Williamson,_Jack_-_The-Humanoids

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Jack Williamson's

GREAT SCIENCE FICTION CLASSIC

THE

HUMANOIDS

LANCER BOOKS • NEW YORK

A LANCER BOOK • 1963

LANCER 72-129

FOR JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR.

Who pointed out to me

some of the consequences of

folded hands.

THE HUMANOIDS

This Lancer edition is published

by arrangement with Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

LANCER BOOKS, INC. • 26 WEST 47TH STREET • NEW YORK 36, N.Y.

ONE

THE GRANITE-FACED sergeant of the gate detail found her standing outside the tall steel fence,

looking up at him with timid, imploring eyes. She was a grimy little waif, in a cheap yellow

dress. Her bare brown feet were shuffling uncomfortably on the hot asphalt, and he first

thought she had come to beg for something to eat.

"Please, mister, is this the Starmont Observatory?" She seemed breathless and afraid. "May

I please see the director? Dr. Clay Forester?" Her wet eyes shone. "Please, mister! It's awful

important."

The sergeant scowled at her doubtfully, wondering how she had got here. She was about

nine, he thought, her head too large and deeply hollowed, as if from the pinch of long famine.

Her straight black hair was clipped short and primly combed. He shook his head

disapprovingly, because she was far too young to be here alone. He could feel her trembling

urgency, but stray urchins didn't see Dr. Forester.

"Not without a pass." She flinched from the hash rasp of his voice, and the sergeant tried to

smile. "Starmont's a military reservation, see?" Seeing the trouble in her dark uplifted eyes, he

tried to warm his tone. "But what's your name, sister?"

"Jane." She lifted her thin voice, stoutly. "And I've just got to see him."

"Jane? Haven't you any other name?"

"People used to call me other things, because I didn't know my really name." Her eyes fell

briefly. "They called me Squeak and Insect and Little Pip, and others not so nice. But Mr.

White says my really name is Jane Carter - and he sent me to see Dr. Forester."

"How'd you get here?"

The sergeant squinted past her at the narrow road beyond the fence that twisted down the

flank of the solitary mountain and lay straight and black on the tawny desert below. Salt City

was thirty miles away, much too far for her to have walked. But he could see no vehicle.

"Mr. White sent me," she repeated firmly. "To see -"

"Who," the sergeant broke in, "is Mr. White?"

An utter devotion illuminated her brimming eyes.

"He's a philosopher." She stumbled on the word. "He has a red, bushy beard, and he came

from other places. He took me out of a bad place where people beat me, and he's awful good to

me. He's teaching me tele-" She gulped. "He sent me with a paper for Dr. Forester."

"What sort of paper?"

"This." Her skinny hand came halfway out of the pocket of her dress, and the sergeant

glimpsed a gray card clutched in her thin grubby fingers. "It's a message - and awful important,

mister!"

"You might send it in."

"Thank you." Her thin blue face smiled politely. "But Mr. White said I mustn't let anybody

see it, except Dr. Forester."

"I told you, sister -" The sergeant saw her flinch, and tried to soften his refusal. "Dr. Forester

is a big man, see? He's too busy to see anybody - unless you happen to be an inspecting

general, with papers from the Defense Authority. And you don't, see? Sorry, but I can't let you.

in."

She nodded forlornly. "Then let me - think."

For a moment she stood still, forgetting even to move her feet on the hot pavement. Her

bony head tilted and her eyes half closed, as if she listened to something beyond him. She

nodded, and whispered something, and turned hopefully back to the sergeant.

"Please - may I see Mr. Ironsmith?"

"Sure, sister!" He gave her a leathery smile, relieved. "Why didn't you say you knew him?

Forester's hard to see, but anybody can talk to Frank Ironsmith. He ain't important, and he's a

friend of mine. Come around here in the shade, and we'll call him."

Timidly silent, she came gratefully up under the narrow awning in front of the guard box.

The sergeant picked up his telephone to call the observatory switchboard.

"Sure, Frank Ironsmith has a phone," came the operator's nasal whine. "He works in the

computing section. Starmont 88. Sure, Rocky, he's in. He just bought me a cup of coffee, on

the way to work. Just hold the line."

Ironsmith listened to the sergeant, and promised to drop right down. Waiting for him, the

little girl kept a tight grip on the card in her pocket. She stooped restlessly to pic gaudy yellow

blooms from a desert weed outside the fence, and then her huge eyes came uneasily back to the

sergeant.

"Don't you worry, sister." He tried to smooth his drillfield voice. "Because Frank Ironsmith

is a good guy, see? He don't amount to much, and probably never will - all he does is run the

calculating machines in the computing section. But I know he'll try to help you."

"I do need help." She gripped the card tighter. "To get this to Dr. Forester."

"Frank will think of something." The sergeant grinned, trying to break her big-eyed

solemnity. "He's plenty smart, even if he is just a clerk."

She had cocked her head again, staring past him at the lawns and the dark evergreens that

made Starmont a cool oasis, and the sergeant was disturbed by a brief impression that she was

listening for something besides his voice.

"Frank's all right, sister." He went on talking, because the child's odd intentness made him

nervous. "And he knows plenty. Even when he stops at the canteen to drink a beer with us,

he's apt to have a book along. Why, he can even read some old language he says people used to

use back on the first planet."

She was looking back at him, now really listening.

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JackWilliamson'sGREATSCIENCEFICTIONCLASSICTHEHUMANOIDSLANCERBOOKSNEWYORKALANCERBOOK1963LANCER72-129FORJOHNW.CAMPBELL,JR.Whopointedouttomesomeoftheconsequencesoffoldedhands.THEHUMANOIDSThisLancereditionispublishedbyarrangementwithSimon&Schuster,Inc.Copyright1948,1949byJackWilliamsonAllrightsreserve...

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