Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

heard Voice One very faintly (not as if speaking directly but as if the screen had heard and remembered⁠—not a voice but the fluorescent ghost of one): “Thank you and good luck!” VI

Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time.

Thomas de Quincey

“And a long merry siege to you, sir, and roast rat for Christmas!” I responded, very out loud and rather to my surprise.

“War! How I hate war!”⁠—that was what Pop exploded with. He didn’t exactly dance in senile rage⁠—he was still keeping too sharp a watch on Alice⁠—but his voice sounded that way.

“Damn you, Pop!” Alice contributed. “And you too, Ray! We might have pulled something, but you had to go obedience-happy.” Then her anger got the better of her grammar, or maybe Pop and me was corrupting it. “Damn the both of you!” she finished.

It didn’t make much sense, any of it. We were just cutting loose, I guess, after being scared to say anything for the last half hour.

I said to Alice, “I don’t know what you could have pulled, except the chain on us.” To Pop I remarked, “You may hate war, but you sure helped that one along. Those grenades you dropped will probably take care of a few hundred Savannans.”

“That’s what you always say about me, isn’t it?” he snapped back. “But I don’t suppose I should expect any kinder interpretation of my motives.” To Alice he said, “I’m sorry I had to slap your burnt fingers, sister, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you about my low-down tactics.” Then to me again: “I do hate war, Ray. It’s just murder on a bigger scale, though some of the boys give me an argument there.”

“Then why don’t you go preach against war in Atla-Hi and Savannah?” Alice demanded, still very hot but not quite so bitter.

“Yeah, Pop, how about it?” I seconded.

“Maybe I should,” he said, thoughtful all at once. “They sure need it.” Then he grinned. “Hey, how’d this sound: Hear the world-famous murderer Pop Trumbull talk against war. Wear your steel throat protectors. Pretty good, hey?”

We all laughed at that, grudgingly at first, then with a touch of wholeheartedness. I think we all recognized that things weren’t going to be very cheerful from here on in and we’d better not turn up our noses at the feeblest fun.

“I guess I didn’t have anything very bright in mind,” Alice admitted to me, while to Pop she said, “All right, I forgive you for the present.”

“Don’t!” Pop said with a shudder. “I hate to think of what happened to the last bugger made the mistake of forgiving me.”

We looked around and took stock of our resources. It was time we did. It was getting dark fast, although we were chasing the sun, and there weren’t any cabin lights coming on and we sure didn’t know of any way of getting any.

We wadded a couple of satchels into the hole in the World Screen without trying to probe it. After a while it got warmer again in the cabin and the air a little less dusty. Presently it started to get too smoky from the cigarettes we were burning, but that came later.

We screwed off the walls the few storage bags we hadn’t inspected. They didn’t contain nothing of consequence, not even a flashlight.

I had one last go at the buttons, though there weren’t any left with nimbuses on them⁠—the darker it got, the clearer that was. Even the Atla-Hi button wouldn’t push now that it had lost its violet halo. I tried the gunnery patterns, figuring to put in a little time taking pot shots at any mountains that turned up, but the buttons that had been responding so well a few minutes ago refused to budge. Alice suggested different patterns, but none of them worked. That console was really locked⁠—maybe the shot from Savannah was partly responsible, though Atla-Hi remote-locking things was explanation enough.

“The buggers!” I said. “They didn’t have to tie us up this tight. Going east we at least had a choice⁠—forward or back. Now we got none.”

“Maybe we’re just as well off,” Pop said. “If Atla-Hi had been able to do anything more for us⁠—that is, if they hadn’t been sieged in, I mean⁠—they’d sure as anything have pulled us in. Pull the plane in, I mean, and picked us out of it⁠—with a big pair of tweezers, likely as not. And contrary to your flattering opinion of my preaching (which by the way none of the religious boys in my outfit share⁠—they call me ‘that misguided old atheist’), I don’t think none of us would go over big at Atla-Hi.”

We had to agree with him there. I couldn’t imagine Pop or Alice or even me cutting much of a figure (even if we weren’t murder-pariahs) with the pack of geniuses that seemed to make up the Atla-Alamos crowd. The Double-A Republics, to give them a name, might have their small-brain types, but somehow I didn’t think so. There must be more than one Edison-Einstein, it seemed to me, back of antigravity and all the wonders in this plane and the other things we’d gotten hints of. Also, Grayl had seemed bred for brains as well as size, even if us small mammals had cooked his goose. And none of the modern “countries” had more than a few thousand population yet, I was pretty sure, and that hardly left room for a dumbbell class. Finally, too, I got hold of a memory I’d been reaching for the last hour⁠—how when I was a kid I’d read about some scientists who learned to talk Mandarin just for kicks. I told Alice and Pop.

“And if that’s the average Atla-Alamoser’s idea of mental recreation,” I said, “well, you can see what I mean.”

“I’ll grant you they got a monopoly of brains,” Pop agreed. “Not sense, though,” he added doggedly.

“Intellectual snobs,” was Alice’s comment. “I know