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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE...

by ALAN DEAN FOSTER

[VERSION 1.1 (Jan 08 02). If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the version

number by 0.1 and redistribute.]

A Del Key Book

Published by Ballantine Books

United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously

in Canada by Ballantine Books of Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-6132

ISBN 0-345-28242-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: December 1977 Third Printing: November 1978

First Canadian Printing: January 1978 Cover art by Michael Whelan

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Science Fiction, June 1971.

Summer 1971.

September-October 1971.

1976.

Coq, March 1974.

For JoAnn, who has my future,

I give now a little of my past, with love

CONTENTS:

Introduction

With Friends Like These...

Some Notes Concerning a Green Box

Why Johnny Can't Speed

The Emoman

Space Opera

The Empire of T'ang Lang

A Miracle of Small Fishes

Dream Done Green

Polonaise

Wolfstroker

Ye Who Would Sing

INTRODUCTION

When I was very young, which was not so very long ago, my friends and I wanted to grow up to be

firemen, policemen, airline pilots, and presidents. I suspect it says something for my generation

when you consider that as youngsters our aspirations were to be successful civil servants.

Certainly no one ever came up to me after a hard afternoon of sockball or kick-the-can and said,

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"Alan, when I grow up, I'm going to be a science-fiction writer."

Even more certainly, I never said it to anyone. But it happened. Where, as my mother was once wont

to ask, did I go wrong?

Probably by giving me all those comic books. Comic books are dangerous to the American way of

life, you see. I've always agreed with that theory. A child raised on comics can't help but grow

up with a questing mind, an expanded imagination, a sense of wonder, a desire to know what make

things tick—machines, people, governments.

No wonder our gilded conservatives are afraid of them.

I don't remember when I first started drawing spaceships. I know I blossomed in the fifth grade.

They weren't very good spaceships, but in my soul I knew they were astrophysically sound. Someday

I'd design real ones. I might have become an engineer, save for one inimical colossus who always

loomed up to block my dream-way: mathematics.

I wasn't helpless, but neither did I display a precocious aptitude for differential calculus. My

feelings were akin to those I experienced when I discovered that it took more than six piano

lessons to play Rachmaninoff's Third Concerto—or even his First Concerto. Mentally, I drifted, my

chosen profession blocked off to me at the tender age of eleven. - If it hadn't been for that damn

book, The Spaceship Under the Apple Tree...

I persevered with my school work, finding in myself certain talents for the biological sciences.

Math always cropped up somehow, somewhere, stopping me. What to do? I was good at English and

history, but I wanted to design spaceships dammit!

I kept on drawing them, knowing it was futile, but unable to resist the smooth lines, the sensuous

curves of propulsive exhausts, the sharp stab of some irresistible power-beam. When I started

fiddling around with writing, I stayed away from science fiction. Impossibly complex, intricate,

challenging... I wrote love stories, mysteries, even fantasy. How could I consider writing science

fiction when The World of Null-A read like Chinese? I didn't even read that much sf, turning

instead to natural history, politics, science, literature—I immersed myself throughout high school

in tons of such nonscience fiction. Little did I know.

It started in college, at UCLA. The more arcane philosophy I was forced to read, the more I looked

forward to relaxing with the directions of the good doctor Asimov. Thomas Hobbs drove me to relax

in the humor and humanity of Eric Frank Russell. The painful details of political science were

less hurtful when salved with judicious doses of Robert Sheckley, or buried beneath the smooth

logic of Murray Lein-ster. I read enormous amounts of science fiction.

I discovered E. E, Smith and John Tame, whose space-time concepts made those of the lectures I

attended shrink into laughability.

But I was that second-most-crippled college bastard, a political science major (the worst, he who

majors in English). No where to go save law school. So I girded myself for the challenge. At least

I would someday make money.

And in my senior year, with required courses laboriously shoveled away, I discovered the motion-

picture department at UCLA. And screenwriting. I found they would give me credit for—oh glory of

glories!—watching movies! And for writing, for writing any old yam that came into my head.

School changed from drudgery to pleasure. I told stories and watched them, and that was all that

was required of me. And I learned the joy of those whose lives were concerned primarily with

artistic creation, saw the naked exuberance of a young guest-instructor displayed while he taught

a seminar in the films of director Howard Hawks. Peter Bogdanovich wasn't an especially fine

instructor, but he was enthusiastic. His enthusiasm has done him right well since he taught that

class.

He gave me a B, but wrote on my final exam, "You have good instincts... you should continue."

But law school still beckoned. Until a miracle happened. Despite unspectacular grades, perhaps

because of a good Graduate Entrance Exam score, possibly due to the odd letter I wrote in which I

explained I wished first of all to be the world's greatest gigolo and, second, to write, I was

accepted into the graduate writing program.

My parents wailed silently, stoically, and finally reconciled themselves to the idea of their

young Perry Mason blowing a fat raspberry at the whole legal profession. I turned down USC Law

School and entered the wacky world of graduate film at UCLA. I started at the unprodigal age of

twenty-two to write, seriously, for the first tune.

I wrote a love story set in Japan, a western, a sexy comedy. I wrote a science-fiction detective

film. I wrote an epic. And I started, to amuse myself, to write science-fiction stories. I would

become a combination Ellison/Stapeldon/Clarke/Heinlein. I would smear brilliance like the high-

priced spread across reams of virgin twenty-pound rag.

My first attempt was about an aluminum Christmas tree that took root and started to grow. It was

rejected. Often.

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Crushed? I was wrecked, ruined, psychologically destroyed. I should have gone to law school, vet

school, learned a trade. I would starve, miserably, begging for chocolate-chip danish in the

streets...

I sold a story. My twelfth. And it wasn't even written as a story. But the next one was, and it

sold too. I kept getting rejection slips, but some of them weren't mimeographed, they were

actually written to me. I joined the Science-Fiction Writers of America and met my gods—and was

crushed when they turned out to be human. Sometimes more than human, sometimes less. But I was one

of them.

I began to understand how a leper feels.

Harlan Ellison expressed an interest in a story of mine. Would I care to come over to his place to

talk about it? Did Washington free the slaves? Did Lincoln cut down cherry trees?

I met the Harlan Ellison. I'll never forget his first words to me, the first words from a Writer

to a writer.

"First of all, Foster, you know that ninety percent of this story is shit."

But basically, he liked the ending. Would I try again?

Did Washington free the slaves? Did Lincoln... ?

In two days I buried Ellison under three or four complete rewrites. Becase I was excited. Because

I was anxious. And because the next week I had to report to the Army. Yup. And I also wanted to

finish the novel I was working on, my first.

I never satisfied Harlan, but I finished the novel. It was rejected. And then it sold. And I—I was

lost. I was one of the happy lepers, come what may. I might be a starving leper, I might be a

wealthy one, but I had chosen my disease.

I got out of the Army, went to work writing press releases for a tiny local public relations

outfit. I also ran the duplicating machine and cleaned out the fish tank. I made $400 a month, to

start. A year and some months later, I began to feel like those fish.

If I could only find something I liked, something to put seafood in my mouth while I resumed

writing. I knew nobody made a living writing science fiction, except people like Heinlein and

Anderson and Asimov and what the hell, they were immortal anyway, so what difference did it make?

A part-time teaching position opened at Los Angeles City College. I applied and was accepted.

Furthermore, I enjoyed it. A course in film history and one in writing. I've also taught writing

at UCLA, and even a seminar on the works of H. P. Lovecraft.

I kept writing. Things Started To Happen. Books sold, stories sold. Other people would pay to

share with me yarns I wrote for my own enjoyment. I was happy, content. Who wouldn't be? I've

never known a storyteller who was unhappy when telling stories.

Now I'm a writer, but I feel guilty. This is too much fun. It's sinful to enjoy life so much. I

haven't suffered enough to be a writer. I like other human beings, I like this sad, smoggy world.

I like my agents and my publishers and editors. I even like critics. I love my wife, who is much

too beautiful for me.

Clearly, there is something drastically wrong with me.

Or maybe it's all a dream—yeah, tomorrow I'll wake up and have to go read law books; put on a suit

and tie; smile at people I'd like to be honest with. But for now, today, this minute, I'm going to

enjoy every second of that dream.

I can't give it to you. But I can share a little of it. It's in this book.

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE...

My favorite writer of science fiction was, and still is, the inimitable Eric Frank Russell. When I

was turning in short stories to the magazines instead of papers to my college professors and

collecting rejection slips instead of credits and grades, I often wondered why Russell had stopped

writing. I miss him.

At the 1968 World Science-Fiction Convention in Oakland, John Campbell told me that Russell was

his favorite writer, and that he too sorely bemoaned the lack of yarns Russellian. So I decided to

try a Russell-flavored Terra-über-alles story. Campbell liked it. He never sent acceptance

letters—just checks.

And man and boy, that was a change from rejection slips.

As she commenced her first approach to the Go-type sun, the light cruiser Tpin's velocity began to

decrease from the impossible to the merely incredible. Her multidrive engines put forth the barely

audible whine that signified slowdown, and she once more assumed a real mass that the normal

universe could and would notice.

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Visual observation at the organic level became possible as the great ship cut the orbit of the

last gas giant. Those of the vessel's complement took the never dull opportunity to rush the ports

for a glimpse of a new solar system; those whose functions did not include the actual maneuvering

of the craft. Curiosity was a fairly universal characteristic among space-going races. The crew of

the Tpin, although a grim lot, were no exception.

Within the protected confines of the fore control room of the half-kilometer-long bubble of metal

and plastic, Communicator First Phrnnx shifted his vestigial wings and asked Commander First

Rappan for the millionth time what-the-hell-equivalent they hoped to find.

"Phrnnx," Rappan sighed, "if you haven't been sufficiently enlightened as to the content of the

legends by now, I fail to see how I can aid you. Instead of repeating yourself for the sake of

hearing yourself oralize, I suggest you bend a membrane to your detection apparatus and see if you

can pick up any traces of that murfled Yop battleship!"

Phrnnx riffled his eyelids in a manner indicative of mild denial, with two degrees of respectful

impatience. "We lost those inept yipdips five parsecs ago, sir. I am fully capable of performing

my duties without any well-intentioned suggestions from the bureaucracy. Do I tell you how to fly

the ship?"

"A task," began Rappan heatedly, "so far beyond your level of comprehension that... !"

"Gentlebeings, gentlebeings, please!" said the Professor. Subordinate and commander alike quieted.

The "Professor"—his real title was unpronounceable to most of the crew—was both the guiding force

and the real reason behind the whole insane expedition. It was he who rediscovered the secret of

breaking the Terran Shield. He came from a modest three-system cluster nearly halfway to the

Rim—far removed from their own worlds. Due to the distance from thing's and to their own quiet,

retiring nature, his folk took little part in the perpetual cataclysm of the Federation-Yop wars.

What small—if important—role they did deign to play in the conflict was not determined by choice.

Rather, it was engendered by the Yop policy of regarding all those peoples, who were not allies of

the Yop, as mortal enemies of the Yop. There was room in neither Yop culture, nor Yop language,

for the concept of a "neutral." Yop temperament was such that their total complement of allies

came to a grand total of zero. The members of the Federation had matured beyond prejudice, but it

was admitted in most quarters that the Yops were not nice people. Possibly some of this attitude

stemmed from the Yop habit of eating everything organic that moved, without regard for such minor

inconveniences as, say, the intelligence of the diner, or his desire to be not-eaten.

Against them was allied the total remaining strength of the organized galaxy; some two hundred and

twelve federated races.

However—due to diet, perhaps—there were a lot of Yops.

The avowed purpose of the expedition was to make that latter total two hundred and thirteen.

The Professor continued in a less stern tone. "H you must fight among yourselves, kindly do so at

a civilized level. At least out of deference to me. I am an old being, and I possess a perhaps

unreasonable allergy to loud and raucous noises."

The others in the room immediately lowered their voices in respect. In the Federation age was a

revered commodity, to be conserved as such. And there was the Professor's age. His antennae

drooped noticeably, his chiton was growing more and more translucent, losing its healthy purple

iridescence, and his back plates were exfoliating in thin, shallow flakes. That he had held up as

well as he had on this trip, with its sometimes strenuous dodging of Yop warships, was in itself

remarkable. He seemed to grow stronger as they neared their objective, and now his eyes, at least,

glowed with a semblance of vitality.

All eyes were trained on the great mottled sphere turning slowly and majestically below them.

"Planet Three," intoned Navigator First. "Primary colors-blue, white, brown, green. Atmosphere..."

and he dropped ofi to a low mumbling. At last, "It checks, sir."

"And the gold overlay?" asked Communicator Phrnnx, for being among the youngest of the crew, his

curiosity quotient was naturally among the highest.

"That, gentlebeings, means that the'Shield is still up. After all these years I'd thought

perhaps..." The Professor made what passed for a shrug among his people. He turned from the port

to the others.

"As you all recall, I hope, the phenomenon below us, the Shield, is the direct result of the Old

Empire-Terran Wars of ages ago. At that time, the inhabitants of this planet first broke free of

their own system and started to come out to the stars.

"They found there a multiracial empire nominally ruled by a race known to us as the Veen. The

Terrans were invited to join the empire, accruing the same rights and privileges as had

historically been granted to all new space-going races for thousands and thousands of years."

"And they refused," put in Rappan. "Yes, they refused. It became quickly apparent to the Veen that

the Terrans intended to carve out a little pocket empire of their own in another sector of space.

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Since Terra was so far away from the center of things, so to speak, the Veen decided that for the

sake of peace—and the Veen—this could not be allowed to take place. Accordingly, there was a war,

or rather, a series of wars. These lasted for centuries, despite the overwhelming numerical

superiority of the Veen. Gradually, the Terrans were pushed back to their own home world. A

standoff ensued, as the Veen and .their allies were unable to break the ultimate defenses of the

Terrans.

"Then a great scientist of one of the allied races of the Veen discovered, quite by accident, the

quasi-mathematical principle behind the Shield. The nature of the Shield forbade its use on

anything smaller than a good-sized moon. It was thus useless for such obvious military

applications as, for example, a ship defensive screen. Then someone got the bright idea of

enveloping the entire planet of Terra in one huge Shield, making it into an impenetrable cage. At

worst, it would provide the Empire with a breathing spell in which to marshal its sorely battered

forces. At best it would restrict the Terrans to their own fortress until such time as the Veen

saw fit to let them out. The chances of the Terrans accidentally stumbling onto the same principle

was considered to be slight. As you can now see, this indeed has been the case." The Professor

sighed again, a high, whistling sound.

"However, the wars with Terra had also depleted the resources of the Veen tremendously. Those

races which had been allied to them only by virtue of the Veen's superior knowledge and strength

saw an irresistible opportunity to supplant the Veen in the hierarchy of Empire. The result? The

Time of Conflicts, which resulted in the breakdown of the Empire, the final elimination of the

once-proud Veen, and after considerable bickering and fighting, the formation of our present

Federation—in a much more primitive form, of course."

He returned his gaze once again to the blue-white planet circling below, its land areas blurred in

the shifting golden haze which was the by-product of the Shield. They had already locked in to the

Shield station on the planet's only satellite. "Unfortunately, the Ban still remains."

Rappan broke away from his console for a moment. "Look, we've been through all that. The supposed

rule states that the penalty for breaking the Shield either partially, or completely, is death,

for all those concerned. But that murfted law is millennia old!"

"And still on the books," retorted old Alo, the Commander Second.

"I know, I know!" said Rappan, adjusting a meter. "Which is one reason why every being on this

ship is a volunteer. And if I thought we had a choice I'd never have commandeered the Tpin for

this trip. But you know as well as I, Alo, we have no choiceV We've been fighting the Yops now for

nearly three hundred sestes, and been losing ever since we started. Oh, I know how it looks, but

the signs are all there. One of these days we'll turn around for the customary reinforcements and

pifft, they won't be there! That's why it's imperative we find new allies... even if we have to

try Terra. When I was a cub, my den parents would scare us away from the Gn>un/-fruit groves by

saying: 'The Terrans will get you if you don't watch out!' "

" 'Ginst the Edict," murmured Alo, not to be put off.

Navigator First Zinin broke in, in the deep bass-rumbling of this heavy-planet civilization.

"There will be no Edicts, old one, if the Yops crush the Federation. We must take some risks. If

the Terrans are willing to aid us—and are still capable of it—I do believe that GalCen will agree

to some slight modification of the rules. And, if these creatures have fallen back to the point

where they can be of no help to us, then they will not be a threat to us either. GalCen will not

be concerned."

"And if by chance mebbe they should be a bit angry at us and decide to renew an ancient grudge?"

put in the ever-pessimistic Alo.

"Then the inevitable," put in Zinin, "will only be hastened."

Philosophizing was of needs broken off. The Tpin was entering the Shield.

Green, thought Phrnnx. It is the greenest nontropi-cal planet I have ever seen.

He was standing by the end of the ramp which led out from the belly of the cruiser. The rest of

the First Contact party was nearby. They had landed near a great mountain range, in a lush section

of foothills and gently rolling green. Tall growths of brown and emerald dominated two sides of

then- view. In front of them stretched low hillocks covered with what was obviously cultivated

vegetation. Behind the ship, great silver-gray mountains thrust white-haloed crowns into the sky.

Had the Tpin been an air vessel, the updrafts sweeping up the sides of those crags would have

given them trouble. As it was, they merely added another touch to the records the meteorologists

were assembling.

Somewhere in the tall growths—which they later learned were called trees—a brook of liquid H2O

made gurgling sounds. Overhead, orinthorphs circled lazily in the not unpleasant heat of morning.

Phrnnx was meditating on how drastically the Shield might have affected the climate of this world

when he became aware of Alo and Zinin strolling up behind him.

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"A peaceful world, certainly," said Zinin. "Rather light on the oxygen and argon, and all that

nitrogen gives it a bit of odor, but on the whole a most pleasant ball of dirt."

"Humph! From one who burns almost as much fuel as the ship I wouldn't have expected compliments,"

grumbled Alo. "Still, I'll grant you, 'tis a quiet locale we've chosen to search out allies. I

wonder if such a world did indeed spawn such a warlike race, or were they perhaps immigrants from

elsewhere?"

"They weren't, and it didn't," interposed the Professor. He had relinquished the high place to the

commander and his military advisers, as the conversation had bored him.

"Mind explaining that a mite, Professor?" asked Alo.

The Professor bent suddenly and dug gently in the soft earth with a claw. He came up with a small

wiggling thing. This he proceeded to pop into his mouth and chew with vigor.

"Hmmm. A bit bitter, but intriguing. I believe .there is at least one basis for trade here."

"Be intriguing if it poisons you," said Phrnnx with some relish.

The Professor moved his antennae in a gesture indicative of negativity, with one degree of mild

reproach. "Nope. Sorry to disappoint you, youngster, but Bio has already pronounced most of the

organics on this planet nontoxic. Watch out for the vegetation, though. Full of acids and things.

As to your question, Alo. When the Terrans..."

"Speaking of Terrans," put in Zinin, "I'd like to see one of these mythical creatures. I don't

recall seeing any cities on our descent."

"Neither did Survey. Oh, don't look so smug. Navigator. Survey reports their presence—Terrans, not

cities—but they estimate no more than a hundred million of them on the planet. The only signs of

any really large clusterings are vague outlines that could be the sites of ancient ruins. Might

have expected something of the sort. People change in a few Ipas, you know."

"My question," prompted Alo once more.

"Well, when the Terrans went out into extrasolar space and began setting up their own empire, the

Veen decided at first to leave them alone. Not only was there no precedent for a space-faring race

not accepting citizenship in the empire, but the Terrans weren't bothering anyone. They were also

willing to sign all kinds of trade agreements and such. Anything of a nonrestrictive and

nonmilitary nature."

"Why'd the Veen change their minds, then?" asked the now interested Phrnnx.

"Some bright lad in the Veen government made a few computer readings, extrapolating from what was

known of Terran scientific developments, rate of expansion, galactic acclimatization, and so on."

"And the result?"

"According to the machines—and the Veen had good ones—in only one hundred Ipas the Veen would have

to start becoming acclimatized to Terra."

Zinin was the only one of the three listeners who expressed his reaction audibly. Surprisingly, it

was by means of a long, drawn-out whistle.

"Yes, that's about how the Veen took it. So they decided to cut the Terrans down to where they

would no longer be even an indirect threat."

"Seems they did," said Alo, gazing up at the gold-flecked Shield sky.

The Professor spared a glance the same way. "Yes, it would seem so." He stared off in the

direction of the commander's post where a force-lift was depositing a ground car. "But it's

enlightening to keep one other little thing in mind."

"Which is?" said Alo belligerently.

"There are no more Veen."

Survey had detected what appeared to be a small dip between the foothills. It was, therefore,

decided that a party consisting of Commander Rappan, Navigator Zinin, Communicator Phrnnx, a

philologist, a xenologist, and, of course, the Professor would take a ground car down to the

structure and attempt a First Contact. Despite vigorous protests, Commander Second Alo was

restricted to acting captain.

"Give the crew land leave," instructed Rappan. "Shifts of the usual six. Maintain a semialert

guard at all times until further-notice. I know this place looks about as dangerous as a mufti-bug

after stuffing, but I intend to take no chances. At first sign of hostilities, raise ship and get

out. That is a first-degree order. You have others on board who can operate the remote Shield

equipment. In the event that all is not what it seems, I don't want to leave these creatures a way

out."

"Noted and integrated, sir," replied Alo stiffly. And then in a lower voice, "Watch yourself, sir.

This place smells funny to me, and I am not referring to the nitro in the atmosphere, either!"

Rappan essayed a third-level smile, with two degrees of mild affection, nonsexual. "You've said

that now on... let's see, thirty-nine planet-falls to date. But rest assured I will take no

chances. We know too little of this place, the Professor included."

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"Anyway, legends are notoriously nonfactual."

The little car hummed softly to itself as it buzzed over the dark soil. A cleared path is

unmistakable on any planet, and this one ran straight as an Opsith through the fields of low,

irrigated plants. Phrnnx had wondered idly what they were, and if they would appeal to his palate.

The Professor had replied by reminding him. of Bio's warning about plant acids and added that

stealing the native's food would be a poor way to open friendly negotiations. Phrnnx discarded the

notion. Besides, the vegetation of this area appeared to be disgustingly heavy in cellulose

content—doubtless bland in flavor, if any. And there had been no sign of domesticated food

animals. Was it possible these people existed solely on wood fibers? It was a discouraging

thought.

He had no chance to elaborate on it, for as the car rounded the turn they had come to, they were

confronted by the sight of their first native. The car slowed and settled to the earth with a

faint sigh.

In the nearby field a shortish biped was walking smoothly behind a large brown quadruped. Together

they were engaged in driving a wedge of some bright metal through the soft soil, turning it over

on itself in big loamy chunks. The name of this particular biped happened to be Jones, Alexis. The

name of the quadruped was Dobbin, period.

The two natives apparently caught sight of the visitors. Both paused in their work to stare

solemnly at the outlandish collection of aliens in the groundcar. The aliens, pop-eyed, stared

back. The biped wore some kind of animal-skin shirt. This was partly hidden by some form of

artificial fabric coveralls and boots. Seeing this, it occurred to Phrnnx that they must have some

kind of manufacturing facilities somewhere. The quadruped wore only a harness, again artificial,

which was attached to the metal wedge. It soon grew bored in its survey of the aliens and dropped

its head to crop patiently at the few sparse bits of grass that had so far managed to avoid the

plow.

Commander Rappan's instinctive reaction to this first move was to reach for his pistol. He was

momentarily abashed to find it missing from its customary place in his shell. The Professor had

insisted that contact was to be open and trusting from the first. Consequently, all weapons had

been left back on the ship. The Professor had also looked longingly at the bristling gunports of

the Tpin, but the commander and his advisers had adamantly refused to leave the ship unprotected.

The Professor had patiently explained that if the Terrans were going to be any real help against

the Yops, then the guns of the Tpin would hardly be effective against them. And if they weren't

going to be, then the guns weren't needed. As might be expected, this argument went far over the

heads of the soldiers.

But Rappan still felt naked, somehow.

The native made no threatening gestures. In fact, he made no gestures at all, but instead

continued to stare placidly at the petrified load of explorers. After several minutes of this,

Rappan decided it was time things got moving. Besides, the native's unbroken stare was beginning

to make him feel a bit fidgety, not to mention silly.

"You, philologist! Can you talk to that thing?" Commander Rappan asked.

The philologist, a meter-tall being from a Ko star near Cen-Cluster, essayed a nervous reply. "It

remains to be seen, sir. We have no records of their speech patterns, and there were few

broadcasts to monitor the computers to as we descended." His voice was faintly disapproving. "I am

not even sure which of the two creatures is the dominant form."

"The large one in the lead, certainly," said the xenologist.

"I believe the Terrans are described in the legends, when not as hundred-/oomp-high fire-breathing

monsters, as bipeds," said the Professor quietly. "Although it also has four limbs, two are

obviously manipulative. I suggest that one."

"I shall have to work from next to nothing," protested the philologist.

"I don't care if you do it holding your breath, but get out there and do something! I feel like an

idiot sitting here."

"Yes, sir,"

"Yes, sir—what?"

The philologist decided that this would be an auspicious tune to essay a First Contact. He hurried

out the door. At least, he thought, the native couldn't be much more difficult to communicate with

than the commander. He wished fervently that he was back in the community nest.

Trailing the philologist, the party made its way to the two natives.

"Uh," began the philologist, straining over the guttural syllables, "we come in peace, Terran.

Friends. Buddies. Comrades. Blut-bruderhood. We good-guys. You comprende?"

"Me, Tarzan; you Jane," said the Terran.

The philologist turned worriedly to Rappan. "I'm afraid I can't place his answer, sir. The

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reference is obscure. Shall I try again?"

"Skip it," said the Terran, in fluent, if archaic Galactico. "Ancient humorism. Surprising how old

jokes stand time better than most monuments." He seemed to sigh a little.

"You speak!" blurted the xenologist.

"An unfortunate malady of which I seem incapable of breaking myself. Sic transit gloryoski. Up the

Veen. But come on down to the house. Maria's making some ice cream—I hope you like

chocolate—you're welcome to try it, although I don't think we'd have enough for King Kong, here."

Zinin decided to regard this unfamiliar aphorism as a neutral compliment. There wasn't much else

he could do. He tried to hunch his three-meter bulk lower, gave it up when he realized that he

didn't know whether the promised ice cream was a food, a paint, or a mild corrosive for cleaning

out reluctant teeth.

"We appreciate your hospitality, sir. We've come to discuss a very urgent matter with your

superiors. It involves perhaps more than you can comprehend." Here the Professor peered hard at

the native, who looked back at him with placid assurance. "Although I have a hunch you might have

some idea what I mean."

If the Terran noticed a change in the Professor's glance he gave no sign, but instead smiled

apologetically.

"Ice cream first."

The Terran's residence, when seen from close up, was a utilitarian yet not unbeautiful structure.

It appeared to be made mostly from native woods with a hint of metal only here and there. A small

quadruped was lying on its entrance step. It raised its head to gaze mournfully at the arrivals,

with wise eyes, before returning it to its former position on its forepaws. Had the Professor

known anything about the history of Terran canines, this quiet greeting would have been

interesting indeed.

The building proved to admit more light and air than had seemed probable from .the outside.

Furniture appeared to be mostly of the handmade variety, with here and there an occasional hint of

something machine-turned. Bright colors predominated but did not clash, not that the Terran color

scheme meant anything to the visitors anyway. At least the place was big enough to hold all.

The Jones's mate was a sprightly little dark woman of indeterminate age, much like her husband. A

single male sibling by the name of Flip stared solemnly from a window seat at the grouping of

guests assembled in his parents' den. He had a twig, or stick, which he would sometimes tap on the

floor.

"Now, Alex..." said the woman, fussing with a large wooden ice-cream maker, "you didn't tell me we

were having visitors. How am I supposed to prepare for these things if you don't tell me about

them in advance?"

The native smiled. "Sorry, hon, but these, um, gentlemen, just sort of dropped in on us. I

promised them some ice cream."

"I hope they like chocolate," she said.

When they had been seated around the room, each being curling up according to the style fitting to

its own physiognomy, Commander Rappan decided to break into the cheerful dialogue and get down to

business. Fraternizing with the natives was all very well and good. No doubt the Xeno Department

would approve. However, he was not so sure that his colleagues, hard-pressed to hold oft" the Yop

waves, would see things in the same way.

Unfortunately, this thing called ice cream got quite a grip on one's attention.

Zinin was one of the few present to whom the concoction had pfoved unappealing. He leaned over and

whispered to Phrnnx, "These are the deadly fighters we are supposed to enlist? Conquerors of the

Veen fleets? Stuff of horror tales? Why, they look positively soft! I could crush that male under

one paw. He hardly comes up to my eyes!"

"Few of us do, oh hulking one," replied Phrnnx, adding a gesture indicative of second-degree

ironic humor. "But that is hardly an indication one way or the other. Although I admit they do

seem a bit on the pastoral side."

Zinin snorted.

"What star system are you folks from?' Not all from the same, surelyl"

"Indeed," said the Professor. It occurred to him what had troubled his thoughts ever since they

had met these natives. For a race that had not had extra-planetary contact for umpti-thousand Ipas

they were treating the crew of the Tpin like next-door neighbors who popped over for a visit every

time-period. Even the sibling—where had he disappeared to?—had been fully self-possessed when

confronted by what must be to him utterly strange beings. It was just a touch unnerving. "You

might be interested to know that the Veen have been extinct for some 450,000 of your time-

revolutions."

The biped nodded understandingly. "We guessed as much. When so much time passed and nothing

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happened, one way or the other, friendly or hostile... we assumed that we'd been forgotten and

filed away somewhere."

"Not forgotten," said the Professor. "Legends persist longer than their creators, sometimes. There

was a period of... confusion... at the end of the Veen-Terran wars." Was that a twitch of reaction

in the native's face? Yes? No? "When the bureaucracy set up by the Veen was submerged by a wave of

would-be empire-builders, interstellar government pretty well collapsed. It took a while for

things to straighten themselves out. Which is why we have not contacted you till now." Could he

read the lie? "Another problem has arisen."

The biped sighed again. "I was afraid this mightn't be a social call. What is your problem,

Professor?"

Backed at certain intervals by succinct comments from Rappan, he began to outline the present

desperate situation with respect to the Yops, ending with a plea to forget any past differences

and come to the aid of the Federation.

The Terran had listened quietly to their arguments, unmoving. Now he sat in an attitude of intense

concentration, seeming to listen to voices and thoughts outside their ken. When he at last raised

his face to them again he wore a serious smile.

"I must, of course, consult with and deliver your message to my... 'superiors.' Such a decision

would be difficult for us to make. As you can see for yourselves"—he made an all-encompassing

gesture—"we have changed our mode of existence somewhat since we fought the Veen. We are no longer

geared to the production of war materiel. Incidentally, we bold no grudge against any of you. I

have no idea if my ancestors and yours ever met, let alone battled with one another. We never even

really held animosity toward the Veen. In fact, I'd give a lot to know exactly why they went to

war with us in the first place."

Phrnnx had heard the Professor's explanation and looked expectantly in his direction, but that

worthy remained silent.

"Of course," continued the Terran after a while, "as a gesture of your goodwill we would naturally

expect you to lower the Shield. Despite a hell of a lot of scribbling and figuring, that's one

thing we could never quite do."

"Of course," said Rappan determinedly.

The biped stood. "It will take me a while to convey your message to my superiors. In the meantime,

do feel free to enjoy the countryside and my poor home." He turned and walked into another room.

The female eyed them speculatively,

"I don't suppose any of you gentlemen play bridge?"

Phrnnx was wandering through the nearby forest, following the path made by a cheerful stream. He

had quickly grown bored with studying the simple native household, and, unlike the Professor or

Commander Rappan, the intricacies of Terran "bridge" were a touch more intellectual a pastime than

he wished for. The two scientists had found plenty to keep them occupied profitably, but after

reporting to the ship their accumulated data and the word that things seemed to be progressing

satisfactorily, there had remained little for a communicator to do.

The dense undergrowth led away from the house at a right angle. With the sense of direction his

kind possessed he was not afraid of getting lost, and the damp coolness of the place was the

closest thing he'd found to the rain forests of home. It was full of interesting sounds and new

smells. The native female had assured Hm that no dangerous creatures lurked within its inviting

shadows. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Orinthorphs and small invertebrates—"insects," they

were called—flitted rapidly from growth to growth. He could have snatched them easily in midair

with his long suckers, but was mindful of strange foods despite the Professor's assurance that the

native organics were edible. Besides, he was not hungry. He strode on in high spirits.

The hike was about to come to an unpleasant end.

The trees appeared to cease abruptly ofi to one side. Espying what seemed to be a glint of

sunlight on water, he turned in that direction. His supposition was correct. In front of him was a

large clearing which bordered on a good-sized lake. In the foreground stood the diminutive figure

of Flip, the native's offspring. He was gazing at a pair of massive, glowering figures in space

armor. These did not fit into the picture.

Yops!

Phrnnx stood paralyzed with shock. The Yop battleship that he thought they had lost near that red

dwarf sat half-in, half-out of the blue-green lake. He assumed it was the same one. Its gunports

were wide open. Troops were clustering around a landing portal on one side of the kilometer-and-a-

half-Iong monster. Dirt had been gouged out on all sides by the sheer mass of the huge vessel.

These two figures in the foreground were doubtlessly scouts.

How in the central chaos had they slipped in past the cruiser's screens? Unless they, too, had

found a way to negate the Shield—and this seemed unlikely— then they must have entered by way of

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the temporary hole made by the Tpin. A quick glance at the sky showed the now familiar gold tinge

still strong. So they hadn't destroyed the generating equipment on the planet's satellite, then.

Yop invisibility screens were known to be good, but this good?... His speculations were

interrupted by what happened next.

The nearest Yop reached down and lifted the Rip in one massive, knobby claw. It held it like that,

steady, while it examined the youngster along with its partner. The boy, in turn, appeared to be

examining them with its wide, deep-gray eyes. Both were making the motions and gestures which

Phrnnx knew indicated Yop laughter.

What followed occurred so rapidly that Phmnx, afterward, had difficulty in reconstructing the

incident.

The Yop raised the youngster over its horned head and swung it toward the ground with every

intention of smashing the child's brains out. But the boy abruptly slowed in midair, turned, and

landed gently on its feet. The Yop was staring at its now empty hand in surprise. The expression

of placid innocence, which had heretofore been the child's sole visage, shifted all at once into a

strong frown that was somehow more terrifying than any contortion of rage could have been. It

said, in a very unchildlike tone of voice, two words:

"Bad mans!"

And gestured with the twig.

The two Yops glowed briefly an intolerable silver-white, shading to blue. It was the color of

nova—a chrome nova. The two scouts "popped" loudly, once, and disappeared. In their places two

clouds of fine gray ash sifted slowly to the ground. The boy pointed his stick at the multiton Yop

warship. "More bad mans," he said. The ship abruptly glowed with the same intolerable radiance. It

"popped" with a considerably louder and much more satisfying bang. The boy then turned and went

over to the brook. He began slowly stirring the water with his stick.

Phrnnx found he could breathe again. The feathers on his 'back, however, did not lie down. All

that remained of the invincible Yop battlewagon was the faint smell of ozone and a very large pile

of fine multicolored ash. This was patiently being removed by a small breeze.

The boy suddenly looked up, turned, and stared straight at where Phrnnx was crouching behind the

bole of a large pine. He started to stroll over.

Phrnnx ran. He ran hard, fast, and unthinkingly. He was not sure what a "bad mans" was, but he had

no wish to be included in that category—none whatsoever. No sirree. He ran in a blind panic with

all four legs and a great sorrow that his ancestors had traded their wings for intelligence.

Ahead, a dark, cavelike depression appeared in the ground. Without breaking stride, he

instinctively threw himself into the protective opening.

And into the closet of the world.

Phrnnx awoke with the equivalent of a throbbing headache. He almost panicked again when he

remembered that last moment before blacking out. A touch of the hard, unresisting metal underneath

reassured and calmed him. He had thrown himself in a cave— only it hadn't been a cave. It had been

a hole. A hole filled with machinery. Yes, that's right! He remembered falling past

machinery—levels and levels and levels of it. He did not know it, but he had fallen only a mile

before the first of the automatic safety devices had analyzed his alien body chemistry, pronounced

him organic, alive, and reasonably worth saving, and brought him to a comfortable resting place at

the fifty-third level.

He staggered to his feet, becoming aware of a faint susurration around him. Warm air, and the

faint sounds of the almost silent machines. A slow look around confirmed the evidence of his other

senses... and he almost wished it hadn't. Machines. Machine upon machine. Massive and unnoticing,

they throbbed with life and power all around him. He could not see the end of the broad aisle he

stood on. He turned and staggered over to the edge of the shaft he had obviously fallen into,

following the current of fresh air.

A quick look over the side made him draw back involuntarily. His race was not subject to vertigo,

but there are situations and occasions where the reality transcends the experience. There is too

much relativity in a cavern, even an artificial one.

Above stretched over a mile of levels, seemingly much like this one. Very faintly and far away he

could just make out the tiny circle of light that marked the surface and his entranceway to this

frighteningly silent metal world.

He could not see the bottom.

He found himself giggling. Oh yes, pastoral indeed! Quite. Not prepared to turn out war materiel.

Certainly not. No capability whatsoever. No cities, remember? Handmade furniture. Quaint way to

live. Didn't say by what kind of hands, though. Poor, degenerated natives! Cannon fodder, he'd

seen it in Commander Rappan's eyes.

But the commander hadn't peeked in the basement.

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