The Second Science Fiction Megapack Page 31

  “They’re worth more than that,” I said, regretting that Trlk and I hadn’t burned our rough drafts.

  “You’re going to move,” Mr. Aldenrood said, “at the earliest possible instant.” His face was apoplectic. “I’m giving you notice right now—thirty days!” He turned and went out, muttering, “The idea of anybody committing to paper—” and slammed the door.

  Two days later, I was seated at the typewriter, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Trlk as he paced back and forth on the rug, tiny paws clasped behind his back, talking to himself and working out a story angle at the same time, when suddenly there appeared on the carpet next to him a whole host of creatures just like him.

  I nearly gulped down my cigarette.

  Trlk let out a high-pitched screech of joy and ran over to them. They wound their long tails around each other, clasped and unclasped them, twined them together. It seemed a sort of greeting. Meanwhile, they kept up a jabber that sounded like a 33-1/3 rpm record being played 78 rpm.

  Finally, the biggest one detached himself from the group and gave Trlk a tongue-lashing that would have done justice to a Phipps. Trlk hung his head. Every time he tried to say something, the big one would start in again.

  * * * *

  At length the leader turned to me. “My name is Brknk, pronounced burk-neck and spelled b-r-k-n-k.”

  “And I’m Larry Weaver,” I said, hoping they weren’t relatives who were going to stay. “That’s pronounced Lar-ree—”

  “I know. We’re from Sybilla III. Tourists. We include Earth in our itinerary. It has some of the quaintest customs of all the inhabited planets we visit. We’re terribly sorry for all the inconveniences our wayward Trlk here has caused you.”

  “It was nothing,” I said with a lightness I didn’t feel.

  “Trlk had threatened to run off many times. He has a craze for self-expression and your literature fascinates him. He has an insatiable thirst—”

  “I know.”

  He turned to Trlk. “It’s against the rules of the Galactic Tours to make yourself visible to any of the inhabitants along the way. You know that. And it’s a prime offense to interfere with their lives. Do you realize how many rules you have broken, how long we have been looking for you?”

  “He did the best he could,” I said hopefully. “As a matter of fact, we were having considerable success with his—a literary project.”

  “I understand you lost your job because of him. Is that right?”

  “Yes, but I encouraged him.” I hoped there was some way I could ease the sentence.

  “Trlk has committed grievous wrongs, Mr. Weaver. We must make it up to you.”

  “Oh?” Here was an angle I hadn’t expected.

  “What can we do for you?”

  I considered a moment. “You mean a wish or something?”

  Brknk laughed. “Nothing like that. We’re not magicians.”

  “Well, I could stand a little cash.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and did look pained. “We can’t interfere in business. We don’t have any of your currency and we are forbidden to duplicate or steal it.”

  He frowned and studied me. Suddenly his face brightened. He bawled orders and several smaller Sybillians rushed forward and started scampering all over me. One of them nipped a piece of flesh out of my arm.

  “Ouch!” I yelped, rubbing the spot. “What are you doing?”

  “You humans are a proud race,” Brknk explained. “I’ll give you reason to be prouder than the rest. We’ll change your metabolism, your endocrine balance, toughen your muscle fibers a thousandfold. We’ll make you the strongest man on Earth!”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to be the strongest man on Earth.”

  “Well, how about the world’s champion boxer? We can speed up your reflexes at least ten times.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want that, either. Sounds too much like work. Besides, I never liked getting into fights.”

  Brknk scowled, called a huddle. They buzzed at each other, their tails vibrating like mad. One of them finally yipped and everybody spun around.

  Brknk beamed. “We’ve got it!”

  “What is it?”

  A little Sybillian I hadn’t noticed jabbed something in my arm. I winced and he nearly fell off. He retreated with injured pride.

  “Come along, Trlk,” Brknk said.

  “What’s supposed to happen?” I asked.

  “It will be a glorious surprise,” Brknk assured me. “You’ll never regret it. The only thing I ask is that you never tell anyone about us.”

  I promised.

  Trlk looked up at me. I noticed the beginning of tears in his eyes. I reached down and patted him gently on the head.

  “So long, little fellow,” I said. “It’s been fun.”

  “Good-by,” he said sorrowfully.

  They vanished.

  Nothing happened for several days, so I bought a copy of Editor and Publisher and was writing for my first job when I felt a tender spot on my tail bone. When I examined it, I saw a protuberance there.

  There was no denying it. The Sybillians had given me what they treasured most.

  I was growing a tail—a long, hairy tail.

  As I say, I have come to like circus life.

  At first I tried to get doctors to cut it off, but they were too curious for that. Then I thought of jumping in the river or putting a bullet through my head.

  But after I saw what the scientists were making of it, when I viewed my picture in all the papers, and when I saw the awe with which I was regarded by everyone, I changed my mind.

  Now I make a cool twenty-five thousand a year without lifting a finger.

  Just my tail.

  I’ve become rather fond of it. I’ve even learned how to vibrate it.

  But I’ve never told anyone about the Sybillians. They wouldn’t believe it.

  Not old Phipps, anyway.

  Some day I’ll go and vibrate my tail right in his face. I’d never amount to anything, eh? Let’s see him grow a tail!

  THE BATTLE OF LITTLE BIG SCIENCE, by Pamela Rentz

  Agnes Wilder stared into Ike Ferris’ creased brown face. “You need what?”

  “A cart, you know, so we don’t have to walk all that way.”

  “I’ll look into it.” She kept her voice even. “My budget doesn’t allow for a lot of extras.” She couldn’t believe that her critical scientific research funding relied on people too old to walk to the conference room from the parking lot.

  “Well, I don’t know how you river Indians do it,” Ike said, “but around here it wouldn’t be extra.” He face remained serious but he gave her a wink. He held the arm of Ramona Larson, who tottered next to him using a cane. Ramona had a niece in beauty school and Ramona’s perm frizzed around her face in a halo of gray. She peered over the rims of her thick glasses. One arm was fixed with a strip of black tape.

  In the conference room, Agnes offered Ramona a seat. Ramona turned around and slowly lowered herself into the chair, the entire affair seeming moments away from disaster.

  “You got that time machine working?” Ramona asked.

  “We prefer to call it a history viewer,” Agnes said, wondering how to best get the idea across. “We believe machine sounds…”

  “Your name for it doesn’t sound so great either. Why don’t you talk when everyone gets here.” Ike gestured at the empty table. “You got coffee?”

  “And cookies.” Ramona had gotten back out of her chair and pulled on an armrest. Agnes moved to help her and at Ramona’s direction slid the chair about six inches closer to the window. “That’s good.” Ramona settled back into the chair. “I’m ready now.”

  “Good.” Agnes wanted to get the thing out of the way. Delivering tidy presentations on the project’s potential year after year was a tedious waste of time. She couldn’t wait to get back to the lab.

  Agnes hustled to the lunchroom for refreshments. The Pacific Northwest History Viewer Project had
been housed in the same solid cinderblock building for twenty years. What was once new and shiny had faded to dust and drab, which mirrored the prestige of her project. Just outside the lunchroom her foot slid on a patch of linoleum worn slick, no doubt from her own shuffling feet, coming in and out for coffee day after day. As her arms flapped about to catch her balance she could see that the wide, handrail-free walls were a hip-injury waiting to happen for the visiting Executive Board.

  In the lunchroom, the senior lab assistant, Theo, poured coffee from a tall paper cup into a mug. The coffee machine had broken two weeks earlier and Agnes hadn’t managed to replace it.

  “Leave some for the Board.” She grabbed the mug out of his hands. She poured coffee back into the paper cup and returned his mug. She pulled down the smallest cups in the cupboard and split the remaining coffee between them.

  “Am I going to have a job next year?” Theo winced when he tasted the coffee.

  “I’m working on it.” Agnes zapped the cups one at a time in the microwave.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t just show them the working model.”

  Agnes shuddered. “It looks like a bunch of junk held together with duct tape. It fuzzes out in harsh weather. The sound goes flat. I need to impress them.”

  “You don’t think time viewing will impress them?

  “I want it to be right,” she said.

  Did you think it would end up like this?” Theo asked. “Having to explain complicated science to decrepit old Indians?”

  “Indians respect their elders,” Agnes said with a frown. “And, sure. Indian science requires groveling for funds like any other science organization.”

  She opened and closed cupboard doors. “Do we have any cookies? Aha!” She found a package of graham crackers behind six slightly aged jars of non-dairy creamer that had been priced for her budget.

  “I admit, with all the gaming money out there, I expected the Tribes would elbow each other out of the way to throw money at us.” Agnes wiped off a plate with a paper towel and arranged the graham crackers. “No one understands what we’re doing.”

  Theo opened a drawer and scooped up a handful of fortune cookies in cellophane wrappers and spread them out on the table.

  “Great find,” Agnes said. She added them to the plate and put the cookies and coffee mugs on a metal tray. “Why don’t you stay in the lab until they leave.”

  “Sure thing.” Theo saluted her with his coffee. “Good luck.”

  Back in the conference room she set the tray in front of Ike and Ramona.

  “What’s this stuff?” Ramona nudged a cookie with a crooked finger. Ike pushed a mug closer so she could reach it.

  Maisie Perch staggered into the room under the load of zucchini she carried, one bulging plastic grocery bag hanging from each hand.

  “Why you let those get so big?” Ike said.

  “I forget the damn things are out there.” She pulled one out of the bag and dropped it on the table with a thunk. “You can use these, right?”

  Agnes offered a half-smile. Maisie had brought these giant vegetables to previous meetings and they sat in the lunchroom with their soft spots spreading until Agnes carried the stinking bags of mush to the dumpster.

  Maisie wore a Royal Salmon Casino sweatshirt that was a half-size too small and she pulled it down to cover her well-fed belly. Her hair had been freshly dyed and sat on her head like a black hut. “I don’t want to be here all afternoon.” She lined up the rest of the zucchini on the conference table with a serious face. “I got to get my grandkids and then I got bingo. You know they want to shut down the bingo?”

  Ramona gasped.

  “It’s true,” Ike said.

  “Council thinks they make more money if they put slots in there,” Maisie said.

  “Bah, Council,” Ike said. “They gonna have a riot if they do that.”

  Agnes tried to picture a room filled with cigarette smoking elders overturning tables covered with bingo cards and coffee cups.

  “Somebody’s got to do something,” Ramona said. “We need bingo.”

  “I don’t think anyone would get rid of bingo,” Agnes said with calming authority. Maisie was fond of making dramatic statements and Agnes didn’t want the discussion to veer too far from her agenda. “We ready to get started? What about Lew?”

  “Saw him last week.” Maisie dropped into her chair. “That man looks like he was hit over the head three times with a coffin lid.”

  “He’s not doing so good then,” Ike said.

  “No,” Maisie said. “What about that new guy?”

  “There’s a new guy?” Ramona asked.

  Agnes tried to remember the Executive Board By-laws. Could three members make a decision? She moved to the front of the room and clicked on the overhead.

  “Wilber,” Maisie said. “He’s that guy from Oklahoma. Looks like Santa Claus in a ribbon shirt.”

  “I don’t remember him.” Ramona bit into a fortune cookie and it disintegrated into a shower of crumbs. She swept them to the floor.

  “He can’t make it,” Agnes said. “His wife said he had a health issue.” She dimmed the lights.

  “Doesn’t matter. He never talks anyway,” Ike said. All three of them laughed.

  “Wait, aren’t we going to do a prayer?” Ramona looked at Ike.

  Agnes inwardly groaned. Ike’s prayers tended to last half as long as the time available for the meeting.

  “No. Get started.” Ike made a little lasso motion above his head. “I got bingo, too.”

  Agnes had spent three weeks reworking her presentation. She didn’t care what she had to say or do to get the money, only how she said it. How precisely could she get the message across?

  She clicked the remote and the American Indian Science Consortium logo splashed onto the far wall. The screen had fallen down two years earlier and since the wall worked she’d never bothered to replace it. She clicked again and a brightly colored bar chart appeared showing her annual budget for the last five years with each successive bar growing shorter.

  “Thank you for coming today, Board members.” Agnes looked over and saw three elderly Indians with their mouths open and the light of the display reflecting back from their glasses.

  She put up a painting of men perched on wooden platforms dip-net fishing at Celilo Falls, a wide swath of foaming water around them. “What would it be like to have a window into the past? To view true history over the shoulders of our ancestors?”

  “That’s what we want to know,” Ike said.

  The next image showed an Indian village. Women carried baskets filled with plants and children ran nearby with a dog. “What if we could be there and feel the wind in our hair, smell the wild grass and hear their songs?” When she’d practiced it at home, it sounded more spontaneous.

  “We already seen this, Agnes. You show us the same thing every year,” Maisie said. “When can you make the machine work?”

  “This is a new presentation,” Agnes said. “If I may continue?”

  “Just get to the new part,” Ike said.

  “We’ve had a major breakthrough this year.” Agnes quickly forwarded the slides until she reached the artistic representation of the device. The picture showed a half circle of luxury seating filled with awestruck individuals looking out over an Indian village. The picture nicely avoided the jumble of wires, scratched silver panels and extremely unsafe power hack they’d devised for the test model.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ramona said. “When do we see it?”

  “That’s what we need the funding for,” Agnes said carefully. “I want you to experience the device in top quality. As it is-”

  “You haven’t done nothing,” Ike said. “What’s taking so long?”

  “This is a complex project,” Agnes said. “But we’re very close.”

  “It’s been twenty years and we still don’t have Indians traveling through time.” Ike held his hands up in disgust.

  “It sounds like you m
ay misunderstand the project. If you let me finish my presentation, you would see that we do have something,” Agnes said. “I’ve got a working model but it’s—”

  “Those Florida Indians can go to the moon and one of those Sioux bands, they got something with the plants, and the Hopis invented a cure for diabetes—”

  “It’s not a cure,” Agnes said.

  Ike gave her a fierce look.

  “Sorry,” Agnes said. “Go ahead.”

  “The Consortium don’t want to fund this one anymore,” Ike said. “They said we have to show them something or it’s finished.”

  “But you’ve always funded this project,” Agnes said.

  “The Tribes don’t fund the project,” Ike said. “The Consortium funds the projects. They don’t care about your dinky thing.”

  Agnes felt as if she’d fallen through a hole in the world. She opened and closed her mouth several times but couldn’t think of where to start until she finally stuttered, “Did you say end the project?”

  “What’s all this good for anyway? Maisie said.

  “What’s this good for?” Agnes stuck her trembling hands into her pockets. Twenty years of her life would be for nothing if she lost the funding now, so close to a full-fledged operational model. How many times had she visited home and been nagged about coming back and helping her own people? “I am helping Indian people,” Agnes told them. What would she tell them now?

  “Think about it,” Agnes managed to say calmly. “We can go back and see what really happened. Correct history books. Restore cultural knowledge. So much has been lost.” She could see from their puzzled faces that her message wasn’t getting through.

  “Or other uses. What about recreation? People could visit the eruption at Pompeii. Education? Students could observe Marie Curie in her lab or attend the coronation of kings.”

  “That stuff?” Ramona said.

  “Legal mysteries.” Agnes spoke quickly now. “We could identify Jack the Ripper.” Off Ike’s grimace she added, “Or what did Uncle Chester really intend when he wrote his will?”