The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r)

  “Federations don’t last that long. They don’t even last half an eternity. And yours died millennia ago. It’s like some great beast whose nervous system is so slow on the trigger it takes hours to realize that it’s dead. Well, the Federation will last a couple of thousand years more, on its accumulated momentum. But it’s dead now.”

  Bork rose. “I can’t spend any further time on this kind of foolish talking,” he said wearily. “I’ll have to get back to my base.” He fingered the glittering platinum ornaments on his stiff green jacket. “And I don’t intend to give up trying to Federate the Mellidani, despite your obstructions.”

  Gambrell chuckled in an oddly offensive manner. “Keep at it, then. Keep on mouthing clichés and giving them hollow arguments that fall to flinders when you poke at the roots. We’ve warned the Mellidani. Besides, they can think for themselves, and aren’t impressed easily by big words and gilded phrases. They won’t be suckers for your routine.”

  Bork was very quiet for a long moment, staring stonily at the Earth-man, trying to see behind those ice-cool gray eyes. At length he said, “Is this all just petty spite on your part? Why are you doing this, Gambrell? If you Terrans don’t want to enter the Federation, why don’t you keep off by yourselves and stop meddling with our activities?”

  “Because the Mellidani represent something unique in the galaxy,” Gambrell said. “And because we see their value, even if you don’t. Do you know what would happen if you Federated the Mellidani? Within a century you’d have to exterminate them or expel them from the Federation. They’re alien, Bork. Totally and absolutely and unchangeably alien. They don’t breathe the same kind of atmosphere you do. They don’t digest the same foods. Their lungs don’t work on the principles yours do. Neither do their brains.”

  “What does this—”

  Gambrell cut him off and continued unstoppably. “They’re a cosmic fluke, Bork. They don’t conform to the oxygen-carbon pattern of life, and they might very well be the only race in the universe that doesn’t. We can’t afford to let the Federation come in here and destroy them. And you will destroy them, because they’re different and the Federation can’t abide differences that can’t be smoothed out by a little deportation and ideological manipulation and genetic monkeying.”

  “I wish I could follow this ridiculous line of chatter,” Bork snapped savagely. “But I’m afraid I’m wasting your time and mine. Please excuse me.”

  Sighing, Gambrell said, “You just don’t listen to me, do you?”

  “I’ve been listening. What’s so important about this uniqueness of these people, that must be preserved at all costs?”

  Instead of asking, Gambrell crisply said, “Close your right eye, Bork. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Close your right eye. There. Suddenly you lose depth perception, notice? Your eyes function stereoscopically; knock out one point of focus and you see things two-dimensionally. Well, we see things two-dimensionally, Bork, all of us. The whole galaxy does. We see things through the eyes of oxygen-breathing carbon entities, and we distort everything to fit that orientation.

  “The Mellidani could be our second eye. If we leave them alone, free to look at events and phenomena in their own special alien unique way—they can provide that other point of focus for us. We have to preserve this thing they have; if we let the Federation destroy it by lumping them into the vast all-devouring amoeba of confederate existence, we may never find another race quite so alien, just as we can never regenerate a blinded eye. That’s why we poisoned their minds against you. That’s why we got here first and made sure they would never join the Federation. And they won’t.”

  Angrily, Bork said, “They will! This is ridiculous!”

  Gambrell shrugged. “Go ahead, then. Speak ye to the Mellidani, and see how far you get. This isn’t an ordinary race you’re dealing with. Incidentally, the Mellidani leader has been listening to this whole conversation over a private circuit.”

  That was the final gesture of contempt. Bork surged to the door, rage clotting his throat, and stalked out of Gambrell’s office wordlessly. Federation dead, indeed! Point of focus! The Federation would absorb the Mellidani, no doubt of it. They would!

  He reached ground-level and found his aides. “Let’s get back to the ship,” Bork ordered brusquely. “I want to speak to the Mellidani again. The Earthmen haven’t won this conflict yet.”

  They drove through the clinging yellow-green fog to the slim needle that was the Federation ship. As they drove, Bork cast frantically about in his mind for some argument that was new, that was not cliché-riddled and time-worn. And no answers presented themselves.

  He felt panic throbbing in his chest. The first dark cracks were starting to appear on the gleaming shield of his self-confidence—and, perhaps, on the greater shield of the Federation’s vaunted prestige. The Earth-man’s words echoed harshly in his mind. You’ll never get Mellidan VII. The Federation is dead. Point of focus. Alien viewpoint. Necessary. Perspective.

  Then eleven thousand years of Galactic domination reasserted their hold. Bork grew calm; the Earthman’s words were air-filled nonsense, without meaning. Mellidan VII was not yet lost. Not yet.

  We’ll show them, he thought fiercely. We’ll show them. But the old emissary’s heart suddenly was not quite sure they would.

  POSTMARK GANYMEDE

  Originally published in Amazing Stories, September 1957.

  “I’m washed up,” Preston growled bitterly. “They made a postman out of me. Me—a postman!”

  He crumpled the assignment memo into a small, hard ball and hurled it at the bristly image of himself in the bar mirror. He hadn’t shaved in three days—which was how long it had been since he had been notified of his removal from Space Patrol Service and his transfer to Postal Delivery.

  Suddenly, Preston felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw a man in the trim gray of a Patrolman’s uniform.

  “What do you want, Dawes?”

  “Chief’s been looking for you, Preston. It’s time for you to get going on your run.”

  Preston scowled. “Time to go deliver the mail, eh?” He spat. “Don’t they have anything better to do with good spacemen than make letter carriers out of them?”

  The other man shook his head. “You won’t get anywhere grousing about it, Preston. Your papers don’t specify which branch you’re assigned to, and if they want to make you carry the mail—that’s it.” His voice became suddenly gentle. “Come on, Pres. One last drink, and then let’s go. You don’t want to spoil a good record, do you?”

  “No,” Preston said reflectively. He gulped his drink and stood up. “Okay. I’m ready. Neither snow nor rain shall stay me from my appointed rounds, or however the damned thing goes.”

  “That’s a smart attitude, Preston. Come on—I’ll walk you over to Administration.”

  Savagely, Preston ripped away the hand that the other had put around his shoulders. “I can get there myself. At least give me credit for that!”

  “Okay,” Dawes said, shrugging. “Well—good luck, Preston.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Thanks real lots.”

  He pushed his way past the man in Space Grays and shouldered past a couple of barflies as he left. He pushed open the door of the bar and stood outside for a moment.

  It was near midnight, and the sky over Nome Spaceport was bright with stars. Preston’s trained eye picked out Mars, Jupiter, Uranus. There they were—waiting. But he would spend the rest of his days ferrying letters on the Ganymede run.

  He sucked in the cold night air of summertime Alaska and squared his shoulders.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, Preston sat at the controls of a one-man patrol ship just as he had in the old days. Only the control panel was bare where the firing studs for the heavy gu
ns was found in regular patrol ships. And in the cargo hold instead of crates of spare ammo there were three bulging sacks of mail destined for the colony on Ganymede.

  Slight difference, Preston thought, as he set up his blasting pattern.

  “Okay, Preston,” came the voice from the tower. “You’ve got clearance.”

  “Cheers,” Preston said, and yanked the blast-lever. The ship jolted upward, and for a second he felt a little of the old thrill—until he remembered.

  He took the ship out in space, saw the blackness in the viewplate. The radio crackled.

  “Come in, Postal Ship. Come in, Postal Ship.”

  “I’m in. What do you want?”

  “We’re your convoy,” a hard voice said. “Patrol Ship 08756, Lieutenant Mellors, above you. Down at three o’clock, Patrol Ship 10732, Lieutenant Gunderson. We’ll take you through the Pirate Belt.”

  Preston felt his face go hot with shame. Mellors! Gunderson! They would stick two of his old sidekicks on the job of guarding him.

  “Please acknowledge,” Mellors said.

  Preston paused. Then: “Postal Ship 1872, Lieutenant Preston aboard. I acknowledge message.”

  There was a stunned silence. “Preston? Hal Preston?”

  “The one and only,” Preston said.

  “What are you doing on a Postal ship?” Mellors asked.

  “Why don’t you ask the Chief that? He’s the one who yanked me out of the Patrol and put me here.”

  “Can you beat that?” Gunderson asked incredulously. “Hal Preston, on a Postal ship.”

  “Yeah. Incredible, isn’t it?” Preston asked bitterly. “You can’t believe your ears. Well, you better believe it, because here I am.”

  “Must be some clerical error,” Gunderson said.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Preston snapped.

  They were silent for a few moments, as the three ships—two armed, one loaded with mail for Ganymede—streaked outward away from Earth. Manipulating his controls with the ease of long experience, Preston guided the ship smoothly toward the gleaming bulk of far-off Jupiter. Even at this distance, he could see five or six bright pips surrounding the huge planet. There was Callisto, and—ah—there was Ganymede.

  He made computations, checked his controls, figured orbits. Anything to keep from having to talk to his two ex-Patrolmates or from having to think about the humiliating job he was on. Anything to—

  * * * *

  “Pirates! Moving up at two o’clock!”

  Preston came awake. He picked off the location of the pirate ships—there were two of them, coming up out of the asteroid belt. Small, deadly, compact, they orbited toward him.

  He pounded the instrument panel in impotent rage, looking for the guns that weren’t there.

  “Don’t worry, Pres,” came Mellors’ voice. “We’ll take care of them for you.”

  “Thanks,” Preston said bitterly. He watched as the pirate ships approached, longing to trade places with the men in the Patrol ships above and below him.

  Suddenly a bright spear of flame lashed out across space and the hull of Gunderson’s ship glowed cherry red. “I’m okay,” Gunderson reported immediately. “Screens took the charge.”

  Preston gripped his controls and threw the ship into a plunging dive that dropped it back behind the protection of both Patrol ships. He saw Gunderson and Mellors converge on one of the pirates. Two blue beams licked out, and the pirate ship exploded.

  But then the second pirate swooped down in an unexpected dive. “Look out!” Preston yelled helplessly—but it was too late. Beams ripped into the hull of Mellors’ ship, and a dark fissure line opened down the side of the ship. Preston smashed his hand against the control panel. Better to die in an honest dogfight than to live this way!

  It was one against one, now—Gunderson against the pirate. Preston dropped back again to take advantage of the Patrol ship’s protection.

  “I’m going to try a diversionary tactic,” Gunderson said on untappable tight-beam. “Get ready to cut under and streak for Ganymede with all you got.”

  “Check.”

  Preston watched as the tactic got under way. Gunderson’s ship traveled in a long, looping spiral that drew the pirate into the upper quadrant of space. His path free, Preston guided his ship under the other two and toward unobstructed freedom. As he looked back, he saw Gunderson steaming for the pirate on a sure collision orbit.

  He turned away. The score was two Patrolmen dead, two ships wrecked—but the mails would get through.

  Shaking his head, Preston leaned forward over his control board and headed on toward Ganymede.

  * * * *

  The blue-white, frozen moon hung beneath him. Preston snapped on the radio.

  “Ganymede Colony? Come in, please. This is your Postal Ship.” The words tasted sour in his mouth.

  There was silence for a second. “Come in, Ganymede,” Preston repeated impatiently—and then the sound of a distress signal cut across his audio pickup.

  It was coming on wide beam from the satellite below—and they had cut out all receiving facilities in an attempt to step up their transmitter. Preston reached for the wide-beam stud, pressed it.

  “Okay, I pick up your signal, Ganymede. Come in, now!”

  “This is Ganymede,” a tense voice said. “We’ve got trouble down here. Who are you?”

  “Mail ship,” Preston said. “From Earth. What’s going on?”

  There was the sound of voices whispering somewhere near the microphone. Finally: “Hello, Mail Ship?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re going to have to turn back to Earth, fellow. You can’t land here. It’s rough on us, missing a mail trip, but—”

  Preston said impatiently, “Why can’t I land? What the devil’s going on down there?”

  “We’ve been invaded,” the tired voice said. “The colony’s been completely surrounded by iceworms.”

  “Iceworms?”

  “The local native life,” the colonist explained. “They’re about thirty feet long, a foot wide, and mostly mouth. There’s a ring of them about a hundred yards wide surrounding the Dome. They can’t get in and we can’t get out—and we can’t figure out any possible approach for you.”

  “Pretty,” Preston said. “But why didn’t the things bother you while you were building your Dome?”

  “Apparently they have a very long hibernation-cycle. We’ve only been here two years, you know. The iceworms must all have been asleep when we came. But they came swarming out of the ice by the hundreds last month.”

  “How come Earth doesn’t know?”

  “The antenna for our long-range transmitter was outside the Dome. One of the worms came by and chewed the antenna right off. All we’ve got left is this short-range thing we’re using and it’s no good more than ten thousand miles from here. You’re the first one who’s been this close since it happened.”

  “I get it.” Preston closed his eyes for a second, trying to think things out.

  * * * *

  The Colony was under blockade by hostile alien life, thereby making it impossible for him to deliver the mail. Okay. If he’d been a regular member of the Postal Service, he’d have given it up as a bad job and gone back to Earth to report the difficulty.

  But I’m not going back. I’ll be the best damned mailman they’ve got.

  “Give me a landing orbit anyway, Ganymede.”

  “But you can’t come down! How will you leave your ship?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Preston said calmly.

  “We have to worry! We don’t dare open the Dome, with those creatures outside. You can’t come down, Postal Ship.”

  “You want your mail or don’t you?”

  The colonist
paused. “Well—”

  “Okay, then,” Preston said. “Shut up and give me landing coordinates!”

  There was a pause, and then the figures started coming over. Preston jotted them down on a scratch-pad.

  “Okay, I’ve got them. Now sit tight and wait.” He glanced contemptuously at the three mail-pouches behind him, grinned, and started setting up the orbit.

  Mailman, am I? I’ll show them!

  * * * *

  He brought the Postal Ship down with all the skill of his years in the Patrol, spiralling in around the big satellite of Jupiter as cautiously and as precisely as if he were zeroing in on a pirate lair in the asteroid belt. In its own way, this was as dangerous, perhaps even more so.

  Preston guided the ship into an ever-narrowing orbit, which he stabilized about a hundred miles over the surface of Ganymede. As his ship swung around the moon’s poles in its tight orbit, he began to figure some fuel computations.

  His scratch-pad began to fill with notations.

  Fuel storage—

  Escape velocity—

  Margin of error—

  Safety factor—

  Finally he looked up. He had computed exactly how much spare fuel he had, how much he could afford to waste. It was a small figure—too small, perhaps.

  He turned to the radio. “Ganymede?”

  “Where are you, Postal Ship?”

  “I’m in a tight orbit about a hundred miles up,” Preston said. “Give me the figures on the circumference of your Dome, Ganymede?”

  “Seven miles,” the colonist said. “What are you planning to do?”

  Preston didn’t answer. He broke contact and scribbled some more figures. Seven miles of iceworms, eh? That was too much to handle. He had planned on dropping flaming fuel on them and burning them out, but he couldn’t do it that way.