Short Fiction Robert Sheckley (best romantic books to read TXT) 📖

The twilight had turned a deep gray when the Public Surveyor ’ported in. It was a short, squat robot with a conservative crackle-black finish.

“Good day, sir,” the surveyor said. “You wish to file a claim? A standard unrestricted mining claim?”

“That’s right,” Morrison said.

“And where is the center of the aforesaid claim?”

“Huh? The center? I guess I’m standing on it.”

“Very well,” the robot said.

Extruding a steel tape, it walked rapidly away from Morrison. At a distance of two hundred yards, it stopped. More steel tape fluttered as it walked, flew and climbed a square with Morrison at the center. When it had finished, the surveyor stood for a long time without moving.

“What are you doing?” Morrison asked.

“I’m making depth-photographs of the terrain,” the robot said. “It’s rather difficult in this light. Couldn’t you wait till morning?”

“No!”

“Well, I’ll just have to cope,” the robot said.

It moved and stood, moved and stood, each subterranean exposure taking longer than the last as the twilight deepened. If it had had pores, it would have sweated.

“There,” said the robot at last, “that takes care of it. Do you have a sample for me to take back?”

“Here it is,” Morrison said, hefting the slab of goldenstone and handing it to the surveyor. “Is that all?”

“Absolutely all,” the robot said. “Except, of course, that you haven’t given me the Deed of Search.”

Morrison blinked. “I haven’t given you the what?”

“The Deed of Search. That is a government document showing that the claim you are filing on is free, as per government order, of fissionable material in excess of fifty percent of the total mass to a depth of sixty feet. It’s a mere formality, but a necessary one.”

“I never heard of it,” Morrison said.

“It became a requirement last week,” explained the surveyor. “You don’t have the Deed? Then I’m afraid your standard unrestricted claim is invalid.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Well,” the robot said, “you could change your standard unrestricted claim to a special restricted claim. That requires no Deed of Search.”

“What does the special restricted part mean?”

“It means that in five hundred years all rights revert to the Government of Venus.”

“All right!” Morrison shouted. “Fine! Good! Is that all?”

“Absolutely all,” the surveyor said. “I shall bring this sample back and have it assayed and evaluated immediately. From it and the depth-photographs we can extrapolate the value and extent of your claim.”

“Send me back something to take care of the wolves,” Morrison said. “And food. And listen⁠—I want a Prospector’s Special.”

“Yes, sir. It will all be ’ported to you⁠—if your claim is of sufficient value to warrant the outlay.”

The robot climbed into the vortex and vanished.

Time passed, and the wolves edged forward again. They snarled at the rocks Morrison threw, but they didn’t retreat. Jaws open and tongues lolling, they crept up the remaining yards between them and the prospector.

Then the leading wolf leaped back and howled. A gleaming vortex had appeared over his head and a rifle had fallen from the vortex, striking him on a forepaw.

The wolves scrambled away. Another rifle fell from the vortex. Then a large box marked Grenades, Handle With Care. Then another box marked Desert Ration K.

Morrison waited, staring at the gleaming mouth of the vortex. It crossed the sky to a spot a quarter of a mile away and paused there, and then a great round brass base emerged from the vortex, and the mouth widened to allow an even greater bulge of brass to which the base was attached. The bulge grew higher as the base was lowered to the sand. When the last of it appeared, it stood alone in the horizon-to-horizon expanse, a gigantic ornate brass punchbowl in the desert. The vortex rose and paused again over the bowl.

Morrison waited, his throat raw and aching. Now a small trickle came out of the vortex and splashed down into the bowl. Still Morrison didn’t move.

And then it came. The trickle became a roar that sent the wolves and kites fleeing in terror, and a cataract poured from the vortex to the huge punchbowl.

Morrison began staggering toward it. He should have ordered a canteen, he told himself thirstily, stumbling across the quarter of a mile of sand. But at last he stood beneath the Prospector’s Special, higher than a church steeple, wider than a house, filled with water more precious than goldenstone itself. He turned the spigot at the bottom. Water soaked the yellow sands and ran in rivulets down the dune.

He should have ordered a cup or glass, Morrison thought, lying on his back with open mouth.

The Quedak lay on a small hilltop and watched a slender jet of light descend through the sky. The feather-tailed jet was golden, and brighter than the sun. Poised above it was a glistening metallic object, fabricated rather than natural, hauntingly familiar. The Quedak tried to think what it was.

He couldn’t remember. His memories had atrophied with his functions, leaving only scattered fragments of images. He searched among them now, leafing through his brief scraps of ruined cities, dying populations, a blue-water-filled canal, two moons, a spaceship.⁠ ⁠…

That was it. The descending object was a spaceship. There had been many of them during the great days of the Quedak.

Those great days were over, buried forever beneath the powdery sands. Only the Quedak remained. He had life and he had a mission to perform. The driving urgency of his mission remained, even after memory and function had failed.

As the Quedak watched, the spaceship dipped lower. It wobbled and sidejets kicked out to straighten it. With a gentle explosion of dust, the spaceship settled tail first on the arid plain.

And the Quedak, driven by the imperative Quedak mission, dragged itself painfully down from the little hilltop. Every movement was an agony. If he were a selfish creature, the Quedak would