News From Elsewhere (18 page)

Slowly Dr. Blane walked toward his companions. At one hundred yards he stopped, stood quite still, took careful aim. He gave the cloud of butterflies a two-second dose of vibration. They scattered with much violent flapping, and a few dropped crazily down to the rocky surface. As they fell, another small cloud rose, and Dr. Blane knew then what had been obscuring the heads of Trenoy and Luiss. He fought back a sharp, involuntary sickness and marched on.

At fifty yards he thought it was an illusion, but at twenty-five yards it became inescapable fact. Dr. Blane was approaching two men in pressure suits who were dead but still standing. Their clean-picked skulls were fixed in two barren grins.

In his own pressure suit, Blane wqs sweating with panic. A sixth sense warned him to turn around and run. But it was already too late. For to Dr. Blane’s heightened perception there came the first faint strains of a vast, compelling music. It was the pattern, the experience, the mobility, the sheer harmony of a thousand symphonies condensed into a single chord.

Turning with a tremendous effort, he saw the butterflies rising from the pampas, and knew—in the instant before that colossal theme of ecstasy blocked all thought—that presently the butterflies would begin to circle lower and lower.

There were tears in Dr. Blane’s eyes. But they were not tears for his own approaching death. They were the only way in which he, and his companions before him, could react to an experience that was profound beyond any known to man, that was compelling and final, tearing its way past the flimsy threshold of human consciousness.

The vibrators dropped from his impatient fingers. Slowly, hypnotically, Dr. Blane fumbled for the release clips of his headpiece. And the music swelled like sacramental thunder, the soundless music of thousands of multicolored butterflies, thousands of insect carnivores closing in upon their selected prey. And across the pampas, across the brown and crimson rocks, myriads of flapping wings proclaimed their centralization of power— submergence of the individual in a tremendous group identity.

Dr. Blane stood there, unable to think, unable to see, unable to move—waiting for the butterflies to descend. Waiting for the crunch of small but powerful mandibles.

The nine-hour day on Planet Five drew quietly to a close. Then the sun, known to Earthlings as the Companion of Sirius, began to slip smoothly over a blue and purple horizon. Presently the butterflies rose, winging across the pampas to their nocturnal, batlike roosts. Presently there was only the solitude of night, the remote mystery of stars. . . .

The survey ship
Prometheus
remained in orbit for ten more days. Whizbang, the robot, kept a steady vigil by the transceiver on the navigation deck, in accordance with 
instructions. But the lack of response to his repeated signals forced him to the obvious conclusion.

He satisfied himself that there was one very sound reason why there could be no survivors: men, unlike robots, cannot exist without water. Unfortunately, the water on Planet Five was different from its terrestrial counterpart, belonging to a different geological cycle. Its chemical symbol was infinitely more complex than mere H
₂
O
.

So Whizbang brought in an open verdict, secure in the conviction that his masters could no longer be alive.

He had, however, no knowledge of the manner of their deaths. When he too had been a victim of the butterfly-mind, he had not heard the compelling music, for it was reaching to something far deeper than a synthetic brain. He had merely been positronically disturbed. He had merely been, for the first time in his robotic existence, asleep while his batteries were still powered. Nor could he know that, with a superior act of volition, the butterfly-mind had simply willed him to go away. Being metallic, he was not a possible source of food; and not being a source of food, he was only irrelevant.

But even a robot must rationalize when forced to act without human command. So Whizbang had found it necessary to “invent” Dr. Blane’s instructions to return to the
Prometheus.

Standing now on the navigation deck, he stared with red, expressionless eyes at the surface of Planet Five.

At last he reached a decision. The information would have to be given to other human beings, who would then assume responsibility.

Whizbang jerked himself up into the astrodome and began to take bearings. As he worked, he knew neither happiness nor anxiety, neither hope nor despair, neither regret nor relief.

He knew only that he could handle the relativity drive more efficiently than men.

Ynkwysytyv dropped Ms flying saucer down to ten thousand feet and allowed it to amble through the sky at a thousand miles an hour. Below
him
lay the United States of America, which he found very boring to look at.

His telescope had revealed no signs at all of intelligent lizard life—only a host of odd-looking bipeds who lived in peculiar-shaped Mves and used primitive land carriages to get from one place to another. True, they had flying machines—but of a somewhat amateurish design.

As a matter of fact, Ynkwysytyv had whiled away the last few minutes by playing leapfrog with two ridiculously flimsy jet aircraft. But when they began to pump rockets at him, he lost Ms temper and neatly burned off their w
⁷
ings with a heat ray—which made life interesting for a couple of incredulous Air Force pilots. Fortunately their ejector seats and parachutes were in working order.

If the truth be known, Ynkwysytyv—or Ynky, as Ms colleagues in the United Planets Organization called him—was not only bored but definitely unhappy. He had to admit, however, that the assignment to this remote and backward area of the galaxy was largely Ms own doing. If he had not allowed Ms tail to be turned by the irresistible scales and the seductive yellow streak of the Senior Administrator’s only daughter, he would still be at U.P.O. headquarters on Woz.

He sighed nostalgically as he thought of Ms home planet, five hundred light-years away. He sighed as he remembered the clear green skies, the deep blue grass, the pink rain forests, and the boiling crimson oceans. Then he snorted with disgust as he looked down at the miserable world he had come to survey.

The colors were wrong, the inhabitants were backward and ugly, and the whole place would probably have to be fumigated to make it fit for colonization. Possibly a few of the more intelligent natives could be retained for slave labor. But their rudimentary technology seemed to indicate that this was hardly worthwhile. Robots would be far more efficient.

However, his instructions were to survey the planet, establish friendly contact with the inhabitants, and prepare a detailed report on their culture—if any. All of which was a complete waste of time, since the report would be filed away and forgotten for a couple of centuries. Then some junior official would stumble across it and sign an order for total demolition under the slum-clearance program.

Ynky had every justification for taking a cynical view of life. His journey to the Solar System had lasted more than ten years, and his hibernation clock had accidentally woken him up eighteen months before planetfall—thus giving him ample opportunity for reflection on lizard’s inlizardity to lizard. It was downright vindictive of the Senior Administrator to pack him off to this hole—and all because his sex band had turned purple at the wrong moment.

Being a mere two hundred years old, Ynky regarded it as the worst possible beginning for the best century of his youth. By the time he got back to Woz all the females in his egg group would have mated, and he would be condemned to a bachelor existence for at least another seventy-five years.

During his hibernation in the flying saucer, Ynky had naturally been programmed to fluency in all major terrestrial languages, for he was not the first Woz lizard to visit Earth. Some years previously, a blue-tailed language specialist had touched down to do research on elementary methods of communication. He had managed to beam back to Woz the basic language patterns of English, French, Russian, and Chinese before being converted into a nourishing soup by the uncultured inhabitants of New Guinea.

Ynky gazed distastefully down at the planetary surface and shrugged. Might as well make a start somewhere. He reluctantly eased the saucer Earthwards.

Below was a deserted highway and an equally deserted roadside cafe. Ynky hovered indecisively for a moment, wondering whether he should press on to a more promising location. But what was the use? The whole civilization was monotonously primitive.

He touched down about a hundred yards from the cafe. He got out of the saucer, sniffed the air cautiously—too much poisonous oxygen and not enough nitrogen—and began to walk along the highway. Then, realizing he had forgotten something, he went back and rendered the saucer invisible as a precaution against any curious bipeds who happened along.

As lizards go, Ynky was an impressive specimen. Poised erect on his hind legs, he was four feet tall, excluding an extra three feet of red and purple tail that waved proudly behind him like an animated battle standard. However, in accordance with what the late blue-tailed language specialist had observed of diplomatic procedure, he also wore a top hat and morning coat.

His entrance, therefore, at the Shady Nook Cafe introduced an element of novelty into the otherwise quiet existence of its proprietor, one Sam Goodwin. Sam, whose favorite relaxation was to read all about bug-eyed monsters, behaved with commendable fortitude when one actually appeared.

“Howdy,” said Sam, scratching his gray hair and trying to look as if the top hat hadn’t shaken him at all. “How are things in the galaxy?”

Ynky was pleasantly surprised by this first contact with
Homo sapiens.
He had anticipated some initial difficulty.

“We try to keep the constellations burning,” he said modestly, “but you know how it is.”

“Sure,” agreed Sam confidentially. “What’ll you eat? Steak, fried chicken, burger?”

Ynky shuddered, remembering the blue-tailed lizard’s repeated warnings about the standard of terrestrial cooking. “I’ll take fruit,” he said. “A dozen apples, a dozen oranges, and a dozen bananas.”

“Drink?” said Sam, filling the counter with fruit.

“Milk,” decided Ynky. “About six quarts.”

He disposed of the lot simultaneously, to Sam’s intense interest. Ten seconds later. Ynky dexterously slipped an arm down his throat and extracted empty milk cartons, banana skins, and orange peel all neatly tied up in a plastic wrapper for disposal.

“Cute trick,” observed Sam. “Is that normal, or just for the benefit of the natives?”

“Normal,” said Ynky. “We have somewhat delicate table manners on Woz.”

“Come again?”

“Woz is my home planet. I have been given the task of reporting to the United Planets Organization on the state of your world. ... I may add that, though I find you as a biped less repulsive than I had expected, I shall probably have to recommend fumigation.”

“You have my interest,” said Sam. “What is fumigation, and why?”

Ynky leaned on the counter, removed his top hat, and expounded. “Fumigation is a means of rendering a planet sterile by the introduction of an interesting gas that our chemists have developed. It is a breeder gas. That is to say, if a small quantity is introduced into any atmosphere it will quickly make the whole atmosphere lethal. A fine achievement, don’t you think? Well beyond your own elementary science, of course.”

Sam had read about this sort of situation in the pulp magazines. He was not sure he approved of it.

“Permit me to inquire,” he said courteously, “why this little old planet should be fumigated?”

Ynky smiled. “We have made the mistake of trying to civilize bipeds before. Too intractable. There were some rather promising apes on Sirius Five—intelligent enough to train as technicians, or so we thought. Unfortunately, they developed a mania for political independence and blew three of our battle squadrons out of space before we demonstrated to them the error of their ways. ... So you see, it is not wise to educate inferior creatures beyond their natural ability. It will be rather a pity about
Homo sapiens.
In some ways you are a definite improvement on the apes of Sirius.”

“Thank you,” said Sam. “That’s nice to know.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Ynky. “There is the possibility of retaining a few slaves, of course. If you are interested, I’ll gladly recommend you.”

“Thank you,” repeated Sam. “That’s real considerate. ... I guess you must have a pretty big team investigating earth right now.”

Ynky gave him a patronizing smile. “No,” he said. “Only me. One lizard was considered adequate for such a simple assignment.”

“Interesting!” Sam removed his spectacles and polished them carefully. “Now just supposing you failed to turn in a report?”

Ynky was surprised at human stupidity. “But I
shall
turn in a report. That is what I am here for. Needless to say, it will be entirely impartial and thoroughly scientific.”

“Naturally,” agreed Sam. “But just assuming—for the sake of argument—that your report didn’t reach headquarters?”

“A ridiculous assumption.” Ynky yawned. “But in that case, someone would discover the omission eventually, and another lizard would be sent. In a couple of centuries or so. After all, from our point of view the problem is not terribly urgent.”