Judith Merril - The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6

I sat down and lit a cigarette. My hands were trembling. Flopper apologized. “We have been rather rough with you, Mr. Morgan. But over the past five days, eight other people have done just what you did. We are caught in the trap of being what we are.”

“But tell me—where do these things come from?”

“It doesn’t matter where they come from,” Flopper said hopelessly. “Perhaps from another planet—perhaps from inside this one—or the Moon or Mars. That doesn’t matter. Fitzgerald thinks they come from a smaller planet, because their movements are apparently slow on Earth. But Dr. Lieberman thinks that they move slowly because they have not discovered the need to move quickly. Meanwhile, they have the problem of murder and what to do with it. Heaven knows how many of them have died in other places—Africa, Asia, Europe.”

“Then why don’t you publicize this? Put a stop to it before it’s too late!”

“We’ve thought of that.” Fitzgerald nodded. “What then —panic, hysteria, charges that this is the result of the atom bomb? We can’t change. We are what we are.”

“They may go away,” I said,

“Yes, they may.” Lieberman nodded. “But if they are without the curse of murder, they may also be without the curse of fear. They may be social in the highest sense. What does society do with a murderer?”

“There are societies that put him to death—and there are other societies that recognize his sickness and lock him away, where he can kill no more.” Flopper said. “Of course, when a whole world is on trial, that’s another matter. We have atom bombs now and other things, and we are reaching out to the stars—”

“I’m inclined to think that they’ll run,” Fitzgerald put in. “They may just have that curse of fear, Doctor.”

“They may,” Lieberman admitted. “I hope so.”

But the more I think of it the more it seems to me that fear and hatred are the two sides of the same coin. I keep trying to think back, to re-create the moment when I saw it standing at the foot of my bed in the fishing shack. I keep trying to drag out of my memory a clear picture of what it looked like, whether behind that chitinous face and the two gently waving antennae there was any evidence of fear and anger. But the clearer the memory becomes, the more I seem to recall a certain wonderful dignity and repose. Not fear and not anger.

And more and more, as I go about my work, I get the feeling of what Flopper called “a world on trial.” I have no sense of anger myself. Like a criminal who can no longer live with himself, I am content to be judged.

Although the devices hove ranged from magic formulae and well-bound voices to satellites and cybernetics, the essential criticism leveled at The Way Things Are (and Where Are They Going?) by the authors so far, contains one common theme: Our failures are those of communication.

Sometimes the failure is one of intent, sometimes of ability. There may be perception without comprehension, or comprehension with no power of articulation. The missing link may be mechanical, semantic, emotional. Often it is no more than the value-deafness that comes of mistaking volume for information. But over and again the trouble seems to lie in some part of the semantic act: the process of abstracting, symbolizing, and reciprocally conveying, mutually meaningful symbols.

Mr. Anvil here proposes a hair of the dog....

A tall man in a tightly belted trenchcoat carried a heavy brief case toward the Pentagon building.

A man in a black overcoat strode with a bulky suitcase toward the Kremlin.

A well-dressed man wearing a dark-blue suit stepped out of a taxi near the United Nations building, and paid the driver. As he walked away, he leaned slightly to the right, as if the attaché case under his left arm held lead instead of paper.

On the sidewalk nearby, a discarded newspaper lifted in the wind to lie face-up before the entrance to the building. Its big black headline read: U.S. will fight!

A set of diagrams in this newspaper showed United States and Soviet missiles, with comparisons of ranges, payloads, and explosive powers, and with the Washington Monument sketched into the background to give an idea of their size.

The well-dressed man with the attaché case strode across the newspaper to the entrance, his heels ripping the tables of missile comparisons as he passed.

Inside the building, the Soviet delegate was at this moment saying:

“The Soviet Union is the most scientifically advanced nation on Earth. The Soviet Union is the most powerful nation on Earth. It is not up to you to say to the Soviet Union, ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ The Soviet Union has told you what it is going to do. All I can suggest for you is, you had better agree with us.”

The United States delegate said, “That is the view of the Soviet government?”

“That is the view of the Soviet government.”

“In that case, I will have to tell you the view of the United States government. If the Soviet Union carries out this latest piece of brutal aggression, the United States will consider it a direct attack upon its own security. I hope you know what this means.”

There was an uneasy stir in the room.

The Soviet delegate said slowly, “I am sorry to hear you say that. I am authorized to state that the Soviet Union will not retreat on this issue.”

The United States delegate said, “The position of the United States is already plain. If the Soviet Union carries this out, the United States will consider it as a direct attack. There is nothing more I can say.”

In the momentary silence that followed, a guard with a rather stuporous look opened the door to let in a well-dressed man, who was just sliding something back into his attaché case. This man glanced thoughtfully around the room, where someone was just saying:

“Now what do we do?”

Someone else said hesitantly, “A conference, perhaps?”

The Soviet delegate said coolly, “A conference will not settle this. The United States must correct its provocative attitude.”

The United States delegate looked off at a distant wall. “The provocation is this latest Soviet aggression. All that is needed is for the Soviet Union not to do it.”

“The Soviet Union will not retreat in this issue.”

The United States delegate said, “The United States will not retreat on this issue.”

There was a dull silence that lasted for some time.

As the United States and Soviet delegates sat unmoving, there came an urgent plea, “Gentlemen, doesn’t anyone have an idea? However implausible?”

The silence continued long enough to make it plain that now no one could see any way out.

A well-dressed man in dark blue, carrying an attaché case, stepped forward and set the case down on a table with a solid clunk that riveted attention.

“Now,” he said, “we are in a real mess. Very few people on Earth want to get burned alive, poisoned, or smashed to bits. We don’t want a ruinous war. But from the looks of things, we’re likely to get one whether we want it or not.

“The position we are in is like that of a crowd of people locked in a room. Some of us have brought along for our protection large savage dogs. Our two chief members have trained tigers. This menagerie is now straining at the leash. Once the first blow lands, no one can say where it will end.

“What we seem to need right now is someone with skills of a lion tamer. The lion tamer controls the animals by understanding, timing, and distraction.”

The United States and Soviet delegates glanced curiously at each other. The other delegates shifted around with puzzled expressions. Several opened their mouths as if to interrupt, glanced at the United States and Soviet delegates, shut their mouths and looked at the attaché case.