Dark Benediction

separated them from the intergalactic wasteland—an ocean of emptiness and death. They could not consign themselves to its ultimate embrace. They had fought too long, labored too hard to surrender willingly to extinction.

But the cup of their life was broken.

And to the land’s last limit they came.

They found a planet with a single moon, with green forests, with thin clouds draping her gold and blue body in the sunlight. The breath of the snowking was white on her ice caps, and her seas were placid green. They landed. They smiled when the natives called the planet “Earth.” Lots of planets claimed the distinction of being Man’s birthplace.

Among the natives there was a dumpy little professor—still human, though slightly evolved. On the night following the nomad’s landing, he sat huddled in an easy-chair, staring at the gaunt nomadic giant whose bald head nearly touched the ceiling of the professor’s library. The professor slowly shook his head and sighed.

“I can’t understand you people.”

“Nor I you,” rumbled the nomad.

“Here is Earth—yet you won’t believe it!”

The giant snorted contemptuously. “Who cares? Is this crumb in space the fulfillment of a dream?”

“You dreamed of a lost Earth paradise.”

“So we thought. But who knows the real longing of a dream? Where is its end? Its goal?”

“We found ours here on Earth.”

The giant made a wry mouth. “You’ve found nothing but your own smug existence. You’re a snake swallowing its tail.”

“Are you sure you’re not the same?” purred the scholar. The giant put his fists on his hips and glowered at him. The professor whitened.

“That’s untrue,” boomed the giant. “We’ve found nothing. And we’re through. At least we went searching. Now we’re finished.”

“Not you. Its the job that’s finished. You can live here. And he proud of a job well done.”

The giant frowned. “Job? What job?”

“Why, fencing in the stars. Populating the galaxy.” The big man stared at him in horrified amazement. “Well,” the scholar insisted, “you did it, you know. Who populates the galaxy now?”

“People like you.”

The impact of the scaring words brought a sick gasp from the small professor. He was a long moment in realizing their full significance. He wilted. He sank lower in the chair.

The nomad’s laughter suddenly rocked the room. He turned away from his victim and helped himself to a tumbler of liqueur. He downed it at a gulp and grinned at the professor. He tucked the professor’s liqueur under his arm, waved a jaunty farewell, and lumbered out into the night.

“My decanter,” protested the professor in a whisper.

He went to bed and lay whimpering slightly in drowsiness. He was afraid of the tomorrows that lay ahead.

The nomads settled on the planet for lack of fuel. They complained of the climate and steadfastly refused to believe that it was Earth. They were a troublesome, boisterous lot, and frequently needed psychoanalysis for their various crimes. A provisional government was set up to deal with the problem. The natives had forgotten about governments, and they called it a “welfare commission.”

The nomads who were single kidnapped native wives. Sometimes they kidnapped several, being a prolific lot. They begot many children, and a third-generation hybrid became the first dictator of a northern continent.

I am rusting in the rain. I shall never serve my priest here on Earth again. Nuclear fuels are scarce. They are needed for the atomic warheads now zipping back and forth across the North Pole. A poet—one of the hybrids—has written immortal lines deploring war; and the lines were inscribed on the post-humour medal they gave his widow.

Three dumpy idealists built a spaceship, but they were caught and hung for treason. The eight-foot lawyer who defended them was also hung.

The world wears a long face; and the stars twinkle invitingly. But few men look upward now. Things are probably just as bad on the next inhabited planet.

I am the spider who walked around space. I, Harpist for a pale proud Master, have seen the big hunger, have tasted its red glow reflected in my circuits. Still I cannot understand.

But I feel there are some who understand. I have seen the pride in their faces. They walk like kings.

Conditionally Human

HE KNEW there was no use hanging around after breakfast, but he could not bear leaving her like this. He put on his coat in the kitchen, stood uncertainly in the doorway, and twisted his hat in his hands. His wife still sat at the table, fingered the handle of an empty cup, stared fixedly out the window at the kennels behind the house, and pointedly ignored his small coughings and scrapings. He watched the set of her jaw for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Anne?”

“What?”

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“Then go away.”

“Can’t I do anything—?”

“I told you what to do.”

Her voice was a monotone, full of hurt. He could neither endure the hurt nor remove it. He gingerly crossed the room to stand behind her, hoping she’d look up at him and let her face go soft, maybe even cry a little. But she kept gazing at the window in accusing silence. He chuckled suddenly and touched her silk-clad shoulder. The shoulder shivered away. Her dark hair quivered as she shuddered, and her arms were suddenly locked tightly about her breasts as if she were cold. He pulled his hand back, and his big pliant face went slack. He gulped forlornly.

“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“Ha!”

He backed a step away, paused again. “Hey, Baby, you knew before you married me,” he reminded her gently.

“I did not.”

“You knew I was a District Inspector for the F.B.A. You knew I had charge of a pound.”

“I didn’t know you killed them!” she snapped, whirling.

“I don’t have to kill many,” he offered.

“That’s like saying you don’t kill them very dead.”

“Look, honey, they’re only animals.”

“Intelligent animals!”

“Intelligent as a human imbecile, maybe.”

“A baby is an imbecile. Would you kill a baby?— Of course you would! You do! That’s what they are: babies. I hate you.” He withered, groped desperately for a new approach, tried a semantic tack. “Look, ‘intelligence’ is a word applicable only to humans. It’s the name of a human function, and…”

“And that makes them human!” she finished. “Murderer!”

“Baby—!”

“Don’t call me baby! Call them baby!”

He made a miserable noise in his throat, backed a few steps toward the door, and beat down his better judgment to speak again: “Anne, honey, look! Think of the good things about the job.