Short Fiction by Robert Sheckley (interesting novels in english txt) 📕

“Damned well right,” Fred said. “They brought in this hunter⁠—he had his head pulled half off. He swallowed some of that stuff and healed right before my eyes.”

“Man’s age-old dream,” Carver mused. “A universal panacea!”

“We could get any price for stuff like that,” Fred said.

“Yes, we could⁠—as well as performing a duty to science,” Professor Carver reminded him sternly. “Yes, Fred, I think we should obtain some of that substance.”

They turned and, with firm strides, marched back to the village.

Dances were in progress, given by various members of the beast cults. At the moment, the Sathgohani, a cult representing a medium-sized deerlike animal, were performing. They could be recognized by the three red dots on their foreheads. Waiting their turn were the men of the Dresfeyxi and the Taganyes, cults representing other forest animals. The beasts adopted by the cults were taboo and there was an absolute injunction against their slaughter. Carver had been unable to discover the rationale behind this rule. The Lorayans refused to speak of it.

Deg, the medicine man, had removed his ceremonial mask. He was seated in front of his hut, watching the dancing. He arose when the Earthmen approached him.

“Peace!” he said.

“Sure,” said Fred. “Nice job you did this morning.”

Deg smiled modestly. “The gods answered our prayers.”

“The gods?” said Carver. “It looked as though the serum did most of the work.”

“Serum? Oh, the sersee juice!” Deg made a ceremonial gesture as he mentioned the name. “Yes, the sersee juice is the mother of the Lorayan people.”

“We’d like to buy some,” Fred said bluntly, ignoring Professor Carver’s disapproving frown. “What would you take for a gallon?”

“I am sorry,” Deg said.

“How about some nice beads? Mirrors? Or maybe a couple of steel knives?”

“It cannot be done,” the medicine man asserted. “The sersee juice is sacred. It must be used only for holy healing.”

“Don’t hand me that,” Fred said, a flush mounting his sallow cheek. “You gooks think you can⁠—”

“We quite understand,” Carver broke in smoothly. “We know about sacred things. Sacred things are sacred. They are not to be touched by profane hands.”

“Are you crazy?” Fred whispered in English.

“You are a wise man,” Deg said gravely. “You understand why I must refuse you.”

“Of course. But it happens, Deg, I am a medicine man in my own country.”

“Ah? I did not know this!”

“It is so. As a matter of fact, in my particular line, I am the highest medicine man.”

“Then you must be a very holy man,” Deg said, bowing his head.

“Man, he’s holy!” Fred put in emphatically. “Holiest man you’ll ever see around here.”

“Please, Fred,” Carver said, blinking modestly. He said to the medicine man, “It’s true, although I don’t like to hear about it. Under the circumstances, however, you can see that it would not be wrong to give me some sersee juice. On the contrary, it is your priestly duty to give me some.”

The medicine man pondered for a long time while contrary emotions passed just barely perceptibly over his almost blank face. At last he said, “It may be so. Unfortunately, I cannot do what you require.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is so little sersee juice, so terribly little. There is hardly enough for the village.”

Deg smiled sadly and walked away.

Life in the village continued its simple, invariant way. The Sweeper moved slowly along, cleaning with his twig broom. The hunters trekked out in search of srags. The women of the village prepared food and looked after the village’s one child. The priests and dancers prayed nightly for the sun to rise in the morning. Everyone was satisfied, in a humble, submissive fashion.

Everyone except the Earthmen.

They had more talks with Deg and slowly learned the complete story of the sersee juice and the troubles surrounding it.

The sersee bush was a small and sickly affair. It did not flourish in a state of nature. Yet it resisted cultivation and positively defied transplantation. The best one could do was to weed thoroughly around it and hope it would blossom. But most sersee bushes struggled for a year or two, then gave up the ghost. A few blossomed, and a few out of the few lived long enough to produce their characteristic red berries.

From the berry of the sersee bush was squeezed the elixir that meant life to the people of Loray.

“And you must remember,” Deg pointed out, “how sparsely the sersee grows and how widely scattered it is. We must search for months, sometimes, to find a single bush with berries. And those berries will save the life of only a single Lorayan, or perhaps two at the most.”

“Sad, very sad,” Carver said. “But surely some form of intensive fertilization⁠—”

“Everything has been tried.”

“I realize,” Carver said earnestly, “how important the sersee juice is to you. But if you could give us a little⁠—even a pint or two⁠—we could take it to Earth, have it examined, synthesized, perhaps. Then you could have all you need.”

“But we dare not give any. Have you noticed how few children we have?”

Carver nodded.

“There are very few births. Our life is a constant struggle against the obliteration of our race. Every man’s life must be preserved until there is a child to replace him. And this can be done only by our constant and never-ending search for the sersee berries. And there are never enough,” the medicine man sighed. “Never enough.”

“Does the juice cure everything?” Fred asked.

“It does more than that. Those who have tasted sersee add fifty of our years to their lives.”

Carver opened his eyes wide. Fifty years on Loray was roughly the equivalent of sixty-three on Earth.

The sersee was more than a healing agent, more than a regenerator. It was a longevity drug as well.

He paused to consider the prospect of adding another sixty years to his lifetime. Then he asked, “What happens if a man takes sersee again after the fifty years?”

“We do not know,” Deg told him. “No man would take it a second time while there is not enough.”

Carver and