F. Wallace - 10 Lost Pulp Sci-Fi Masterpieces

“They were scheduled for six hours ago, but mechanical difficulty has delayed them. Present estimated take-off is 1100.”

Almost two hours to go, Hockley thought. That should be time enough. “Please put me in communication with one of the aides aboard named Waldon Thar. This is Sherman Hockley of Scientific Services. Priority request.”

“I’ll try, sir.” The tower operator manifested a sudden increase of respect. “One moment, please.”

Hockley heard the buzz and switch clicks of communication circuits reaching for the ship. Then, in a moment, he heard the somewhat irritated but familiar voice of his old friend.

“Waldon Thar speaking,” the voice said. “Who wishes to talk?”

“Listen, you old son of a cyclotron’s maiden aunt!” said Hockley. “Who would want to talk on Sol III? Why didn’t you give me a buzz when you landed? I just found out you were here.”

“Sherm Hockley, of course,” the voice said with distant, unperturbed tones. “This is indeed a surprise and a pleasure. To be honest, I had forgotten Earth was your home planet.”

“I’ll try to think of something to jog your memory next time. How about getting together?”

“Well—I don’t have very long,” said Thar hesitantly. “If you could come over for a few minutes—”

Hockley had the jolting feeling that Waldon Thar would just as soon pass up the opportunity for their meeting. Some of the enthusiasm went out of his voice. “There’s a good all-night inter-planetary eatery and bar on the field there. I’ll be along in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine,” said Thar, “but please try not to be late.”

On the way to the field, Hockley wondered about the change that had apparently taken place in Thar. Of course, he had changed, too—perhaps for much the worse. But Thar sounded like a stuffed shirt now, and that is the last thing Hockley would have expected. In school, Thar had been the most irreverent of the whole class of irreverents, denouncing in ecstasy the established and unproven lore, riding the professors of unsubstantiated hypotheses. Now—well, he didn’t sound like the Thar Hockley knew.

He took a table and sat down just as Thar entered the dining room. The latter’s broad smile momentarily removed Hockley’s doubts. The smile hadn’t changed. And there was the same expression of devilish disregard for the established order. The same warm friendliness. It baffled Hockley to understand how Thar could have failed to remember Earth was his home.

Thar mentioned it as he came up and took Hockley’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “It was stupid to forget that Earth meant Sherman Hockley.”

“I know how it is. I should have written. I guess I’m the one who owes a letter.”

“No, I think not,” said Thar.

They sat on opposite sides of a small table near a window and ordered drinks. On the field they could see the vast, shadowy outline of the Ryke vessel.

Thar was of a race genetically close to the Rykes. He lacked the feathery covering, but this was replaced by a layer of thin scales, which had a tendency to stand on edge when he was excited. He also wore a breathing piece, and carried the small shoulder tank with a faint air of superiority.

Hockley watched him with a growing sense of loss. The first impression had been more nearly correct. Thar hadn’t wanted to meet him.

“It’s been a long time,” said Hockley lamely. “I guess there isn’t much we did back there that means anything now.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” said Thar as if recognizing he had been too remote. “Every hour of our acquaintance meant a great deal to me. I’ll never forgive myself for forgetting—but tell me how you learned I was aboard the Ryke ship.”

“The Rykes have made us an offer. I wanted to find out the effects on worlds that had accepted. I learned Janisson VIII was one, so I started looking.”

“I’m so very glad you did, Sherm. You want me to confirm, of course, the advisability of accepting the offer Liacan has made.”

“Confirm—or deny it,” said Hockley.

Thar spread his clawlike hands. “Deny it? The most glorious opportunity a planet could possibly have?”

Something in Thar’s voice gave Hockley a sudden chill. “How has it worked on your own world?”

“Janisson VIII has turned from a slum to a world of mansions. Our economic problems have been solved. Health and long life are routine. There is nothing we want that we cannot have for the asking.”

“But are you satisfied with it? Is there nothing which you had to give up that you would like returned?”

Waldon Thar threw back his head and laughed in high pitched tones. “I might have known that would be the question you would ask! Forgive me, friend Sherman, but I had almost forgotten how unventuresome you are.

“Your question is ridiculous. Why should we wish to go back to our economic inequalities, poverty and distress, our ignorant plodding research in science? You can answer your own question.”

They were silent for a moment. Hockley thought his friend would have gladly terminated their visit right there and returned to his ship. To forestall this, he leaned across the table and asked, “Your science—what has become of that?”

“Our science! We never had any. We were ignorant children playing with mud and rocks. We knew nothing. We had nothing. Until the Rykes offered to educate us.”

“Surely you don’t believe that,” said Hockley quietly. “The problem you worked on at the Institute—gravity at micro-cosmic levels. That was not a childish thing.”

Thar laughed shortly and bitterly. “What disillusionment you have coming, friend Sherman! If you only knew how truly childish it was. Wait until you learn from the Rykes the true conception of gravity, its nature and the part it plays in the structure of matter.”

Hockley felt a sick tightening within him. This was not the Waldon Thar, the wild demon who thrust aside all authority and rumor in his own headlong search for knowledge. It couldn’t be Thar who was sitting passively by, being told what the nature of the Universe is.

“Your scientists—?” Hockley persisted. “What has become of all your researchers?”

“The answer is the same,” said Thar. “We had no science. We had no scientists. Those who once went by that name have become for the first time honest students knowing the pleasure of studying at the feet of masters.”

“You have set up laboratories in which your researches are supervised by the Rykes?”

“Laboratories? We have no need of laboratories. We have workshops and study rooms where we try to absorb that which the Rykes discovered long ago. Maybe at some future time we will come to a point where we can reach into the frontier of knowledge with our own minds, but this does not seem likely now.”

“So you have given up all original research of your own?”

“How could we do otherwise? The Rykes have all the answers to any question we have intelligence enough to ask. Follow them, Sherman. It is no disgrace to be led by such as the Ryke teachers.”

“Don’t you ever long,” said Hockley, “to take just one short step on your own two feet?”

“Why crawl when you can go by trans-light carrier?”

Thar sipped the last of his drink and glanced toward the wall clock. “I must go. I can understand the direction of your questions and your thinking. You hesitate because you might lose the chance to play in the mud and count the pretty pebbles in the sand. Put away childish things. You will never miss them!”

They shook hands, and a moment later Hockley said goodbye to Thar at the entrance to the field. “I know Earth will accept,” said Thar. “And you and I should not have lost contact—but we’ll make up for it.”