The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories (7 page)

“Maybe Major Hauk has beaten a hasty retreat,” one of the Fnools said. “Does this tall amber bottle indicate anything?”

“That’s a tall amber bottle of Scotch,” Lightfoot said, scrutinizing it. “And it indicates nothing. However—” he removed the cap—“I’ll try it. Just to be on the safe side.”

After he had tried it, he found the two Fnools staring at him intently.

“This is what Terrans deem drink,” Lightfoot explained. “It would be bad for you.”

“Possibly,” one of the two Fnools said, “but while you were drinking from that bottle I obtained your .45 Service revolver. Hands up.”

Lightfoot, reluctantly, raised his hands.

“Give us that bottle,” the Fnool said. “And let us try it for ourselves; we will be denied nothing. For in point of fact, Terran culture lies open before us.”

“Drink will put an end to you,” Lightfoot said desperately.

“As that burning tube of aged vegetable matter did?” the nearer of the two Fnools said with contempt.

It and its companion drained the bottle as Lightfoot watched. Sure enough, they now stood six feet high. And, he knew, everywhere in the world, all Fnools had assumed equal stature. Because of him, the invasion of the Fnools would this time be successful. He had destroyed Terra. “Cheers,” the first Fnool said.

“Down the hatch,” the other said. “Ring-a-ding.” They studied Lightfoot. “You’ve shrunk to our size.”

“No, Len,” the other said. “We have expanded to his.”

“Then at last we’re all equal,” Len said. “We’re finally a success. The magic defense of the Terrans—their unnatural size—has been eradicated.”

At that point a voice said, “Drop that .45 Service revolver.” And Major Hauk stepped into the room behind the two thoroughly drunken Fnools.

“Well I’ll be goddamned,” the first Fnool mumbled. “Look, Len, it’s the man most responsible for previously defeating us.”

“And he’s little,” Len said. “Little, like us. We’re all little, now. I mean, we’re all huge; goddamn it, it’s the same thing. Anyhow we’re equal.” It lurched toward Major Hauk—

Major Hauk fired. And the Fnool named Len dropped. It was absolutely undeniably dead. Only one of the captured Fnools remained.

“Edgar, they’ve increased in size,” Major Hauk said, pale. “Why?”

“It’s due to me,” Lightfoot admitted. “First because of the cigarette, then second because of the Scotch—your Scotch, Major, that your wife gave you on your last birthday. I admit their now being the same size as us makes them undistinguishable from us… but consider this, sir.
What if they grew once more
?”

“I see your idea clearly,” Major Hauk said, after a pause. “If eight feet tall, the Fnools would be as conspicuous as they were when—”

The captured Fnool made a dash for freedom.

Major Hauk fired, low, but it was too late; the Fnool was out into the corridor and racing toward the elevator.

“Get it!” Major Hauk shouted.

The Fnool reached the elevator and without hesitation pressed the button; some extraterrestrial Fnoolian knowledge guided its hand.

“It’s getting away,” Lightfoot grated.

Now the elevator had come. “It’s going down to the bomb-proof shelter,” Major Hauk yelled in dismay.

“Good,” Lightfoot said grimly. “We’ll be able to capture it with no trouble.”

“Yes, but—” Major Hauk began, and then broke off. “You’re right, Lightfoot; we must capture it. Once out on the street—It would be like any other man in a gray business suit carrying a briefcase.”

“How can it be made to grow again?” Lightfoot said, as he and Major Hauk descended by means of the stairs. “A cigarette started it, then the Scotch—both new to Fnools. What would complete their growth, make them a bizarre eight feet tall?” He racked his brain as they dashed down and down, until at last the concrete and steel entrance of the shelter lay before them.

The Fnool was already inside.

“That’s, um, Miss Smith you hear,” Major Hauk admitted. “She was, or rather actually, we were—well, we were taking refuge from the invasion down here.”

Putting his weight against the door, Lightfoot swung it aside.

Miss Smith at once hopped up, ran toward them and a moment later clung to the two men, safe now from the Fnool. “Thank God,” she gasped. “I didn’t realize what it was until—” She shuddered.

“Major,” Captain Lightfoot said, “I think we’ve stumbled on it.”

Rapidly, Major Hauk said, “Captain, you get Miss Smith’s clothes, I’ll take care of the Fnool. There’s no problem now.”

The Fnool, eight feet high, came slowly toward them, its hands raised.

Below the ‘copter of Milt Biskle lay newly fertile lands. He had done well with his area of Mars, verdant from his reconstruction of the ancient water-network. Spring, two springs each year, had been brought to this autumn world of sand and hopping toads, a land once made of dried soil cracking with the dust of former times, of a dreary and unwatered waste. Victim of the recent Prox-Terra conflict.

Quite soon the first Terran emigrants would appear, stake their claims and take over. He could retire. Perhaps he could return to Terra or bring his own family here, receive priority of land-acquisition—as a reconstruct engineer he deserved it. Area Yellow had progressed far faster than the other engineers’ sections. And now his reward came.

Reaching forward, Milt Biskle touched the button of his long-range transmitter. “This is Reconstruct Engineer Yellow,” he said. “I’d like a psychiatrist. Any one will do, so long as he’s immediately available.”

When Milt Biskle entered the office Dr. DeWinter rose and held out his hand. “I’ve heard,” Dr. DeWinter said, “that you, of all the forty odd reconstruct engineers, have been the most creative. It’s no wonder you’re tired. Even God had to rest after six days of such work, and you’ve been at it for years. As I was waiting for you to reach me I received a news memo from Terra that will interest you.” He picked the memo up from his desk. “The initial transport of settlers is about to arrive here on Mars… and they’ll go directly into your area. Congratulations, Mr. Biskle.”

Rousing himself Milt Biskle said, “What if I returned to Earth?”

“But if you mean to stake a claim for your family, here—”

Milt Biskle said, “I want you to do something for me. I feel too tired, too—” He gestured. “Or depressed, maybe. Anyhow I’d like you to make arrangements for my gear, including my wug-plant, to be put aboard a transport returning to Terra.”

“Six years of work,” Dr. DeWinter said. “And now you’re abandoning your recompense. Recently I visited Earth and it’s just as you remember—”

“How do you know how I remember it?”

“Rather,” DeWinter corrected himself smoothly, “I should say it’s just as it was. Overcrowded, tiny conapts with seven families to a single cramped kitchen. Autobahns so crowded you can’t make a move until eleven in the morning.”

“For me,” Milt Biskle said, “the overcrowding will be a relief after six years of robot autonomic equipment.” He had made up his mind. In spite of what he had accomplished here, or perhaps because of it, he intended to go home. Despite the psychiatrist’s arguments.

Dr. DeWinter purred, “What if your wife and children, Milt, are among the passengers of this first transport?” Once more he lifted a document from his neatly-arranged desk. He studied the paper, then said, “Biskle, Fay, Mrs. Laura C. June C. Woman and two girl children. Your family?”

“Yes,” Milt Biskle admitted woodenly; he stared straight ahead.

“So you see you can’t head back to Earth. Put on your hair and prepare to meet them at Field Three. And exchange your teeth. You’ve got the stainless steel ones in, at the moment.”

Chagrined, Biskle nodded. Like all Terrans he had lost his hair and teeth from the fallout during the war. For everyday service in his lonely job of re-reconstructing Yellow Area of Mars he made no use of the expensive wig which he had brought from Terra, and as to the teeth he personally found the steel ones far more comfortable than the natural-color plastic set. It indicated how far he had drifted from social interaction. He felt vaguely guilty; Dr. DeWinter was right.

But he had felt guilty ever since the defeat of the Proxmen. The war had embittered him; it didn’t seem fair that one of the two competing cultures would have to suffer, since the needs of both were legitimate.

Mars itself had been the locus of contention. Both cultures needed it as a colony on which to deposit surplus populations. Thank God Terra had managed to gain tactical mastery during the last year of the war… hence it was Terrans such as himself, and not Proxmen, patching up Mars.

“By the way,” Dr. DeWinter said. “I happen to know of your intentions regarding your fellow reconstruct engineers.”

Milt Biskle glanced up swiftly.

“As a matter of fact,” Dr. DeWinter said, “we know they’re at this moment gathering in Red Area to hear your account.” Opening his desk drawer he got out a yo-yo, stood up and began to operate it expertly doing
walking the dog.

“Your panic-stricken speech to the effect that something is wrong, although you can’t seem to say just what it might be.”

Watching the yo-yo Biskle said, “That’s a toy popular in the Prox system. At least so I read in a homeopape article, once.”

“Hmm. I understood it originated in the Philippines.” Engrossed, Dr. DeWinter now did
around the world.
He did it well. “I’m taking the liberty of sending a disposition to the reconstruct engineers’ gathering, testifying to your mental condition. It will be read aloud—sorry to say.”

“I still intend to address the gathering,” Biskle said.

“Well, then there’s a compromise that occurs to me. Greet your little family when it arrives here on Mars and then we’ll arrange a trip to Terra for you. At our expense. And in exchange you’ll agree not to address the gathering of reconstruct engineers or burden them in any way with your nebulous forebodings.” DeWinter eyed him keenly. “After all, this is a critical moment. The first emigrants are arriving. We don’t want trouble; we don’t want to make anyone uneasy.”

“Would you do me a favor?” Biskle asked. “Show me that you’ve got a wig on. And that your teeth are false. Just so I can be sure that you’re a Terran.”

Dr. DeWinter tilted his wig and plucked out his set of false teeth.

“I’ll take the offer,” Milt Biskle said. “If you’ll agree to make certain that my wife obtains the parcel of land I set aside for her.”

Nodding, DeWinter tossed him a small white envelope. “Here’s your ticket. Round trip, of course, since you’ll be coming back.”

I hope so, Biskle thought as he picked up the ticket. But it depends on what I see on Terra. Or rather on what they
let
me see.

He had a feeling they’d let him see very little. In fact as little as Proxmanly possible.

When his ship reached Terra a smartly uniformed guide waited for him. “Mr. Biskle?” Trim and attractive and exceedingly young she stepped forward alertly. “I’m Mary Ableseth, your Tourplan companion. I’ll show you around the planet during your brief stay here.” She smiled brightly and very professionally. He was taken aback. “I’ll be with you constantly, night and day.”

“Night, too?” he managed to say.

“Yes, Mr. Biskle. That’s my job. We expect you to be disoriented due to your years of labor on Mars… labor we of Terra applaud and honor, as is right.” She fell in beside him, steering him toward a parked ‘copter. “Where would you like to go first? New York City? Broadway? To the night clubs and theaters and restaurants…”

“No, to Central Park. To sit on a bench.”

“But there is no more Central Park, Mr. Biskle. It was turned into a parking lot for government employees while you were on Mars.”

“I see,” Milt Biskle said. “Well, then Portsmouth Square in San Francisco will do.” He opened the door of the ‘copter.

“That, too, has become a parking lot,” Miss Ableseth said, with a sad shake of her long, luminous red hair. “We’re so darn over-populated. Try again, Mr. Biskle; there are a few parks left, one in Kansas, I believe, and
two
in Utah in the south part near St. George.”

“This is bad news,” Milt said. “May I stop at that amphetamine dispenser and put in my dime? I need a stimulant to cheer me up.”

“Certainly,” Miss Ableseth said, nodding graciously.

Milt Biskle walked to the spaceport’s nearby stimulant dispenser, reached into his pocket, found a dime, and dropped the dime in the slot.

The dime fell completely through the dispenser and bounced onto the pavement.

“Odd,” Biskle said, puzzled.

“I think I can explain that,” Miss Ableseth said. “That dime of yours is a Martian dime, made for a lighter gravity.”

“Hmm,” Milt Biskle said, as he retrieved the dime. As Miss Ableseth had predicted he felt disoriented. He stood by as she put in a dime of her own and obtained the small tube of amphetamine stimulants for him.. Certainly her explanation seemed adequate. But—

“It is now eight P.M. local time,” Miss Ableseth said. “And I haven’t had dinner, although of course you have, aboard your ship. Why not take me to dinner? We can talk over a bottle of Pinot Noir and you can tell me these vague forebodings which have brought you to Terra, that something dire is wrong and that all your marvelous reconstruct work is pointless. I’d adore to hear about it.” She guided him back to the ‘copter and the two of them entered, squeezing into the back seat together. Milt Biskle found her to be warm and yielding, decidedly Terran; he became embarrassed and felt his heart pounding in effort-syndrome. It had been some time since he had been this close to a woman.

“Listen,” he said, as the automatic circuit of the ‘copter caused it to rise from the spaceport parking lot, “I’m married. I’ve got two children and I came here on business. I’m on Terra to prove that the Proxmen really won and that we few remaining Terrans are slaves of the Prox authorities, laboring for—” He gave up; it was hopeless. Miss Ableseth remained pressed against him.