they ceased to be dots. They became winged sails, taking advantage of the wind; they seemed to skim, rather than to fly. Like gliders, Nick realized. Gliders of skin, of black, leathery hide; they seemed to him very old.
“Are we in danger?” Nick’s dad asked the wub.
In answer, the wub began to lumber forward. It wheezed as it tugged the cart, an asthmatic noise. Faster and faster the wub ran, but then, all at once, it tripped. The wub fell. The cart teetered, starting to turn over; it swayed, dropping suitcases and parcels on to the ground, and then it came to rest upright.
“Where’s Horace?” Nick’s mother asked fearfully.
Nick looked rapidly around. Several parcels which had fallen from the cart had split open. Their contents, mostly clothes, lay strewn out beside the cart. He saw this, but he did not see Horace. “Horace!” he said in a loud voice. “Where are you?”
“Under the cart, perhaps,” his father said.
The wub had staggered to its short, stocky feet once more. Again it began to run.
Behind the cart, going in the opposite direction, a small black and white shape sped away, as fast as it could go.
“There he is!” Nick yelled. “He’s trying to get back to the ship!” Horace doesn’t realize it’s gone, he said to himself. The ship isn’t there, now.
“Turn the cart around!” his dad ordered the wub. “We have to go back for our cat!”
The wub, however, continued on. Behind them, Horace became smaller and smaller; Nick saw only a single point of motion, a black and while spot dwindling with each passing second. Horace had almost reached the place where the ship had rested.
From the sky a werj dropped like a stone, its flapping wings wrapped around itself. It looked to Nick like an ancient umbrella, a dried-up wrinkled umbrella with claws that writhed in the air beneath it. The werj descended a little ahead of Horace, then spread out its sail-like wings. Horace dashed on, directly at it.
“Horace!” Nick shouted. “Open your eyes!” Horace, however, ran on and on, eyes shut.
The werj snatched up the cat and shot upwards once more, to join the other werjes. The pack of them circled now, not coming any nearer to the cart. And yet, Nick saw, they did not go away. They seemed undecided.
“We’ve lost him,” his dad said quietly. His face was pale.
From the pack of werjes, a single werj departed in the direction of the cart. Above the cart it hovered, almost motionless, and very close. And Nick, gazing up, saw it closely—saw into its eyes.
In its eyes he made out infinity, an endless recession of dismal mirrors, within which he himself locked back, his own face, distorted into a mocking mask of sorrow and fright. He saw his own fear, his shock at losing Horace; he saw that warped by the hollow, elderly eyes of the werj, so that it was as if he were taunting himself, for his own worry and concern. And, beyond that, he saw even more. He saw past his own bent reflection. He saw something nameless that leered out from deep inside the werj, not the werj itself but something that lived within the creature, a shape which gasped for air, as if
cut off from the world, but wanting to find its way back.
The werj, Nick thought, is only a container. A sort of box. And it has swallowed something awful, which isn’t dead, which maybe can never die. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see any more, He had had enough of the werj—and of the creature living out its bloodless life inside it.
Noisily flapping, the werj came to rest on the ground in front of the cart. It said, in a rasping, whining voice, “We have decided to give you back your animal. It offends us; it smells of fish. It smells of the sea. But in exchange for this, we will ask a favor.” The werj then let out a sharp squawk, and, overhead, a second, greyer werj swooped down, clattered across the ground on flat, webbed feet, and came to a stop beside the cart.
In its needle-like jaws the second werj clasped Horace.
Horace looked exceedingly angry.
“Let the cat go,” Nick’s father said.
“There is a war here,” the first werj said. “It hangs over the valleys of this world like an evil sticky smoke. By coming here, you are involved in that war, and the favor which we ask of you—that favor concerns the war. We ourselves are part of this war. We have been fighting a long time; we are very tired.”
“Just let go of our cat,” Nick’s father repeated.
“Ask your wub,” the first werj said, “if this is so. It will tell you. The wub knows about our great war.”
From its neck-bag the wub got out a soiled, much-used card.
YES.
“I see,” Nick’s father said. He did not look pleased.
Nick said to the werjes, “Could you let Horace go, now?” He could think only of that. In the jaws of the second werj, Horace peered out, looking small and anxious and acutely unhappy.
“Let the creature which smells of fish go free,” the first werj said to its companion.
Opening its long jaws, the second werj obligingly dropped Horace to the ground.
Horace scampered away from the werj, but, as usual, in the wrong direction. “Horace!” Nick shouted desperately. “Over here!” Horace, however, continued to run, farther and farther away from the cart. He had seen a tree and he intended to hide in it, as was his custom. “Should I go after him?” Nick asked his father. He started to get out of the cart, but his father held him back with one strong arm.