The Early Asimov. Volume 2, Page 3

  The Rigellian emitted a short bark of laughter. 'Invent a better, then. So far, it's done a good job of handling reactions, hasn't it?'

  There was an unmusical chorus of throat-clearings but no definite answer.

  'Hasn't it?' thundered Porus.

  'Well, what if it has,' returned Kim Winson, desperately. 'Where's your panic? All this is well and good. These Human-oids are cosmic freaks, but where's the big show you were going to put on? Until you break Kraut's Law, this entire exhibition of yours isn't worth a pinhead meteor.'

  'You're beaten, gentlemen, you're beaten,' crowed the small master psychologist. 'I've proven my point - this passive panic is as impossible according to classic psychology as the active form. You're trying to deny facts and save face now, by harping on a technicality. Go home; go home, gentlemen, and hide under the bed.'

  Psychologists are only human. They can analyze the motives that drive them, but they are the slave of those motives just as much as the commonest mortal of all. These galaxy-famous psychologists writhed under the lash of wounded pride and shattered vanity, and their blind stubbornness was the mechanical reaction due therefrom. They knew it was and they knew Porus knew it was - and that made it all the harder.

  Inar Tubal stared angrily from red-rimmed eyes. 'Active panic or nothing, Tan Porus. That's what you promised, and that's what we'll have. We want the letter of the bond or, by space and time, we'll balk at any technicality. Active panic or we report failure!'

  Porus swelled ominously and, with a tremendous effort, spoke quietly. 'Be reasonable, gentlemen. We haven't the equipment to handle active panic. We've never come up against this superf orm they have here on Earth. What if it gets beyond control?' He shook his head violently.

  'Isolate it, then,' snarled Semper Gor. 'Start it up and put it out. Make all the preparations you want, but do it!'

  'If you can,' grunted Hybron Prat.

  But Tan Porus had his weak point. His brittle temper lay in splintered shards about him. His agile tongue blistered the atmosphere and inundated the sullen psychologist with wave after wave of concentrated profanity.

  'Have your way, vacuumheads! Have your way and to outer space with you!' He was breathless with passion. 'We'll set it off right here in Terrapolis as soon as all the men are back home. Only you'd all better get from under!' And with one last parting snarl, he stalked from the room.

  Tan Porus parted the curtains with a sweep of his hand, and the five psychologists facing him averted their eyes. The streets of Earth's capital were deserted, of civilian population. The ordered tramp of the military patrolling the highways of the city sounded like a dirge. The wintry sky hung low over the scene of strewn bodies - and silence; the silence that follows an orgy of wild destruction.

  'It was touch and go for a few hours there, colleagues.' Porus' voice was tired. 'If it had passed the city limits, we could never have stopped it.'

  'Horrible, horrible!' muttered Hybron Prat. 'It was a scene a psychologist would have given his right arm to witness - and his life to forget.'

  'And these are Humanoids!' groaned Kim Winson.

  Semper Gor rose to his feet in sudden decision. 'Do you see the significance of this, Porus? These Earthmen are sheer uncontrolled atomite. They can't be handled. Were they twice the technological geniuses they are, they would be useless. With their mob psychology, their mass panics, their superemotional-ism, they simply won't fit into the Humanoid picture.'

  Porus raised an eyebrow. 'Comet gas! Individually, we are as emotional as they are. They carry it into mass action and we don't; that's the only difference.'

  'And that's enough!' exclaimed Tubal. 'We've made our decision, Porus. We made it last night, at the height of the… the… of it. The Solar System is to be left to itself. It is a plague spot and we want none of it. As far as the Galaxy is concerned, Homo Sol will be placed in strict quarantine. That is final!'

  The Rigellian laughed softly. 'For the Galaxy, it may be final. But for Homo Sol?'

  Tubal shrugged. 'They don't concern us.'

  Porus laughed again. 'Say, Tubal. Just between the two of us, have you tried a time integration of Equation 128 followed by expansion with Karolean tensors?'

  'No-o. I can't say I have.'

  'Well, then, just glance up and down these calculations and enjoy yourself.'

  The five scientists of the board grouped themselves about the sheets of paper Porus had handed them. Expressions changed from interest to bewilderment and then to something approaching panic.

  Naru Helvin tore the sheets across with a spasmodic movement. 'It's a lie,' he screeched.

  'We're a thousand years ahead of them now, and by that time we'll be advanced another two hundred years!' Tubal snapped. 'They won't be able to do anything against the mass of the Galaxy's people.'

  Tan Porus laughed in a monotone, which is hard to do, but very unpleasant to hear. 'You still don't believe mathematics. That's in your behaviour pattern, of course. All right, let's see if experts convince you - as they should, unless contact with these off-normal Humanoids has twisted you. Joselin - Joselin Arn - come in here!'

  The Centaurian commander came in, saluted automatically, and looked expectant.

  'Can one of your ships defeat one of the Sol ships in battle, if necessary?'

  Arn grinned sourly. 'Not a chance, sir. These Humanoids break Kraut's Law in panic - and also in fighting. We have a corps of experts manning our ships; these people have a single crew that functions as a unit, without individuality. They manifest a form of fighting - panic, I imagine, is the best word. Every individual on a ship becomes an organ of the ship. With us, as you know, that's impossible.

  'Furthermore, this world's a mass of mad geniuses. They have, to my certain knowledge, taken no less than twenty-two interesting but useless gadgets they saw in the Thalsoon Museum when they visited us, turned 'em inside out and produced from them some of the most unpleasant military devices I've seen. You know of Julmun Thill's gravitational line tracer? Used - rather ineffectively - for spotting ore deposits before the modern electric potential method came in?

  "They've turned it - somehow - into one of the deadliest automatic fire directors it's been my displeasure to see. It will automatically lay a gun or projector on a completely invisible target in space, air, water or rock, for that matter.'

  'We,' said Tan Porus, gleefully, 'have far greater fleets than they. We could overwhelm them, could we not?' Joselin Arn shook his head. 'Defeat them now - probably. It wouldn't be overwhelming, though, and I wouldn't bet on it too heavily. Certainly wouldn't invite it. The trouble is, in a military way, this collection of gadget maniacs invent things at a horrible rate. Technologically, they're as unstable as a wave in water; our civilization is more like a sanddune. I've seen their ground-car plants install a complete plant of machine tools for production of a new model of automobile - and rip it out in six months because it's completely obsolete!

  'Now we've come in contact with their civilization briefly. We've learned the methods of one new civilization to add to our previous two hundred and eighty-odd - a small percentage advantage. They've added one new civilization to their previous one - a one-hundred-percent advance!'

  'How about,' Porus asked gently, 'our military position if we simply ignore them completely for two hundred years?'

  Joselin Arn gave an explosive little laugh. 'If we could -which means if they'd let us - I'd answer offhand and with assurance. They're all I'd care to tackle right now. Two hundred years of exploring the new tracks suggested by their brief contact with us and they'd be doing things I can't imagine. Wait two hundred years and there won't be a battle; there'll be an annexation.'

  Tan Porus bowed formally. Thank you, Joselin Am. That Was the result of my mathematical work.'

  Joselin Arn saluted and left the room.

  Turning to the five thoroughly paralyzed scientists, Porus went on: 'And I hope these learned gentlemen still react in a vaguely Humanoid way. Are you convinced that it is n
ot up to us to decide to end all intercourse with this race? We may -but they won't!

  'Fools' - he spat out the word - 'do you think I'm going to waste time arguing with you? I'm laying down the law, do you understand? Homo Sol shall enter the Federation. They are going to be trained into maturity in two hundred years. And I'm not asking you; I'm telling you!' The Rigellian stared up at them truculently.

  'Come with me!' he growled brusquely.

  They followed in tame submission and entered Tan Porus' sleeping quarters. The little psychologist drew aside a curtain and revealed a life-size painting.

  'Make anything of that?'

  It was the portrait of an Earthman, but of such an Earthman as none of the psychologists had yet seen. Dignified and sternly handsome, with one hand stroking a regal beard, and the other holding the single flowing garment that clothed him, he seemed personified majesty.

  'That's Zeus,' said Poms. 'The primitive Earthmen created him as the personification of storm and lightning.' He whirled upon the bewildered five. 'Does it remind you of anybody?'

  'Homo Canopus?' ventured Helvin uncertainly.

  For a moment, Porus' face relaxed in momentary gratification and then it hardened again. 'Of course,' he snapped. 'Why do you hesitate about it? That's Canopus to the life, down to the full yellow beard.'

  Then: 'Here's something else.' He drew another curtain.

  The portrait was of a female, this time. Full-bosomed and wide-hipped she was. An ineffable smile graced her face and her hands seemed to caress the stalks of grain that sprang thickly about her feet.

  'Demeter!' said Porus. 'The personification of agricultural fertility. The idealized mother. Whom does that remind you of?'

  There was no hesitation this time. Five voices rang out as one: 'Homo Betelgeuse!'

  Tan Porus smiled in delight. 'There you have it. Well?'

  'Well?'said Tubal.

  'Don't you see?' The smile faded. 'Isn't it clear? Nitwit! If a hundred Zeuses and a hundred Demeters were to land on Earth as part of a "trade mission," and turned out to be trained psychologists - Now do you see?'

  Semper Gor laughed suddenly. 'Space, time and little meteors. Of course! The Earthmen would be putty in the hands of their own personifications of storm and motherhood come to life. In two hundred years - why, in two hundred years, we could do anything.'

  'But this so-called trade mission of yours, Porus,' interposed Prat. 'How would you get Homo Sol to accept it in the first place?'

  Porus cocked his head to one side. 'Dear Colleague Prat,' he murmured, 'do you suppose that I created the passive panic just for the show - or just to gratify five woodenheads? This passive panic paralyzed industry, and the Terrestrial government is faced with revolution - another form of mob action that could use investigation. Offer them Galactic trade and eternal prosperity and do you think they'd jump at it? Has matter mass?'

  The Rigellian cut short the excited babble that followed with an impatient gesture. 'If you've nothing more to ask, gentlemen, let's begin our preparations to leave. Frankly, I'm tired of Earth, and, more than that, I'm blasted anxious to get back to that squid of mine.'

  He opened the door and shouted down the corridor: 'Hey, Haridin! Tell Arn to have the ship ready in six hours. We're leaving.'

  'But… but -' The chorus of puzzled objections crystallized into sudden action as Semper Gor dashed at Porus and snatched him back as he was on the point of leaving. The little Rigellian struggled vainly in the other's powerful grasp.

  'Let go!'

  'We've endured enough, Porus,' said Gor, 'and now you'll just calm down and behave like a Humanoid. Whatever you say, we're not leaving until we're finished. We've got to arrange with the Terrestrial government concerning the trade mission. We've got to secure approval of the board. We've got to pick our psychologist. We've got to -'

  Here Porus, with a sudden jerk, freed himself. 'Do you suppose for one moment that I would wait for your precious board to start to begin to commence to consider doing something about the situation in two or three decades?

  'Earth agreed to my terms unconditionally a month ago. The squad of Canopans and Betelgeusans set sail five months ago, and landed day before yesterday. It was only with their help that we managed to stop yesterday's panic - though you never suspected it. You probably thought you did it yourself. Today, gentlemen, they have the situation in full control and your services are no longer needed. We're going home.'

  ***

  'Homo Sol' has a plot of a sort that particularly appealed to Campbell. Although the human beings in the story are far be-hind the other intelligences of the Galaxy, it is clear that there is something special about them, that they have an unusual ability to move ahead very quickly, and that everyone else had better watch out for them.

  Campbell liked stories in which human beings proved themselves superior to other intelligences, even when those others were further advanced technologically. It pleased him to have human beings shown to possess a unique spirit of daring, or a sense of humor, or a ruthless ability to kill when necessary, that always brought them victory over other intelligences, even against odds.

  I sometimes got the uncomfortable notion, however, that this attitude reflected Campbell 's feelings on the smaller, Earth scale. He seemed to me to accept the natural superiority of Americans over non-Americans, and he seemed automatically to assume the picture of an American as one who was of northwest European origin.

  I cannot say that Campbell was racist in any evil sense of the term. I cannot recall any act of his that could be construed as unkind, and certainly he never, not once, made me feel uncomfortable over the fact that I was Jewish. Nevertheless, he did seem to take for granted, somehow, the stereotype of the Nordic white as the true representative of Man the Explorer, Man the Darer, Man the Victor.

  I argued with him strenuously on the subject, or as violently as I dared, and in years to come our relationship was to be as nearly strained as it could be (considering our mutual affection, and all that I owed him) over the civil rights issue. I was on the liberal side of the issue, he on the conservative, and our minds never met on that subject.

  All this had an important bearing on my science fiction work. I did not like Campbell 's attitude concerning humanity vis-a-vis other intelligences and it took two revisions of 'Homo Sol' before Campbell could move me close enough to what he wanted. Even then, he inserted several paragraphs, here and there, without consulting me, in the final version.

  I tried to avoid such a situation in future. One way out was to depart from the traditions of those writers who wove plots against the gigantic web of entire galaxies containing many intelligences - notably those of E. E. Smith and of Campbell himself. Instead, I began to think of stories involving a galaxy populated by human intelligences only.

  This came to fruit, soon enough, in the 'Foundation' series. Undoubtedly the Smith-Campbell view makes more sense. It is almost certain that among the hundreds of billions of worlds in a large galaxy there ought to be hundreds or even thousands of different intelligent species. That there should be only one, ourselves, as I postulated, is most unlikely.

  Some science fiction critics (notably Sam Moskowitz) have given me credit for inventing the human-only galaxy, as though it were some kind of literary advance. Others may have thought privately (I have never heard it stated openly) that I had only human intelligences in my galaxy because I lacked the imagination to think up extraterrestrials.

  But the fact is that I was only trying to avoid a collision with Campbell's views; I did not want to set up a situation in which I would be forced to face the alternatives of adopting Campbell's views when I found them repugnant and failing to sell a story (which I also found repugnant).

  On March 25, 1940, the day I put through my final submission of 'Homo Sol,' I went on to visit Fred Pohl at his office. He told me that the response to 'Half-Breed' had been such that he felt justified in asking for a sequel. It was the first time I had ever been requested to write a spe
cific story with acceptance virtually guaranteed in advance.

  I spent April and May working on the sequel, 'Half-Breeds on Venus,' and submitted it to Pohl on June 3. On June 14, he accepted it The story was ten thousand words long, the longest I had ever sold up to that time. What's more, Pohl's magazines were doing so well that his budget had been increased and he was able to pay me five eighths of a cent a word for it -$62.50.

  It appeared in the issue of Astonishing that reached the stands on October 24, 1940, two years almost to a day since my first sale. This was a red-letter day for me, too, since it was the first time that the cover painting on a magazine was ever taken from one of my stories. I had 'made the cover.'

  The title of the story and my name were on the cover in bold letters. It was a flattering indication that my name could be counted on to sell magazines by this time.

  Half-Breeds on Venus [2]

  The damp, somnolent atmosphere stirred violently and shrieked aside. The bare plateau shook three times as the heavy egg-shaped projectiles shot down from outer space. The sound of the landing reverberated from the mountains on one side to the lush forest on the other, and then all was silent again.

  One by one, three doors clanged open, and human figures stepped out in hesitant single file. First slowly, and then with impatient turbulence, they set first foot upon the new world, until the space surrounding the ships was crowded.

  A thousand pairs of eyes gazed upon the prospect and a thousand mouths chattered excitedly. And in the other-world wind, a thousand crests of foot-high white hair swayed gracefully.

  The Tweenies had landed on Venus!

  Max Scanlon sighed wearily, 'Here we are!'

  He turned from the porthole and slumped into his own special arm-chair. 'They're as happy as children - and I don't blame them. We've got a new world - one all for ourselves -and that's a great thing. But just the same, there are hard days ahead of us. I am almost afraid! It is a project so lightly embarked upon, but one so hard to carry out to completion.'