We are on our way to your planet. We will be there shortly. But in this, our first contact with you, our “headline” is: We do not want your gravel.
We are coming to Earth, first of all, just to see if we can actually do it. Second, we hope to learn about you and your culture(s). Third—if we end up having some free time—we wouldn’t mind taking a firsthand look at your almost ridiculously bountiful stores of gravel. But all we want to do is look.
You’re probably wondering if we mean you harm. Good question! So you’re going to like the answer, which is: We mean you no harm. Truth be told, there is a faction of us who want to completely annihilate you. But they’re not in power right now. And a significant majority of us find their views abhorrent and almost even barbaric.
But, thanks to the fact that our government operates on a system very similar to your Earth democracy, we have to tolerate the views of this “loyal opposition,” even while we hope that they never regain power, which they probably won’t (if the current poll tracking numbers hold up).
By the way, if we do take any of your gravel, it’s going to be such a small percentage of your massive gravel supply that you probably won’t even notice it’s gone.
You may be wondering how we know your language. We are aware that there’s a theory on your planet that we (or other alien species from the far reaches of the galaxy) have been able to learn your language from your television transmissions. This is not the case, because most of us don’t really watch TV. Most of our knowledge about your Earth TV comes from reading Zeitgeisty think pieces by our resident intellectuals, who watch it not for fun but for ideas for their print articles about how Earth TV holds a mirror up to Earth society, and so on. We mean, we’ll watch Earth TV sometimes—if it happens to be on already—but, generally, we prefer to read a good book or revive the lost art of conversation.
Sadly, Earth TV is like a vast wasteland, as the Earthling Newton Minow once said. But, for those of you who can understand things only in TV terms, just think of us as being very similar to Mork from Ork, in that he was a friendly, non-gravel-wanting alien who visited Earth just to find out what was there, and not to harvest gravel.
Speaking of a vast wasteland, you might want to start picking out and clearing off a place for our spacecraft to land. Our spacecraft, as you will see shortly, is huge. Do not be alarmed; this does not mean that each one of us is that much bigger than each one of you. It’s just that there were so many of us who wanted to come that we had to build a really huge spacecraft.
So, again, no cause for alarm.
(Full disclosure: each of us actually is much bigger than each of you, and there’s nothing we can do about it. So please don’t use any of your Earth-style discrimination against us. This is just how we are, and it’s not our fault.)
Anyway, re our spacecraft: it’s kind of gigantic. The deceleration thrusters alone are sort of, like . . . well, imagine four of your Vesuvius volcanoes (but bigger), turned upside down.
We don’t want to hurt anyone, so, if you could just clear off one continent, we think we can keep unintended fatalities to a minimum. Australia would probably work. (But don’t say Antarctica. Because we’d just melt it, and then you’d all end up underwater. Which would make it virtually impossible for us to learn about your hopes and your dreams, and your culture, and to harvest relatively small, sample-size amounts of your gravel, just for scientific study.)
A little bit about us: our males have two penises, while our females have only one. So, gender-wise, if you use simple math, we’re pretty much identical to you.
And, as far as protocol goes, we’re a pretty informal species. If you want to put together a welcoming ceremony with all your kings and queens and Presidents and Prime Ministers and leading gravel-owners, that’s fine. But please don’t feel like you have to.
Technically, it would be possible for us to share our space-travel technology with you, so that you could build a spacecraft and travel to our planet also. But, for right now, it just feels like it would be better if we came to your place.
Speaking of gravel, one thing we can’t tell from our monitoring of Earth is how your gravel tastes. It’s just something we’re curious about, for no real reason. Is it salty? It looks salty.
Maybe you could form a commission of scientists/gravel-tasters to look into this and let us know. Just have them collect all the gravel you have and put it in one big pile. (There are some pretty big empty parts of Utah, New Mexico, and Russia that might be good spots for such a large gravel pile, but that’s just an F.Y.I.)
Then, if you could have your top scientists/gravel-tasters go through this gravel pile, tasting each and every piece, that would be great. Also, if it’s not too much of a hassle, have them put all the saltier-tasting pieces in a separate pile.
Anyway, that about wraps up this transmission! Looking forward to seeing you very soon. (Sorry we couldn’t have given you more notice, but we didn’t want you Earth people going crazy and looting stuff and having sex in the streets out of panic about losing all your delicious gravel, which is something that is definitely not going to happen, because, when it comes down to it, what is gravel really but just a bunch of baby rocks?)
Our E.T.A. on Earth is sometime in the next four hundred and fifty to five hundred years, which we know is a blink of an eye in your Earth time, so start getting ready! Let’s have fun with this.
Yours,
A Species from a Galaxy You Haven’t Even Noticed Yet
P.S.—We saw that you sent some people to your moon recently. Good job! But, just to let you know, don’t waste your time with the moon. There’s no gravel there. We already checked.

The spectators watched raptly as the assault team crept through the artificial cityscape. Their experience was obvious – steady, even steps, eyes and weapons constantly scanning a full hemisphere of potential threats.

The point man held up a closed fist, and the entire squad froze in place, momentarily focused on his lithe form. After a second, he turned slightly, tapped his nose, and pointed to the center of the road. Fist still in the air, he tapped an ear, held up two fingers, and pointed to one of the small concrete buildings.

One of the spectators turned and whispered to their neighbor.

“He caught the mine in the road and the ambushers in the blind. Not bad, George”

The soldiers split around the mine, three taking the left side, three taking the right, while the last fire team went in the rear of the indicated building. They emerged noiselessly from the front a moment later, as the spectators’ displays changed to indicate the quietly eliminated threat.

The neighbor turned to his companion.

“General, they could do this all day, so we’re going to give them a little surprise, see them a little more dynamically.”

Gunfire erupted from the target building ahead, sweeping across the team and knocking one man down with a simulated leg wound. The team medic grabbed him and pulled him into a sheltered corner, returning fire and dressing the wound at the same time. A mass of fire erupted from the team, efficiently recording kill after kill on the displays until finally the scene fell silent and still.

The team reassembled next to the target, the injured man supporting himself on a packable crutch while his weapon continued to protect the rear of the group. Most of the team burst into the building to finish the operation, leaving a fire team outside for security.

“General, look up on the hill.”

Two kilometers away from the artificial town, well out of small arms range, a helicopter shell rose on a hydraulic lift. Simulated rotor noise swept across the field of engagement, followed by the bark of heavy weapons fire. Seconds later, another such emplacement blossomed from another hill behind the team, capturing them in a crossfire.

“George, it’s not a great demonstration if your guys get killed.”

“General, just watch.”

One of the soldiers on the security detail stepped partially out of his sheltered position, an impossibly massive weapon in his arms. A solid stream of heavy tracers briefly connected the soldier to the helicopter before it erupted in flames. Seconds later the other helicopter fell silent as well, torn apart by the same withering hail of fire.

“All right George, I’ve seen enough. Let’s look at the close-ups.”

The General picked up a helmet from the display table, modified to accommodate the point man’s bat-like ears.

“How long does it take?”

“Six months for the mods, anywhere from six months to two years to become fully operational”

“And how long until they catch up?”

“We think five years for the Russians, perhaps four for the Chinese. They don’t have some of the considerations that we do, so it could be sooner.”

The General stared at the close-up videos, a medic administering first aid with two extra eyes and two extra hands while still maintaining fire on the enemy, a machinegunner toting a fifty-cal in two huge arms while a massive tail turns him into his own tripod. Inhuman, perhaps, but American. And effective.

“George. Start production.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Robots love me.
As much as robots can love. And in a plutonic sense, of course. Something about my chubby little baby face sets off their simulated paternal instincts and they all bend over backwards to answer my questions. That sort of thing comes in handy with my job.
I knelt in front of the unmoving blue robot. As if brooding, it sat on the floor in the middle of the living room. It was large and bulky, a few years old but in decent enough shape. Not one of those smooth, humanoid-looking models that have been flooding the market; it was more from the “Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em” school of design. Behind me, the family stood anxious, worried, huddled together.
“Can you fix him, doctor?” the wife asked. The soft expanse of flesh beneath her chin shivered with concern. She hugged her young daughter close. The husband did the same to her.
“I’m not a doctor,” I said absent-mindedly as I eyed my scanner.
“I beg your pardon?” the husband chimed in, brushing a loose strand of hair across his comb-over with his palm.
“Hm?” I asked, coming out of my focus. “Oh. I’m not a doctor. Robots don’t really have brains, so they don’t need a psychiatrist or anything like…” I trailed off, before looking back to my work. “I’m a technician.”
“Henry just sat down and stopped moving,” the little girl said, sounding close to tears.
“We just had him in for maintenance and everything checked out,” the wife added. “I don’t understand it.”
I nodded and made a little “hmm” sound, but I wasn’t really listening. “Unit NX-6401, respond to my voice.”
“Henry,” the robot corrected me in a surprisingly human voice. It still hadn’t moved, and the lights hadn’t returned to its dim photoreceptors.
“Okay, Henry,” I conceded. “Are you functioning correctly?”
It made a soft snorting noise. “If that’s what you call this.”
I sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of it. “Hey, now. What’s that all about?” I put my hand on its shoulder. Henry’s ocular lights activated, but just barely. It didn’t respond right away.
“The Johnsons across the street bought a new robot,” it said finally.
“Yeah,” the husband confirmed from behind me, “One of those new A-01 models.”
“Go on,” I coaxed.
“I’ve seen it walking their kids to school and fixing their roof, and it’s got those extendable arms and a hedge-clipper accessory, and…”
“And its making you feel not as special?” I asked in a soothing voice.
“The A-01s are so great,” it said. “One of them would be so much more functional for this family. It would be better than I am.”
“Henry, I’m going to tell you a secret about humans. It is a bit paradoxical, so promise me your head will not explode when I tell you.”
It nodded, its eyes glowing brighter. I glanced back at the morbidly obese woman and her balding husband. Even their little girl wasn’t too easy on the eyes.
“Henry,” I said. “Humans build emotional attachments. And they don’t always want what’s shiny and new. They want what they love.”
“They love me?” It asked, looking over my shoulder at the piles of unappealing humanity. It stood up, and after a moment, I followed.
“It isn’t very logical, doctor.” Henry’s voice sounded happy.
I smiled. “I’m not a doctor.”

Francis Conaty
He would do it! It would be crazy not to. Why die of a mysterious disease in six months when he could hibernate for thirty years and be treated by doctors with the required knowledge? And the system of cryogenic vitrification was totally safe. Computer controlled with an ingenious solar power source. Sure — there would be lifestyle problems. His wife and children would be thirty years older. His business partner might be dead and the business in ruins. But so what — life was precious. In August of 2058 he would emerge a new man in a new world. And even the climate might be more agreeable.”You should remain seated until your body temperature has fully returned to normal. When that is completed the door of your capsule will automatically open and you may exit into the care of medical staff awaiting your arrival. Thank you for entrusting your future to Cryogenic Services Corporation.” The computer-generated voice fell silent. Enos couldn’t believe it. Thirty years had elapsed yet he felt no different. His face was still clean shaven.Enos’s reverie was interrupted by a loud bang, like a burst balloon. The door of his narrow, rectangular capsule swung open. Anxiety prevented him from noticing that the outside air wafting into the capsule was warm and foul.He stood, feeling just slightly unsteady, and made his way to the open doorway. Why was it so gloomy? The only light came from gaps in the roof where shafts of natural light entered.Stepping a little further beyond the capsule he trod on something sharp — a large, broken bone. After his eyes adjusted to the dull light, he saw many bones scattered around the floor: and skulls — human skulls.”Well…Well…We have a new arrival.”He turned toward the voice. Two dirty, emaciated men in tattered clothing stood nearby.”Is this 2058? Where are the doctors? Who are you?”"Questions…questions. And always the same questions — how boring! But ok, it probably is 2058 although no one keeps count anymore; the doctors…..well they went long ago and we, my friend, are survivors. That’s all there are now — survivors.”What happened?”"It’s simple, really. It got very hot and very wet, and most of the earth’s land surface is under water. This clinic was constructed on high ground. So, you were lucky.” He looked toward his companion and smiled. “Or should I have said we were lucky?”Enos saw that the silent one carried a weapon — a sword or machete. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You must not harm me….it’s…it’s unlawful.”"Survivors must survive. That’s the new law, the only law.”The man with the weapon advanced.

]]> http://www.youthwavebd.com/paper-cradle/feed/ 0 http://www.youthwavebd.com/fingers-itchy-and-green/ http://www.youthwavebd.com/fingers-itchy-and-green/#comments Mon, 01 Nov 2010 06:01:15 +0000 Youth Wave http://www.youthwavebd.com/?p=943 Ken McGrath

I should have left it alone. But you know what it’s like you just can’t help picking at these things.
Remember when you were a kid and your mum’d tell you not to pick at a scab or stop scratching your chicken pox or whatever, well that’s exactly what it was like, but worse. I just couldn’t leave it alone.
Unconsciously even, without thinking, I’d find myself scraping rapidly at my arm, trying to dig it out. I’d get the itch without realising and all I’d do is scratch it despite knowing it was wrong. That’s what you do with an itch right?
The more I did it though the worse it got. That’s what spreads the infection or so the doctor’s told me when they took me in, did their tests and quickly isolated me. It’s spread out across my body now, like the branches of a tree decorating my skin. It’s like some crazy, fantastic tattoo, or it would be if it wasn’t killing me slowly.
They reckoned that the meteor show must have brought with it spores when it passed low across the skies because it was after that the flowers started to grow. Small little yellow things, similar enough to what we already had, began to pop up around the countryside. What other explanation was there. The scientists carried out experiments on them of course, but found them harmless, a nice gift from the stars and our first contact with an alien life-form.
That was four years ago. Since then the novelty had pretty much worn off, apart from people such as my wife, who was an avid gardener. She’d a plot out the back of our house where she cultivated them, tried to get me to take an interest but I wasn’t bothered to be honest.
I was out in the backyard with our son, Al, when it must have happened. He was kicking a ball around as toddlers do and it rolled into the flowers. I went to pick it out and I remember seeing some of the stems had these little thorns, something I’d never noticed on them before. When I asked the wife about it later she said that was new and it turned out she was right, the damn things were mutating.
That’s when I must’ve pricked myself, on one of those darn thorns. I didn’t notice though. Al went tearing down the yard you see, towards his paddling pool and I had to peg it after him.
It was only much later when the mark on my arm started to turn deep blue and I went to the doctor that I really put two and two together. I’d been scratching away at it for days by that stage, spreading the infection on my fingers. Passing it to everyone I touched or brushed against.
The doctor’s initially had no idea what was going on. That’s why I ended up in isolation, but they’ve figured it out now. It secreted some enzyme into me and that’s what’s causing my skin to change, to effectively rot. It’s turning me into plant food.
It’s apt in a way. I was always a big believer of recycling so I have to respect it I suppose. Even if it’s not of this Earth that little plant is her defence. Mother Nature finds a way you see. We often thought that humans were a cancer on this planet, strangling it slowly, but it’s found a use for us.
It’s turning us into food and no-one can stop the spread. You just can’t help but scratch that itch.

“I will open our meeting with the Scouter Creed,” the Patrol Leader said. He cleared his throat. “We, the Young Scouters of the planet Elbonai, pledge to perpetuate the skills and virtues of our pioneering ancestors. For that purpose, we Scouters adopt the shape our forebears were born to when they conquered the virgin wilderness of Elbonai. We hereby resolve—”
Scouter Drog adjusted his hearing receptors to amplify the Leader’s soft voice. The Creed always thrilled him. It was hard to believe that his ancestors had once been earthbound. Today the Elbonai were aerial beings, maintaining only the minimum of body, fueling by cosmic radiation at the twenty-thousand-foot level, sensing by direct perception, coming down only for sentimental or sacramental purposes. They had come a long way since the Age of Pioneering. The modern world had begun with the Age of Submolecular Control, which was followed by the present age of Direct Control.
” . . . honesty and fair play,” the Leader was saying. “And we further resolve to drink liquids, as they did, and to eat solid food, and to increase our skill in their tools and methods.”
* * *
The invocation completed, the youngsters scattered around the plain. The Patrol Leader came up to Drog.
“This is the last meeting before the Jamboree,” the Leader said.
“I know,” Drog said.
“And you are the only second-class scouter in the Charging Mirash Patrol. All the others are first-class, or at least Junior Pioneers. What will people think about our patrol?”
Drog squirmed uncomfortably. “It isn’t entirely my fault,” he said. “I know I failed the tests in swimming and bomb making, but those just aren’t my skills. It isn’t fair to expect me to know everything. Even among the pioneers there were specialists. No one was expected to know all—”
“And just what are your skills?” the Leader interrupted.
“Forest and Mountain Lore,” Drog answered eagerly. “Tracking and hunting.”
The Leader studied him for a moment. Then he said slowly, “Drog, how would you like one last chance to make first class, and win an achievement badge as well?”
“I’d do anything!” Drog cried.
“Very well,” the Patrol Leader said. “What is the name of our patrol?”
“The Charging Mirash Patrol.”
“And what is a Mirash?”
“A large and ferocious animal,” Drog answered promptly. “Once they inhabited large parts of Elbonai, and our ancestors fought many savage battles with them. Now they are extinct.”
“Not quite,” the Leader said. “A scouter was exploring the woods five hundred miles north of here, coordinates S-233 by 482-W, and he came upon a pride of three Mirash, all bulls, and therefore huntable. I want you, Drog, to track them down, to stalk them, using Forest and Mountain Lore. Then, utilizing only pioneering tools and methods, I want you to bring back the pelt of one Mirash. Do you think you can do it?”
“I know I can, sir!”
“Go at once,” the Leader said. “We will fasten the pelt to our flagstaff. We will undoubtedly be commended at the Jamboree.”
“Yes, sir!” Drog hastily gathered up his equipment, filled his canteen with liquid, packed a lunch of solid food, and set out.
* * *
A few minutes later, he had levitated himself to the general area of S-233 by 482-W. It was a wild and romantic country of jagged rocks and scrubby trees, thick underbrush in the valleys, snow on the peaks. Drog looked around, somewhat troubled.
He had told the Patrol Leader a slight untruth.
The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t particularly skilled in Forest and Mountain Lore, hunting or tracking. He wasn’t particularly skilled in anything except dreaming away long hours among the clouds at the five-thousand-foot level. What if he failed to find a Mirash? What if the Mirash found him first?
But that couldn’t happen, he assured himself. In a pinch, he could always gestibulize. Who would ever know?
In another moment he picked up a faint trace of Mirash scent. And then he saw a slight movement about twenty yards away, near a curious T-shaped formation of rock.
Was it really going to be this easy? How nice! Quietly he adopted an appropriate camouflage and edged forward.
* * *
The mountain trail became steeper, and the sun beat harshly down. Paxton was sweating, even in his air-conditioned coverall. And he was heartily sick of being a good sport.
“Just when are we leaving this place?” he asked.
Herrera slapped him genially on the shoulder. “Don’t you wanna get rich?”
“We’re rich already,” Paxton said.
“But not rich enough,” Herrera told him, his long brown face creasing into a brilliant grin.
Stellman came up, puffing under the weight of his testing equipment. He set it carefully on the path and sat down. “You gentlemen interested in a short breather?” he asked.
“Why not?” Herrera said. “All the time in the world.” He sat down with his back against a T-shaped formation of rock.
Stellman lighted a pipe and Herrera found a cigar in the zippered pocket of his coverall. Paxton watched them for a while. Then he asked, “Well, when are we getting off this planet? Or do we set up permanent residence?”
Herrera just grinned and scratched a light for his cigar.

“Well, how about it?” Paxton shouted.
“Relax, you’re outvoted,” Stellman said. “We formed this company as three equal partners.”
“All using my money,” Paxton said.
“Of course. That’s why we took you in. Herrera had the practical mining experience. I had the theoretical knowledge and a pilot’s license. You had the money.”
“But we’ve got plenty of stuff on board now,” Paxton said. “The storage compartments are completely filled. Why can’t we go to some civilized place now and start spending?”
“Herrera and I don’t have your aristocratic attitude toward wealth,” Stellman said with exaggerated patience. “Herrera and I have the childish desire to fill every nook and cranny with treasure. Gold nuggets in the fuel tanks, emeralds in the flour cans, diamonds a foot deep on deck. And this is just the place for it. All manner of costly baubles are lying around just begging to be picked up. We want to be disgustingly, abysmally rich, Paxton.”
Paxton hadn’t been listening. He was staring intently at a point near the edge of the trail. In a low voice, he said, “That tree just moved.”
Herrera burst into laughter. “Monsters, I suppose,” he sneered.
“Be calm,” Stellman said mournfully. “My boy, I am a middle-aged man, overweight and easily frightened. Do you think I’d stay here if there were the slightest danger?”
“There! It moved again!”
“We surveyed this planet three months ago,” Stellman said. “We found no intelligent beings, no dangerous animals, no poisonous plants, remember? All we found were woods and mountains and gold and lakes and emeralds and rivers and diamonds. If there were something here, wouldn’t it have attacked us long before?”
“I’m telling you I saw it move,” Paxton insisted.
Herrera stood up. “This tree?” he asked Paxton.
“Yes. See, it doesn’t even look like the others. Different texture—”
In a single synchronized movement, Herrera pulled a Mark II blaster from a side holster and fired three charges into the tree. The tree and all underbrush for ten yards around burst into flame and crumpled.
“All gone now,” Herrera said.
Paxton rubbed his jaw. “I heard it scream when you shot it.”
“Sure. But it’s dead now,” Herrera said soothingly. “If anything else moves, you just tell me, I shoot it. Now we find some more little emeralds, huh?”
Paxton and Stellman lifted their packs and followed Herrera up the trail. Stellman said in a low, amused voice, “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he?”
* * *
Slowly Drog returned to consciousness. The Mirash’s flaming weapon had caught him in camouflage, almost completely unshielded. He still couldn’t understand how it had happened. There had been no premonitory fear-scent, no snorting, no snarling, no warning whatsoever. The Mirash had attacked with blind suddenness, without waiting to see whether he was friend or foe.
At last Drog understood the nature of the beast he was up against.
He waited until the hoofbeats of the three bull Mirash had faded into the distance. Then, painfully, he tried to extrude a visual receptor. Nothing happened. He had a moment of utter panic. If his central nervous system was damaged, this was the end.
He tried again. This time, a piece of rock slid off him, and he was able to reconstruct.
Quickly he performed an internal scansion. He sighed with relief. It had been a close thing. Instinctively he had quondicated at the flash moment and it had saved his life.
He tried to think of another course of action, but the shock of that sudden, vicious, unpremeditated assault had driven all Hunting Lore out of his mind. He found that he had absolutely no desire to encounter the savage Mirash again.
Suppose he returned without the stupid hide? He could tell the Patrol Leader that the Mirash were all females, and therefore unhuntable. A Young Scouter’s word was honored, so no one would question him, or even check up.
But that would never do. How could he even consider it?
Well, he told himself gloomily, he could resign from the Scouters, put an end to the whole ridiculous business; the campfires, the singing, the games, the comradeship . . .
This would never do, Drog decided, taking himself firmly in hand. He was acting as though the Mirash were antagonists capable of planning against him. But the Mirash were not even intelligent beings. No creature without tentacles had ever developed true intelligence. That was Etlib’s Law, and it had never been disputed.
In a battle between intelligence and instinctive cunning, intelligence always won. It had to. All he had to do was figure out how.
Drog began to track the Mirash again, following their odor. What colonial weapon should he use? A small atomic bomb? No, that would more than likely ruin the hide.
He stopped suddenly and laughed. It was really very simple, when one applied oneself. Why should he come into direct and dangerous contact with the Mirash? The time had come to use his brain, his understanding of animal psychology, his knowledge of Lures and Snares.
Instead of tracking the Mirash, he would go to their den.
And there he would set a trap.
* * *
Their temporary camp was in a cave, and by the time they arrived there it was sunset. Every crag and pinnacle of rock threw a precise and sharp-edged shadow. The ship lay five miles below them on the valley floor, its metallic hide glistening red and silver. In their packs were a dozen emeralds, small, but of an excellent color.
At an hour like this, Paxton thought of a small Ohio town, a soda fountain, a girl with bright hair. Herrera smiled to himself, contemplating certain gaudy ways of spending a million dollars before settling down to the serious business of ranching. And Stellman was already phrasing his Ph.D. thesis on extraterrestrial mineral deposits.
They were all in a pleasant, relaxed mood. Paxton had recovered completely from his earlier attack of nerves. Now he wished an alien monster would show up—a green one, by preference—chasing a lovely, scantily clad woman.
“Home again,” Stellman said as they approached the entrance of the cave. “Want beef stew tonight?” It was his turn to cook.
“With onions,” Paxton said, starting into the cave. He jumped back abruptly. “What’s that?”
A few feet from the mouth of the cave was a small roast beef, still steaming hot, four large diamonds, and a bottle of whiskey.
“That’s odd,” Stellman said. “And a trifle unnerving.”
Paxton bent down to examine a diamond. Herrera pulled him back.
“Might be booby-trapped.”
“There aren’t any wires,” Paxton said.
Herrera stared at the roast beef, the diamonds, the bottle of whiskey. He looked very unhappy.
“I don’t trust this,” he said.
“Maybe there are natives here,” Stellman said. “Very timid ones. This might be their goodwill offering.”
“Sure,” Herrera said. “They sent to Terra for a bottle of Old Space Ranger just for us.”
“What are we going to do?” Paxton asked.
“Stand clear,” Herrera said. “Move ‘way back.” He broke off a long branch from a nearby tree and poked gingerly at the diamonds.
“Nothing’s happening,” Paxton said.
The long grass Herrera was standing on whipped tightly around his ankles. The ground beneath him surged, broke into a neat disk fifteen feet in diameter and, trailing root-ends, began to lift itself into the air. Herrera tried to jump free, but the grass held him like a thousand green tentacles.
“Hang on!” Paxton yelled idiotically, rushed forward and grabbed a corner of the rising disk of earth. It dipped steeply, stopped for a moment, and began to rise again. By then Herrera had his knife out, and was slashing the grass around his ankles. Stellman came unfrozen when he saw Paxton rising past his head.
Stellman seized him by the ankles, arresting the flight of the disk once more. Herrera wrenched one foot free and threw himself over the edge. The other ankle was held for a moment, then the tough grass parted under his weight. He dropped headfirst to the ground, at the last moment ducking his head and landing on his shoulders. Paxton let go of the disk and fell, landing on Stellman’s stomach.
The disk of earth, with its cargo of roast beef, whiskey and diamonds, continued to rise until it was out of sight.

The sun had set. Without speaking, the three men entered their cave, blasters drawn. They built a roaring fire at the mouth and moved back into the cave’s interior.
“We’ll guard in shifts tonight,” Herrera said.
Paxton and Stellman nodded.
Herrera said, “I think you’re right, Paxton. We’ve stayed here long enough.”
“Too long,” Paxton said.
Herrera shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as it’s light, we return to the ship and get out of here.”
“If,” Stellman said, “we are able to reach the ship.”
* * *
Drog was quite discouraged. With a sinking heart he had watched the premature springing of his trap, the struggle, and the escape of the Mirash. It had been such a splendid Mirash, too. The biggest of the three!
He knew now what he had done wrong. In his eagerness, he had overbaited his trap. Just the minerals would have been sufficient, for Mirash were notoriously mineral-tropic. But no, he had to improve on pioneer methods, he had to use food stimuli as well. No wonder they had reacted suspiciously, with their senses so overburdened.
Now they were enraged, alert, and decidedly dangerous.
And a thoroughly aroused Mirash was one of the most fearsome sights in the Galaxy.
Drog felt very much alone as Elbonai’s twin moons rose in the western sky. He could see the Mirash campfire blazing in the mouth of their cave. And by direct perception he could see the Mirash crouched within, every sense alert, weapons ready.
Was a Mirash hide really worth all this trouble?
Drog decided that he would much rather be floating at the five-thousand-foot level, sculpturing cloud formations and dreaming. He wanted to sop up radiation instead of eating nasty old solid food. And what use was all this hunting and trapping, anyhow? Worthless skills that his people had outgrown.
For a moment he almost had himself convinced. And then, in a flash of pure perception, he understood what it was all about.
True, the Elbonaians had outgrown their competition, developed past all danger of competition. But the Universe was wide, and capable of many surprises. Who could foresee what would come, what new dangers the race might have to face? And how could they meet them if the hunting instinct was lost?
No, the old ways had to be preserved, to serve as patterns; as reminders that peaceable, intelligent life was an unstable entity in an unfriendly Universe.
He was going to get that Mirash hide, or die trying!
The most important thing was to get them out of that cave. Now his hunting knowledge had returned to him.
Quickly, skillfully, he shaped a Mirash horn.

* * *
“Did you hear that?” Paxton asked.
“I thought I heard something,” Stellman said, and they all listened intently.
The sound came again. It was a voice crying, “Oh, help, help me!”
“It’s a girl!” Paxton jumped to his feet.
“It sounds like a girl,” Stellman said.
“Please, help me,” the girl’s voice wailed. “I can’t hold out much longer. Is there anyone who can help me?”
Blood rushed to Paxton’s face. In a flash he saw her, small, exquisite, standing beside her wrecked sports-spacer (what a foolhardy trip it had been!) with monsters, green and slimy, closing in on her. And then he arrived, a foul alien beast.
Paxton picked up a spare blaster. “I’m going out there,” he said coolly.
“Sit down, you moron!” Herrera ordered.
“But you heard her, didn’t you?”
“That can’t be a girl,” Herrera said. “What would a girl be doing on this planet?”
“I’m going to find out,” Paxton said, brandishing two blasters. “Maybe a spaceliner crashed, or she could have been out joyriding, and—”
“Siddown!” Herrera yelled.
“He’s right,” Stellman tried to reason with Paxton. “Even if a girl is out there, which I doubt, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh, help, help, it’s coming after me!” the girl’s voice screamed.
“Get out of my way,” Paxton said, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re really going?” Herrera asked incredulously.
“Yes! Are you going to stop me?”
“Go ahead.” Herrera gestured at the entrance of the cave.
“We can’t let him!” Stellman gasped.
“Why not? His funeral,” Herrera said lazily.
“Don’t worry about me,” Paxton said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes—with her!” He turned on his heel and started toward the entrance. Herrera leaned forward and, with considerable precision, clubbed Paxton behind the ear with a stick of firewood. Stellman caught him as he fell.
They stretched Paxton out in the rear of the cave and returned to their vigil. The lady in distress moaned and pleaded for the next five hours. Much too long, as Paxton had to agree, even for a movie serial.
* * *
A gloomy, rain-splattered daybreak found Drog still camped a hundred yards from the cave. He saw the Mirash emerge in a tight group, weapons ready, eyes watching warily for any movement.
Why had the Mirash horn failed? The Scouter Manual said it was an infallible means of attracting the bull Mirash. But perhaps this wasn’t mating season.
They were moving in the direction of a metallic ovoid which Drog recognized as a primitive spatial conveyance. It was crude, but once inside it the Mirash were safe from him.
He could simply trevest them, and that would end it. But it wouldn’t be very humane. Above all, the ancient Elbonaians had been gentle and merciful, and a Young Scouter tried to be like them. Besides, trevestment wasn’t a true pioneering method.
That left ilitrocy. It was the oldest trick in the book, and he’d have to get close to work it. But he had nothing to lose.
And luckily, climatic conditions were perfect for it.
* * *
It started as a thin ground-mist. But, as the watery sun climbed the gray sky, fog began forming.
Herrera cursed angrily as it grew more dense. “Keep close together now. Of all the luck!”
Soon they were walking with their hands on each others’ shoulders, blasters ready, peering into the impenetrable fog.
“Herrera?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”
“Sure. I took a compass course before the fog closed in.”
“Suppose your compass is off?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
They walked on, picking their way carefully over the rock-strewn ground.
“I think I see the ship,” Paxton said.
“No, not yet,” Herrera said.
Stellman stumbled over a rock, dropped his blaster, picked it up again and fumbled around for Herrera’s shoulder. He found it and walked on.
“I think we’re almost there,” Herrera said.
“I sure hope so,” Paxton said. “I’ve had enough.”
“Think your girl friend’s waiting for you at the ship?”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Okay,” Herrera said. “Hey, Stellman, you better grab hold of my shoulder again. No sense getting separated.”
“I am holding your shoulder,” Stellman said.
“You’re not.”
“I am, I tell you!”
“Look I guess I know if someone’s holding my shoulder or not.”
“Am I holding your shoulder, Paxton?”
“No,” Paxton said.
“That’s bad,” Stellman said, very slowly. “That’s bad, indeed.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m definitely holding someone’s shoulder.”
Herrera yelled, “Get down, get down quick, give me room to shoot!” But it was too late. A sweet-sour odor was in the air. Stellman and Paxton smelled it and collapsed. Herrera ran forward blindly, trying to hold his breath. He stumbled and fell over a rock, tried to get back on his feet—
And everything went black.
The fog lifted suddenly and Drog was standing alone, smiling triumphantly. He pulled out a long-bladed skinning knife and bent over the nearest Mirash.
* * *

The spaceship hurtled toward Terra at a velocity which threatened momentarily to burn out the overdrive. Herrera, hunched over the controls, finally regained his self-control and cut the speed down to normal. His usual tan face was still ashen, and his hands shook on the instruments.
Stellman came in from the bunkroom and flopped wearily in the co-pilot’s seat.
“How’s Paxton?” Herrera asked.
“I dosed him with Drona-3,” Stellman said. “He’s going to be all right.”
“He’s a good kid,” Herrera said.
“It’s just shock, for the most part,” Stellman said. “When he comes to, I’m going to put him to work counting diamonds. Counting diamonds is the best of therapies, I understand.”
Herrera grinned, and his face began to regain its normal color. “I feel like doing a little diamond-cutting myself, now that it’s all turned out okay.” Then his long face became serious. “But I ask you, Stellman, who could figure it? I still don’t understand!”
* * *
The Scouter Jamboree was a glorious spectacle. The Soaring Falcon Patrol, number 22, gave a short pantomime showing the clearing of the land on Elbonai. The Brave Bisons, number 31, were in full pioneer dress.
And at the head of patrol 19, the Charging Mirash Patrol, was Drog, a first-class Scouter now, wearing a glittering achievement badge. He was carrying the Patrol flag—the position of honor—and everyone cheered to see it.
Because waving proudly from the flagpole was the firm, fine-textured, characteristic skin of an adult Mirash, its zippers, tubes, gauges, buttons and holsters flashing merrily in the sunshine.

The ravine baked in the sun of a cloudless June afternoon. The pickup and the three people it had brought provided the only evidence this was a world dominated by humans and not less dangerous creatures such as the rattlesnakes and scorpions that so outnumbered them in these parts. The truck sat next to a field of boulders, each almost the size of its cab. Kurt Matson was calibrating an array of instruments piled on a folding table beside the truck. The truckbed was littered with the shipping cases Matson had spent the last three hours unpacking as he arranged and connected the equipment according to the diagram on his clipboard.
Sam Friedman, who’d finished lowering the gadget into the borehole an hour ago, sat on the tailgate of the truck and adjusted his straw hat once again to keep the sun off his face. Wes French, sent by the lab director to provide at least symbolic representation of Policies and Procedure at this highly irregular yet urgent field trip, was recording the proceedings with a handheld video camera.
French scrambled down the hill where he’d been shooting some wide angle views of the borehole, the equipment, and the cable that connected them. When he got to the bottom, he mounted the camera on the tripod he’d brought so it could record the experiment while he, Matson, and Friedman watched the instruments. “I can’t get over how much all this looks like those Manhattan Project home movies you see every now and then in documentaries.” he remarked, peering through the viewfinder.
“Yeah,” Friedman commented, “we should’a got you one of those old hand-crank movie cameras and some scratchy black and white film for the right effect.” Matson looked up from the chart recorder, “Of course the truck’s a Toyota, the generator’s a Honda, half the instruments are from Germany, and we aren’t here to split atoms.”
“No, not to split atoms,” Friedman said, as he hopped down from the truck and walked up and down the instrument table, checking the readings and scanning the firing panel. “You ready?”
“Just about,” muttered Matson, whose finicky attention to detail never failed to irritate Friedman, yet helped insure the success of the many projects on which they collaborated. He continued to tick off items on the checklist they’d prepared in the wee hours that morning. “O.K., primary instrumentation recorder to high speed, all channels reading at background, backup recorder running, 20 minutes tape available. Firing power on. Wes, you got that camera going?”
French indicated readiness and walked over to the table, whether to observe more closely or to be in the picture, Friedman hadn’t a clue.
Matson scanned the table one last time. “Ready? All right, safe and arm switch to arm position. Yellow arm light is on, firing circuit continuity indicator is green.” He stepped back from the panel and motioned Friedman toward the small black button at the bottom, “This was your idea, Dr. Friedman. Let ‘er rip.”
“Shouldn’t we count down or something?” French said, amused. Friedman placed his finger on the button, “Sure. Zero.” and pushed it. There was a muffled thud, an almost imperceptible shudder in the ground, and a little puff of dust from the top of the borehole. A few rocks landed near the hole, making little tick-tick sounds.
Matson stopped the tape reels and the three gathered around the strip chart recorder. Even before the paper was torn off and spread out on the table, they knew that French’s camerawork would find a place in some future documentary about this day. Friedman could barely contain his excitement, “Neutron counters one, two, three, and four offscale high. Counters five and six right in the middle of our projected range. Backup counters confirm. Pulse length looks like about 10 microseconds.”
French was taping all of Friedman and Matson’s examination of the charts and their reactions. He broke in, “No radiation back here, was there?” Matson glanced at the rightmost line on the strip chart, “No. We’ll live.”
“But in a very different world, I suspect.” said Friedman as he started disconnecting the cables and packing the instruments for the four-hour ride back to the lab.
Later, bumping and jostling over the dirt road across the empty basin, heading back to the lab, Matson driving: French looked over at Friedman, who’d been admiring the dust plume they were raising in the still New Mexico afternoon. “You two are going to be famous, you know.” “Sure, Wes,” said Friedman, “just as soon as all this gets declassified. Remember who we work for? Would you like to bet on the year?” French turned to Matson, “But didn’t you say driving out that all this should be obvious from the open literature?”
Matson responded, “It was obvious enough to Sam. When all the ruckus about ‘cold fusion’ hit the street, almost nobody noticed that the Soviets reported neutrons from fracturing a crystal of lithium deuteride back in 1986. Hammer fusion. It looks like either deuterons are getting accelerated along propagating cracks, or else little pockets of plasma are appearing that enable fusion. Think of it as the subatomic version of crunching a wintergreen Life Saver in a dark room. All this ‘cold fusion’ stuff involves packing a metal crystal with lots of deuterons, and that’s known to cause all kinds of cracking and disruption in the lattice.”
“So when Fleischmann and Pons reported it was a volume effect,” Friedman expanded, “and they burned up a chunk of palladium, we wondered if they weren’t seeing a runaway version of the same mechanical fusion process. And when others had trouble making it happen, that pointed right at something very dependent on the properties of the metal. Now the Soviets are seeing neutrons when they crush fragments of titanium with steel balls in a bath of heavy water. We wanted to see how this scaled with volume and density by explosively compressing a chunk of deuterium-saturated titanium. Fortunately the director agreed.”
“After you scared him to death with the prospect of basement nukes, which you gentlemen appear to have invented this fine spring afternoon.” French interjected.
“But not a nuclear explosive.” Friedman responded, “This process generates plenty of neutrons but little or no gamma or other electromagnetic energy.” French looked at Matson, then at Friedman, “So the Eighties brought us the personal computer, and in the Nineties we’re going to have personal neutron bombs?” Matson shrugged, “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Is there any way to restrict access to the materials?” French asked.
“Not really. Titanium’s an industrial metal available all over the world, and we didn’t use any special purity or fabrication steps. Besides, other transition metals may work just as well, and maybe ceramics or something will work even better—we don’t understand enough to guess at this point.”
“But heavy water? That’s subject to all kinds of controls, isn’t it?”
“In industrial quantities, sure.” Matson replied, “But our gadget doesn’t need the tons of it you use in a reactor, just a couple cc’s. You can make that, if you’re patient enough, in your garage by fractional distillation.” “Yeah, start with acid from old car batteries,” Friedman added, “it’s already way enriched in deuterium by differential evaporation.”
“Marvelous…where are you two planning to publish anyway, Popular Terrorism?”
Friedman thought for a few seconds. “It’s not that great a terror weapon, really, other than the cachet ‘nuclear blackmail’ has in the media. You can kill a lot more people a whole lot easier with bugs and chemicals right now—and none of that stuff is controlled at all.”
They rode along in silence for a while, watching the play of light and shadow on the desert as the sun sank toward the hills behind them. Matson broke the reverie, “It’ll stop tanks.”
“Tanks?” Friedman said. “You mean, like Sherman tanks?”
“Sherman, M-1 Abrams, Soviet T-72, you name it. Remember the neutron bomb Carter decided not to build? That was a little artillery-fired fusion bomb optimized for neutron production. You pop one above a tank column and suddenly you have a bunch of tanks full of dead people.”
French broke in, “But there was one little catch. You still had a couple of kilotons of fission and fusion explosion, and as they say in Germany, the towns are only a kiloton apart.”
Matson continued, “Yeah, but look at what we saw today, the same thing the ‘cold fusion’ people have been reporting—lots of neutrons and no gamma rays or blast.”
“How much would you have to scale this thing up to make a weapon?” French asked.
“Ours would have taken out a tank column. That’s why we fired it three thousand feet down the borehole. And we threw this thing together in two days from spare parts.”
French contemplated this for a minute or so. “Yes, but you had access to explosive lenses, synchronized detonators—all the resources of a weapons lab.”
“Handy, but unnecessary. Given the reaction rates we saw, I’ll bet gunpowder and a piston would work just fine.”
“So let me get this straight,” French said, “when we get back to the lab, I’m going to walk into the director’s office and report to him that we have crowned our achievements of the last forty-five years by inventing a nuclear pipe bomb?”
“One that stops tank assaults.” Friedman remarked. “You know, the original work on fracture-induced fusion was done in the Soviet Union, and one of the authors was an East German. They’re the ones with all the tanks. They’ve gotta be thinking what we’re thinking.”
“Yeah,” Matson said, as the shadows lengthened and the truck began to climb out of the valley toward the lab, “I’ll bet the Berlin Wall is down before Christmas.”
Damned if it wasn’t.