Have Space Suit—Will Travel by Robert A. Heinlein
Iunio looked startled as invisible hands pulled him along. He called on Mars and Jove and laid about him. The sword clattered to the floor—picked itself up and returned itself to his scabbard. Iunio was moving rapidly away; I cupped my hands and yelled, “Good-bye, Iunio!”
“Farewell, boy! They’re cowards!” He shook himself. “Nothing but filthy witchcraft!” Then he was gone.
“Clifford Russell—”
“Huh? I’m here.” Peewee squeezed my hand.
“Is this your voice?”
I said, “Wait a minute—”
“Yes? Speak.”
I took a breath. Peewee pushed closer and whispered, “Make it good, Kip. They mean it.”
“I’ll try, kid,” I whispered, then went on, “What is this? I was told you intend to judge the human race.”
“That is correct.”
“But you can’t. You haven’t enough to go on. No better than witchcraft, just as Iunio said. You brought in a cave man—then decided he was a mistake. That isn’t your only mistake. You had Iunio here. Whatever he was—and I’m not ashamed of him; I’m proud of him—he’s got nothing to do with now. He’s been dead two thousand years, pretty near—if you’ve sent him back, I mean—and all that he was is dead with him. Good or bad, he’s not what the human race is now.”
“I know that. You two are the test sample of your race now.”
“Yes—but you can’t judge from us. Peewee and I are about as far from average as any specimens can be. We don’t claim to be angels, either one of us. If you condemn our race on what we have done, you do a great injustice. Judge us—or judge me, at least—”
“Me, too!”
“—on whatever I’ve done. But don’t hold my people responsible. That’s not scientific. That’s not valid mathematics.”
“It is valid.”
“It is not. Human beings aren’t molecules; they’re all different.” I decided not to argue about jurisdiction; the wormfaces had ruined that approach.
“Agreed, human beings are not molecules. But they are not individuals, either.”
“Yes, they are!”
“They are not independent individuals; they are parts of a single organism. Each cell in your body contains your whole pattern. From three samples of the organism you call the human race I can predict the future potentialities and limits of that race.”
“We have no limits! There’s no telling what our future will be.”
“It may be that you have no limits,” the voice agreed. “That is to be determined. But, if true, it is not a point in your favor. For we have limits.”
“Huh?”
“You have misunderstood the purpose of this examination. You speak of ‘justice.’ I know what you think you mean. But no two races have ever agreed on the meaning of that term, no matter how they say it. It is not a concept I deal with here. This is not a court of justice.”
“Then what is it?”
“You would call it a ‘Security Council.’ Or you might call it a committee of vigilantes. It does not matter what you call it; my sole purpose is to examine your race and see if you threaten our survival. If you do, I will now dispose of you. The only certain way to avert a grave danger is to remove it while it is small. Things that I have learned about you suggest a possibility that you may someday threaten the security of Three Galaxies. I will now determine the facts.”
“But you said that you have to have at least three samples. The cave man was no good.”
“We have three samples, you two and the Roman. But the facts could be determined from one sample. The use of three is a custom from earlier times, a cautious habit of checking and rechecking. I cannot dispense ‘justice’; I can make sure not to produce error.”
I was about to say that he was wrong, even if he was a million years old. But the voice went on, “I continue the examination. Clifford Russell, is this your voice?”
My voice sounded then—and again it was my own dictated account, but this time everything was left in—purple adjectives, personal opinions, comments about other matters, every word and stutter.
I listened to enough of it, held up my hand. “All right, all right, I said it.”
The recording stopped. “Do you now confirm it?”
“Eh? Yes.”
“Do you wish to add, subtract, or change?”
I thought hard. Aside from a few wisecracks that I had tucked in later it was a straight-forward account. “No. I stand on it.”
“And is this also your voice?”
This one fooled me. It was that endless recording I had made for Prof Joe about—well, everything on Earth…history, customs, peoples, the works. Suddenly I knew why Prof Joe had worn the same badge the Mother Thing wore. What did they call that?—“Planting a stool pigeon.” Good Old Prof Joe, the no-good, had been a stoolie.
I felt sick.
“Let me hear more of it.”
They accommodated me. I didn’t really listen; I was trying to remember, not what I was hearing, but what else I might have said—what I had admitted that could be used against the human race. The Crusades? Slavery? The gas chambers at Dachau? How much had I said?
The recording droned on. Why, that thing had taken weeks to record; we could stand here until our feet went flat.
“It’s my voice.”
“Do you stand on this, too? Or do you wish to correct, revise, or extend?”
I said cautiously, “Can I do the whole thing over?”
“If you so choose.”
I started to say that I would, that they should wipe the tape and start over. But would they? Or would they keep both and compare them? I had no compunction about lying—“tell the truth and shame the devil” is no virtue when your family and friends and your whole race are at stake.
But could they tell if I lied?
“The Mother Thing said to tell the truth and not to be afraid.”
“But she’s not on our side!”
“Oh, yes, she is.”
I had to answer. I was so confused that I couldn’t think. I had tried to tell the truth to Prof Joe…oh, maybe I had shaded things, not included every horrid thing that makes a headline. But it was essentially true.
Could I do better under pressure? Would they let me start fresh and accept any propaganda I cooked up? Or would the fact that I changed stories be used to condemn our race?
“I stand on it!”
“Let it be integrated. Patricia Wynant Reisfeld—” Peewee took only moments to identify and allow to be integrated her recordings; she simply followed my example.
The machine voice said: “The facts have been integrated. By their own testimony, these are a savage and brutal people, given to all manner of atrocities. They eat each other, they starve each other, they kill each other. They have no art and only the most primitive of science, yet such is their violent nature that even with so little knowledge they are now energetically using it to exterminate each other, tribe against tribe. Their driving will is such that they may succeed. But if by some unlucky chance they fail, they will inevitably, in time, reach other stars. It is this possibility which must be calculated: how soon they will reach us, if they live, and what their potentialities will be then.”
The voice continued to us: “This is the indictment against you—your own savagery, combined with superior intelligence. What have you to say in your defense?”
I took a breath and tried to steady down. I knew that we had lost—yet I had to try.
I remembered how the Mother Thing had spoken. “My lord peers—”
“Correction. We are not your ‘lords,’ nor has it been established that you are our equals. If you wish to address someone, you may call me the ‘Moderator.’”
“Yes, Mr. Moderator—” I tried to remember what Socrates had said to his judges. He knew ahead of time that he was condemned just as we knew—but somehow, though he had been forced to drink hemlock, he had won and they had lost.
No! I couldn’t use his Apologia—a
“—you say we have no art. Have you seen the Parthenon?”
“Blown up in one of your wars.”
“Better see it before you rotate us—or you’ll be missing something. Have you heard our poetry? ‘Our revels now are ended: these our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself…itself—yea—all which it…inherit—shall dissolve—”
I broke down. I heard Peewee sobbing beside me. I don’t know why I picked that one—but they say the subconscious mind never does things “accidentally.” I guess it had to be that one.
“As it well may,” commented the merciless voice.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business what we do—as long as we leave you alone—” My stammer was back and I was almost sobbing.
“We have made it our business.”
“We aren’t under your government and—”
“Correction. Three Galaxies is not a government; conditions for government cannot obtain in so vast a space, such varied cultures. We have simply formed police districts for mutual protection.”
“But—even so, we haven’t troubled your cops. We were in our own backyards—I was in my own backyard!—when these wormface things came along and started troubling us. We haven’t hurt you.”
“You may in time. That is what I am considering.”
I stopped, wondering where to turn. I couldn’t guarantee good behavior, not for the whole human race—the machine knew it and I knew it.
“Inquiry.” It was talking to itself again. “These creatures appear to be identical with the Old Race, allowing for mutation. What part of the Third Galaxy are they from?”
It answered itself, naming co-ordinates that meant nothing to me. “But they are not of the Old Race; they are ephemerals. That is the danger; they change too fast.”
“Didn’t the Old Race lose a ship out that way a few half-deaths of Thorium-230 ago? Could that account for the fact that the youngest sample failed to match?”
It answered firmly, “It is immaterial whether or not they may be descended from the Old Race. An examination is in progress; a decision must be made.”
“The decision must be sure.”
“It will be.” The bodyless voice went on, to us: “Have either of you anything to add in your defense?”
I had been thinking of what had been said about the miserable state of our science. I wanted to point out that we had gone from muscle power to atomic power in only two centuries—but I was afraid that fact would be used against us. “Peewee, can you think of anything?”
She suddenly stepped forward and shrilled to the air, “Doesn’t it count that Kip saved the Mother Thing?”
“No,” that cold voice answered. “It is irrelevant.”
“Well, it ought to count!” She was crying again. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Bullies! Cowards! Oh, you’re worse than wormfaces!”
I pulled her back. She hid her head against my shoulder and shook. Then she whispered, “I’m sorry, Kip. I didn’t mean to. I guess I’ve ruined it.”
“It was ruined anyhow, honey.”
“Have you anything more to say?” old no-face went on relentlessly.
I looked around at the hall.—the cloud-capped towers…the great globe itself—“Just this!” I said savagely. “It’s not a defense, you don’t want a defense. All right, take away our star—You will if you can and I guess you can. Go ahead! We’ll make a star! Then, someday, well come back and hunt you down—all of you!”
“That’s telling ’em, Kip! That’s telling them!”
Nobody bawled me out. I suddenly felt like a kid who has made a horrible mistake at a party and doesn’t know how to cover it up.
But I meant it. Oh, I didn’t think we could do it. Not yet. But we’d try. “Die trying” is the proudest human thing.
“It is possible that you will,” that infuriating voice went on. “Are you through?”
“I’m through.” We all were through…every one of us.
“Does anyone speak for them? Humans, will any race speak for you?”
We didn’t know any other races. Dogs—Maybe dogs would.
“I speak for them!”
Peewee raised her head with a jerk. “Mother Thing!”
Suddenly she was in front of us. Peewee tried to run to her, bounced off that invisible barrier. I grabbed her. “Easy, hon. She isn’t there—it’s some sort of television.”
“My lord peers…you have the advantage of many minds and much knowledge—” It was odd to see her singing, hear her in English; the translation still held that singing quality.
“—but I know them. It is true that they are violent—especially the smaller one—but they are not more violent than is appropriate to their ages. Can we expect mature restraint in a race whose members all must die in early childhood? And are not we ourselves violent? Have we not this day killed our billions? Can any race survive without a willingness to fight? It is true that these creatures are often more violent than is necessary or wise. But, my peers, they all are so very young. Give them time to learn.”
“That is exactly what there is to fear, that they may learn. Your race is overly sentimental; it distorts your judgment.”
“Not true! We are compassionate, we are not foolish. I myself have been the proximate cause of how many, many adverse decisions? You know; it is in your records—I prefer not to remember. And I shall be again. When a branch is diseased beyond healing, it must be pruned. We are not sentimental; we are the best watchers you have ever found, for we do it without anger. Toward evil we have no mercy. But the mistakes of a child we treat with loving forbearance.”
“Have you finished?”
“I say that this branch need not be pruned! I have finished.”
The Mother Thing’s image vanished. The voice went on, “Does any other race speak for them?”
“I do.” Where she had been now stood a large green monkey. He stared at us and shook his head, then suddenly did a somersault and finished looking at us between his legs. “I’m no friend of theirs but I am a lover of ‘justice’—in which I differ from my colleagues in this Council.” He twirled rapidly several times. “As our sister has said, this race is young. The infants of my own noble race bite and scratch each other—some even die from it. Even I behaved so, at one time.” He jumped into the air, landed on his hands, did a flip from that position. “Yet does anyone here deny that I am civilized?” He stopped, looked at us thoughtfully while scratching. “These are brutal savages and I don’t see how anyone could ever like them—but I say: give them their chance!” His image disappeared.
The voice said, “Have you anything to add before a decision is reached?”
I started to say: No, get it over with—when Peewee grabbed my ear and whispered. I listened, nodded, and spoke. “Mr. Moderator—if the verdict is against us—can you hold off your hangmen long enough to let us go home? We know that you can send us home in only a few minutes.”
The voice did not answer quickly. “Why do you wish this? As I have explained, you are not personally on trial. It has been arranged to let you live.”
“We know. We’d rather be home, that’s all—with our people.”
Again a tiny hesitation. “It shall be done.”
“Are the facts sufficient to permit a decision?”
“Yes.”
“What is the decision?”
“This race will be re-examined in a dozen half-deaths of radium. Meanwhile there is danger to it from itself. Against this mischance it will be given assistance. During the probationary period it will be watched closely by Guardian Mother—” the machine trilled the true Vegan name of the Mother Thing “—the cop on that beat, who will report at once any ominous change. In the meantime we wish this race good progress in its long journey upward
“Let them now be returned forthwith to the space-time whence they came.”
Chapter 12
I didn’t think it was safe to make our atmosphere descent in New Jersey without filing a flight plan. Princeton is near important targets; we might be homed-on by everything up to A-missiles. The Mother Thing got that indulgent chuckle in her song: (“I fancy we can avoid that.”)
She did. She put us down in a side street, sang goodbye and was gone. It’s not illegal to be out at night in space suits, even carrying a rag dolly. But it’s unusual—cops hauled us in. They phoned Peewee’s father and in twenty minutes we were in his study, drinking cocoa and talking and eating shredded wheat.
Peewee’s mother almost had a fit. While we told our story she kept gasping, “I can’t believe it!” until Professor Reisfeld said, “Stop it, Janice. Or go to bed.” I don’t blame her. Her daughter disappears on the Moon and is given up for dead—then miraculously reappears on Earth. But Professor Reisfeld believed us. The way the Mother Thing had “understanding” he had “acceptance.” When a fact came along, he junked theories that failed to match.
He examined Peewee’s suit, had her switch on the helmet, shined a light to turn it opaque, all with a little smile. Then he reached for the phone. “Dario must see this.”
“At midnight, Curt?”
“Please, Janice. Armageddon won’t wait for office hours.”
“Professor Reisfeld?”
“Yes, Kip?”
“Uh, you may want to see other things first.”
“That’s possible.”
I took things from Oscar’s pockets—two beacons, one for each of us, some metal “paper” covered with equations, two “happy things,” and two silvery spheres. We had stopped on Vega Five, spending most of the time under what I suppose was hypnosis while Prof Joe and another professor thing pumped us for what we knew of human mathematics. They hadn’t been learning math from us—oh, no! They wanted the language we use in mathematics, from radicals and vectors to those weird symbols in higher physics, so that they could teach us; the results were on the metal paper.
First I showed Professor Reisfeld the beacons. “The Mother Thing’s beat now includes us. She says to use these if we need her. She’ll usually be close by—a thousand light-years at most. But even if she is far away, she’ll come.”