Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

“Martian mountain wine,” she warned him. “Rather overwhelming if you’re not used to it, and sometimes even if you are....” Her eyes rested on the general.

“But there are no mountains on Mars,” Clarey said, startled.

“That’s it!” Spano chortled. “When you’ve drunk it, you see mountains!” And he filled his glass again.

While they ate, he told Clarey about Damorlan—its beautiful climate, light gravity, intelligent and civilized natives. Though the planet had been known for two decades, no one from Earth had ever been there except a few selected government officials, and, of course, the regular staff posted there.

“You mean it hasn’t been colonized yet?” Clarey was relieved, because he felt he should, as an Archivist, have known more about the planet than its name and coordinates. “Why? It sounds like a splendid place for a colony.”

“The natives,” Spano said.

“There were natives on a lot of the planets we colonized. You disposed of them somehow.”

“By co-existence in most cases, Sub-Archivist,” Spano said drily. “We’ve found it best for Terrans and natives to live side by side in harmony. We dispose of a race only when it’s necessary for the greatest good. And we would especially dislike having to dispose of the Damorlanti.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Clarey asked, pushing away his half-finished crême brulée a la Betelgeuse with a sigh. “Are they excessively belligerent, then?”

“No more belligerent than any intelligent life-form which has pulled itself up by its bootstraps.”

“Rigid?” Clarey suggested. “Unadaptable? Intolerant? Indolent? Personally offensive?”

Spano smiled. He leaned back with half-shut eyes, as if this were a guessing game. “None of those.”

“Then why consider disposing of them?” Clarey asked. “They sound pretty decent for natives. Don’t wipe them out; even an ilf has a right to live.”

“Clarey,” the girl said, “you’re drunk.”

“I’m in full command of my faculties,” he assured her. “My wits are all about me, moving me to ask how you could possibly expect to use a secret agent on Damorlan if there are no colonists. What would he disguise himself as—a touring Earth official?” He laughed with modest triumph.

Spano smiled. “He could disguise himself as one of them. They’re humanoid.”

“ That humanoid?”

“That humanoid. So there you have the problem in a nutshell.”

But Clarey still couldn’t see that there was a problem. “I thought we—the human race, that is—were supposed to be the very apotheosis of life species.”

“So we are. And that’s the impression we’ve conveyed to such other intelligent life-forms as we’ve taken under our aegis. What we’re afraid of is that the other ilfs might become ... confused when they see the Damorlanti, think they’re the ruling race.” Leaning forward, he pounded so loudly on the table both the others jumped. “This is our galaxy and we don’t intend that anyone, humanoid or otherwise, is going to forget it!”

“You’re drunk, too, Steff,” the girl said. She had changed completely; her coquetry had dropped as if it were another mask. And it had been, Clarey thought—an advertising mask. An offer had been made, and, if he accepted it, he would get probably not Han herself but a reasonable facsimile.

He tried to sort things out in his whizzing brain. “But why should the other ilfs ever see a Damorlant?” he asked, enunciating very precisely. “I’ve never seen another life-form to speak of. I thought the others weren’t allowed off-planet—except the Baluts, and there’s no mistaking them, is there?” For the Baluts, although charming, were unmistakably non-human, being purplish, amiable, and octopoid.

“We don’t forbid the ilfs to go off-planet,” Spano proclaimed. “That would be tyrannical. We simply don’t allow them passage in our spaceships. Since they don’t have any of their own, they can’t leave.”

“Then you’re afraid the Damorlanti will develop space travel on their own,” Clarey cried. “Superior race—seeking after knowledge—spread their wings and soar to the stars.” He flapped his arms and fell off the stool.

“Really, Steff,” Han said, motioning for the servo-mechanism to pick Clarey up, “this is no way to conduct an interview.”

“I am a creative artist,” the general said thickly. “I believe in suiting the interview to the occasion. Clarey understands, for he, too, is an artist.” The general sneezed and rubbed his nose with his silver sleeve. “Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine, creative, productive race. It isn’t generally known, but they developed the op fastener for evening wear, two of the new scents on the roster come from Damorlan, and the snettis is an adaptation of a Damorlant original. Would you want a species as artistic as that to be annihilated by an epidemic?”

“Do our germs work on them?” Clarey wanted to know.

“That hasn’t been established yet. But their germs certainly work on us.” The general sneezed again. “That’s where I got this sinus trouble, last voyage to Damorlan. But you’ll be inoculated, of course. Now we know what to watch out for, so you’ll be perfectly safe. That is, as far as disease is concerned.”

His face assumed a stern, noble aspect. “Naturally, if you’re discovered as a spy, we’ll have to repudiate you. You must know that from the tri-dis.”

“But I haven’t said I would go!” Clarey howled. “And I can’t see why you’d want me , anyway!”

“Modest,” the general said, lighting a smoke-stick. “An admirable trait in a young intelligence operative—or, indeed, anyone. Have a smoke-stick?”

Clarey hesitated. He had never tried one; he had always wanted to.

“Don’t, Clarey,” the girl advised. “You’ll be sick.”

She spoke with authority and reason. Clarey shook his head.

The general inhaled and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the shape of a bunnit. “The Damorlanti look like us, but because they look like us, that doesn’t mean they think like us. They may not have the least idea of developing space travel, simply be interested in developing thought, art, ideals, splendid cultural things like that. We don’t know enough about them; we may be making mountains out of molehills.”

“Martian molehills,” Clarey snickered.

“Precisely,” the general agreed. “Except that there are no moles on Mars either.”

“But I still can’t understand. Why me ?”

The general leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “We want to understand the true Damorlan. Our observations have been too superficial; couldn’t help being. There we come, blasting out of the skies with the devil of a noise, running all over the planet as if we owned it. You know how those skyboys throw their gravity around.”

Clarey nodded. Sentries of the Sky had kept him well informed on such matters.

“So what we want is a man who can go to Damorlan for five or ten years and become a Damorlant in everything but basic loyalties. A man who will absorb the very spirit of the culture, but in terms our machines can understand and interpret.” Spano stood erect. “You, Clarey, are that man!”

The girl applauded. “Well done, Steff! You finally got it right side up!”

“But I’ve lived twenty-eight years on this planet and I’m not a part of its culture,” Clarey protested. “I’m a lonely, friendless man—you must know that if you’ve deep-probed me—so why should I put up a front and be brave and proud about it?”

Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “I see. That’s the reason you want me. I have no roots, no ties; I belong nowhere. Nobody loves me. Who else, you think, but a man like me would spend ten years on an alien planet as an alien?”