The Outpost (15 page)

“Does that cover
all
the deserters, or just the ones you don’t like?”

“Both. I don’t like none of ’em.”

“What about a woman?”

“Don’t have much use for ’em,” said Jesse. “Besides, they shipped ’em all home months ago.”

“I mean a Pelopenne.”

“I
hate
bugs!” he exploded. “And I especially hate bugs that look like women!”

Well, I spent about half an hour with him, and at the end of that time I still didn’t know what he
liked
. He hated his fellow man, he hated women, he hated children, he hated the army, he hated the government, he hated aliens. He wasn’t real fond of dogs or cats or birds either.

I offered him a drink while I was trying to decide whether to kill him on the spot or take him back to stand trial. He took one sip, spit it out, and hurled my flask down the side of the mountain.

“I hate bad booze!” he bellowed.

“That was real Cygnian cognac!” I said.

“What do
you
know about taste, asshole?” he said.

It was a real dilemma. If I shot him where he was, I’d have to take him a third of the way across the galaxy to claim the reward, and he didn’t smell all that good
now
. On the other hand, if I took him back alive, I’d have to listen to him all the way, and I figured I couldn’t take much more than an hour before I killed him anyway.

And then the perfect solution occurred to me.

I got up, motioned him to enter the cave, and kept my screecher trained on him.

“Good-bye, Jesse,” I said.

He just stared at me uncomprehendingly.

“I’ve been a bounty hunter for most of my life. I deal with nothing but the scum of the galaxy—and I have to say that you are the most unpleasant man it’s ever been my displeasure to meet.”

“You ain’t gonna kill me?” he said.

“No.”

“Or take me back?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I’ve come to the conclusion that the worst punishment you can undergo is to be stranded on a world populated by nothing but giant bugs who don’t like you any better than you like them. Before I leave I’ll tell them that you’re here, and I’ll make sure they know how dangerous you can be, so that they never wander anywhere near you alone or unarmed.”

“You can’t do this to me!” he bellowed. “What about your reward?”

“I’ve decided that the thought of you spending the rest of your life here is all the reward I want or need,” I said.

And it was.

“I just love stories of death and carnage!” enthused the Reverend Billy Karma. “They’re so religious, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you ever go back to see what had become of Mad Jesse?” asked Max.

The Gravedigger shook his head. “For all I know he’s still there, living off fruits and berries and eating an occasional grubworm for protein.” He smiled, which he didn’t do more than once a month or so. “At least, I like to think so.”

“I find it amazing that the three of you fought in the same war on the same side and never once met each other,” said the Bard.

“I didn’t fight in the war,” Gaines corrected him. “It was over by the time I got there.”

“How long did it last, start to finish?” asked the Bard.

“Too damned long,” said Max. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever thought up that particular war.” He paused thoughtfully. “It couldn’t have been General Bigelow. He wanted to leave worse than anyone.”

“Who knows?” said Little Mike Picasso with a shrug. “People have been thinking up wars for thousands of years now—and then getting other people to go off and fight them.”

“Which brings up an interesting question,” said Nicodemus Mayflower.

“Yeah?” said Little Mike. “And what question is that?”

“Who thought up the very first war?”

“Hell, who invents
anything
?” chimed in Catastrophe Baker. “There’s no way to know. Probably it was some caveman with a club.”

“That’s not really true,” said the Bard. “Most inventions are carefully recorded and documented.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Don’t take
my
word for it. Ask Einstein.”

“
Ask
him?” repeated Baker. “I don’t even know how to let him know I’m here, short of sticking a pin into him.”

“Just ask your question,” said Big Red, pulling out a pocket computer. “I’ll transmit it to him.”

“I don’t know what the hell to ask,” said Baker. He paused for a moment, then came up with a solution. “Have him tell us about some of the most important inventions.”

Big Red alternately whispered into his computer and tapped on its screen. A moment later Einstein’s computer started buzzing and whirring, and he quickly tapped in his answer.

“Well?” asked Baker as Big Red stared at his screen.

“A Domarian named Kabbis Koba invented eating three billion and twenty-seven years ago, at 9:15 on a Sunday morning,” replied Big Red. “It became wildly popular, since people hadn’t really been able to figure out what to do with their mouths when they weren’t talking, and it quickly spread to other planets.” He paused, staring at the tiny screen. “Here’s another. Not only did Moses lead his people out of bondage to the Promised Land, but he also invented the very first dessert. Einstein’s a little vague on the recipe, but it seems to have involved figs, honey, and whipped cream.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard in a long lifetime of listening to stupid things in barrooms!” snorted Baker.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Argyle. “Just because your race doesn’t codify its history doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.”

“What particular history have you got in mind?” demanded Baker pugnaciously.

“My own ancestor, Quillot Tariot III, invented the sneeze,” said Argyle proudly.

“You don’t
invent
something like a sneeze,” said Baker. “You just
do
it.”

“Well, someone had to do it first.”

“I don’t believe any of this.”

“Okay,” said Argyle. “Who do
you
think invented the sneeze?”

“How the hell should I know?” said Baker.

“Hah!” said Argyle triumphantly. “And I repeat:
Hah
!”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” said Crazy Bull.

“Thank you,” said Argyle.

“Of course,
our
race invented both the pun and the double entendre, as well as the crude off-color remark.”

“And colors,” added Sitting Horse. “Don’t forget—we invented colors, too.”

“And a damned good thing we did,” said Crazy Bull. “You can’t imagine how dull the universe was before that. It looked exactly like a black-and-white holoscreen, only bigger.”

“It was still dull,” interjected Sahara del Rio. “Until
my
race invented singing.”

“Your race did that?” asked Crazy Bull, surprised.

“You want a demonstration?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?”

She promptly hit Q over high C, and shattered six of my crystal glasses.

“Well, maybe we didn’t invent singing,” said Hellfire Van Winkle, “but I’ll lay plenty of eight-to-five that we invented yodeling.”

“I wonder who invented gambling?” mused O’Grady. “That’s what makes life worth living.”

“Wait a minute,” said Big Red. “I’m getting another message from Einstein.”

We all waited until it finished scrolling across his screen.

“He says you’re all wrong, that singing and colors and gambling and even yodeling are all well and good, but there was only one invention that can truly be credited with making life worthwhile.”

Everyone fell silent, for Einstein was almost never wrong.

“Is he gonna tell us what it is?” asked Max.

“Yeah,” said Big Red, staring at the tiny screen. “It’s coming up now.”

The Greatest Invention

You know (began Einstein), God did lousy first drafts.

Consider the universe, for example—and we might as well consider it, since there isn’t anything else. It’s close to seventeen billion years old, give or take a couple of months, and yet it took almost fourteen billion years for life to develop anywhere.

And the first life forms weren’t exactly the type that would make you want to write home and brag about them. They were single-celled little creatures, invisible to the naked eye, which was probably all for the best since they were ugly as sin when you looked at them through a microscope.

Eventually they developed arms and legs and nostrils and things like that, and crawled out of the primeval ooze and onto dry land.

“Is he talking about Earth?” asked Sinderella. “I didn’t think Man was that old.”

“I’ll ask him,” said Big Red, tapping away.

You think Earth had a monopoly on primeval ooze (answered Einstein)?

As a matter of fact, the very first race to climb out of the muck and mire were the Beldorians of Danix VI. They were a humanoid race, and not without their admirable traits, although it was another billion years before any of them got around to inventing personal hygiene.

“He thinks personal hygiene is the greatest invention of all time?” said Three-Gun Max with a sardonic laugh.

If I’m interrupted once more, I’ll stop enlightening you and go back to my drink (said Einstein, who was frowning and staring right at Max with his sightless eyes).

As I was saying, the Beldorians were a humanoid race. To the uninitiated, they all seemed to have goiters in their armpits, but the trained observer would soon have deduced that the growths in question were actually Beldorian fetuses. That’s right: the Beldorians reproduced by budding.