Space Science Fiction Super Pack. Randall Garrett
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tools from stone and how to use these to build better huts. He taught them how to make swords and other weapons, so that henceforth they wouldn’t be forced to rely for defense on poison alone. He was the most industrious god since Vulcan. And in helping them he found that he had no time for Aoooya.
Came the day when the new village settled down to its changed routine of life. The morning ceremony before his new shrine had just been completed, but Bradley was not satisfied. Something was wrong. Yanyoo’s demeanor, Aoooya’s—
With a shock, Bradley realized what it was. From old Yanyoo down the line, none of the natives seemed to have their original fear of him. There was respect, there was affection, certainly, but the respect and affection were those due an older brother rather than a god.
And he was not displeased. Being a god had been a wearying business. Being a friend might be a great deal more pleasant. Yes, the change was something to be happy about.
*
But he had little time to be happy. For that same morning, there came what he had so long dreaded. Out of a clear, shipless sky, Malevski appeared, strolling toward him as casually as if he had been there all along, and said, “Nice little ceremony you have here.”
“Hello, Malevski. Don’t give me the credit. They thought it up.”
“Ingenious. Almost as ingenious as the way they’ve used the help you gave them. We had this tribe listed long ago as a very capable one, far behind the rest of its System in development, it’s true, but only because it had started late up the evolutionary ladder. It had been doing very nicely on its own, and we didn’t want to interfere unless we could give it some real help.
“I’ll admit that I had a few qualms at first, when we traced you here and learned that you had landed among them. But we’ve been observing you for the past day and a half—our space ship landed beyond that burned out stretch of ground, not too close to that volcano—and I’ll have to admit that, judging from your past record, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I suppose that’s over with now,” said Bradley.
“Yes, you’re finished with being a god. We don’t believe in kidding the natives, Bradley!”
Bradley nodded ruefully. “They don’t seem to believe in it, either. I guess they found out I wasn’t a god before I did. But it didn’t seem to matter to them.” He sighed, and turned toward the new village. “Do you mind, if I sort of—well, hold a farewell ceremony before we go? They won’t understand, but they’ll feel better than if I just go off....”
Malevski shook his head firmly. “No, no time for that. I’ll have to get out a full report, and we’re in a hurry to get off. Any word you’d like to have sent out to your mother, Bradley, before we blast?”
*
Bradley looked back again, and his shoulders came up more firmly. He’d taught his people here, and led them; but he’d learned a few things himself—he’d found he could take what was necessary. He’d found that the easiest way wasn’t always the best, that getting drunk was no way out, and that real friendship and respect meant more than the words of big-shots. Maybe he’d learned enough to be able to take regeneration....
He managed to grin, a little lopsidedly, at Malevski. “Yeah. You might send her a message. Tell her I’m fine, and that I’ve learned to wipe my own nose. I think she’ll be glad to hear that.”
“She will,” Malevski told him. “When she hears that you’re Provisional Governor of this planet, she’ll even believe it.”
“Provisional Governor?” Bradley stood with his mouth open, staring. He shook his head. “But what about regeneration...?”
Malevski laughed. “You’re appointed, on the basis of my first report about what you’re doing here, Bradley,” he answered. “As to regeneration ... well, you think about it, while we bring in the supplies we’re supposed to leave for you, before we blast out of here.”
He went off, chuckling, towards his ship, leaving Bradley to puzzle over it.
Then, just as Malevski disappeared, he understood. Damn it, they’d tricked him! They’d left him here where he had to be a god and assume the responsibilities of a god. And through that, he’d been regenerated—completely, thoroughly regenerated!
Suddenly, he was chuckling as hard as Malevski as he swung around and went back to face his former worshippers. And they were coming forward to meet him, their friendly smiles matching his own.
The Hour of Battle
By Robert Sheckley
As one of the Guardian ships protecting Earth, the crew had a problem to solve. Just how do you protect a race from an enemy who can take over a man’s mind without seeming effort or warning?
*
“That hand didn’t move, did it?” Edwardson asked, standing at the port, looking at the stars.
“No,” Morse said. He had been staring fixedly at the Attison Detector for over an hour. Now he blinked three times rapidly, and looked again. “Not a millimeter.”
“I don’t think it moved either,” Cassel added, from behind the gunfire panel. And that was that. The slender black hand of the indicator rested unwaveringly on zero. The ship’s guns were ready, their black mouths open to the stars. A steady hum filled the room. It came from the Attison Detector, and the sound was reassuring. It reinforced the fact that the Detector was attached to all the other Detectors, forming a gigantic network around Earth.
“Why in hell don’t they come?” Edwardson asked, still looking at the stars. “Why don’t they hit?”
“Aah, shut up,” Morse said. He had a tired, glum look. High on his right temple was an old radiation burn, a sunburst of pink scar tissue. From a distance it looked like a decoration.
“I just wish they’d come,” Edwardson said. He returned from the port to his chair, bending to clear the low metal ceiling. “Don’t you wish they’d come?” Edwardson had the narrow, timid face of a mouse; but a highly intelligent mouse. One that cats did well to avoid.
“Don’t you?” he repeated.
The other men didn’t answer. They had settled back to their dreams, staring hypnotically at the Detector face.
“They’ve had enough time,” Edwardson said, half to himself.
Cassel yawned and licked his lips. “Anyone want to play some gin?” he asked, stroking his beard. The beard was a memento of his undergraduate days. Cassel maintained he could store almost fifteen minutes worth of oxygen in its follicles. He had never stepped into space unhelmeted to prove it.
Morse looked away, and Edwardson automatically watched the indicator. This routine had been drilled into them, branded into their subconscious. They would as soon have cut their throats as leave the indicator unguarded.
“Do you think they’ll come soon?” Edwardson asked, his brown rodent’s eyes on the indicator. The men didn’t answer him. After two months together in space their conversational powers were exhausted. They weren’t interested in Cassel’s undergraduate days, or in Morse’s conquests.
They were bored to death even with their own thoughts and dreams, bored with the attack they expected momentarily.
“Just one thing I’d like to know,” Edwardson said, slipping with ease into an old conversational gambit. “How far can they do it?”
They had talked for weeks about the enemy’s telepathic range, but they always returned to it.
As professional soldiers, they couldn’t help but speculate on the enemy and his weapons. It was their shop talk.
“Well,” Morse said wearily, “Our Detector network covers the system out beyond