Eric Frank Russell - Six Worlds Yonder

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SIX WORLDS YONDER

by Eric Frank Russell

THE PLANET MAPPERS

One thing's certain about the exploration of outer

space - there's not going to be two worlds alike! In this

new collection of interstellar explorers, the fertile and

original mind of Eric Frank Russell presents a half-

dozen of the more extraordinary possibilities.

There's the world where everything moves at a pace

so different from ours that it would take a couple of

lifetimes to establish communication. There's the planet

of immortals, with all that that really signifies. There's

the puzzling problem of keeping important messages

secret when surrounded by truculent aliens. And there's

more. . .

Every story is different, every world is unique, and

every adventure is science-fiction at its best.

Eric Frank Russell is one of the leading names in science-

fiction today. A writer of unusual ability, his stories

are marked by a lightness of touch combined with an

out-of-the-rut imagination that have made each of them

stand out in whatever format they are published. An

Englishman, his tales have appeared in all the leading

science-fiction magazines both here and abroad and have

been extensively translated, as well as rendered into

Braille for the blind.

SIX WORLDS YONDER

All stories herein were previously published in Astounding

Science Fiction and are copyright, 1954, 1955, 1956, by

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Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Waitabits

Tieline

Top Secret

Nothing New

Into Your Tent I'll Creep

Diabologic

THE WAITABITS

HE STRODE toward the Assignment Office with quiet confi-

dence born of long service, much experience and high rank.

Once upon a time a peremptory call to this department had

made him slightly edgy, exactly as it unnerved the fresh-

faced juniors today. But that had been long, long ago. He was

gray-haired now, with wrinkles around the corners of his eyes,

silver oak-leaves on his epaulettes. He had heard enough, seen

enough and learned enough to have lost the capacity for

surprise.

Markham was going to hand him a tough one. That was

Markham's job: to rake through a mess of laconic, garbled,

distorted or eccentric reports, pick out the obvious problems

and dump them squarely in the laps of whoever happened to

be hanging around and was considered suitable to solve them.

One thing could be said in favor of this technique: its vic-

tims often were bothered, bedeviled or busted, but at least

they were never bored. The problems were not commonplace,

the solutions sometimes fantastic.

The door detected his body-heat as he approached, swung

open with silent efficiency. He went through, took a chair,

gazed phlegmatically at the heavy man behind the desk.

"Ah, Commodore Leigh," said Markham pleasantly. He

shuffled some papers, got them in order, surveyed the top

one. "I am informed that the Thunderer's overhaul is com-

plete, the crew has been recalled and everything is ready for

flight."

"That is correct."

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"Well now, I have a task for you." Markham put on the

sinister smile that invariably accompanied such an announce-

ment. After years of reading what had followed in due course,

he had conceived the notion that all tasks were funny except

when they involved a massacre. "You are ready and eager for

another trip, I trust?"

"I am always ready," said Commodore Leigh. He had out-

grown the eagerness two decades back.

"I have here the latest consignment of scout reports,"

Markham went on. He made a disparaging gesture. "You

know what they're like. Condensed to the minimum and in

some instances slightly mad. Happy the day when we receive

a report detailed with scientific thoroughness."

"You'll get that only from a trained mind," Leigh com-

mented. "Scouts are not scientists. They are oddities who like

roaming the loneliest reaches of space with no company but

their own. Pilot-trained hobos willing to wander at large, take

brief looks and tell what they've seen. Such men are useful

and necessary. Their shortcomings can be made up by those

who follow them."

"Precisely," agreed Markham with suspicious promptness.

"So this is where we want you to do some following."

"What is it this time?"

"We have Boydell's latest report beamed through several

relay-stations. He is way out in the wilds." Markham tapped

the paper irritably. "This particular scout is known as Gabby

Boydell because he is anything but that. He uses words as

if they cost him fifty dollars apiece."

"Meaning he hasn't said enough?" asked Leigh, smiling.

"Enough? He's told us next to nothing!" He let go an

emphatic snort. "Eighteen planets scattered all over the shop

and not a dozen words about each. He discovers a grand

total of eighteen planets in seven previously unexplored sys-

tems and the result doesn't occupy half a page."

"Going at that speed, he wouldn't have time for much

more," Leigh ventured. "You can't write a book about a

world without taking up residence for a while."

"That may be. But these crackpot scouts could do better

and it's time they were told as much." He pointed an accus-

ing finger. "Look at this item. The eleventh planet he visited.

He has named it Pulok for some reason that is probably crazy.

His report employs exactly four words: 'Take it and welcome.'

What do you make of that?"

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Leigh thought it over carefully. "It is inhabitable by hu-

mankind. There is no native opposition, nothing to prevent

us grabbing it. But in his opinion it isn't worth possessing."

"Why, man, why?"

"I don't know, not having been there."

"Boydell knows the reason." Markham fumed a bit and

went on, "And he ought to state it in precise, understandable

terms. He shouldn't leave a mystery hanging in mid-air like

a bad smell from nowhere."

"Won't he explain it when he returns to his sector head-

quarters?"

"That may be months hence, perhaps years, especially if

he manages to pick up fuel and replacement tubes from dis-

tant outposts. Those scouts keep to no schedule. They get

there when they arrive, return when they come back. Galac-

tic gypsies, that's how they like to think of themselves."

"They've chosen freedom," Leigh offered.

Ignoring that remark, Markham continued, "Anyway, the

problem of Pulok is a relatively minor one to be handled by

somebody else. I'll give it to one of the juniors; it will do

something for his education. The more complicated and pos-

sibly dangerous tangles are for older ones such as yourself."

"Tell me the worst."

"Planet fourteen on Boydell's list. He has given it the

name of Eterna, and don't ask me why. The code formula

he's registered against it reads O-1.1-D.7. That means we

can live on it without special equipment, it's an Earth-type

planet of one-tenth greater mass, and it's inhabited by an

intelligent lifeform of different but theoretically equal mental

power. He calls this lifeform the Waitabits. Apparently he

tags everything and everybody with the first name that pops

into his mind."

"What information does he offer concerning them?"

"Hah!" said Markham, pulling a face. "One word. Just one

word." He paused, then voiced it. "Unconquerable."

"Eh?"

"Unconquerable," repeated Markham. "A word that should

not exist in scout-language." At that point he became riled,

jerked open a drawer, extracted a notebook and consulted it.

"Up to last survey, four hundred twenty-one planets had been

discovered, charted, recorded. One hundred thirty-seven

found suitable for human life and large or small groups of set-

tlers placed thereon. Sixty-two alien lifeforms mastered dur-

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ing the process." He shoved the book back. "And out there

in the dark a wandering tramp picks a word like unconquer-

able."

"I can think of only one reason that makes sense," sug-

gested Leigh.

"What is that?"

"Perhaps they really are unconquerable."

Markham refused to credit his ears. "If that's a joke, Com-

modore, it's in bad taste. Some might think it seditious."

"Well, can you think up a better reason?"

"I don't have to. I'm sending you there to find out. The

Grand Council asked specifically that you be given this task.

They feel that if any unknown aliens have enough to put the

wind up one of our own scouts, then we must learn more

about them. And the sooner the better."

"There's nothing to show that they actually frightened Boy-

dell. If they had done so he'd have said more, much more. A

genuine first-class menace is the one thing that would make

him talk his head off."

"That's purely hypothetical," said Markham. "We don't

want guesses. We want facts."

"All right."

"Consider a few other facts," Markham added. "So far, no

other lifeform has been able to resist us. I don't see how any

can. Any creatures with an atom of sense soon see on which

side their bread is buttered - if they eat bread and like butter.

If we step in and provide the brains while they furnish the

labor, with mutual benefit to both parties, the aliens are soon

doing too well for themselves to complain. If a bunch of

Sirian Wimpots slave all day in our mines, then fly in their

own helicopters back to homes such as their forefathers never

owned, what have they got to cry about?"

"I fail to see the purpose of the lecture," said Leigh, dryly.

"I'm emphasizing that by force, ruthlessness, argument,

persuasion, precept and example, appeal to common sense,

or any other tactic appropriate to the circumstances, we can

master and exploit any lifeform in the cosmos. That's the

theory we've been using for a thousand years - and it works.

We've proved that it works. We've made it work. The first

time we let go of it and admit defeat, we're finished. We go

down and disappear along with all the other vanished

hordes." He swept his papers to one side. "A scout has ad-

mitted defeat. He must be a lunatic. But lunatics can create

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alarm. The Grand Council is alarmed."

"So I am required to seek soothing syrup?"

"Yes. See Parrish in the charting department. He'll give

you the coordinates of this Eterna dump." Standing up, he

offered a plump hand. "A smooth trip and a safe landing,

Commodore."

"Thanks."

The Thunderer hung in a balanced orbit while its officers

examined the new world floating below. This was Eterna,

second planet of a sun very much like Sol. Altogether there

were four planets in this particular family, but only the sec-

ond harbored life in any detectable form.

Eterna was a pretty sight, a great blue-green ball shining

in the blaze of full day. Its land-masses were larger than

Earth's, its oceans smaller. No vast mountain ranges were vis-

ible, no snow-caps either, yet lakes and rivers were numerous.

Watersheds lay in heavily forested hills that crinkled much

of the surface and left few flat areas. Cloud-banks lay over

the land like scatterings of cotton-wool, widely dispersed but

thick, heavy and great in number.

Through powerful glasses towns and villages could be seen,

most of them placed in clearings around which armies of trees

marched down to the rivers. There were also narrow, wind-

ing roads and thin, spidery bridges. Between the larger towns

ran vague lines that might be railroad tracks but lacked

sufficient detail at such a distance to reveal their true pur-

pose.

Pascoe, the sociologist, put down his binoculars and said,

"Assuming that the night side is very similar, I estimate their

total strength at no more than one hundred millions. I base

that on other planetary surveys. When you've counted the

number of peas per bottle in a large and varied collection,

you develop the ability to make reasonably accurate guesses.

One hundred millions at most."

"That's low for a planet of this size and fertility, isn't it?"

asked Commodore Leigh.

"Not necessarily. There were no more of us in the far past.

Look at us now."

"The implication is that these Waitabits are a comparative-

ly young species?"

"Could be. On the other hand, they may be old and se-

nile and dying out fast. Or perhaps they're slow breeders and

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their natural increase isn't much."

"I don't go for the dying out theory," put in Walterson,

the geophysicist. "If once they were far bigger than they are

today, the planet should still show signs of it. A huge inheri-

tance leaves its mark for centuries. Remember that city-site

we found on Hercules? Even the natives didn't know of it,

the markings being visible only from a considerable altitude."

They used their glasses again, sought for faint lines of or-

derliness in wide tracts of forest. There were none to be seen.

"Short in history or slow to breed," declared Pascoe.

"That's my opinion for what it's worth."

Frowning down at the blue-green ball, Leigh said heavily,

"By our space-experienced standards a world of one hundred

millions is weak. It's certainly not sufficiently formidable to

turn a hair on a minor bureaucrat, much less worry the Coun-

cil itself." He turned, lifted a questioning eyebrow as a sig-

nals-runner came up to him. "Well?"

"Relay from Sector Nine, sir."

Unfolding the message, he found it duly decoded, read it

aloud:

"'Nineteen-twelve, ex Terra. Defense H.Q. to C.O. battle-

ship Thunderer. Light cruiser Flame, Lt. Mallory command-

ing, assigned your area for Pulok check. Twentieth heavy

cruiser squadron readied Arlington port, Sector Nine. This

authorizes you to call upon and assume command of said

forces in emergency only. Rathbone. Com. Op. Dep. D.H.Q.

Terra.'"

He filed the message, shrugged and said, "Seems they're

taking few chances."

"Yes," agreed Pascoe, a trifle sardonically. "So they've as-

sembled reinforcements near enough to be summoned but

too far away to do us any good. The Flame could not get

here in less than seven weeks. The ships at Arlington couldn't

make it in under nineteen or twenty weeks even at super-

drive. By then we could be cooked, eaten, burped and forgot-

ten."

"I don't see what all this jumpiness is about," complained

Walterson. "That scout, Boydell, went in and came out,

without losing his edible parts, didn't he? Where one can go

a million can follow."

Pascoe regarded him with pity. "A solitary invader rarely

frightens anyone. That's where scouts have an advantage.

Consider Remy II. Fellow name of James finds it, lands,

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makes friends, becomes a blood brother, finally takes off amid

a burst of fond farewells. Next, down come three shiploads

of men, uniforms and guns. That's too much for the locals

to stomach. In Remitan psychology the number represents

critical mass. Result: the Remy war, which - if you remember

your history - was long, costly and bitter."

"I remember history well enough to recall that in those

primitive days they used blockheaded space-troopers and had

no specially trained contact-men," Walterson retorted.

"Nevertheless, what has happened before can happen

again."

"That's my problem right now," Leigh interjected. "Will

the sight of a battleship a mile in length cause them to start

something that can't be finished without considerable slaugh-

ter? Had I better risk the crew of a lifeboat in effort to

smooth the introduction? I wish Boydell had been a little

more informative." He chewed his bottom lip with vexation,

picked up the intercom phone, flipped the signals-room

switch, "Any word from Boydell yet?"

"No, Commodore," responded a voice. "Sector Nine doesn't

think there will be any, either. They've just contacted us to

say he doesn't answer their calls. They believe he's now out

of range. Last trace they got of him showed him to be run-

ning beyond effective communication limits."

"All right." He dumped the phone, gazed through the port.

"Seven hours we've waited. Nothing has come up to take a

look at us. We can detect no signs of excitement down there.

Therefore it's a safe bet that they have no ships, perhaps not

even rudimentary aircraft. Neither do they keep organized

watch on the sky. They're not advanced in our sense of the

term."

"But they may be in some other sense," Pascoe observed.

"That is what I implied." Leigh made an impatient ges-

ture. "We've hung within telescopic view long enough. If

they are capable of formidable reaction we should be grimly

aware of it by now. I don't feel inclined to test the Waitabits

at the expense of a few men in an unarmed lifeboat. We'll

take the Thunderer itself down and hope they're sane enough

not to go nuts."

Hastening forward to the main control-cabin he issued the

necessary orders.

The landing place was atop a treeless bluff nine miles

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south of a large town. It was as good a site as any that could

have been chosen. The settling of great tonnage over a mile-

long area damaged nobody's property or crops, the ground

was solid enough not to furrow under the ship's weight, the

slight elevation gave a strategic advantage to the Thunderer's

guns.

Despite its nearness the town was out of sight, being hid-

den by intervening hills. A narrow road ran through the

valley but nothing moved thereon. Between the road and the

base of the bluff lay double railroad tracks of about twenty-

inch gauge with flat-topped rails of silvery metal. The rails

had no spikes or ties and appeared to be held firmly in posi-

tion by being sunk into long, unbroken ridges of concrete or

some similar rock-like substance.

The Thunderer reposed, a long, black, ominous shape with

all locks closed and gun-turrets open, while Leigh stared

speculatively at the railroad and waited for the usual call

from the metering lab. It came within short time. The inter-

com buzzed, he answered it, heard Shallom speaking.

"The air is breathable, Commodore."

"We knew that in advance. A scout sniffed it without

dropping dead."

"Yes, Commodore," agreed Shallom, patiently. "But you

asked for an analysis."

"Of course. We don't know how long Boydell was here -

perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Whatever it was, it wasn't

enough. He might have curled up his toes after a month or

two. In his brief visit he'd have avoided any long-term ac-

cumulative effect. What we want to know is whether this

atmosphere is safe for keeps."

"Quite safe, Commodore. It's rather rich in ozone and ar-

gon, but otherwise much like Earth's."

"Good. Well open up and let the men stretch their legs."

"There's something else of interest," Shallom went on.

"Preliminary observation time occupied seven hours and

twenty-two minutes. Over that period the longitudinal shift

of a selected equatorial point amounted to approximately

three-tenths of a degree. That means this planet's period of

axial rotation is roughly equivalent to an Earth-year. Its days

and nights are each about six months long."

"Thanks, Shallom." He cut off without surprise, switched

the intercom, gave orders to Bentley in the main engine-room

to operate the power-locks. Then he switched again to Lieu-

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tenant Harding, officer commanding ground forces, gave per-

mission for one quarter of his men to be let out for exercise,

providing they bore arms and did not stray beyond direct

cover of the ship's guns.

That done, he swiveled his pneumatic chair to face the

port, put his feet up with heels resting on a wall-ridge, and

quietly contemplated the alien landscape. Walterson and Pas-

coe mooched around the room in the restless manner of men

waiting for a burning fuse to reach a gunpowder barrel.

Shallom phoned again, recited gravitational and magnetic-

field readings, went off. A few minutes later he came through

once more with details of atmospheric humidity, barometric

variations and radioactivity. Apparently he cared nothing for

what might be brewing beyond the hills, as long as it failed

to register on his meters and screens. To his mind, no real

danger could exist without advertising itself through a needle

waggling or a fluourescent blip.

Outside, two hundred men scrambled noisily down the

edge of the bluff, reached soft green sward that was not grass

but something resembling short, heavily matted clover. There

they kicked a ball around, wrestled, or were just content to

lie full length on the turf, look at the sky, enjoy the sun. A

small group strolled half a mile to the silent railroad, in-

spected it, trod precariously along its rails with extended arms

jerking and swaying in imitation of tightrope walkers.

Four of Shallom's staff went down, two of them carrying

buckets and spades like kids making for the seashore. A third

bore a bug-trap. The fourth had a scintilloscope. The first

pair dug clover and dirt, hauled it up to the ship for analysis

and bacteria-count. Bug-trap dumped his box, went to sleep

beside it. Scintilloscope marched in a careful zigzag around

the base of the bluff.

After two hours Harding's whistle recalled the outside

lotus-eaters who responded with reluctance. They slouched

back into the gigantic bottle that already had contained them

so long. Another two hundred went out, played all the same

tricks, including the tightrope act on the rails.

By the time that gang had enjoyed its ration of liberty,

the mess-bells announced the main meal. The crew ate, after

which Number One Watch took to its berths and the deepest

sleep within memory. A third freedom party cavorted on the

turf. The indefatigable Shallom passed along the news that

nine varieties of flea-sized bugs were awaiting introduction

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Eric Frank Russell - Six Worlds Yonder

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