Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley Read online

  “God above,” Gilrig, an intermediate-age male gasped.

  “We should kill them and put them out of their misery!” Other men seemed to feel the same way, and the villagers flowed forward.

  “Wait!” one of the youngsters shouted. “Let’s communicate with them, if such is possible. They might still be moral beings. The Outside is wide, remember, and anything is possible.”

  Cordovir argued for immediate extermination, but the villagers stopped and discussed it among themselves. Hum, with characteristic bravado, flowed up to the thing on the ground.

  “Hello,” Hum said.

  The thing said something.

  “I can’t understand it,” Hum said, and started to crawl back. The creature waved its jointed tentacles—if they were tentacles—and motioned at one of the suns. He made a sound.

  “Yes, it is warm, isn’t it?” Hum said cheerfully.

  The creature pointed at the ground, and made another sound.

  “We haven’t had especially good crops this year,” Hum said conversationally.

  The creature pointed at itself and made a sound.

  “I agree,” Hum said. “You’re as ugly as sin.”

  Presently the villagers grew hungry and crawled back to the village. Hum stayed and listened to the things making noises at him, and Cordovir waited nervously for Hum.

  “You know,” Hum said, after he rejoined Cordovir, “I think they want to learn our language. Or want me to learn theirs.”

  “Don’t do it,” Cordovir said, glimpsing the misty edge of a great evil.

  “I believe I will,” Hum murmured. Together they climbed the cliffs back to the village.

  That afternoon Cordovir went to the surplus female pen and formally asked a young woman if she would reign in his house for twenty-five days. Naturally, the woman accepted gratefully.

  On the way home, Cordovir met Hum, going to the pen.

  “Just killed my wife,” Hum said, superfluously, since why else would he be going to the surplus female stock?

  “Are you going back to the creatures tomorrow?” Cordovir asked.

  “I might,” Hum answered, “if nothing new presents itself.”

  “The thing to find out is if they are moral beings or monsters.”

  “Right,” Hum said, and slithered on.

  There was a Gathering that evening, after supper. All the villagers agreed that the things were nonhuman. Cordovir argued strenuously that their very appearance belied any possibility of humanity. Nothing so hideous could have moral standards, a sense of right and wrong, and above all, a notion of truth.

  The young men didn’t agree, probably because there had been a dearth of new things recently. They pointed out that the metal object was obviously a product of intelligence. Intelligence axiomatically means standards of differentiation. Differentiation implies right and wrong.

  It was a delicious argument. Olgolel contradicted Arast and was killed by him. Mavrt, in an unusual fit of anger for so placid an individual, killed the three Holian brothers and was himself killed by Hum, who was feeling pettish. Even the surplus females could be heard arguing about it, in their pen in a corner of the village.

  Weary and happy, the villagers went to sleep.

  The next few weeks saw no end of the argument. Life went on much as usual, though. The women went out in the morning, gathered food, prepared it, and laid eggs. The eggs were taken to the surplus females to be hatched. As usual, about eight females were hatched to every male. On the twenty-fifth day of each marriage, or a little earlier, each man killed his woman and took another.

  The males went down to the ship to listen to Hum learning the language; then, when that grew boring, they returned to their customary wandering through hills and forests, looking for new things.

  The alien monsters stayed close to their ship, coming out only when Hum was there.

  Twenty-four days after the arrival of the nonhumans, Hum announced that he could communicate with them, after a fashion.

  “They say they come from far away,” Hum told the village that evening. “They say that they are bisexual, like us, and that they are humans, like us. They say there are reasons for their different appearance, but I couldn’t understand that part of it.”

  “If we accept them as humans,” Mishill said, “then everything they say is true.”

  The rest of the villagers shook in agreement.

  “They say that they don’t want to disturb our life, but would be very interested in observing it. They want to come to the village and look around.”

  “I see no reason why not,” one of the younger men said.

  “No!” Cordovir shouted. “You are letting in evil. These monsters are insidious. I believe that they are capable of—telling an untruth!” The other elders agreed, but when pressed, Cordovir had no proof to back up this vicious accusation.

  “After all,” Sil pointed out, “just because they look like monsters, you can’t take it for granted that they think like monsters as well.”

  “I can,” Cordovir said, but he was outvoted.

  Hum went on. “They have offered me—or us, I’m not sure which, various metal objects which they say will do various things. I ignored this breach of etiquette, since I considered they didn’t know any better.”

  Cordovir nodded. The youngster was growing up. He was showing, at long last, that he had some manners. “They want to come to the village tomorrow.”

  “No!” Cordovir shouted, but the vote was against him.

  “Oh, by the way,” Hum said, as the meeting was breaking up. “They have several females among them. The ones with the very red mouths are females. It will be interesting to see how the males kill them. Tomorrow is the twenty-fifth day since they came.”

  The next day the things came to the village, crawling slowly and laboriously over the cliffs. The villagers were able to observe the extreme brittleness of their limbs, the terrible awkwardness of their motions.

  “No beauty whatsoever,” Cordovir muttered. “And they all look alike.”

  In the village the things acted without any decency. They crawled into huts and out of huts. They jabbered at the surplus female pen. They picked up eggs and examined them. They peered at the villagers through black things and shiny things.

  In midafternoon, Rantan, an elder, decided it was about time he killed his woman. So he pushed the thing who was examining his hut aside and smashed his female to death.

  Instantly, two of the things started jabbering at each other, hurrying out of the hut.

  One had the red mouth of a female.

  “He must have remembered it was time to kill his own woman,” Hum observed. The villagers waited, but nothing happened.

  “Perhaps,” Rantan said, “perhaps he would like someone to kill her for him. It might be the custom of their land.”

  Without further ado Rantan slashed down the female with his tail.

  The male creature made a terrible noise and pointed a metal stick at Rantan. Rantan collapsed, dead.

  “That’s odd,” Mishill said. “I wonder if that denotes disapproval?”

  The things from the metal object—eight of them—were in a tight little circle. One was holding the dead female, and the rest were pointing the metal sticks on all sides. Hum went up and asked them what was wrong.

  “I don’t understand,” Hum said, after he spoke with them. “They used words I haven’t learned. But I gather that their emotion is one of reproach.”

  The monsters were backing away. Another villager, deciding it was about time, killed his wife who was standing in a doorway. The group of monsters stopped and jabbered at each other. Then they motioned to Hum.

  Hum’s body motion was incredulous after he had talked with them.

  “If I understood right,” Hum said, “They are ordering us not to kill any more of our women!”

  “What!” Cordovir and a dozen others shouted.

  “I’ll ask them again.” Hum went back into conference with the mons
ters who were waving metal sticks in their tentacles.

  “That’s right,” Hum said. Without further preamble he flipped his tail, throwing one of the monsters across the village square. Immediately the others began to point their sticks while retreating rapidly.

  After they were gone, the villagers found that seventeen males were dead. Hum, for some reason, had been missed.

  “Now will you believe me!” Cordovir shouted. “The creatures told a deliberate untruth! They said they wouldn’t molest us and then they proceed to kill seventeen of us! Not only an amoral act—but a concerted death effort!”

  It was almost past human understanding.

  “A deliberate untruth!” Cordovir shouted the blasphemy, sick with loathing. Men rarely discussed the possibility of anyone telling an untruth.

  The villagers were beside themselves with anger and revulsion, once they realized the full concept of an untruthful creature. And, added to that was the monsters’ concerted death effort!

  It was like the most horrible nightmare come true. Suddenly it became apparent that these creatures didn’t kill females. Undoubtedly they allowed them to spawn unhampered. The thought of that was enough to make a strong man retch.

  The surplus females broke out of their pens and, joined by the wives, demanded to know what was happening. When they were told, they were twice as indignant as the men, such being the nature of women.

  “Kill them!” the surplus females roared. “Don’t let them change our ways. Don’t let them introduce immorality!”

  “It’s true,” Hum said sadly. “I should have guessed it.”

  “’They must be killed at once!” a female shouted. Being surplus, she had no name at present, but she made up for that in blazing personality.

  “We women desire only to live moral, decent lives, hatching eggs in the pen until our time of marriage comes. And then twenty-five ecstatic days! How could we desire more? These monsters will destroy our way of life. They will make us as terrible as they!”

  “Now do you understand?” Cordovir screamed at the men. “I warned you, I presented it to you, and you ignored me! Young men must listen to old men in time of crisis!” In his rage he killed two youngsters with a blow of his tail. The villagers applauded.

  “Drive them out,” Cordovir shouted. “Before they corrupt us!”

  All the females rushed off to kill the monsters.

  “They have death-sticks,” Hum observed. “Do the females know?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Cordovir said. He was completely calm now. “You’d better go and tell them.”

  “I’m tired,” Hum said sulkily. “I’ve been translating. Why don’t you go?”

  “Oh, let’s both go,” Cordovir said, bored with the youngster’s adolescent moodiness. Accompanied by half the villagers they hurried off after the females.

  They overtook them on the edge of the cliff that overlooked the object. Hum explained the death-sticks while Cordovir considered the problem.

  “Roll stones on them,” he told the females. “Perhaps you can break the metal of the object.”

  The females started rolling stones down the cliffs with great energy. Some bounced off the metal of the object. Immediately, lines of red fire came from the object and females were killed. The ground shook.

  “Let’s move back,” Cordovir said. “The females have it well in hand, and this shaky ground makes me giddy.”

  Together with the rest of the males they moved to a safe distance and watched the action.

  Women were dying right and left, but they were reinforced by women of other villages who had heard of the menace. They were fighting for their homes now, their rights, and they were fiercer than a man could ever be. The object was throwing fire all over the cliff, but the fire helped dislodge more stones which rained down on the thing. Finally, big fires came out of one end of the metal object.

  A landslide started, and the object got into the air just in time. It barely missed a mountain; then it climbed steadily, until it was a little black speck against the larger sun. And then it was gone.

  That evening, it was discovered that fifty-three females had been killed. This was fortunate since it helped keep down the surplus female population. The problem would become even more acute now, since seventeen males were gone in a single lump.

  Cordovir was feeling exceedingly proud of himself. His wife had been gloriously killed in the fighting, but he took another at once.

  “We had better kill our wives sooner than every twenty-five days for a while,” he said at the evening Gathering. Just until things get back to normal.”

  The surviving females, back in the pen, heard him and applauded wildly.

  “I wonder where the things have gone,” Hum said, offering the question to the Gathering.

  “Probably away to enslave some defenseless race,” Cordovir said.

  “Not necessarily,” Mishill put in, and the evening argument was on.

  SEVENTH VICTIM

  STANTON Frelaine sat at his desk, trying to look as busy as an executive should at nine-thirty in the morning. It was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the advertisement he had written the previous night, couldn’t think about business. All he could do was wait until the mail came.

  He had been expecting his notification for two weeks now. The government was behind schedule, as usual.

  The glass door of his office was marked Morger and Frelaine, Clothiers. It opened, and E.J. Morger walked in, limping slightly from his old gunshot wound. His shoulders were bent; but at the age of seventy-three, he wasn’t worrying much about his posture.

  “Well, Stan?” Morger asked. “What about that ad?”

  Frelaine had joined Morger sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Together they had built Protec-Clothes into a million-dollar concern.

  “I suppose you can run it,” Frelaine said, handing the slip of paper to Morger. If only the mail would come earlier, he thought.

  “‘Do you own a Protec-Suit?’” Morger read aloud, holding the paper close to his eyes. “‘The finest tailoring in the world has gone into Morger and Frelaine’s Protec-Suit, to make it the leader in men’s fashions.’”

  Morger cleared his throat and glanced at Frelaine. He smiled and read on.

  “‘Protec-Suit is the safest as well as the smartest. Every Protec-Suit comes with special built-in gun pocket, guaranteed not to bulge. No one will know you are carrying a gun—except you. The gun pocket is exceptionally easy to get at, permitting fast, unhindered draw. Choice of hip or breast pocket.’ Very nice,” Morger commented.

  Frelaine nodded morosely.

  “‘The Protec-Suit Special has the fling-out gun pocket, the greatest modern advance in personal protection. A touch of the concealed button throws the gun into your hand, cocked, safeties off. Why not drop into the Protec-Store nearest you? Why not be safe?’

  “That’s fine,” Morger said. “That’s a very nice, dignified ad.” He thought for a moment, fingering his white mustache. “Shouldn’t you mention that Protec-Suits come in a variety of styles, single and double-breasted, one and two button rolls, deep and shallow flares?”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  Frelaine took back the sheet and jotted a note on the edge of it. Then he stood up, smoothing his jacket over his prominent stomach. Frelaine was forty-three, a little overweight, a little bald on top. He was an amiable looking man with cold eyes.

  “Relax,” Morger said. “It’ll come in today’s mail.”

  Frelaine forced himself to smile. He felt like pacing the floor, but instead sat on the edge of the desk.

  “You’d think it was my first kill,” he said, with a deprecating smile.

  “I know how it is,” Morger said. “Before I hung up my gun, I couldn’t sleep for a month, waiting for a notification. I know.”

  The two men waited. Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, the door opened. A clerk walked in and deposited the mail on Frelaine’s desk.

  Frelaine s
wung around and gathered up the letters. He thumbed through them rapidly and found what he had been waiting for—the long white envelope from ECB, with the official government seal on it.

  “That’s it!” Frelaine said, and broke into a grin. “That’s the baby!”

  “Fine.” Morger eyed the envelope with interest, but didn’t ask Frelaine to open it. It would be a breach of etiquette, as well as a violation in the eyes of the law. No one was supposed to know a Victim’s name except his Hunter. “Have a good hunt.”

  “I expect to,” Frelaine replied confidently. His desk was in order—had been for a week. He picked up his briefcase.

  “A good kill will do you a world of good,” Morger said, put- ting his hand lightly on Frelaine’s padded shoulder. “You’ve been keyed up.”

  “I know,” Frelaine grinned again and shook Morger’s hand.

  “Wish I was a kid again,” Morger said, glancing down at his crippled leg with wryly humorous eyes. “Makes me want to pick up a gun again.”

  The old man had been quite a Hunter in his day. Ten successful hunts had qualified him for the exclusive Tens Club. And, of course, for each hunt Morger had had to act as Victim, so he had twenty kills to his credit.

  “I sure hope my Victim isn’t anyone like you,” Frelaine said, half in jest.

  “Don’t worry about it. What number will this be?”

  “The seventh.”

  “Lucky seven. Go to it,” Morger said. “We’ll get you into the Tens yet.”

  Frelaine waved his hand and started out the door.

  “Just don’t get careless,” warned Morger. “All it takes is a single slip and I’ll need a new partner. If you don’t mind, I like the one I’ve got now.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Frelaine promised.

  Instead of taking a bus, Frelaine walked to his apartment. He wanted time to cool off. There was no sense in acting like a kid on his first kill.

  As he walked, Frelaine kept his eyes strictly to the front. Staring at anyone was practically asking for a bullet, if the man happened to be serving as Victim. Some Victims shot if you just glanced at them. Nervous fellows. Frelaine prudently looked above the heads of the people he passed.