The Undecided

  Astounding Science Fiction – April 1949

  (1949)*

  Eric Frank Russell

  illustrated by Cartier

  They'd never succeeded in trapping an Earth-ship before; now they had one they found it distinctly hard to handle. And, worst of all, the intelligences of Earth were incomprehensible!

  -

  Peter the Pilot made his crash landing with skill deserving of all the huzzahs he did not get. It is no small feat to dump a four-hundred tonner after a flying brick has loused up the antigrav and left nothing dependable but the pipes.

  The way he used those tubes verged on the superhuman. They roared and thrust and braked and flared and balanced so that ultimately the vessel hit with no more than a mildly unpleasant thump that added nothing to the damage. For the time being the ship and its eight-man crew were safe. Or, to be more precise, its crew of seven men and one woman were safe—if there is any safety in an unknown and possibly hostile world.

  While the others telepathed their congratulations which modestly he shrugged off, Peter the Pilot remained in his seat, locked in the control cabin, and studied what was visible of this strange planet. The armorglass window mirrored a ghostly reflection of his blue, thoughtful eyes which were set in a face queerly suggestive of youth preserved to great age. Even his hair showed the silky whiteness of the very old, yet somehow remained lush and strong. Making no attempt to get out, he sat there and thought because it was his duty to think. Subconsciously he was aware that three of his crew already had left the vessel and that the others were retaining mental contact with them.

  They were eight Terrans temporarily marooned far off the beaten tracks. He wasn't unduly worried about that because the ship was repairable and they had enough fuel for return. Moreover, the fact that three had gone out showed that this world could be endured. It would permit life; a point already suggested by its superficial resemblance to Terra as seen through the armorglass. No, the worry was not an immediate one. So far, so good. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. The trouble which most encouraged him to ponder was that repairs take time, a long time, and menacing complications not present today can arrive tomorrow or next week.

  The prospective threat he had in mind was that other life-form of shape and powers unknown. They had ships, slow, cumbersome, too short-ranged to overlap the Terran sphere of influence, but still ships. Manifestly they had intelligence of a high order.

  For twelve centuries this other-form had chased in fruitless pursuit of every Terran vessel straying within their range and had enjoyed the doubtful pleasure of seeing each one's rapidly diminishing rear end. It is galling to have one's curiosity repeatedly stimulated and left unsatisfied, even more galling to know that the interest is not reciprocated. Peter the Pilot had no notion of what bizarre form this other-life might take but he was willing to gamble that they had no teeth—having ground them away long ago.

  Now there was excellent chance of a snoopover and much expressing of resentment if the ship remained pinned by its pants, for misfortune had dumped it right in the other's bailiwick. Not even a Sirian Wotzit, he decided, would resist a sitting duck. Hitching his shoulders fatalistically, he opened his mind to the mental voices of his crew.

  Rippy the Ranger was saying, "Found a stream. The water is drinkable."

  "You found it?" harshed Sammy the Sharpeye. "How do you discover something to which you've been directed like a small child?"

  "I went the way you told me and I found it," came back Rippy. ''Does that satisfy you? Why don't you trim your nails and take a pill?"

  Peter sent out a call, "What do you see, Sammy?"

  "Trees and trees and trees. You sure picked a hideout—if it will do you any good." Silence, followed by, "I can also see a strange, repulsive, nightmarish shape lurking by the stream. It is guzzling the water because there's no charge. Now it is scowling horribly and—"

  "Leave Rippy alone," ordered Peter. "Where's Kim?"

  "Don't know," admitted Sammy the Sharpeye indifferently. "He got out fast and vanished some place. You'll hear Hector swearing pretty soon."

  "Oh, no you won't," interjected Hector the Hasher, his mental impulses strong because of his nearness within the ship. "I had ten locks on the galley, see? I've made landings before, and with a load of gutsies at that!"

  "Kim!" called Peter.

  Silence.

  "When will that guy learn to keep his mind open and respond," Peter complained.

  "When he's hungry," offered Hector morbidly.

  A new tone chipped in, hooting with irritation. "Let ... me ... sleep, willya? I gotta catch up ... somehow!"

  "Nilda the Nightwatcher," sighed Hector. "Nilda the Nuisance I call her. What makes her that way?" He paused, then his thought-form boosted with sudden outrage. "Clobo, take your mitt outa that can! By the—"

  Peter cut them off while he writhed out of his seat, had a closer look through the armorglass. He was surveying a tiny portion of a world which itself was small part of an alien system and a corresponding fragment of the great unknown. As a representative of a nearby empire firmly founded upon swiftness and sureness of personal decision, he stood ready with the rest to face decisively whatever might befall. Apprehension was not within him, nor the elements of fear. There was only estimation, calculation, and preparedness to decide.

  After one million years of Terran growth and mutual acceptance of the consequences of growth, nobody thought of themselves as peculiarly undecided.

  -

  Sector Marshal Bvandt slurged in caterpillarish manner across the floor and vibrated his extensibles and closed two of the eight eyes around his serrated crown and did all the other things necessary to demonstrate an appropriate mixture of joy, satisfaction and triumph.

  "One is down." He smacked his lips. "At last. After all these years."

  "One what?" inquired Commander Vteish.

  "A mystery ship. A sample of those ultra-fast cylinders we've never been able to catch."

  "No?" Vteish was astounded.

  "Yes! It had an accident, or something went bust. The message has just come in but does not give details of what forced it to land. Zwilther was following it in the CX66, and losing distance as usual, when he saw it go off-curve. It chopped around a bit, still at high clip, then made for Lanta."

  "Lanta," echoed Commander Vteish. "Why, that is in our sector."

  "A most remarkable coincidence," observed Bvandt sarcastically, "seeing that any emergency message is automatically directed to the marshal in charge of the sector it concerns."

  "Of course, of course," agreed Vteish hurriedly. "I overlooked that much in the excitement of the moment." Dutifully he slurged, vibrated and performed the eye-shutting to remind his superior that they were two hearts beating as one. "Now what?"

  "Lanta is sparsely settled. Its people are simple scrabblers in the dirt. I have sent an order warning them not to interfere with this alien cylinder, to keep clear of it. We cannot permit a gang of hicks to handle a case of this magnitude. Too much depends upon it and such an opportunity may never occur again. Our best brains are needed to make the most of it."

  "Definitely." indorsed Vteish. "Undoubtedly."

  "Therefore I am going to deal with them myself," announced Bvandt.

  "Ah!" said Vteish, carefully using his speaking-mouth. He had two mouths, one on each side. The penultimate insult was to make eating motions with the speaking-mouth. The ultimate—to make garbled speech-noises with the eating-mouth. For a moment he had been sorely tempted.

  "And you are coming with me," Bvandt went on. "Also Captain Gordd and Captain Hixl. We'll take two ships. We'd take fifty if they were immediately available, but they aren't. However, these two are of our latest and most powerful pattern."

  "Couldn't some of the other vessels be summoned?"

  "They have been called already, but it will take them some time to reach Lanta. We cannot wait for them, we dare not wait. At any time this alien contraption may be away faster than zip. We have got to deal with it before it becomes too late."

  "Yes, marshal," admitted Vteish.

  "What luck! What a gift!" If Bvandt had possessed hands, he would have smacked them together with the acme of delight. So he jiggled his extensibles in the nearest equivalent. "Now is our chance to get the measure of this other-life while leaving it ignorant concerning ourselves. After preliminary study of them we will test their defenses by a light attack. Finally, we'll seize their vessel, dig out the secret of its speed and maneuverability. All that knowledge, my dear commander, will give us our biggest boost in twenty lifetimes."

  "A boost in one lifetime is enough for me," said Vteish with unashamed cynicism. "I was peculiarly disinterested before I was hatched and expect to be strangely indifferent after I'm burned." He humped toward the coolness of the wall, leaned against it and mused. "Do you suppose that this other-life might be ... might be ... like us?"

  "I see no reason why not," declared Bvandt, after some thought. "We are by far the highest form in the known cosmos, therefore any other high form must be similar."

  "The logic of that is not evident." Vteish drew a crude sketch on the wall. "They might be like this, for example."

  "Don't be stupid. Why should they resemble anything so fantastic"?"

  "Why not?"

  Bvandt said severely: "You are too fond of those dream-plays at the festivals. You have leanings toward mental extravagance. Your brain spends half its time conjuring crazy visions for lack of anything better to do." His rearward pair of eyes examined the time-meter on the wall. "Your cure is at hand—you can get busy right now. The ships will be ready within the hour and I shall tolerate no delay on anyone's part. See that you are packed and on board in good time."

  "Yes, marshal. Most certainly, marshal," promised Vteish, again carefully using his speaking-mouth.

  -

  From the eastward rise over which the trees marched in solid ranks the Terran vessel could be seen as if lying in a hollow. Slight gain in altitude added considerably to the angle of view.

  Like a big, fat slug, Bvandt stuck sucker-footed to the bole of a tree while he applied a powerful monocular to one eye and closed the others. The field of vision did not shift or tremble, for under the monocular his extensibles were braced together and formed a fulcrum much steadier than Terran hands.

  Adjusting his instrument's focus, Bvandt got a clear, sharp view of Peter the Pilot sitting on the bottom rung of his vessel's landing ladder and smoking a pipe. He almost fell from the tree.

  "By the egg that held me!" Detaching his optic from the eyepiece, he bugged the others, stared around. "Do you see this thing?"

  "Yes," said Vteish calmly. "It has only two legs, longer and skinnier than ours. Only two eyes. Its upper limbs bend always in the same places as if they are hard-cored and jointed."

  "I see it, too," put in Captain Gordd, who was high on an adjacent tree. He spoke with a kind of incredulous hush. "It resembles nothing on any of our twenty-four planets."

  "The question is," said Bvandt, "how many more of these creatures are inside that ship."

  Gordd pondered it, guessed: "Any number between ten and twenty. Possibly thirty, though I doubt it."

  Having another long, careful look, Bvandt pocketed his monocular, inched down the trunk, gained the ground. "Hurry up with that pictograph."

  One of the men descended from his vantage point, did things to the boxlike instrument he was carrying, eventually produced from it a large photo of Peter complete with pipe.

  "Well, we've a record of how they look," grunted Bvandt, studying the picture closely. "I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen for myself. Fancy thousands of things like this!"

  "Millions," corrected Vteish, joining him.

  "Yes, millions, all like this." He handed back the photograph, saying: "Prepare copies tor transmission to all sector headquarters." Then to Vteish, "Now we'll find out what they've got." He called a nearby trooper. "Get as near as you can and shoot."

  "To kill?" asked the trooper.

  "To kill," Bvandt confirmed.

  "It that necessary?" Vteish chipped in, greatly daring.

  "It is essential that we have a demonstration of their strongest, most desperate reaction," Bvandt said stiffly. He eyed the trooper. "Well, why do you wait? You have your orders!"

  The other shuffled off between the trees and into the undergrowth toward the alien ship. The sound of his passage ceased as he dropped to a cautious creep. Beneath the trees the rest waited for the shot and the resulting uproar. Twelve were high in the trees ready to observe and record the other-life's methods of defense.

  -

  Sitting mild-eyed and sucking his pipe, Peter the Pilot listened, listened, not with his ears but with his mind. Sammy the Sharpeye's tones were coming to him coolly, without emotion.

  "They are in the trees a mile to your front. I've been near enough to make certain that they're still there. Boy, what a gang of slooperoos! They sloop and slurp this way and that. They've eight eyes apiece, all on top, but swiveling independently. They've refused to see me so often that I wonder if I'm getting transparent."

  "Not with what you're full of!" cracked Rippy's thought-form.

  "Shut up!" ordered Peter. "This is a poor time for cross-talk."

  "The trees are the trouble," went on Sammy. "They hide too much. Clobo ought to be able to tell you more than I can."

  "So at last it is admitted that Clobo has his uses," interjected that worthy. "Clobo comes into his own—during his bedtime. No sleep for the wicked!" He managed to put over a deep mental sigh. "And tomorrow all will be forgotten."

  "What do you see, Clobo?" asked Peter, projecting sympathy.

  "They are conferring with ugly mouth-noises. It is evident that they are in no way telepathic."

  "If they were they'd have overheard us long ago," Sammy pointed out.

  "They appear to have reached some sort of decision and have sent away one who bears an object suspiciously like a weapon," Clobo went on. "This one is edging cautiously toward the ship. Now he sinks low and creeps. I have a strange feeling."

  "Of what?" demanded Sammy.

  "That he does not desire to blow kisses."

  "Ho-hum," said Peter, knocking the dottle from his pipe. "I do not think it wise to take action myself until I know for certain whether or not his intentions are honorable."

  "If you ask me, I wouldn't trust him with Hector's can-opener," opined Clobo,

  "Listen who's talking!" invited Hector.

  "Now he has paused by a suitable gap and is pointing his weapon forward. If I could see into his alien mind, I'd find it bloated with mayhem. He is about to fire at you, I think. Rippy is hidden in the grass ten yards to his front."

  "I shall now reveal myself," announced Rippy.

  "Mind you don't get a slug in your bean," warned Peter. He screwed up his eyes as he tried to spot Rippy amid the vegetation more than half a mile away. Nothing could be seen ; the growths were too thick.

  Clobo's impulses now became a rapid series of high-pitched mental squeaks as he chattered at top pace like an excited commentator at a champ contest. One got the impression that he was jigging up and down as he broadcast.

  "Rippy gets to his feet and stares this guy straight in the pan. The sniper lets out a startled hiss and drops his weapon. Rippy doesn't move. The other recovers. Keeping all eight eyes and the whole of his attention on Rippy, he feels for his gun, finds it, picks it up. What's the use of having eyes all around if you don't use them? He's just leveled the gun as Kim arrives from where he isn't looking and jumps on his back. Whoo! Socko! Kim is tearing off lumps and giving them to the frogs. The other has rolled onto his back, making noises with both mouths and waving his legs in all directions. Kim is now extracting his plumbing and draping it tastefully over the bushes. There's a funny sort of blue goo all—"

  Closing his mind, Peter opened his ears. There were faint threshing sounds mingled with queer, unidentifiable noises deep in the far vegetation. He eyed the sky as if searching for something now at too great an altitude to be seen. Pulling out his tobacco pouch, he refilled his pipe, tamped it down, sucked it unlit.

  "... leaving only a rank and unappetizing mess," finished Clobo, worn out.

  ''Soup's ready," announced Hector, unimaginatively choosing the worst of moments.

  -

  The three troopers sneaked back with their eyes wary on all sides and especially to the rear. Two told their story while the third worked at his box and gave the resulting pictograph to Bvandt.

 

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