Silverberg, Robert - SS Anthology - Earthmen and Strangers.pdf

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INTRODUCTION
The first thing every child learns is that he is not the entire universe.
It comes as a shock, even though the discovery is gradual. As a baby's awareness grows, he realizes that
at least one other human creature exists—his mother, that large, warm, protective object that is always
nearby. Later comes the discovery of other relatives: father, sister, brother, uncle. The doctor,
grandparents, friends, all become part of the picture for the child, and he realizes that the universe beyond
his fingertips is quite a crowded place indeed.
Then he finds out about strangers.
Strangers are those who do not fit into the family circle, people who cannot be recognized, whose
existence is an uncomfortable mystery. Until he has met his first stranger, the child has known nothing but
love. Now comes a challenge; for the stranger, being a stranger, does not necessarily love the child. Ties
of family and friendship do not exist, and some other relationship must be developed.
Most children learn how to get along with strangers well enough. They find out that it is possible to make
friends with certain strangers, and that it is wise to keep away from others. And they make the discovery
that for the rest of their lives they are going to be encountering strangers every day. Their happiness and
success will depend on their skill at dealing With these strangers, who may be different from them in ways
of thinking, in color of skin, in outlook. Growing up, then, is a process of collisions with strangers, and a
test of maturity is the ability to handle such collisions.
Not only children but whole planets eventually discover that they are not the entire universe. At least, so
the science-fiction writers have been saying for many years. They look to the stars for the strangers,
people of other worlds, who one day will intrude on the so-far private existence of mankind. We have
never yet encountered people of other worlds, of course—not in any way that can be satisfactorily
documented, that is. But the sky is full of stars, and some of those stars must have planets, and it seems
likely that in an infinity of worlds there must be intelligent life besides that on Earth.
We are not alone, say the science-fiction writers. Making that assumption, they go on to examine it.
What will it be like when we encounter the people of other worlds, the alien life forms that await us in the
galaxy? Will we find ourselves trampled under the heels of conquerors? Or will we be the conquerors
ourselves, destroying other civilizations in space as we have done on our own planet? What strange
emotional experiences will befall the first men who confront alien creatures? What conflicts will there be,
what philosophical upheavals, what catastrophes and triumphs?
Science fiction attempts to answer these questions. The contact between man and alien has been one of
its central themes since its dawning, The title of a famous early novel by H. G. Wells indicates one
possible outcome of that contact: The War of the Worlds . Other writers have told of more peaceful
meetings, even love, between earthmen and strangers. Nine stories of contact with extraterrestrial beings
are assembled here, offering nine different approaches to that relationship.
But what if we are alone in the universe? What if it turns out that the other worlds of the galaxy are as
lifeless as the voyage of Mariner IV has indicated Mars to be? Are all the speculations of science fiction
worthless, then?
No. Because the science-fiction writer, in the final analysis, is never really writing of other worlds and
other times. Behind the futuristic trappings of his stories lies a more earthbound core. For the
science-fiction writer, no matter how vaulting his imagination may be, is still a man of twentieth-century
 
Earth. He has never visited another planet nor laid eyes on an alien being. What he writes about, then,
comes from within—what he himself has seen and thought. He translates his own experiences and
speculations into the soaring wonders of science fiction, but we can look behind the rockets and the
strange creatures to find the real world of today. Science fiction, at its best, illuminates our own time by
turning a mirror toward the future.
Even if we are unique in creation, then, we can find merit in stories of other forms of life. The tales of
conflict with beings of the far galaxies, on the most fundamental level, are really stories dealing with that
most basic of human challenges: how to get along with strangers. In the stories, the strangers have purple
skins and ropy tentacles; in real life, the differences are not so vivid, but the gulf is just as great.
We are born into a world full of strangers. Slowly we carve an island of familiarity for ourselves, learn to
overcome fears and suspicions, break down the barriers of strangerhood. So, too, our world may exist in
a galaxy of strangers. The stories in "this book attempt to show what may happen when and if we meet
those strangers. In any case, they tell on a deeper level the story of us all as we reach out to meet others
with uncertain hands.
R.S.
DEAR DEVIL
By Eric Frank Russell
Eric Frank Russell is a towering Englishman whose first science-fiction stories were published in
1937. In the decades since then he has written dozens of notable short stones and such classic
novels as Sinister Barrier and Three to Conquer . Cheerfully irreverent in person, Russell as a
writer is usually breezy and hard-boiled, a teller of tough, fast-paced tales. He has dealt often and
excellently with the theme of Earthman versus Alien, generally against a backdrop of an
intergalactic war, and his sly spies were performing slick tricks long before James Bond first saw
print .
But there is nothing breezy, hard-boiled, tough, military, or sly about Dear Devil. Seldom has a
being from another world been portrayed in science fiction with such warmth and compassion.
Readers are grateful to Eric Frank Russell for his lively stories of action and adventure, but they
will cherish him forever for the unique and wonderful Martian "devil" of this unforgettable story .
The first Martian vessel descended upon Earth with the slow, stately fall of a grounded balloon. It did
resemble a large balloon in that it was spherical and had a strange buoyance out of keeping with its
metallic construction. Beyond this superficial appearance all similarity to anything Terrestrial ceased.
There were no rockets, no crimson Venturis, no external projections other than several solaradiant
distorting grids which boosted the ship in any desired direction through the cosmic field. There were no
observation ports. All viewing was done through a transparent band running right around the fat belly of
the sphere. The bluish, nightmarish crew was assembled behind that band, surveying the world with great
multifaceted eyes.
They gazed through the band in utter silence as they examined this world which was Terra. Even if they
had been capable of speech they would have said nothing. But none among them had a talkative faculty
in any sonic sense. At this quiet moment none needed it.
The scene outside was one of untrammeled desolation. Scraggy blue-green grass clung to tired ground
right away to the horizon scarred by ragged mountains. Dismal bushes struggled for life here and there,
some with the pathetic air of striving to become trees as once their ancestors had been. To the right, a
 
long, straight scar through the grass betrayed the sterile lumpiness of rocks at odd places. Too rugged
and too narrow ever to have been a road, it suggested no more than the desiccating remnants of a
long-gone wall. And over all this loomed a ghastly sky.
Captain Skhiva eyed his crew, spoke to them with his sign-talking tentacle. The alternative was
contact-telepathy which required physical touch.
"It is obvious that we are out of luck. We could have done no worse had we landed on the empty
satellite. However, it is safe to go out. Anyone who wishes to explore a little while may do so."
One of them gesticulated back at him. "Captain, don't you wish to be the first to step upon this world?"
"It is of no consequence. If anyone deems it an honor, he is welcome to it." He pulled the lever opening
both air-lock doors. Thicker, heavier ah- crowded in and pressure went up a little. "Beware of
overexertion," he warned as they went out.
Poet Pander touched him, tentacles tip to tip as he sent his thoughts racing through their nerve ends. "This
confirms all that we saw as we approached. A stricken planet far gone in its death throes. What do you
suppose caused it?"
"I have not the remotest idea. I would like to know. If it has been smitten by natural forces, what might
they do to Mars?" His troubled mind sent its throb of worry up Pander's contacting tentacle. "A pity that
this planet had not been farther out instead of closer in; we might then have observed the preceding
phenomena from the surface of Mars. It is so difficult properly to view this one against the Sun."
"That applies still more to the next world, the misty one," observed Poet Pander.
"I know it. I am beginning to fear what we may find there. If it proves to be equally dead, then we are
stalled until we can make the big jump outward."
"Which won't be in our lifetimes."
"I doubt it," agreed Captain Skhiva. "We might move fast with the help of friends. We shall be
slow—alone." He turned to watch his crew writhing in various directions across the grim landscape.
"They find it good to be on firm ground. But what is a world without life and beauty? In a short time they
will grow tired of it."
Pander said thoughtfully, "Nevertheless, I would like to see more of it. May I take out the lifeboat?"
"You are a songbird, not a pilot," reproved Captain Skhiva. "Your function is to maintain morale by
entertaining us, not to roam around in a lifeboat."
"But I know how to handle it. Every one of us was trained to handle it. Let me take it that I may see
more."
"Haven't we seen enough, even before we landed? What else is there to see? Cracked and distorted
roads about to dissolve into nothingness. Ages-old cities, torn and broken, crumbling into dust. Shattered
mountains and charred forests and craters little smaller than those upon the Moon. No sign of any
superior lifeform still surviving. Only the grass, the shrubs, and various animals, two- or four-legged, that
flee at our approach. Why do you wish to see more?"
"There is poetry even in death," said Fander.
"Even so, it remains repulsive." Skhiva gave a little shiver. "All right. Take the lifeboat. Who am I to
 
question the weird workings of the nontechnical mind?"
"Thank you, Captain."
"It is nothing. See that you are back by dusk." Breaking contact, he went to the lock, curled snakishly on
its outer rim and brooded, still without bothering to touch the new world. So much attempted, so much
done—for so poor reward.
He was still pondering it when the lifeboat soared out of its lock. Expressionlessly, his multifaceted eyes
watched the energized grids change angle as the boat swung into a curve and floated away like a little
bubble. Skhiva was sensitive to futility.
The crew came back well before darkness. A few hours were enough. Just grass and shrubs and
child-trees straining to grow up. One had discovered a grassless oblong that once might have been the
site of a dwelling. He brought back a small piece of its foundation, a lump of perished concrete which
Skhiva put by for later analysis.
Another had found a small, brown, six-legged insect, but his nerve ends had heard it crying when he
picked it up, so hastily he had put it down and let it go free. Small, clumsily moving animals had been
seen hopping in the distance, but all had dived down holes in the ground before any Martian could get
near. All the crew were agreed upon one thing: the silence and solemnity of a people's passing was
unendurable.
Pander beat the sinking of the sun by half a time-unit. His bubble drifted under a great, black cloud, sank
to ship level, came in. The rain started a moment later, roaring down in frenzied torrents while they stood
behind the transparent band and marveled at so much water.
After a while, Captain Skhiva told them, "We must accept what we find. We have drawn a blank. The
cause of this world's condition is a mystery to be solved by others with more time and better equipment.
It is for us to abandon this graveyard and try the misty planet. We will take off early in the morning."
None commented, but Pander followed him to his room, made contact with a tentacle-touch.
"One could live here, Captain."
"I am not so sure of that." Skhiva coiled on his couch, suspending his tentacles on the various limb-rests.
The blue sheen of him was reflected by the back wall. "In some places are rocks emitting alpha sparks.
They are dangerous."
"Of course, Captain. But I can sense them and avoid them."
" You ?" Skhiva stared up at him.
"Yes, Captain. I wish to be left here."
"What? In this place of appalling repulsiveness?"
"It has an all-pervading air of ugliness and despair," admitted Poet Pander. "All destruction is ugly. But by
accident I have found a little beauty. It heartens me. I would like to seek its source."
"To what beauty do you refer?" Skhiva demanded.
Pander tried to explain the alien in nonalien terms.
"Draw it for me," ordered Skhiva.
 
Pander drew it, gave him the picture, said, "There!"
Gazing at it for a long time, Skhiva handed it back, mused awhile, then spoke along the other's nerves.
"We are individuals with all the rights of individuals. As an individual, I don't think that picture sufficiently
beautiful to be worth the tail-tip of a domestic arlan . I will admit that it is not ugly, even that it is
pleasing."
"But, Captain—"
"As an individual," Skhiva went on, "you have an equal right to your opinions, strange though they may
be. If you really wish to stay I cannot refuse you. I am entitled only to think you a little crazy." He eyed
Pander again. "When do you hope to be picked up?"
"This year, next year, sometime, never."
"It may well be never," Skhiva reminded him. "Are you prepared to face that prospect?"
"One must always be prepared to face the consequences of his own actions," Pander pointed out.
"True." Skhiva was reluctant to surrender. "But have you given the matter serious thought?"
"I am a nontechnical component. I am not guided by thought."
"Then by what?"
"By my desires, emotions, instincts. By my inward feelings."
Skhiva said fervently, "The twin moons preserve us!"
"Captain, sing me a song of home and play me the tinkling harp."
"Don't be silly. I have not the ability."
"Captain, if it required no more than careful thought you would be able to do it?"
"Doubtlessly," agreed Skhiva, seeing the trap but unable to avoid it.
"There you are!" said Pander pointedly.
"I give up. I cannot argue with someone who casts aside the accepted rules of logic and invents his own.
You are governed by notions that defeat me."
"It is not a matter of logic or illogic," Pander told him. "It is merely a matter of viewpoint. You see certain
angles; I see others."
"For example?"
"You won't pin me down that way. I can find examples. For instance, do you remember the formula for
determining the phase of a series tuned circuit?"
"Most certainly."
"I felt sure you would. You are a technician. You have registered it for all tune as a matter of technical
utility." He paused, staring at Skhiva. "I know that formula, too. It was mentioned to me, casually, many
years ago. It is of no use to me—yet I have never forgotten it."
 

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