Testing by Sam Merwin

Testing

by Jacques Jean Ferrat


The patriarch had the strength and courage of a young man. But only
the wisdom of the very old could prevent a terrible war.

_The ebullient author of_ NIGHTMARE TOWER _and_ WHEN THE WHITE RAIN
CAME _has done it again--achieved a near-miracle of reporting in the
wondrous bright purlieus of tomorrow. We’ve often wondered whether
Jacques Jean Ferrat actually travels into the future to observe its
liveliest attributes or simply peers through one of those remarkable
“peepholes in Time” which open up occasionally. Whatever his
technique, the results are delightful_.


A terrestrial journalist once described the plight of a space pilot on
a solo interstellar trip as being similar to that of a flea on one of
the great stone dogs of Planet VI, Betelgeuse. All that vast expanse to
plunder and no way of getting at it.

To Echelon Leader Hannibal Pryor, the simile was apt. It was aggravated
by the fact that he was an unwilling flea. If his chief and sponsor,
Star Marshal Stefan Lopez, had not backed the losing side in the last
Sirius IX plebescite, Pryor would have been piloting the immense
star-battleship _Erebus_, from which the planet-buster was to be
dropped. Instead, he had been assigned this miserable chore of checking
Rigel IV, the planet scheduled for blasting.

It was a job that should have gone to a mere ensign, not a veteran
echelon leader with three comets on his breast. There was nothing to
do. His survey route had been plotted in advance by the calculators
that crammed the deck below and precision instruments did all the
checking. If Rigel IV were habitable or inhabited, it would not have
been selected for the test.

The flying laboratory in which he sat would circle it twice, then
return under automatic control to the dot in space, 3,000,000
kilometers away, five o’clock vector, where ships of half the
inhabited planets were gathering to watch the test.

Wellington Smith, the new chief star marshal, had his own pet pilot for
the big job. Hannibal Pryor, as one of Lopez’ top men, was out of the
big picture.

Flying the preliminary milk run! It made acid flow in his veins. And
he was getting fat from punching out weird gastronomic combinations
on the food-board. There was nothing to do but eat--and swill up the
non-intoxicating drinks available through the dispenser.

The way things stood, Pryor knew he’d be lucky if he made wing chief in
ten years Earth-time. Once you were out of the big picture, it took a
miracle to pull you back into focus.

Idly, Pryor lowered his long dark-skinned body into the observer’s
bucket, and watched the small golden dot that was Rigel IV swiftly
enlarge itself on the screen. It took on a bluish tinge and acquired
the fuzzy halo that denoted an atmosphere.

The scientists, prodded by the political leaders of Sirius Sector, had
selected for the sake of thoroughness a planet known to be habitable,
though uninhabited, at least by human beings. The planet-buster had
already been tested on the airless satellites of one of the dark stars.

Without much interest, Pryor watched Rigel IV fill the screen,
gradually become convex. He had landed on far too many worlds to
be frightened by the effect of its falling upon him as he neared
it. Half-subconsciously, he noted that the star-brakes were working
perfectly.

He felt the faint jar as the atmosphere engines took over from the
star-drive. The little lights on the panel flared and flickered in
proper sequence as the flying laboratory began its first circuit of a
world that was soon to be blasted to stardust.

Later, he realized that he must have dozed off. At any rate, he missed
the flicker of green light at the left of the panel and it took the
rasping electronic voice that unexpectedly called, “Pilot control,
pilot control, pilot control,” to awaken him.

He muttered, “_Diamede!_” in sheer disbelief, as he pushed the button
that turned off the voice and took over the controls. It couldn’t
possibly have happened and yet--the instruments were never wrong.

Rigel IV was inhabited--by humans!

As he brought the ship in along an ever-slowing parabola, Pryor pulled
the outspeaker over in front of his mouth and said, “Lab Able calling
_Erebus_, Lab Able calling _Erebus_. Locator shows humanity on Rigel
Four, locator shows humanity on Rigel Four. Over.”

He held course and watched the seconds tick by on the call chronometer.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen ... thirty-five, thirty-six ... A burst of
gibberish emerged from the inspeaker until he tuned the unscrambler
and heard, “I hear you, Lab Able. Check for inhabitants and arrange
immediate evacuation, check for inhabitants and arrange immediate
evacuation. Report when assignment complete, report when assignment
complete. Time is of the essence, time is of the essence. Over and out,
over and out.”

Pryor wrestled with temptation. If he put another message through,
unscrambled, stating the situation, Interstellar Control monitors
would inevitably pick it up. Interstellar Control was death on any
interference with inhabited planets. Interstellar Control was already
on record as being against the planet-buster test on a usable world.
And not even the new chief star marshal was strong enough to buck IC.

Pryor smiled and hummed a little Antarean tune as he slowed Lab Able to
hovering speed. If he handled the situation adroitly, he should be able
to get Marshal Lopez out of the doghouse--and, quite as important, one
Echelon Leader Hannibal Pryor back in the big picture.

According to the instruments, the humans on Rigel IV lived in a
single small settlement in the south temperate zone of the planet,
surprisingly close to the forbidding antarctic ice-cap.

Pryor cut in distance-detail vision and blinked unbelievingly at a
cluster of thatched roofs about a strangely familiar structure with
a tall white pointed spire. The fields about the settlement, where
they did not show cultivation, bore an odd pale purple hue. Beyond the
village lay a long, narrow, twisting body of pale blue water.

Pryor spotted a level spot that looked suitable for landing, clear of
the tilled fields. His mocha colored fingers played the panel-buttons
like the fingers of an organist ringing in stops, as he prepared Lab
Able for its descent.

Emerging from his ship, Pryor discovered that the pale purple fields
were actually covered with a sort of low, tough shrubbery. It covered
the sparsely-treed hills beyond the lake and seemed to fade into the
deep misty blue of the afternoon sky.

Although he had never seen a landscape like it, in all his roving over
scores of planets, Pryor found it pleasant. A strong, cool wind whipped
his weatherproof coverall against the backs of his legs. After the
artificial atmosphere of Lab Able, the fresh air stung his nostrils
pleasantly. And the smell of the pale purple shrubbery was sweet.

He scrambled over a low barrier of uncut gray stone that marked the
boundary of the field in which he had landed and found himself on
a narrow road of ochre-hued dirt. He trudged along it, toward the
village, and around a dipping bend met two men riding in a surface
car of fantastically ancient vintage. If Pryor had not seen similar
vehicles in his histofilm course at the academy, he would scarcely have
known what it was. It actually ran on wheels with plastic rims.

It pulled to a halt alongside him and the red-bearded patriarch sitting
next to the young man at the controls, leapt spryly out and said in odd
thick accents, “Welcome to Leith on Nevis, sir.”

The older man had to repeat the greeting before Pryor found words.
There was so much that was astonishing about him. First, his clothing.
It consisted of stout shoes of what looked like real leather, long
woven socks in brilliant diamond checks, a brief black jacket and a
sort of skirt woven in a complex pattern of blue-and-green checks and
kept from flaring in the wind by a heavy pouch of some sort of fur.

A sort of blanket that matched the skirt was slung over his left
shoulder and an odd-looking flat black bonnet, turned up on one side by
an elaborate metal clip, had a headband of the same bright material.

Second, his beard. For centuries, all male human children were given
facial depilation shortly after birth, and as a result, the old man’s
luxurious red growth looked both alarming and unsanitary. Third, his
skin. It was like that of the young man engaged in turning the vehicle
awkwardly about, a pale reddish pink that made Pryor conscious of his
own dark normality.

When he had recovered from his surprise at encountering such a strange
specimen, Pryor returned his greeting and asked to be taken to the
chief or leader of the community.

The younger man, who had pulled up alongside again but facing the other
way, said, “You’re speaking to the Dominie now, sir.” His accent was as
alien and thick as that of the man with the beard. And his costume was
similar save for minor details.

On the way to the village, they had to halt while a flock of _baaa_ing
gray sheep, tended by a husky-looking youngster and a long-haired
black-and-white dog, crossed the dirt road. Pryor, who had never seen
anything like them before, asked what they were, what they were for.

The older man smiled and said, “Their wool supplies us with the
clothing we wear. Their hides provide us with light leather. Their
flesh provides us with meat for the table.”

Pryor nodded, wishing he hadn’t asked. The idea of eating the flesh of
living creatures--or recently living creatures--appalled him. He had an
idea he wasn’t going to enjoy his dinner.

The village, with its stone houses and thatched roofs reminded Pryor of
a village in a fairy tale vidarfilm. He noted with growing amazement
that all the inhabitants seemed to be fair of hair and skin, all wore
the gay skirts and bonnets, regardless of sex. He was asked to alight
in front of the largest house, one close by the stone church with its
white wooden spire.

The Dominie led him into a room of wholly unexpected comfort and
applied flame to a pile of cut logs in a wide stone fireplace.

This done, he produced two earthenware mugs and a stone bottle
and said, “I doubt not but that your mission to Leith on Nevis is
important. It is only fitting we indulge in a drop before we come to
such matters.”

The Dominie drained his mug without changing expression, but the
innocent looking amber liquid made Pryor gasp. It seemed to burn his
gullet and, seconds later, start a warming fire in his veins. When he
could talk, he gasped, “What was that, Dominie?”

“That,” said the older man, smiling through his beard, “is uisquebaugh,
the water of life, known to the less ancient as whiskey.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Pryor managed. He wondered if he weren’t dreaming
the whole business, and shook himself mentally in an effort to awaken
in the prosaic surroundings of Lab Able. But nothing changed.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “I’ve brought you a problem, Dominie.” He
wondered what the word meant. “I’ve got orders from headquarters,
Sirius Sector to have this planet evacuated at once.”

Courteously, the older man refilled Pryor’s mug, then poured more
liquid fire into his own. He said, “And what is the alternative?”

“There is no alternative,” Pryor replied bluntly. “In a matter of
thirty-six hours, Earth-time, this little world is going to be blown to
smithereens.”

“I’ll say one thing for you, young man,” said the Dominie. “You don’t
believe in beating about the bush.” He drained his mug once more, and
added over its rim, “Is the universe at war?”

“Not at present, I’m happy to say,” said Pryor.

“Then I fear your errand is wasted,” said the other. “If there is no
war, then we shall not evacuate. Even if there were, I should hesitate
to uproot my people. They would have to leave so much of what they have
wrought and love behind them.”

“I assure you,” said Pryor, wondering just how stupid the patriarch
was, “that you will receive ample compensation.”

“Can you then arrange ample compensation for human hearts?” the old man
asked.

Pryor braced himself and drained his mug. To his surprise, the whiskey
or whatever it was, went down smoothly. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t
understand the situation, sir. This planet, Rigel Four, is the subject
for testing of the deadliest new bomb ever made. The experiment is
already under way. You and your people must evacuate. Of course, if our
plotters had known of your existence--”

“They’d have selected another world to blow up,” the Dominie finished
for him. “I fear they’ll have to make the change anyway. Our title to
this planet is quite clear and above-board. Allow me to show you.”

He rose, crossed to a lovingly carved and polished cabinet, and
withdrew not a vidiroll but some actual ancient documents, handed them
to Pryor.

Pryor looked at them with growing excitement. It was a planet charter,
beyond question, granted some two centuries before by Interplanetary
Control, the predecessor of Interstellar Control. It stated that Arnold
MacRae, Ian Stephenson and Alexandra Hamilton had purchased, in goods,
cash and services, the full rights to Rigel IV, hereafter to be known
as Nevis. It added that the rights were to run in perpetuity, save only
in the case of interstellar war and then only during the existence of a
state of war.

Somebody had slipped when Marshal Wellington Smith selected Rigel IV
for his planet-busting test. Pryor suspected the listing of this world
under Nevis, among the titled planets, rather than as Rigel IV among
the untitled, plus the antiquity of the deal and the small size and
isolation of the settlement, had caused the error.

He stood up, noting that the floor seemed to slant where it had been
level when he entered. He said, “There’s been a serious error, I fear.
Can you have me driven to my ship at once? I must report it while there
is still time.”

“Certainly, young man,” said the Dominie, rising.

Back in Lab Able, Pryor ran his hands over his face, which felt
unreasonably hot. He punched in the outspeaker, called the _Erebus_ and
explained the situation. At its conclusion, he added innocently, “Shall
I call in Interstellar for checking and aid? Over.”

He had to wait almost half an hour, Earth-time, for the reply to come
through. In the meantime, he could picture the consternation among the
smug brass hats on the flagship. He hummed the Antarean ditty again,
feeling strangely relaxed and comfortable.

Finally it came through. When he got it unscrambled, it was orders to
sit tight while higher authority dealt with the situation. He signed
off, chuckling, and went back outside to the ancient surface-car, where
the young man and a young woman were waiting for him. He had left
the message recorder on, resolved to return in two hours for further
orders. If there were none, he was going to call in IC. Come what
might, he was back in the big picture with a vengeance.

When they reached the Dominie’s house, the girl said, “When you’re
through eating, perhaps you’ll come to the kirk vestry. We’ll be having
a small dance.”

He looked at her more closely and, in spite of the rosy and unnatural
whiteness of her skin, noted that she was comely. He resolved to visit
the kirk vestry as soon as politeness would permit, whatever a kirk
vestry might be.

He drank more of the Dominie’s uisquebaugh before dinner and found
himself asking, “Pardon me, sir, but would you answer one question?”
And, at the older man’s nod, “Why are you so few?”

“We are few by choice,” was the reply. “Our forefathers long ago left
Earth for Proxima Centauri Seven, in one of the earliest migrations, to
escape overcrowding. My people and I like room to breathe in, room to
roam and work without restriction. When PC Seven grew too crowded, we
pooled our resources and purchased this world. In those days, planets
such as this were cheap enough. The Control was glad to have them
settled. Since then, we have limited our numbers to avoid a repetition
of what went before.”

Thinking of a life spent in the crowded cities of crowded planets or
in the cramped quarters of starships, Pryor understood. It had been in
search of space and freedom that he had joined the service--only to
exchange urban jamming for the prisons of strict discipline and limited
space.

“You’ve created a dream,” Pryor said.

The Dominie put down his empty mug and said gravely, “Don’t think
it’s been easy. Adapting to the most hospitable alien world is a
backbreaking job. But we’ve never been afraid of work.”

“I can see that,” said Pryor, feeling oddly useless. He wondered how he
would fare without buttons to push, circuits to serve him.

The Dominie’s wife, a tall, handsome woman with the frame of a
percheron, appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Thanks to
the whiskey, or perhaps to his absorption in his exotic surroundings,
Pryor found himself actually eating meat--and actually enjoying it.
The mutton was crisp and black on the outside, tender and pink in the
center, and the vegetables and fruits served with it constituted a rich
new experience.

During the meal, the Dominie’s wife said, “Tell me, Mr. Pryor, if the
universe is not at war, why do they wish to blow up our planet?”

Pryor explained as best he could--and, unexpectedly, he seemed to be
thinking and expressing himself more clearly than ever before. He told
them about the rise of the aggressive elements in Sirius Sector, about
the plebescite that had put Wellington Smith in power.

“They’re fretting under the restrictions of IC,” he said, “and they’re
seeking to gather sufficient strength to obtain concessions. As long as
they remain within IC limits, they can’t be touched.”

The Dominie said quietly, “It’s the same dreadful story, Mary. Too many
people, too many unhappy people, restlessness, conspiracy, war. This
time the whole universe will suffer.” Then, to Pryor, “But if your Star
Marshal obliterates an inhabited IC planet, he’ll be in trouble, will
he not?”

“If he should dare do such a thing--and I feel sure he won’t,” said
Pryor, “he’ll be as good as ruined.” For some reason he added, as an
afterthought, “That is, if IC hears of it.”

“I see,” said the patriarch, nodding thoughtfully.

His wife said, “There’s a dance in the kirk vestry this evening, Mr.
Pryor. I hope you’ll be in attendance. Naturally, you’ll honor us by
being our guest overnight.”

Pryor found the kirk vestry without trouble. It was an extension of the
big building with the white spire and less than fifty meters from the
Dominie’s house. He intended merely to get someone to drive him to his
ship and get his message out. But when he heard the shrill, rhythmic
combination of bagpipes and fiddle, something stirred deep in his
ancestral memory and he forgot about all else.

He danced with the girl of the surface-car and she showed him the steps
of the strange dances and his feet had magic in them. He laughed with
the men and drank more of the whiskey and the night became a golden
whirl of primitive excitement such as he had never known. He needed the
help of two of the young men to get him back to the Dominie’s house,
where he was undressed and put into a soft warm object they called a
bed.

He knew no more until the concussion of the explosion brought him
sharply out of his drunken slumber. Although his tongue was thick with
fur and his head rattled as if it were filled with dried pebbles, he
woke up sober.

Through the bedroom window, he saw the flickering brilliance of the
exploded bomb mounting slowly toward the stars. He turned and, with a
strange sickness in his stomach, scrambled into his clothing. Outside,
he could hear the little community coming to life.

He hadn’t believed they would do it. When he got out of the vehicle,
he saw an odd little mound of molten metal where Lab Able had stood in
silver serenity a few minutes earlier. Silently, he cursed the ruthless
militarists who were going to blast Rigel IV to dust, and cursed his
own irresponsibility for not sending the message that would have put a
halt to their plans.

Somebody said in the odd accent that was already becoming familiar,
“What happened, Mr. Pryor?”

Pryor thought fast though his head ached badly. He said, “I fear the
drive fuel reached critical mass. It happens once in a hundred thousand
times.” It hadn’t, it couldn’t, but how could he tell them they were as
good as dead?

And himself with them, of course. But he didn’t waste time thinking
about that.

When he got back to the Dominie’s house, the wife greeted him gravely.
She wore a soft wool robe, and her hair was in odd wisps of paper, and
he could tell by the way she looked at him that she knew.

“Where can I find the Dominie?” he asked.

“He’s in the basement of the kirk,” she said in her soft untroubled
voice. “He asked me to ask you to join him there.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Pryor replied. There was nothing more to say.

The light was dim in the basement. The place smelled of age and
dampness. But there was machinery there, a vast pile of it, and the
Dominie was fussing around it, wearing a frown.

“Ho, there, Pryor,” he said. “So they blew up your ship?”

“They blew her up,” said Pryor grimly. “I never thought they’d dare. If
only I hadn’t made an idiot of myself at the dance, I’d--”

The Dominie cut him off with, “It’s a bit late for regrets, young man.
Come see if we can get this blasted communicator working.”

Pryor’s heart leapt. For a moment, he thought he was gaining a
reprieve. Then he saw the age and condition of the old set--it was at
least a century old--and realized they’d be lucky to get a message out
at all before the big one blew them to nothingness.

“Come on, Dominie,” he said, “let’s have that wrench.”

They worked through the short night and into the morning that followed.
The Dominie’s wife brought them a strange herb brew she called tea,
that reinvigorated them. She said, to Pryor, “Sheila and the other
girls are very excited. They believe you’ll be staying a while now.
You’ll be the first stranger in many years.”

Pryor wiped his brow grimly and said, “Well, I’ll be here as long as
any of them, I guess.”

“Then there’s no hope?” the Dominie asked quietly over his tea.

“Oh, we’ll get a message out to the IC,” said Pryor. “We’re almost
ready to send. But it will be too late. The bomb is already on its
way.”

“Come on then,” said the Dominie, handing his tea back to his wife.
“Let’s waste no time.”

They got the message out, before the reddish sun reached the Meridian.
And Pryor said grimly, “That makes their second mistake. They should
have blasted the town last night, not just my ship. Their first mistake
was in selecting this planet.” He looked about him at the placid, happy
scene, and suppressed a heaving sob.

The Dominie put a firm hand on his shoulder and said, “Perhaps it’s
best this way. Perhaps this is why we are here, to prevent the most
terrible war of all. After all, there aren’t many of us against those
who would die if your marshal got his way.”

Pryor said, his eyes shining with admiration, “You’re a great man,
Dominie--and a brave one.”

“Let’s just say an old one,” said the patriarch. “And now, since we
have so little time, let’s you and I walk to the edge of the loch and
look at the hills on the other side. It’s a lovely view.”




Transcriber's Note:


This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, March 1956 (Vol. 5,
No. 2.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.



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