The Year's Best Science Fiction 5 Page 14

  [Headlines from The New York Times, Jan. 10, 1960.]

  LOS ANGELES, Jan. 9 (AP)—The age of the robot is closer than you think.

  Synthetic men that can feel heat and cold, sense shock in a way that is equivalent to pain, even bleed and breathe, are in use every day as stand-ins for humans in dangerous experiments.

  They are anthropomorphic; that is, they have the shape of men. They are anthropometric, or weighted like men, with a man’s center of gravity.

  And they can be made to talk and walk like men whenever the need arises.

  They can be bought for $1,500 up, depending on instrumentation.

  The $1,500 model can’t do much. He’s the rugged, stupid type that gets thrown out of airplanes to test parachutes.

  * * * *

  TESTS GRAVITY

  A $5,000 model rides on rocket sleds and centrifuges, pre-testing the forces of gravity and velocity that man will meet in space travel.

  What would a walkie-talkie model cost?

  “That’s hard to say. We haven’t made one yet,” says Harry Daulton, President of Sierra Engineering Company in suburban Sierra Madre, the country’s largest manufacturer of the robots.

  “But I know we could make one,” he says. “Two producers have asked us about them for science-fiction movies and our engineers said it could be done.”

  Daulton’s top seller is Sierra Sam, a six-foot, 200-pounder made of vinyl-dipped foam Latex, with bones and joints of steel and aluminum.

  Sam’s midwife and physician is John Meyers, a former truck driver. “He can take 100 G’s,” Mr. Meyers said with pride.

  That’s 100 times the force of gravity, or five times as much as a strong-man can take.

  Mr. Meyers has made more than 200 Sams, and repaired most of them. Some have come back six or seven times from Air Force tests with their heads torn off, their backs and limbs broken, their bodies slashed, smashed, burnt and bent.

  Mr. Meyers simply whips up a batch of foam Latex, pours it from mixer into mold and cures it in an electric oven. After dipping in vinyl, the new torso, head or limb is bolted into place.

  The Air Force recently ordered a five-foot-six-inch dummy that may take a ride into space in a Project Mercury capsule one day.

  The first Sam was built in 1949. As a maker of prosthetic devices-—artificial arms and legs—Sierra Engineering saw the need for an instrumented human-like shape for rocket-sled speed tests.

  The company fabricated a dummy and sold it to the Air Force, where it was promptly dubbed “Sierra Sam,” a name that the company has copyrighted.

  Since then Sams have parachuted from planes, tested ejection seats, whirled in centrifuges and crashed in hundreds of cars. They have figuratively saved thousands of lives by improving the safety design of vehicles that man rides in.

  Now Sam has been instrumented with electronic devices that sense heat, cold, gravity forces, shock and wind velocity. Other devices closely duplicate human breathing apparatus for determination of what would happen to a man under such stresses.

  * * * *

  A DEATH IN THE HOUSE by Clifford D. Simak

  from Galaxy

  My first conscious acquaintance with Cliff Simak was in the body of a Jovian “Loper”—a lizard-sort-of-thing through whose keen senses we—Simak and I, along with the hero of the story, and his dog—were able to perceive for the first time the true grandeur of the giant planet’s beauty.

  If this sounds like a travelogue, it’s just because it is. I doubt that anyone who read “Desertion” when it was first published in Astounding, or later as part of the prize-winning book. City, has ever quite forgotten the fresh tingling scent of that ammonia storm. .. .

  Well, that was way back; and that was when I started looking for the Simak label on story titles. Exactly what sort of awareness Mr. Simak has that enables him to understand with a unique clarity the nature of strange beasts, I do not know; nor what specialized talent it is that contrives to communicate this empathy so sharply even to such a human-jingoist as me (as cool a clam as ever you’ve come across when it comes to cats and dogs and canaries, yet, let alone alien entities). All I know is that he is a newspaperman in Milwaukee, which is almost far enough away from Milford, Pa., for me to believe—most anything.

  * * * *

  Old Mose Abrams was out hunting cows when he found the alien. He didn’t know it was an alien, but it was alive and it was in a lot of trouble and Old Mose, despite everything the neighbors said about him, was not the kind of man who could bear to leave a sick thing out there in the woods.

  It was a horrid-looking thing, green and shiny, with some purple spots on it, and it was repulsive even twenty feet away. And it stank.

  It had crawled, or tried to crawl, into a clump of hazel brush, but hadn’t made it. The head part was in the brush and the rest lay out there naked in the open. Every now and then the parts that seemed to be arms and hands clawed feebly at the ground, trying to force itself deeper in the brush, but it was too weak; it never moved an inch.

  It was groaning, too, but not too loud - just the kind of keening sound a lonesome wind might make around a wide, deep eave. But there was more in it than just the sound of winter wind: there was a frightened, desperate note that made the hair stand up on Old Mose’s nape.

  Old Mose stood there for quite a spell, making up his mind what he ought to do about it, and a while longer after that working up his courage, although most folks offhand would have said that he had plenty. But this was the sort of situation that took more than just ordinary screwed-up courage. It took a lot of foolhardiness.

  But this was a wild, hurt thing and he couldn’t leave it there, so he walked up to it, and knelt down, and it was pretty hard to look at, though there was a sort of fascination in its repulsiveness that was hard to figure out - as if it were so horrible that it dragged one to it. And it stank in a way that no one had ever smelled before.

  Mose, however, was not finicky. In the neighborhood, he was not well known for fastidity. Ever since his wife had died almost ten years before, he had lived alone on his untidy farm and the housekeeping that he did was the scandal of all the neighbor women. Once a year, if he got around to it, he sort of shoveled out the house, but the rest of the year he just let things accumulate.

  So he wasn’t as upset as some might have been with the way the creature smelled. But the sight of it upset him, and it took him quite a while before he could bring himself to touch it. and when he finally did, he was considerably surprised. He had been prepared for it to be either cold or slimy, or maybe even both. But it was neither. It was warm and hard and it had a clean feel to it, and he was reminded of the way a green corn stalk would feel.

  He slid his hand beneath the hurt thing and pulled it gently from the clump of hazel brush and turned it over so he could see its face. It hadn’t any face. It had an enlargement at the top of it, like a flower on top of a stalk, although its body wasn’t any stalk, and there was a fringe around this enlargement that wiggled like a can of worms, and it was then that Mose almost turned around and ran.

  But he stuck it out.

  He squatted there, staring at the no-face with the fringe of worms, and he got cold all over and his stomach doubled up on him and he was stiff with fright - and the fright got worse when it seemed to him that the keening of the thing was coming from the worms.

  Mose was a stubborn man. One had to be stubborn to run a runty farm like this. Stubborn and insensitive in a lot of ways. But not insensitive, of course, to a thing in pain.

  Finally he was able to pick it up and hold it in his arms and there was nothing to it, for it didn’t weigh much. Less that a half-grown shoat, he figured.

  He went up the woods path with it, heading back for home, and it seemed to him the smell of it was less. He was hardly scared at all and he was warm again and not cold all over.

  For the thing was quieter now and keening just a little. And although he could not be sure of it, there were times when it seemed as i
f the thing were snuggling up to him, the way a scared and hungry baby will snuggle to any grown person that comes and picks it up.

  Old Mose reached the buildings and he stood out in the yard a minute, wondering whether he should take it to the barn or house. The barn, of course, was the natural place for it, for it wasn’t human - it wasn’t even as close to human as a dog or cat or sick lamb would be.

  He didn’t hesitate too long, however. He took it into the house and laid it on what he called a bed, next to the kitchen stove. He got it straightened out all neat and orderly and pulled a dirty blanket over it, and then went to the stove and stirred up the fire until there was some flame.

  Then he pulled up a chair beside the bed and had a good, hard, wondering look at this thing he had brought home. It had quieted down a lot and seemed more comfortable than it had out in the woods. He tucked the blanket snug around it with a tenderness that surprised himself. He wondered what he had that it might eat, and even if he knew, how he’d manage feeding it, for it seemed to have no mouth.

  ‘But you don’t need to worry none,’ he told it. ‘Now that I got you under a roof, you’ll be all right. I don’t know too much about it, but I’ll take care of you the best I can.’

  By now it was getting on toward evening, and he looked out the window and saw that the cows he had been hunting had come home by themselves.

  ‘I got to go get the milking done and other chores,’ he told the thing lying on the bed, ‘but it won’t take me long. I’ll be right back.’

  Old Mose loaded up the stove so the kitchen would stay warm and he tucked the thing in once again, then got his milk pails and went down to the barn.

  He fed the sheep and pigs and horses and he milked the cows. He hunted eggs and shut the chicken house. He pumped a tank of water.

  Then he went back to the house.

  It was dark now and he lit the oil lamp on the table, for he was against electricity. He’d refused to sign up when REA had run out the line and a lot of the neighbors had gotten sore at him for being uncooperative. Not that he cared, of course.

  He had a look at the thing upon the bed. It didn’t seem to be any better, or any worse, for that matter. If it had been a sick lamb or an ailing calf, he could have known right off how it was getting on, but this thing was different. There was no way to tell.

  He fixed himself some supper and ate it and wished he knew how to feed the thing. And he wished, too, that he knew how to help it. He’d got it under shelter and be had it warm, but was that right or wrong for something like this? He had no idea.

  He wondered if he should try to get some help, then felt squeamish about asking help when he couldn’t say exactly what had to be helped. But then he wondered how he would feel himself if he were in a far, strange country, all played out and sick, and no one to get him any help because they didn’t know exactly what he was.

  That made up his mind for him and he walked over to the phone. But should he call a doctor or a veterinarian? He decided to call the doctor because the thing was in the house. If it had been in the barn, he would have called the veterinarian.

  He was on a rural line and the hearing wasn’t good and he was halfway deaf, so he didn’t use the phone too often. He had told himself at times it was nothing but another aggravation and there had been a dozen times he had threatened to have it taken out. But now he was glad he hadn’t.

  The operator got old Dr. Benson and they couldn’t hear one another too well, but Mose finally made the doctor understand who was calling and that he needed him and the doctor said he’d come.

  With some relief, Mose hung up the phone and was just standing there, not doing anything, when he was struck by the thought that there might be others of these things down there in the woods. He had no idea what they were or what they might be doing or where they might be going, but it was pretty evident that the one upon the bed was some sort of stranger from a very distant place. It stood to reason that there might be more than one of them, for far traveling was a lonely business and anyone - or anything - would like to have some company along.

  He got the lantern down off the peg and lit it and went stumping out the door. The night was as black as a stack of cats and the lantern light was feeble, but that made not a bit of difference, for Mose knew this farm of his like the back of his hand.

  He went down the path into the woods. It was a spooky place, but it took more than woods at night to spook Old Mose. At the place where he had found the thing, he looked around, pushing through the brush and holding the lantern high so he could see a bigger area, but he didn’t find another one of them.

  He did find something else, though - a sort of outsize bird-cage made of metal lattice work that had wrapped itself around an eight-inch hickory tree. He tried to pull it loose, but it was jammed so tight that he couldn’t budge it.

  He sighted back the way it must have come. He could see where it had plowed its way through the upper branches of the trees, and out beyond were stars, shining bleakly with the look of far away.

  Mose had no doubt that the thing lying on his bed beside the kitchen stove had come in this birdcage contraption. He marveled some at that, but he didn’t fret himself too much, for the whole thing was so unearthly that he knew he had little chance of pondering it out.

  He walked back to the house and he scarcely had the lantern blown out and hung back on its peg than he heard a car drive up.

  The doctor, when he came up to the door, became a little grumpy at seeing Old Mose standing there.

  ‘You don’t look sick to me,’ the doctor said. ‘Not sick enough to drag me clear out here at night.’

  ‘I ain’t sick,’ said Mose.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the doctor, more grumpily than ever, ‘what do you mean by phoning me?’

  ‘I got someone who is sick,’ said Mose. ‘I hope you can help him. I would have tried myself, but I don’t know how to go about it.’

  The doctor came inside and Mose shut the door behind him.

  ‘You got something rotten in here?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘No, it’s just the way he smells. It was pretty bad at first, but I’m getting used to it by now.’

  The doctor saw the thing lying on the bed and went over to it. Old Mose heard him sort of gasp and could see him standing there, very stiff and straight. Then he bent down and had a good look at the critter on the bed.

  When he straightened up and turned around to Mose, the only thing that kept him from being downright angry was that he was so flabbergasted.

  ‘Mose,’ he yelled, ‘what _is_ this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mose. ‘I found it in the woods and it was hurt and wailing and I couldn’t leave it there.’

  ‘You think it’s sick?’

  ‘I know it is,’ said Mose, ‘It needs help awful bad. I’m afraid it’s dying.’

  The doctor turned back to the bed again and pulled the blanket down, then went and got the lamp so that he could see. He looked the critter up and down, and he prodded it with a skittish finger, and he made the kind of mysterious clucking sound that only doctors make.

  Then he pulled the blanket back over it again and took the lamp back to the table.

  ‘Mose,’ he said. ‘I can’t do a thing for it.’

  ‘But you’re a doctor!’

  ‘A human doctor, Mose. I don’t know what this thing is, but it isn’t human. I couldn’t even guess what is wrong with it, if anything. And I wouldn’t know what could be safely done for it even if I could diagnose its illness. I’m not even sure it’s an animal. There are a lot of things about it that argue it’s a plant.’

  Then the doctor asked Mose straight out how he came to find it and Mose told him exactly how it happened. But he didn’t tell him anything about the birdcage, for when he thought about it, it sounded so fantastic that he couldn’t bring himself to tell it. Just finding the critter and having it here was bad enough, without throwing in the birdcage.

  ‘I tell you what,’ the doctor
said. ‘You got something here that’s outside all human knowledge. I doubt there’s ever been a thing like this seen on Earth before. I have no idea what it is and I wouldn’t try to guess. If I were you, I’d get in touch with the university up at Madison. There might be someone there who could get it figured out. Even if they couldn’t they’d be interested. They’d want to study it.’

  Mose went to the cupboard and got the cigar box almost full of silver dollars and paid the doctor. The doctor put the dollars in his pocket, joshing Mose about his eccentricity.

  But Mose was stubborn about his silver dollars. ‘Paper money don’t seem legal, somehow,’ he declared. ‘I like the feel of silver and the way it chinks. It’s got authority.’

  The doctor left and he didn’t seem as upset as Mose had been afraid he might be. As soon as he was gone, Mose pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.

  It wasn’t right, he thought, that the thing should be so sick and no one to help - no one who knew any way to help it.

  He sat in the chair and listened to the ticking of the clock, loud in the kitchen silence, and the crackling of the wood burning in the stove.

  Looking at the thing lying on the bed, he had an almost fierce hope that it could get well again and stay with him. Now that its birdcage was all banged up, maybe there’d be nothing it could do but stay. And he hoped it would, for already the house felt less lonely.

  Sitting in the chair between the stove and bed, Mose realized how lonely it had been. It had not been quite so bad until Towser died. He had tried to bring himself to get another dog, but he never had been able to. For there was no dog that would take the place of Towser and it had seemed unfaithful even to try. He could have gotten a cat, of course, but that would remind him too much of Molly; she had been very fond of cats, and until the time she died, there had always been two or three of them underfoot around the place.

  But now he was alone. Alone with his farm and his stubbornness and his silver dollars. The doctor thought, like all the rest of them, that the only silver Mose had was in the cigar box in the cupboard. There wasn’t one of them who knew about the old iron kettle piled plumb full of them, hidden underneath the floor boards of the living room. He chuckled at the thought of how he had them fooled. He’d give a lot to see his neighbors’ faces if they could only know, but he was not the one to tell them. If they were to find out, they’d have to find it out themselves.