Microcosmic God (37 page)

“The Big One? You mean that thing in the crater?”

“Yes.”

“What can I do?”

“You will know, all-powerful one.”

Barry looked around to find out who was being addressed in such prepossessing terms, and then concluded that it was he. He puffed his chest. “Well,” he said, “I’ll make a deal with you. Get me a drink and I’ll fix you up.”

It was an old mental reflex, one he had used all over the coast to get himself plastered when offered any kind of a job, aside from shipping out. His technique was to demand more liquor until he was so drunk he was of no value to any kind of an employer; and they would go away and leave him alone.

The stalk said, “It shall be done.”

A whirring telepathic signal sounded in Barry’s brain, and two or three dozen of the things leaped out of the earth.

“The master desires a drink. And pass the word; hereafter we are to be known as nightmares. It is his wish.”

The stalks dropped out of sight, all but the one Barry was talking with.

“Well; that’s something like service,” breathed Barry.

“All things are yours for the service you will do us,” said the nightmare.

“This is the damnedest thing,” said Barry, scratching his head.
“Why didn’t you talk to me before?”

“I did not know what your intentions were, nor whether or not you were an intelligent animal,” said the nightmare.

“Y’know now, huh?”

“Yes, master.”

“Hey—How come none of ’em talk to me but you?”

“I differ slightly from the rest. See those birds?”

Barry looked up at the wheeling, screaming cloud of gulls and curlews. “So?”

The nightmare gave a peculiar telepathic whistle. The birds wheeled and hurtled downward toward them. In an instant the glade was filled with them. Barry was cuffed and slapped by their wings as they crowded about him. He snatched at a large bird, caught it by the leg, and promptly twisted its neck.

At the nightmare’s sudden signal, the rest of the birds turned and fluttered and soared up and away.

“Why did you do that?” asked the nightmare.

“I’m going to eat it.”

“You eat birds?”

“Why not?”

“You shall have all you want. But as I was saying—I am different from these others. Of all of us, I alone can call the birds. Apparently, only I may speak with you.”

“Seems like. I can—hear the others, but I dunno what they’re driving at. What about this Big One? Where’d he come from?”

“The Big One was one of us. But he differed also. He was a mutant, like me, but he is unintelligent. He eats his own kind, which we cannot do. He is very old, and every time he eats one of us, he grows larger. He can’t move from the crater because it is rockbound, and he can’t burrow through it. But the larger he grows the farther he can reach. If you were not going to kill him, he would grow until he could reach the whole island, or so they say. It used to be, a thousand years ago, that he could travel our roads—”

“Roads? I didn’t see no roads.”

“Oh, they are underground. The whole island is honeycombed with our burrows. We never put more of ourselves above the surface than
our proboscis. We catch our food that way, feeling about the ground and the water’s edge for small plants and animals. We can dig, too, almost as fast as we can travel through our roads—Here’s your drink.”

Barry watched fascinated as a column of stalks approached, bearing gourds of coconut shells filled with water, coconut milk, and breadfruit juice. Never a drop was spilled, as the stalks progressed. Two or three would sprout swiftly, lean back, toward the gourd bearers. They would take the burden, bend swiftly forward and pass it on to some newly sprouted nightmares, and then sink into the ground and appear ahead.

“Why don’t they carry it underground?” asked Barry.

“It might not suit you then, master. You live in the sun, and the foods you have eaten have grown in the sun. It shall be as you wish it.”

Barry extended his hand and a coconut shell full of cool water was deposited in it. He sipped once and threw it down. “Call this a drink?” he roared. “Get me a
drink!”

“What would you like?”

“Whiskey, damn you! Gin, rum—beer! Wine, if you can’t find anything better.” The more he thought of it, the thirstier he got. “Get me a drink, you—what’s your name?”

“Ahniroo.”

“Well, get it anyway.” Barry slumped sullenly back.

“Master—we have none of these things you ask. Could we perhaps make one of them?”

“Make one? I don’t—wait a minute.” Barry did a little thinking. If he had to make a drink—brew it up, wait for it to ferment, strain it—well, he’d just as soon do without. But it seemed as if these goofy critters were aching to work for him. “O.K.—I’ll tell you what to do.”

And so Barry gave his orders. He knew very vaguely what to do, purely because he had some idea of what alcoholic drinks were made out of. And it passed the time pleasantly. He had plenty to eat and drink and never had to lift a finger to get it. For the first time in his life he had the kind of existence he’d dreamed about—even if it was mixed up with nightmares.

The base of his brew was coconut milk. He’d heard somewhere that an otherwise innocuous drink would ferment if you put in a raisin and closed the container tightly. No raisins, though. He tried several things and finally got fair results with chunks of breadfruit dried on the rocks in the sun. They were put into a plugged coconut shell, the opening carefully filled with a whittled wooden stopper and sealed with mucus from the hides of the nightmares. Barry wasn’t finicky.

It was a pleasure to watch them work. They cooperated admirably, grouping about a task, each supplying one or both of the “fingers” at the tips of their proboscis. To see a coconut held, plugged, doctored with a breadfruit and sealed up again, was a real pleasure, so swiftly and deftly was it done. Barry had only to whittle one plug when the knife was taken from him and three of the stalks took over the task, one to handle the knife, two to hold the wood. And do you know how many coconuts Barry had them prepare? By actual count, according to Ahniroo—over nine thousand!

And when it was done, Barry announced that it would be, anyway, six months before the stuff was worth drinking. The nightmares, in effect, shrugged that off. They had lots of time. One of them was detailed to mark off the days; and in the meantime they waited on Barry hand and foot. No mention was made of the Big One. And Barry lay and dreamed the days away, thinking of the binge he was going to go on when he could get his hands on nine thousand bottles of home brew!

“Governor,” said the American, as the old man stopped to light a cigar, “tell me something. Isn’t it a little tough to believe this drunkard’s yarn? That business of the worms having intelligence and talking with him. Isn’t that a little strong?”

The governor considered. “Perhaps. But once you get over the initial surprise of an idea like that, try taking it apart. Why shouldn’t they be intelligent? Just what is intelligence anyway?”

“Why”—the American fingered his Adam’s apple uneasily—“I’d say intelligence was what we have that makes us the leading race on the planet.”

“Are we, though? We’re outnumbered by thousands of other species—worms, for instance, if numbers is your idea of racial supremacy. We are not as strong as the elephant or as quick as the antelope—strength and speed have nothing to do with supremacy. No, we use our intelligence to make tools. We owe our position on earth to our ability to make tools.”

“Is that intelligence—tool-making?”

The governor shook his head. “It is one of the ways to use intelligence.”

“What about these worms of Barry’s, then—why didn’t they have cities and literature and machines?”

“They didn’t need them. They were not overcrowded on the island. There was plenty to eat for all. The only menace they had was the Big One, and even that wasn’t a complete menace—he could have lived another twenty thousand years without endangering the life of any but those who wandered too close. His presence was a discomfort. As to their literature—how can we know about that? Barry was a seaman, and a very low-type seaman, an ignoramus. What did he care about the splendid brains that Ahniroo and his people might have had? Intelligence of that sort must have produced superb developments along some lines. Barry never bothered to find out.

“No, you can’t judge the intelligence of a race by its clothes or its automobiles or its fancy foods. Intelligence is a cellular accident affecting the nervous cysts of certain races. It might strike anywhere. It seems as if it is a beautiful jest handed about by the gods, like a philanthropist giving away beautiful grand pianos to uneducated children. Some may learn to play them. Some may build intricate machines with the parts. Most would destroy them, one way or another. What do you think our race is doing with its great gift?

Well?”

The American grinned. “Better get on with your story.”

Well, for those six months Barry lived in the lap of luxury. Yes, raw sea birds and coconut and breadfruit and clams can be luxury, once you’re used to them. It isn’t what you have that makes luxury, anyway; it’s how it’s given to you. A raw albatross, carefully cleaned
and cut up, is as great a luxury when it is brought to you in style as is a twelve-dollar French meal that you have to cook yourself. Barry had nothing to kick about. He had never felt better in his life; he hadn’t sense enough to realize that it was largely due to his being on the wagon. He dreamed about coconut shells filled with rare old Scotch now, instead of winged dragons and snakes.

The months went by far faster than he realized; it was a real surprise to him when Ahniroo came to him one morning bearing a coconut.

“It is ready, master.”

“What?”

“The drink you asked to have us make for you.”

“Oh boy, oh boy! Give it here.”

Ahniroo leaned toward him and he took the nut. A jab with his knife drove the plug in, and he took gulps. One went down and the other went immediately out.

“Phhhtooey!
Ahni, take this some place and bury it. Holy sweet Sue! It takes like th’ dregs of a city dump!”

Ahniroo took the nut gravely and swayed away. “Yes, master.”

Barry sat there running his tongue around the inside of his mouth to get rid of the taste. The tongue moved more and more slowly; he stopped; he swallowed twice, then he leaped to his feet. “Hold it!” he bellowed. “I’ve drank worse’n that an’ paid money for it. Bring that back. Bring fifty of ’em.” He snatched the nut and drained it. It was alcoholic, after all. It tasted like nothing on earth, but it had a slight wallop.

Three hours later found Barry sprawled out amid a litter of broken coconut shells. There was a peaceful smile on his long horsy face, and in his mind was unalloyed bliss. Ahniroo bent over and touched the back of his neck with a slimy tentacle. Barry rolled his head and lay still again. Ahniroo was very persistent. Barry finally rolled over and sat up, promptly falling over the other way and lying prone again. Ahniroo and two of his fellows helped to roll him over on his back and sit him up again. Ahniroo shook him gently for some eight minutes until he began to grumble.

“Master—it is time! Come, please; we are waiting.”

“Time? What time?”

“Your promise, all-powerful one. We have fulfilled your desire. You promised us you would kill the Big One when we had brought you a drink. You have had your drink, master.”

Barry clapped his hand to his brow and winced. Promised? Was that what—Then this wasn’t all for nothing? He had to pay off? The full import of it struck him. He was deputized to rid the island of that monstrosity that lived in the crater!

“Now let’s be reas’n’ble,” he coaxed. “You can’t make me do that job, now; y’know y’can’t, huh?” Getting no answer from Ahniroo, he said belligerently, “Listen, bean pole, you can’t push me around. S’pose I don’t even try to do that job?”

Ahniroo said quietly, “You will. You have promised. Come now.”

A shrill signal, and Barry found himself lifted bodily and set on his feet. Spluttering and protesting, he was shoved by a solid wall of nightmares towards the hill. Twice he tried to simply quit—sit down, the way he had on the tank ships when he thought he was getting the runaround. The
Echiuroidea
did not understand modern labor methods. They picked him up and carried him when he would not walk. And once he tried to run away. They let him—provided he ran toward the hill. He finally settled to a hesitant plodding, and marched along, wishing the island was ten times as big and he was twenty times smaller.

When they reached the top of the hill, the nightmares disappeared into the ground, all but Ahniroo. Barry was in tears.

“Ahni—do I hafta?”

“Yes—master.”

Barry looked toward the hole. It was sixty feet away and thirty feet in diameter. “Big, ain’t he?”

“Very.”

“How’s about a little drink before I go down there?”

“Of course, master!”

Ahni gave his signal. In a few minutes a stream of coconuts began to pop out of the earth. They were the only thing of Barry’s that Ahniroo would allow to be transported underground.

When fifty or sixty had arrived, Barry broke and drained three. “I tell you, Ahni,” he said, “just you keep ’em coming. I’ll need ’em.”

He gave a hitch at his belt and started down the slope, a coconut in each fist. There was no sign at all of the Big One. He walked to the edge of the pit and looked down, trying to hold his breath against the smell of the thing. Yeah—there he was, the little rascal. He could just see the tips of his proboscis.

“C’mon up and fight!” Barry yelled drunkenly.

Still no movement. Barry grinned weakly and looked back toward the edge of the crater. Ahniroo was there, watching. Barry felt a little foolish.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Here; have a drink.” He cracked open a coconut and let the fluid run into the pit. There was a stir of movement, and then silence.

Ahni’s mental voice came to him. “The Big One is not hungry today.”

“Maybe he’s thirsty then. Roll me down a couple dozen nuts, pal.”

The obedient nightmares shoved at the pile of doctored coconuts. They came rolling and bouncing down the slope. He broke them and pitched them in—about thirty of them. He had not countermanded his order—they were still coming up there.