Of Course Read online

  Of Course

  Chad Oliver

  First published in Astounding Science Fiction, May 1954.

  This copy derived from the above source.

  The Aliens in their titanic star-cruiser said they would take one man—and pay with whatever his culture needed. But—what was their idea of Earth’s highest culture…?

  * * *

  In Bern, Switzerland, quite early in the morning, the President woke up with a splitting headache. He hadn’t been sleeping well for the past three weeks, and last night had been worse than usual. He stayed in bed for a few minutes, frowning at the ceiling. It was an unpleasant situation to be in; there was no denying that. The President, however, had confidence. Surely, with its record since the Congress of Vienna in 1815, the outlook was good for his country. The President managed a smile. Switzerland would be the one, of course.

  In Moscow, Russia, seated at the end of a long table, the Premier listened intently to his chief military advisors. He didn’t like what he heard, but he kept his face expressionless. He didn’t like the position in which he found himself, but he wasn’t really worried. There could be no doubt whatever that the Supreme Soviet would be the one chosen. Of course!

  In London, England, the Prime Minister stepped out of 10 Downing Street, his pipe smoking determinedly. He climbed into his car for the drive to the Palace, and folded his strong hands. Things might be a bit touch-and-go for a short time, but the Prime Minister was undismayed. England, with its glorious history, was the only possible choice. Of course, it would be England!”

  To the east of Lake Victoria in Africa, the tall, slender priest-chief of the Masai, the Laibon, looked out upon the humped cattle grazing on the grassland and smiled. There was but one true God, Em-Gai, and the pastoral Masai were proud. At long last, ancient wrongs would be corrected! The Masai would rise again. They were the only logical choice. Of course…

  And so it went, around the world.

  The somewhat dumpy gentleman in the rimless spectacles and the double-breasted suit had a name: Morton Hillford. He had a title to go with the name: presidential advisor.

  Right now, he was pacing the floor.

  “You say you’ve investigated all the possibilities, general?” he demanded. “All the… um-m-m… angles?”

  The general, whose name was Larsen, had an erect bearing and iron-gray hair, both of which were very useful when senators had to be impressed. He was a general who knew his business. Naturally, he was upset.

  He said: “Every possible line of action has been explored, Mr. Hillford. Every angle has been studied thoroughly.”

  Morton Hillford stopped pacing. He aimed a forefinger at the general as though it were a .45. His expression indicated strongly that if there had been a trigger he might have pulled it. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that the United States Army is impotent?”

  The general frowned. He coughed briefly. “Well,” he said, “let’s say that the United States Army is helpless in this matter.”

  “I don’t care what words you use! Can you do anything?”

  “No,” said the general, “we can’t. And neither, may I point out, can the Navy, the Air Force, or the Marines.”

  “Or the Coast Guard,” mimicked Morton Hillford. He resumed his pacing. “Why can’t you do anything? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  General Larsen flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hillford. Our job, as you point out, is to defend this country. We are prepared to do that to the best of our ability, no matter what the odds—”

  “Oh, forget it, Larsen. I didn’t mean to get under your hide. I guess my breakfast just didn’t agree with me this morning. I understand your position in this matter. It’s… embarrassing, that’s all.”

  “To say the least,” agreed General Larsen. “But I venture to say that we’ve thought of everything from hydrogen bombs to psychological warfare. We have absolutely nothing that stands the ghost of a chance of working. A hostile move on our part would be suicide for all of us, Mr. Hillford. I deplore melodrama, but facts are facts. It wouldn’t do to let the people know just how much in their power we are, but nevertheless we are on the hook and there isn’t any way that I know of to get off again. We’ll keep trying, naturally, but the President must have the correct facts at his disposal. There isn’t a thing we can do at the present time.”

  “Well, general, I appreciate your candor, even if you have little else to offer. It looks as though we will have to keep our fingers crossed and a great big smile on our collective face. The President isn’t going to like it though, Larsen.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Larsen said.

  Morton Hillford paused long enough to look out the window at the streets of Washington. It was summer, and the sun had driven most people indoors, although there were a few helicopters and cars visible. The old familiar buildings and monuments were there, however, and they imparted to him a certain sense of stability, if not of security.

  It’s not the heat, his mind punned silently, it’s the humility.

  “We’ll just have to trust to their good judgment, I suppose,” Morton Hillford said aloud. “It could be worse.”

  “Much worse,” the general agreed. “The position of the United States in the world today—”

  Hillford brushed the words aside impatiently. “There isn’t the slightest doubt of it! That isn’t our problem. Of course the United States will be chosen.”

  “Of course,” echoed the general. “And then everything will be all right, won’t it, Larsen?”

  “Of course!”

  “Just the same,” said Morton Hillford pointedly, “you find us a weapon that will work, and do it in a hurry.”

  “We’ll try, Mr. Hillford.”

  “You do it, general. That’s all for today.”

  The general left, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Morton Hillford, presidential advisor, resumed his pacing. Fourteen steps to the window, fourteen steps back. Pause. Light a cigarette. Fourteen steps to the window—

  “Of course,” he said aloud, “it will be the United States.”

  And his mind added a postscript: It had BETTER be the United States.

  Three weeks ago, the ship had come out of space.

  It was a big ship, at least as far as Earth was concerned. It was a good half-mile long, fat and sleek and polished, like a well-fed silver fish in the shallows of a deep and lonely sea. It didn’t do much of anything. It just hung high in the air directly above the United Nations building in New York.

  Waiting.

  Like a huge trick cigar about to blow up in your face.

  Simultaneously with its appearance, every government on Earth got a message. Every government got the same message. The ship wasn’t fussy about defining “government,” either. It contacted every sort of political division. In certain instances where the recipients were illiterate, or non-literate, the message was delivered vocally.

  Every message was sent in the native language. In itself, that was enough to give a man food for thought. There were a lot of languages on Earth, and many of them had never been written down.

  The people who came in the ship, what was seen of them, looked quite human.

  There was a great deal of talk and frenzied activity when the spaceship and the messages appeared. For one thing, no one had ever seen a spaceship before. However, the novelty of that soon wore off. People had been more or less expecting a spaceship, and they tended to accept it philosophically, as they had accepted electricity and airplanes and telephones and atom bombs. Fine Stuff, naturally. What’s next?

  The message was something else again.

  The United Nations and the United States greeted the ship from space with about one and a half cheers. Contact with other worlds was very dramatic and important and all that, but it did pose a number of unpleasant questions.

  It is difficult to negotiate unless you have something to offer, or else are strong enough so that you don’t have to dicker.

  Suppose the ship wasn’t friendly?

  The United States dug into its bag of military tricks and investigated. They weren’t fools about it, either. No one went off half-cocked and tried to drop a hydrogen bomb on an unknown quantity. It was recognized at once that dropping a bomb on the ship might be like hunting a tiger with a cap pistol.

  The military looked into the matter, subtly.

  They probed, gently, and checked instruments.

  The results were not encouraging.

  The ship had some sort of a field around it. For want of a better name, it was called a force field. Definitely, It was an energy screen of some sort—and nothing could get through it. It was absolutely impregnable. It was the ultimate in armor.

  If a man has really foolproof armor and you don’t, then you’re out of luck.

  The military couldn’t fight.

  After digesting the message, there didn’t seem to be much for the diplomats to do either.

  The message contained no explicit threat; it was simply a statement of intentions. If anything, it suffered from a certain annoying vagueness that made it difficult to figure out exactly what the ship was going to do.

  The message read:

  “PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED. WE HAVE COME IN PEACE ON A MISSION OF GOOD WILL. OUR TASK HERE IS TO DETERMINE TO OUR SATISFACTION WHICH ONE AMONG YOU HAS THE MOST ADVANCED CULTURE ON YOUR PLANET. IT WILL BE NECESSARY TO TAKE ONE REPRESENTATIVE FROM YOUR MOST ADVANCED CULTURE BACK WITH US FOR STUDY. HE WILL NOT BE HARMED IN ANY WAY. IN RETURN FOR HIM, WE WILL UNDERTAKE TO SUPPLY HIS CULTURE WITH WHATEVE
R IT MOST DESIRES, TO THE BEST OF OUR ABILITIES. WE SINCERELY HOPE THAT WE WILL CAUSE YOU NO INCONVENIENCE AS WE WORK. IT IS SUGGESTED THAT YOU DO NOT ATTEMPT TO COMMUNICATE WITH THIS SHIP UNTIL OUR CHOICE HAS BEEN ANNOUNCED. IT IS ALSO SUGGESTED THAT HOSTILE ACTION ON YOUR PART SHOULD BE CAREFULLY AVOIDED. WE HAVE COME IN PEACE AND WISH TO LEAVE THE SAME WAY WHEN OUR JOB IS DONE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COURTESY. WE ARE ENJOYING YOUR PLANET.” That was all.

  On the face of it, the message was not too alarming, however unprecedented it may have been. However, second thoughts came fast.

  Suppose, thought the United States, that Russia is chosen. Suppose, further, that what Russia most desired was an unbeatable weapon to use against the United States—what then? And suppose, thought Russia, that the United States is chosen—

  The situation was somewhat uncomfortable.

  It was made decidedly worse by the complete helplessness of the contestants.

  There wasn’t a thing they could do except to wait and see.

  Of course, every single government involved was quite sure that it would be the one chosen. That being the case, the more discerning among them realized that no matter who was selected it would come as a shocking surprise to all the rest.

  It did.

  Morton Hillford, advisor to the President, got the news from the chief American delegate to the United Nations. The delegate hadn’t trusted anyone with this hot potato; he had come in person, and at full speed.

  When he got the news, Morton Hillford sat down, hard.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “I know it,” said the delegate. The shock had partially worn off for him, and he kept on his feet.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Morton Hillford. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I just don’t believe it.”

  “Here,” said the delegate, handing him the message, “you read it.”

  Hillford read it. His first impulse was to laugh. “Why, they’re crazy!”

  “Hardly.”

  Hillford managed to get to his feet and resume his pacing. His rimless spectacles were getting fogged from the heat, so he wiped them off with his handkerchief.

  “I feel like a fool,” he said finally. He shook the message, almost angrily. “It’s such a terrific anticlimax, Charlie! Are you sure they’re not joking?”

  “They’re dead serious. They’re going to exhibit the man in New York tomorrow. After that, they’re going to show him off in every other capital on Earth. After that—”

  He shrugged.

  Morion Hillford felt a sick sinking in the pit of his stomach. “Do you want to tell the Boss, Charlie?”

  “No,” said the delegate. “A thousand times no. I’ve got to get back to the U.N., Mort. You tell him.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else?”

  Morton Hillford accepted his burden with what stoicism he could muster. His not to reason why—

  “Let’s have a drink first, Charlie,” he said wearily. “Just a small one.”

  As it turned out, they both told him.

  The President eyed them intently, hands on his hips, and demanded to see the message. They showed it to him.

  The President was not a handsome man, but he had strength in his features. His rather cold blue eyes were alert and intelligent, and they seldom followed his mouth’s lead when he smiled.

  He wasn’t smiling now, anywhere.

  “Well, Boss,” asked Morton Hillford, “what do we do now?”

  The President frowned. “We’ll have to go on with a telecast as soon as possible,” he said, speaking with authority. “We’ll have to tell the people something. Get Doyle and Blatski on that right away, Mort—and tell them to write it up with some sort of a positive slant if they can. Soothe their pride, indicate we’re not unwilling to learn, throw in something about unknown science and mysterious factors… you know. After that, we’ll have to get a project set up to study this whole affair.” He consulted the message again. “Hm-m-m. I see they’re coming back again in one hundred of our years to check up on us. Fine! By then we may have something to argue with in case they mean trouble, although I doubt it. I pity the man in office when they come back—I hope he’s a member of the Loyal Opposition. Now! We’ve got to find out what this is all about.”

  The United Nations delegate ventured one word: “How?”

  The President sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke out through his compressed lips, slowly. It was a good pose, and he liked it. As a matter of fact, he was a man who relished difficult problems—even this one. He liked action, and routine bored him.”

  “We need a scientist,” he announced. “And not a nuclear physicist this time. We need someone in here who can tell us something about these people. The fact is, we need a social scientist.”

  Morton Hillford warned: “Don’t let the Tribune find out. They’ll crucify you.”

  The President shrugged. “We’ll keep it quiet,” he said. “Now! As I said, we need a social scientist. The question is, which kind?”

  “Not a psychologist,” mused Morton Hillford. “Not yet, anyway. I’m afraid we need a sociologist. If the Tribune ever finds out—”

  “Forget the papers, man! This is important.”

  The President got to work on his private phone. “Hello… Henry? Something has come up. I want you to get over here right away, and I want you to bring a sociologist with you. That’s right, a sociologist. What’s that? Yes, I KNOW about the Tribune! Bring him in the back door.”

  In due course of time, Henry—who was Secretary of State—arrived. He brought a sociologist with him. The sociologist was unexpectedly normal looking, and he listened respectfully to what the President had to say. He was naturally surprised when he heard about the ship’s choice, but he recovered himself quickly.

  The sociologist was an honest man. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “I could take a stab at it if you like, but what you really need is an anthropologist.”

  The President drummed his fingers on his desk. “Henry,” he said, “get me an anthropologist over here, and hurry.”

  Henry hurried.

  Four hours later, the anthropologist was shown into the President’s office. His name was Edgar Vincent, he had a beard, and he smoked a foreign-looking pipe. Well, that couldn’t be helped.

  Introductions were hastily made. “You are an anthropologist? ” asked the President.

  “That’s right, sir,” said Dr. Vincent.

  “Fine!” said the President. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Dr. Vincent looked blank.

  “Tell me, doctor,” said the President, “what do you know about the Eskimos?”

  The anthropologist stared.

  “You don’t mean—”

  To save time, the President handed him the message that had been sent by the ship to the United Nations. “You might as well read this, doctor,” he said. “It will be released to the papers within an hour anyway, and then everybody will know.”

  Edgar Vincent puffed on his pipe and read the message:

  “WE BRING YOU GREETINGS AND FAREWELL. OUR WORK AMONG YOU HAS NOW BEEN COMPLETED. WE HAVE FOUND THE MOST ADVANCED CULTURE AMONG YOU TO BE THAT OF THE CENTRAL ESKIMO OF BAFFIN LAND. WE HAVE SELECTED ONE MEMBER OF THAT CULTURE TO GO BACK WITH US FOR STUDY. AS INDICATED EARLIER, WE WILL UNDERTAKE TO PROVIDE HIS CULTURE WITH WHATEVER IT MOST DESIRES, BY WAY OF PAYMENT. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE HIGHEST CULTURE ON YOUR PLANET WILL BE EXHIBITED IN ALL YOUR POLITICAL CENTERS, AT TIMES WHICH WILL BE INDICATED IN A SEPARATE COMMUNICATION, TO PROVE TO YOU THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN HARMED. WE WILL RETURN TO YOUR WORLD IN ONE HUNDRED EARTH-YEARS, AT WHICH TIME WE HOPE TO DISCUSS MUTUAL PROBLEMS WITH YOU AT GREATER LENGTH. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR YOUR COURTESY. WE HAVE ENJOYED YOUR PLANET.”

  “Well?” asked the President.

  “I hardly know what to say,” said the anthropologist. “It’s fantastic.”

  “We already know that, doctor. Say something.”

  Edgar Vincent found a chair and sat down. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “In the first place,”, he said, “I’m not really the man you want.”

  Henry groaned. “You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But I’m a physical anthropologist. You know—bones and evolution and blood types and all that. I’m afraid that isn’t quite what you’re after here.” He held up his hand, holding off a wave of protest. “What you need is an ethnologist or social anthropologist, and the man you ought to get is Irvington; he’s the Central Eskimo man.” He held up his hand again. “Just a moment, please gentlemen! As I say, you need Irvington. You won’t be able to get him for some time, however. I suggest you put in a call for him—he’s in Boston now—and in the meantime I’ll fill you in as best I can. I do know a little cultural anthropology; we’re not as specialized as all that.”