Arcturus Landing Read online

  “It’s not just a matter of importance,” broke in Mal, stiffly. “I feel I owe Peep an apology.”

  “An apology?” echoed Margie. Now they were all staring at Mal.

  “Of course. Having you around all the time, Peep, I forgot how advanced you Aliens are over a primitive race like our own. Forgetting this, I often must have imposed—”

  “Oh, Mal, don’t be stupid!” cried Margie.

  “If you’ll let me get a word in edgewise— imposed upon your natural kindness and good nature.”

  “Young friend,” said Peep precisely, “you baffle me.”

  “It’s President Waring,” explained Dirk. “He’s been explaining what you were really like.”

  “And what am I like?”

  Margie told him.

  “Ah,” said Peep.

  He glanced a little slyly at Mal, who was still standing sternly, almost at attention, his face showing his disapproval of Dirk and Margie. Something about the situation seemed to amuse Peep.

  “I,” said Peep, “belong to a race that has a known history of sixty-eight thousand years.”

  “Oh?” said Mal, seeing the remark was directed at him.

  “We have played a part in the Federation for fifty thousand years,” continued Peep. “I translate, of course, into terms of your earthly calendar. Generation has succeeded generation, sons rising in knowledge above their fathers, until—in culmination you might say—roughly two hundred and thirty of your Earth years ago, I was born.”

  Mal looked at him suspiciously. Peep moved closer.

  “From my earliest years,” he murmured, “I showed great promise. Compared to my schoolmates on Jusileminopratipup, I showed startling brilliance—and of course you realize how the least of these would compare to a primitive human like yourself.”

  Mal was openly scowling now. If the idea had not been completely ridiculous—in a class with lashing out at a brick wall—those watching might have thought that he was on the verge of taking a punch at Peep.

  “I put in fifty years of study in the field of the general sciences,” Peep was continuing. “Following this, I elected to specialize in the emotional sciences. After a hundred and twelve more years, I found myself a researcher and an accepted authority in my field.”

  Mal snorted slightly. Just why was not clear. “And then,” went on Peep, “I went in for field studies. I left my confreres far behind as I plunged into new and unexplored areas of research. For thirty years I blazed a trail in the development of a method of emotional investigation. Following this, I scouted far afield over the galaxy. I made countless studies. And finally—” Peep had drawn right up to Mal’s ear and was barely whispering now— “I was ready to come forth with my conclusion—my complete and substantiated Theory of Emotion, which would explain the common end toward which all races, all beings, were striving. I concluded, I checked. I double-checked. And finally I was sure. I had found it.”

  They were all listening intently now. Peep’s tense whisper and his dramatic recital were hypnotizing them.

  “I leaped to my feet with joy and hurried outside my tree house—I was on Jusileminopratipup at the time, my home world. I whipped around to its other entrance and caught the Atakit who lived there just coming out. He was Lajikoromatitupiyot, a great friend of mine, and like myself, an earnest researcher in the field of emotion. Joyfully, I poured forth my theory to him—” Abruptly, Peep stopped. The three humans waited tensely for him to continue, but when he merely went on sitting there, combing his whiskers with the fingers of one hand, it became clear that someone was going to have to prompt him.

  “Well?” demanded Mal ungraciously. “What happened them?”

  “Oh, I told you that,” said Peep in his normal voice. “Remember?”

  “Remember?” echoed Mal, astonished. And the three humans stared at the little Atakit in bewilderment.

  “Why, certainly,” replied Peep. “I remember telling you all about it shortly after we met for the first time. Poor Lajikoromatitupiyot was slightly skeptical of my process of reasoning in arriving at my theory. In a shameful rage at his purblindness, I picked him up and beat him against the tree trunk. Not—” put in Peep in parentheses—“that I make a habit of such reactions. As I told you, it is an unfortunate racial characteristic of us Atakits. Even Laj himself—who has a very calm and analytical mind ordinarily—has so forgotten himself as to break a table or some such over my head in the heat of discussion on several occasions. However—as I told you, the same thing happened with another of my fellow workers, with whom I attempted to discuss my theory shortly afterward. I ended by throwing him over a waterfall. Eventually I was forced to recognize the futility of such violent methods of discussing a Theory of Non-Violence. It was at that time I heard of your Earth and the Neo-Taylorites and fled to them as to a refuge.”

  He looked at them all. For a moment they stared back dumfounded.

  “Non-Violence—?” breathed Mal.

  “Exactly,” said Peep. “All emotional beings uniformly tend toward a future in which all possible violence to their emotions will be eliminated. Since my return to Arcturus, I have discovered that my theory, after all, has met with a great deal of approval after being checked by other workers in the field. This is very satisfactory, since it partially answers the long-standing question of what the eventual goal of civilization must be. I feel fairly safe in predicting that our professional group may jointly announce Non-Violence as a goal to be striven for. Of course—” and here he repeated his sly look at Mal—“I couldn’t possibly expect a primitive like you to do any striving for about sixty thousand years or so—even though Neo-Taylorism and the practical application of your own work tie in so nicely with my theory.”

  “What?” said Mal and became conscious that all the rest were smiling at him. “But—but now, look, Peep. Waring had a point. The disparity between us—”

  “Ah, yes,” said Peep. “The anthropologist and the native. Now, assuming that that is a valid interpretation of our respective roles, tell me, Mal—after a primitive society becomes exposed to an advanced civilization, how long does it take to produce a member of that primitive society who fits into the civilization?”

  “Why—” said Mal, “you could take a child of the next generation and if you brought it up in civilization—”

  “Exactly,” replied Peep. “And there is the solution to your problem. If a human is willing to grow up in the Federation as a full citizen of it, he can participate as well as any other member of it.”

  “That’s all right for the next generation, then,” said Mal sadly, seeing the beautiful stores of knowledge tucked away in the Federation dwindling into the distance. “But not for me.”

  “I can’t agree,” answered Peep. “Correct me if I err, but I have just finished telling you that I myself am somewhat over two hundred and thirty of your Earth years in age, and only at the beginning of a long and useful lifetime, we in the Federation having in some sense found a solution to the problem of aging. This solution will, of course, be available now to your people; and since you, I believe, are only in your twenties—mere children yet with your growing up still before you—” He let the sentence trail off slyly.

  He beamed at them.

  “And in fact,” he said, “that is what you are, you know, in spirit and in knowledge and experience—all of you—children. And you will forgive me, I know, if I am therefore tempted to steal a phrase.”

  Peep’s eyes were sparkling and whiskers fairly curled upward at the ends in satisfaction as he gazed at them.

  “I would say,” he said, raising one hand in the air, “in memory of our past companionship and in expectation of our companionship to come—I speak not merely of you three and myself, but of your kind and mine, and in the name of Non-Violence and true affection—”

  Once more he paused, and his beam included them all.

  “I would say—bless you all, my children.” And a tear of pure, shy happiness ran down from one eye an
d sparkled on the end of his black and shining nose.

  About Gordon R. Dickson

  by

  Sandra Miesel

  In Gordon R. Dickson’s action-filled universe, grim fighting men and Buddha-faced mystics jostle teddy bears in spacesuits; dolphins leap and dragons prowl; indomitable heroes reshape heaven and earth by force of will or take bumpy rides in mailbags, construct analog models of the cosmos or befriend the Loch Ness Monster.

  After nearly 40 novels and 175 shorter works spread over three decades, this motley band of character-types has brought Dickson from a subsistence diet of stale bread and peanut butter to the acclaim of his public and the esteem of his peers. He won the Hugo Award for “Soldier, Ask Not” (1965) and the Nebula Award for “Call Him Lord” (1966). From 1969 to 1971 he served as President of the Science Fiction Writers’ Association and is a legendary mainstay of sf fan gatherings.

  Dickson wanted to be a writer from his earliest years. He entered the University of Minnesota in 1939 at age 15 to study creative writing. After time out for military service during World War II, he completed his Bachelor of Arts degree in 1948. He withdrew from graduate school to become a full-time writer in 1950 and has been at it ever since. He is one of the few sf authors to have made writing his sole occupation.

  Both training and natural inclination have made Dickson unusually attentive to matters of literary craftsmanship, not only in his own work, but in the sf field as a whole. He works tirelessly to upgrade performance standards through lectures, convention appearances, and even private conversations. His dedication to deliberate craft and philosophical argument combines what he calls the “consciously thematic novel”—the adventure story with a moral. As the author himself explains: ‘The action of the thematic novel is in no way loaded … with a bias towards proving the author’s point. … “The aim is to make the theme such an integral part of the novel that it can be effective on the reader without ever having to be stated explicitly.”

  Dickson has a compelling interest in the theory as well as the practice of artistic creativity. He studies—and writes about— issues like creative overdrive, performance under stress, interactions between different skills, and the social impact of gifted individuals. This stems from his conviction that man’s proper destiny is to grow ever more creative. He sees unlimited potential for achievement in man and all other intelligent beings.

  The highest and clearest expression of Dickson’s views is found in his Childe Cycle. When complete, the Cycle will dramatize humanity’s coming of age from the fourteenth century to the twenty-fourth in a series of twelve novels—three historical, three contemporary, and three science fictional. Dorsai! (1959),Necromancer (1962), “Warrior” (1965),Soldier. Ask Not (1968), Tactics of Mistake (1971), and “Brothers” (1973) have appeared so far. The last pair of sf novels, The Final Encyclopedia and Childe, are currently in preparation. The author expects to spend the rest of his working life completing and polishing the Cycle.

  The Cycle is a grand synthesis of Dickson’s favorite themes and motifs. (However, a few germs of these can even be found in early novels like Time to Teleport, 1955 and Mankind on the Run, 1956.) The Cycle treats the human race like a single organism in which the condition of each individual cell affects the health of the whole. The progressive and conservative tendencies of this human organism, symbolized as estranged Twin Brothers, must be reconciled if the organism is to continue growing. Specialized, sometimes tightly organized, groups work to ease the problem but it can only be solved by the combined efforts of the Three Prime Characters—the Men of Faith, Philosophy, and War. When fully mature, humanity will exercise creative and responsible control over its own evolution.

  But although the Cycle is Dickson’s masterpiece, not all his fiction is that serious. (In fact, Delusion World, 1961 parodies the Cycle.) One showcase for his broad, bouncy sense of humor is the popular Hoka series written in collaboration with his close friend Poul Anderson. (Comedy is the only area in which these two dissimilar authors’ attitudes and writing styles coincide.) As related in Earthman’s Burden (1955) and Star Prince Charlie (1975), the Hokas are cuddly, bright-eyed aliens resembling teddy bears who have a mad flair for mimicry. They love to play at being cowboys or Foreign Legionnaires or other human adventure heroes to the endless frustration of the human diplomat stationed on their planet. These stories, like most of Dickson’s humorous work, are based on the plight of a rational being in a preposterously irrational situation.

  Whether he is writing seriously or humorously, Dickson makes thrifty use of his own experiences and interests as fictional raw material. Because he was born in Canada and has spent most of his adult life in Minneapolis, he often uses Canadian and Midwestern settings to good effect. The quest for authenticity works both ways. For instance, it has led him to order a complete suit of fourteenth century armor as a research tool for writing medieval novels. Likewise, Dickson’s fondness for literature, history, art, music, martial arts, and physical fitness is clearly evident in his work. Since he himself quotes Kipling, sings, composes songs, paints, and works out, so do many of his characters. Needless to say, artistically gifted action heroes are a novelty in sf.

  The wolves, dolphins, whales, great cats, and other beasts populating Dickson’s stories reflect his fascination with animals and animal behavior. (Appropriately, his heraldic badge in the Society for Creative Anachronism is an otter.) This carries over into his treatment of intelligent extraterrestrials. Beings like the Atakit in Alien from Arcturus (19S6) are directly modeled on familiar animals.

  In conclusion, Dickson’s work is the product of a keen, inquisitive mind purposefully shaping ideas into art. His stories are deliberately constructed, not casually improvised. He weaves structural and symbolic patterns into his fictional fabric to express philosophical convictions. At its serious best, his style is efficient, austere, almost relentless, like swift-running streams of icy water or beams of wintry northern light. C. S. Lewis’s description of Norse myth applies equally well to Dickson’s writing: “cold, spacious, severe, pale, and remote.”

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  About Gordon R. Dickson