Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

Life on the planet was savage. New colonies would, of course, be passed from individual to individual and generation to generation of the host species. But the inevitable toll of attrition from the violent deaths of the animals appalled this gentle race. And there was nothing they could do about it. They could give protection against disease, but they could not control the hosts. Their scientists figured that, if they could find a form of life having conscious power of reason, they would be able to establish communication and a measure of control. But it was not possible where only instinct existed.

They went ahead because they had no choice. Their only chance was to establish their colonies, accepting the certainty of the slaughter of hundreds upon hundreds of entire communities—and hoping that, with their help, evolution on the planet would eventually produce a better host organism. Even of this they were by no means sure. It was a hope. For all they could know, the struggling mammalian life might well be doomed to extermination by the giant reptiles.

They took the gamble. Hundreds of colonies were planted.

They did it but they weren’t satisfied with it. So, back on the dying home moon, survivors continued to work. Before the end came they made one more desperate bid for race survival.

They built interstellar ships to be launched on possibly endless journeys into space. A nucleus of select individuals in a spore-like form of suspended animation was placed on each ship. Ships were launched in pairs, with automatic controls to be activated when they entered into the radius of attraction of a sun. Should the sun have planets such as their own home world—or Earth type—the ships would be guided there. In the case of an Earth type planet having intelligent life, they would—

They would do just what my damned “meteor” had done.

They would home in on an individual, “explode,” penetrate—and set up heavy housekeeping on a permanent basis. They did. Lovely. Oh, joy!

Well. We would all like to see the Garden of Eden; but being it is something quite else again.

Me, a colony!

My—uh—population had no idea where they were in relation to their original home, or how long they had traveled through space. They did hope that someplace on Earth their companion ship had established another settlement. But they didn’t know. So far on our world, with its masses of powerful electrical impulses, plus those of our own brains, they had found distance communication impossible.

“Well, look, fellows,” I said. “Look here now. This is a noble, inspiring story. The heroic struggle of your—uh—people to survive, overcoming all odds and stuff, it’s wonderful! And I admire you for it, indeed I do. But—what about me?”

“You, Great Land of Barth, are our beloved home and fatherland for many, many generations to come. You are the mighty base from which we can spread over this enormous planet.”

“That’s you. What I mean is, what about me?”

“Oh? But there is no conflict. Your interests are our interests.”

That was how they looked at it. Sincerely. As they said, they weren’t ruthless conquerors. They only wanted to get along.

And all they wanted for me were such fine things as good health, long life, contentment. Contentment, sure. Continued irritation—a sour disposition resulting in excess flow of bile—did not provide just the sort of environment in which they cared to bring up the kiddies. Smoking? No. It wasn’t healthy. Alcohol? Well, they were willing to declare a national holiday now and then. Within reason.

Which, as I already knew, meant two to four shots once or twice a week.

Sex? Themselves, they didn’t have any. “But,” they told me with an attitude of broad tolerance, “we want to be fair. We will not interfere with you in this matter—other than to assist you in the use of sound judgment in the selection of a partner.”

But I shouldn’t feel that any of this was in any way real restrictive. It was merely practical common sense.

For observing it I would get their valuable advice and assistance in all phases of my life. I would enjoy—or have, anyway—perfect health. My life, if that’s what it was, would be extended by better than 100 years. “You are fortunate,” they pointed out, a little smugly I thought, “that we, unlike your race, are conservationists in the truest sense. Far from despoiling our homeland and laying waste its resources and natural scenic wonders, we will improve it.”

I had to be careful because, as they explained it, even a small nick with a razor might wipe out an entire suburban family.

“But fellows! I want to live my own life.”

“Come now. Please remember that you are not alone now.”

“Aw, fellows. Look, I’ll get a dog, lots of dogs—fine purebreds, not mongrels like me. The finest. I’ll pamper them. They’ll live like kings…. Wouldn’t you consider moving?”

“Out of the question.”

“An elephant then? Think of the space, the room for the kids to play—”

“Never.”

“Damn it! Take me to—no, I mean let me talk to your leader.”

That got me no place. It seemed I was already talking to their highest government councils. All of my suggestions were considered, debated, voted on—and rejected.

They were democratic, they said. They counted my vote in favor; but that was just one vote. Rather a small minority.

As I suppose I should have figured, my thoughts were coming through over a period that was, to them, equal to weeks. They recorded them, accelerated them, broadcast them all around, held elections and recorded replies to be played back to me at my own slow tempo by the time I had a new thought ready. No, they wouldn’t take time to let me count the votes. And there is where you might say I lost my self control.

“Damn it!” I said. Or shouted. “I won’t have it! I won’t put up with it. I’ll—uh—I’ll get us all dead drunk. I’ll take dope! I’ll go out and get a shot of penicillin and—”

I didn’t do a damned thing. I couldn’t.

Their control of my actions was just as complete as they wanted to make it. While they didn’t exercise it all the time, they made the rules. According to them, they could have controlled my thoughts too if they had wanted to. They didn’t because they felt that wouldn’t be democratic. Actually, I suppose they were pretty fair and reasonable—from their point of view. Certainly it could have been a lot worse.

I wasn’t as bad off as old Faust and his deal with the devil. My soul was still my own. But my body was community property—and I couldn’t, by God, so much as bite my own tongue without feeling like a bloody murderer—and being made to suffer for it, too.

Perhaps you don’t think biting your tongue is any great privilege to have to give up. Maybe not. But, no matter how you figure, you’ve got to admit the situation was—well—confining.

And it lasted for over nine years.

Nine miserable years of semi-slavery? Well, no. I couldn’t honestly say that it was that bad. There were all the restrictions and limitations, but also there was my perfect health; and what you might call a sort of a sense of inner well-being. Added to that, there was my sensationally successful career. And the money.

All at once, almost anything I undertook to do was sensationally successful. I wrote, in several different styles and fields and under a number of different names; I was terrific. My painting was the talk of the art world. “Superb,” said the critics. “An astonishing other-worldly quality.” How right they were—even if they didn’t know why. I patented a few little inventions, just for fun; and I invested. The money poured in so fast I couldn’t count it. I hired people to count it, and to help guide it through the tax loopholes—although there I was able to give them a few sneaky little ideas that even our sharpest tax lawyers hadn’t worked out.