Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Always a Qurono by Jim Harmon (electronic reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jim Harmon
Book online «Always a Qurono by Jim Harmon (electronic reader .TXT) 📖». Author Jim Harmon
I view this with considerable alarm.
Obviously any culture that can produce an axe is capable of inventing the hammer.
The quronos are not using their hammers in front of me. I am producing a change in their routine.
Where will it end?
What are they saving their hammers for?
800: Eighth Day
Barnhart had written that just before dawn, but as usual the aliens had continued to ignore him. For all he knew the ritual might go on for years—before they used their hammers. Or whatever they were planning.
It was drawing near time for his nap, but he felt completely wide awake even inside the safety of the force field. His throat hurt and the backs of his legs ached with the waiting, the waiting for the natives to come out and begin xenogutting.
He wiped his hands together and forced a smile. Why should he worry what the natives did? He was completely safe. He could live out his life in immutable security.
But this wasn't his world. No part of it was his ... or at least only the part he had brought with him. Sanity lay in holding to what was left of his own world. But sanity didn't always mean survival.
What if he could make the quronos' world his own?
Barnhart wiped at the tiny stings against his face and his fingertips came away moist with beads of perspiration.
The aliens began marching out of the houses, in twos from the ten-foot doors, singly from the foot-square openings of every other facing wall.
It wasn't his world of fire-works-streaked Ohio summers and bold green hills, this planet cowled with nun-like secrecy, looking acrid, tasting violet and transmitting a beauty and confusion only a trio of physical scientists could solve.
But there was only one thing to do.
Barnhart let down his force field and went out.
The human body wasn't well-adapted for it but Barnhart did his best to join the quronos in xenogutting.
Instantly the cry welled up.
"Master."
Barnhart stood up and faced the aliens, deeply disturbed.
He was even more disturbed when, later, he wrote again in his journal:
Ninth day
"Qurono," I have learned from the Leader, is a term referring to a particular type of sub-human android. The synthetic process used in manufacturing these men does not allow them to develop beyond a certain point—a built-in safety factor of their creators, I can only suppose. Thus they were given the concept of the axe and have retained it, but they were able only to devise the idea of using the axe to hammer things with and are not capable of thinking of a special hammering tool.
With almost complete lack of creative ability they are bound to the same routine, to which they adhere with an almost religious fanaticism.
Since last night I have been treated as virtually a god. I have been given one of their buildings entirely for my own use.
I find this turn of events absolutely surprising. I intend to discuss this with the Leader today. (Note to any ethnologist who may see these papers: Since all quronos are built to the same standards none is superior to another. But, recognizing the need for one director, each of the one hundred has an alternate term as Leader.)
900: Ninth day
Despite the upsetting turn of events Barnhart decided he was more comfortable in his familiar role of command.
He glanced at his wristwatch and was surprised to note that he had overslept. The time for both breakfast and chronopting was past. He made himself ready and left the building.
The alien was waiting just outside the door. He looked as if he hadn't moved all night. Yet, Barnhart thought, he seemed a trifle shorter.
"Are you the Leader?" Barnhart asked.
"I am the Leader. But you are the Master."
As an officer of a close-confines spaceship that sounded a little stuffy even to Barnhart. The fellow still looked shorter. Maybe they had changed Leaders the way he had been told the night before. Or maybe quronos shrank when left out in the night air.
"Let's go someplace where we can sit down. And, incidentally, just call me 'sir' or 'captain.'"
"Yes, sir."
Barnhart nodded. He had been expecting: Yes, Master, I will call you 'captain.'
But the alien didn't move. He finally decided that the Leader thought they could sit on the ground where they were standing.
Barnhart squatted.
The Leader squatted.
Before they could speak a muffled explosion vibrated the ground and Barnhart caught a fleeting glimpse of an unstable chemical rocket tearing jerkily into the maroon sky.
"Celebration for my arrival?" Barnhart asked.
"Perhaps so. We are putting the un-needed ones in status."
He decided to let that ride for the moment.
"Tell me, why didn't you recognize me before I joined you in your—ritual, Leader?"
The alien tilted his head. "What was there to recognize? We thought you were some new variety of animal. Before you xenogutted how were we to know you were rational life?"
Barnhart nodded. "But how did you so cleverly deduce that I was your Master?"
"There are one hundred of us. You were the one hundred and first. You had to be the Master returned."
The Master had been some friendly lifeform in the Federation, obviously. Otherwise the qurono androids wouldn't speak Galactic. Barnhart nibbled on his under lip.
"I want to find out how much you still know after the Master has been away so long," the captain said. "Tell me, how do you communicate with the Master?"
"What for?" The Leader began to look at Barnhart oddly.
"For anything. Where's the sub-space radio?"
The direct approach produced a rather ironic expression on the qurono's narrow face but no answer. But if there was a radio on the planet Barnhart meant to find it. Spacemen forced to abandon their craft were required to report to the nearest Federation base as quickly as possible. Besides, he meant to see that Simmons and his Anglo stooge and all the others paid for their mutiny. But, he decided, perhaps he had better not press the matter at the moment.
Another rocket punctuated the moment of silence.
"Take me to your launching area," Barnhart said.
The android stood up and walked. But he walked at Barnhart's side, forcing the captain to catch his stride a half-step to let the alien lead him. He wasn't sure if it was a mark of respect not to get ahead of the Master or an attempt to see if he knew where the launching site was located. The quronos were limited, but just how limited Barnhart was beginning to wonder.
They rounded the clump of drooping lavender trees and Barnhart saw the eight men laying on the ground in the transparent casings. Not men, but quronos, he corrected himself; in a molded clear membrane of some sort.
"They are in status," the Leader explained, answering the captain's unasked question.
"This is how you keep your population at one hundred," Barnhart thought aloud, removing his glasses to rest his eyes and to get a better look at the bodies. Despite regulations he could still see better without his spectacles.
"It is how you arranged it, Master. But as you know we are now ninety and one."
The captain put his glasses back on. "I'll test you. Why are you now ninety and one?"
"Naturally," the Leader said emotionlessly, "you required a whole shelter unit to yourself. We had to dispose of the ten who previously had the unit."
Barnhart swallowed. "Couldn't you think of anything less drastic? Next time just build a new unit."
"But master," the alien protested, "it takes a great deal of work to construct our units. Our lumber escapes so badly no matter how often we beat it into submission. Our work capacity is limited, as you are aware. Is it really desirable to overwork us so much?"
The captain was a little shocked. Was this humorless, methodical android really protesting a command from his Master? "How do you suppose the ten you are putting in status feel about it?" he managed.
"They would doubtlessly prefer not to be overworked. Our fatigue channels can only stand so much."
But it wasn't the work, Barnhart suddenly knew. It was the idea that there could be eleven houses, instead of ten. The concept of only ninety quronos and a master must be only slightly less hideous to them. They couldn't really be so overjoyed to see him.
A third rocket jarred off, rising unsteadily but surely in the low gravity. It was a fairly primitive device—evidently all they retained from the original model supplied them by the Master.
Barnhart looked at the figures on the ground. Only seven.
"The ones in status go into the rockets!" Barnhart gasped.
"And circle in the proper orbits," the Leader agreed.
This time he saw the quronos lifting a stiff form and taking it to the crude rocket. It looked entirely too much like a human body. Barnhart looked away.
But at the edge of his peripheral vision he saw the quronos halt and stand up their fellow in status. He glanced at his wrist. Fifteen hundred hours. The aliens began geoplancting.
Barnhart ran his tongue over his teeth, noting that they needed brushing. He came to himself with a start.
Of course. He had almost forgot.
Barnhart faced the others and joined them in geoplancting.
A hideous cry built from one plateau of fury to another.
"He's no better than us!" the Leader screamed.
Ninth day
I have made a serious mistake.
While it was necessary for me to conform to the quronos' ritual to get myself recognized, I should not have continued to adhere to it. Apparently by these creatures' warped reasoning I established myself as a reasoning creature by first joining them in their routine; but when I continued to act in accord with them I proved myself no better than they are. As Master I am supposed to be superior and above their mundane routine.
At the moment they are milling belligerently outside my force-field screen. As I look into their stupid, imaginationless faces I can only think that somewhere in the past they were invented by some unorthodox Terran scientist, probably of English descent. They—
Wait.
The force field. It's wavering. It must have been damaged when it got tramped underfoot. They are going to get in to me. It—
Barnhart watched them prepare the rocket that would blast him into an orbit circling the planet. He could see and even hear the sound that vibrated through the thin membrane in which he was encased, but he could not move a nerve-end. Fortunately his eyes were focused on infinity, so he could see everything at least blurrily.
The Leader, who seemed to have grown a few inches, wasted no time. He gave the orders and the quronos lifted him into the rocket. The hatch closed down on the indigo day and he was alone.
The blast of takeoff almost deafened him but he didn't feel the jar—only because, he realized, he could feel nothing.
A few weeks later the centrifugal force of the spinning rocket finally nudged the latch and the hatch swung open. Barnhart was exposed to naked fire-bright blackness itself.
After a day or two he stopped worrying about that, as he had stopped fretting about breathing.
He grew accustomed to the regular turn around the planet every fourteen hours. For two out of every three seconds he faced out into space and that was always changing. Yet, all poetry aside, the change was always the same.
He didn't have to worry about keeping on a schedule. He kept on one automatically.
And he didn't like it.
So he kept retreating further and further from it....
"We couldn't leave him there!"
What? Who? Barnhart thought along with at least seven other double-yous. He returned to himself and found that he was standing in the airlock of a spaceship, faced by his first mate Simmons and his stooge York.
"We couldn't leave him there," Simmons repeated with feeling. "That would be the nastiest kind of murder. We might maroon him. But none of us are killers."
"It's not the punishment we will get for the mutiny," York complained. "It's having to go back to his old routine. That time-schedule mind of his was derailing mine. He was driving the whole crew cockeyed. Even if he wasn't going to kill us all by the rule book, I think we would have had to maroon him just to get rid of him."
Simmons fingered a thin-bladed tool knife. "I wonder how he got up there in that rocket and in this transparent shroud? I'm sure he's alive, but this is the most unorthodox Susp-An I've ever seen. Almost makes you believe in destiny, the way we lost our coordinate settings and had to back-track—and then found him out there. ("I'll bet he jimmied the calculator," York grouched.) You know, York, it's almost as if the world down there marooned him right back at us."
The first mate inserted the knife
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