Nine by Laumer Read online

  There is a mythos growing up about Laumer the Man, quite apart from Laumer the Writer. The legend of Laumer would be pointless, obviously, if there were not an impressive body of work behind it, to lend it substance.

  Both fortunately and unfortunately, much of this stature comes from the Retief series. Fortunately, because they are good, and original, and memorable. Unfortunately, because they cannot compare to Laumer’s more serious works; works heretofore ignored.

  And since we have come through a preliminary comment on the attack of Laumer in his writings, and seem inescapably to bounce off the Retief stories at every turning, perhaps a moment of comparison between the Man and his Creation might be valid.

  Retief, the galactic diplomat, in the stories is a man who defies, despises, but understands the System. But defies is the operable word. Constantly. And manages through dint of cleverness and courage and audacity to win the day. Keith Laumer also despises the System. The punch-card culture that steals men’s souls. That this is so is patently demonstrable by the Retief works and more poignantly by several stories in this collection.

  In “The Walls” and “Cocoon” we see the ultimate horror of a computerized civilization, in which the individual becomes something akin to an automaton, or a mummy. In “Cocoon” he has surrendered all volition to a life of sybaritic ease and sense-pleasure, immolated by his own apathy and fear of responsibility. (One of my sharpest recollections of Keith was an evening we spent discussing the Catherine Genovese slaying, in the streets of New York, while thirty-eight people watched and refused to come to her aid. His deep sense of revulsion, not so much at the crime, but at the motionless swine who watched and did nothing, becomes obtrusive in the light of this story. I think—from what I know of Laumer’s personal philosophy, diverse as it may be —that this story fulfills one of the basic tenets of important science fiction: that it should, ideally, point up a moral for the world of today, through the extrapolations of the world of tomorrow. It is a cautionary tale, filled with all the loathing Keith feels for those who do not heed Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes’ warning that, “A man should share the action and passion of his times at peril of being judged not to have lived.” And this is not the only example of Laumer the storyteller commenting upon a world in which he moves, a world he finds less than idyllic.) In the end, it destroys him—even though the conclusion finds him, driven by instinct, making a massive effort to free himself—too late for salvation. Laumer gives us fair warning.

  In “The Walls” an individual tries to fight the quagmire totality of the Systematized Culture, and makes a valiant effort (unlike the “protagonist” of “Cocoon,” who just lies there till his final moments, allowing the System to literally absorb him), and in the end, when winning becomes impossible, flees to a refuge in madness. Another solution to the problem, and yet another fair warning from Laumer.

  Actually, these two stories are thematically linked in content to a startling degree. They are, in reality, the same story, told two different ways. A tour de force infrequently accomplished by the commercial writer, most of whom are incapable of presenting an argument from more than one viewpoint. Laumer has taken his premise and carried it to the same destination, but his routes could be no more different than if he had weathered the Horn or flown the transpolar route.

  Told slightly differently, and with a dash of wry, this same story appears as “Placement Test,” in which we are offered a solution to the problem. The System threatens to punch-card you? Why then, fight it till you win. Mart Maldon does so, only to find a twitch to the bunny’s nose. But he wins. Which leads to the conclusion that Laumer feels winning is at least possible.

  Employing the asymptotic curve of progress, we might chronologize these stories as being seventy-five years in the future (“Placement Test”), one hundred years ahead (“The Walls”), and two hundred years away (“Cocoon”).

  Additionally, Laumer’s very crystallized images of the System draw forth some suppositions as to what sort of Air Force officer he must have been. In a system of Systems as rigid as the Armed Forces, Laumer did amazingly well for the maverick his writings reveal him to be. And how did he take to the protocol of Rangoon? Perhaps very much like Retief.

  How he must have done this—wool-pulling of the first rank —is mute testimony to Laumer’s adaptability and finesse in situations that might crowd lesser talents to the walls … or “The Walls.” I know my own military experiences were bewildering, until I devised numerous short-circuits and con games that confused the System, till I had made a berth for myself that was tolerable until my discharge. But Laumer did it within the legal machinery of his System, and came out the other end an official of the System—licking them by joining them—which is precisely what the hero of “Placement Test” does.

  Where does autobiography begin and wish-fulfillment end?

  Where does analysis end and sententiousness begin? In the writing of an introduction, right here. In my enthusiasm for these stories, and the writing entity they illuminate, I have committed an unpardonable error: I have too long kept you from the delights of reading Laumer.

  I go now, but beg your indulgence for just one more moment. My personal favorite story of these nine is “Hybrid,” which I consider something of a small masterpiece. Next, I recommend “Dinochrome,” and down the line to “Doorstep,” which was a very early Laumer effort, and consequently, at least to me, seems negligible, and not even remotely on a par with the other eight stories in this fine cross-section of The Other Laumer.

  But I would be remiss in my efforts if I did not draw your particular attention to “A Trip to the City,” a story I have reread at least seven times in the preparation of these introductory notes. It is, I think, something very rare, and something very remarkable.

  I will attempt no explanation of Laumer’s images in the story —the scene in the Club Rexall, the broken china teacup, the nippleless breasts of the girl-doll, the real identity of the fat man in the seersucker suit—for each time I read the piece, they take on different properties, consecutively more perplexing ramifications. But the story is Laumer’s attempt, it seems to me, to contact the reader directly, by precise obfuscation, if such a term seems communicative. He is saying something definite about reality here. Something intimately codified for Laumer. There is a silent plea in this story to understand. To reach out, as a reader, and grasp what Laumer is trying to tell you, about the nature of shadow and reality in our times, about the nature of our place in the insensate universe, about the possibility that Camus was right, that life is basically absurd. Brett is the farm lad in all of us, the country mouse gone to the big time. He is the naive slice of our soma, wide-eyed, wandering through a city, saturated with that innocence of childhood or nature that we all inevitably misplace or corrupt. What the plot of this story may be, is inconsequential (though you can muddle up a pretty fair fantasy explanation for the action therein) in the light of the greater treasures it proffers. Life can mean what you want it to mean, whether stable and oriented, or clinging to the crumbling edge of madness and disorientation.

  And if there is a message in this collection, the message is surely somewhere in this story. The triumph is that the message will be different for you than it is for me. And I don’t think this was happenstance. I submit it was intentional on Laumer’s part, and carried off with bravura and panache. I think it shows, more clearly than any other story in this book (with the possible exception of “Hybrid”), just how deep runs the talent of Keith Laumer.

  It is a talent constantly flexing its muscles, constantly growing, always compelling and demanding just a little more of the reader than that he sit there and let the pap drop into his lap. Laumer’s growth is geometrical, and it seems obvious that he will be in the front rank of science fiction for many years to come. His roots are sunk deep in the rituals of honest storytelling, yet he has the youthful verve to experiment, to strike out, to see how hard he can swing that sledge.

  For those who know Retief
, this book will be an eye-opener. For they will find a Laumer they may not have suspected existed. For those who are confronting Laumer for the first time in any garb, I envy you: you are about to discover a prose stylist whose single aim is to pleasure you. And you will learn the truth of Pascal’s contention that:

  “When we encounter a natural style we are always surprised and delighted, for we thought to see an author and found a man.”

  HARLAN ELLISON

  Sherman Oaks

  California

  HYBRID

  Deep in the soil of the planet, rootlets tougher than steel wire probed among glassy sand grains, through packed veins of clay and layers of flimsy slate, sensing and discarding inert elements, seeking out calcium, iron, nitrogen.

  Deeper still, a secondary system of roots clutched the massive face of the bedrock; sensitive tendrils monitored the minute trembling in the planetary crust, the rhythmic tidal pressures, the seasonal weight of ice, the footfalls of the wild creatures that hunted in the mile-wide shadow of the giant Yanda tree.

  On the surface far above, the immense trunk, massive as a cliff, its vast girth anchored by mighty buttresses, reared up nine hundred yards above the prominence, spreading huge limbs in the white sunlight.

  The tree was only remotely aware of the movement of air over the polished surfaces of innumerable leaves, the tingling exchange of molecules of water, carbon dioxide, oxygen. Automatically it reacted to the faint pressures of the wind, tensing slender twigs to hold each leaf at a constant angle to the radiation that struck down through the foliage complex.

  The long day wore on. Air flowed in intricate patterns; radiation waxed and waned with the drift of vapor masses in the substratosphere; nutrient molecules moved along capillaries; the rocks groaned gently in the dark under the shaded slopes. In the invulnerability of its titanic mass, the tree dozed in a state of generalized low-level consciousness.

  The sun moved westward. Its light, filtered through an increasing depth of atmosphere, was an ominous yellow now. Sinewy twigs rotated, following the source of energy. Somnolently, the tree retracted tender buds against the increasing cold, adjusted its rate of heat and moisture loss, its receptivity to radiation. As it slept, it dreamed of the long past, the years of free-wandering in the faunal stage, before the instinct to root and grow had driven it here. It remembered the grove of its youth, the patriarchal tree, the spore-brothers… .

  It was dark now. The wind was rising. A powerful gust pressed against the ponderous obstacle of the tree; great thews of major branches creaked, resisting; chilled leaves curled tight against the smooth bark.

  Deep underground, fibres hugged rock, transmitting data which were correlated with impressions from distant leaf surfaces. There were ominous vibrations from the northeast; relative humidity was rising, air pressure falling—a pattern formed, signalling danger. The tree stirred; a tremor ran through the mighty branch system, shattering fragile frost crystals that had begun to form on shaded surfaces. Alertness stirred in the heart-brain, dissipating the euphoric dream-pattern. Reluctantly, long dormant faculties came into play. The tree awoke.

  Instantly, it assessed the situation. A storm was moving in off the sea—a major typhoon. It was too late for effective measures. Ignoring the pain of unaccustomed activity, the tree sent out new shock roots—cables three inches in diameter, strong as stranded steel—to grip the upreared rock slabs a hundred yards north of the tap root.

  There was nothing more the tree could do. Impassively, it awaited the onslaught of the storm.

  “That’s a storm down there,” Malpry said.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll miss it.” Gault fingered controls, eyes on dial faces.

  “Pull up and make a new approach,” Malpry said, craning his neck from his acceleration cradle.

  “Shut up. I’m running this tub.”

  “Locked in with two nuts,” Malpry said. “You and the creep.”

  “Me and the creep are getting tired of listening to you bitch, Mai.”

  “When we land, Malpry, I’ll meet you outside,” Pantelle said. “I told you I don’t like the name ‘Creep’.”

  “What, again?” Gault said. “You all healed up from the last time?”

  “Not quite; I don’t seem to heal very well in space.”

  “Permission denied, Pantelle,” Gault said. “He’s too big for you. Mai, leave him alone.”

  “I’ll leave him alone,” Malpry muttered. “I ought to dig a hole and leave him in it. …”

  “Save your energy for down there,” Gault said. “If we don’t make a strike on this one, we’ve had it.”

  “Captain, may I go along on the field reconnaissance? My training in biology—”

  “You better stay with the ship, Pantelle. And don’t tinker. Just wait for us. We haven’t got the strength to carry you back.”

  “That was an accident, Captain—”

  “And the time before. Skip it, Pantelle. You mean well, but you’ve got two left feet and ten thumbs.”

  “I’ve been working on improving my coordination, Captain. I’ve been reading—”

  The ship buffeted sharply as guidance vanes bit into atmosphere; Pantelle yelped.

  “Oh-oh,” he called. “I’m afraid I’ve opened up that left elbow again.”

  “Don’t bleed on me, you clumsy slob,” Malpry said.

  “Quiet!” Gault said between his teeth. “I’m busy.”

  Pantelle fumbled a handkerchief in place over the cut. He would have to practice those relaxing exercises he had read about. And he would definitely start in weight-lifting soon—and watching his diet. And he would be very careful this time and land at least one good one on Malpry, just as soon as they landed.

  Even before the first outward signs of damage appeared, the tree knew that it had lost the battle against the typhoon. In the lull as the eye of the storm passed over, it assessed the damage. There was no response from the north-east quadrant of the sensory network where rootlets had been torn from the rock face; the tap root itself seated now against pulverized stone. While the almost indestructible fibre of the Yanda tree had held firm, the granite had failed. The tree was doomed by its own mass.

  Now, mercilessly, the storm struck again, thundering out of the southwest to assault the tree with blind ferocity. Shock cables snapped like gossamer; great slabs of rock groaned and parted, with detonations lost in the howl of the wind. In the trunk, pressures built, agonizingly.

  Four hundred yards south of the tap root, a crack opened in the sodden slope, gaping wider. Wind-driven water poured in, softening the soil, loosening the grip of a million tiny rootlets. Now the major roots shifted, slipping… .

  Far above, the majestic crown of the Yanda tree yielded imperceptibly to the irresistible torrent of air. The giant north buttress, forced against the underlying stone, shrieked as tortured cells collapsed, then burst with a shattering roar audible even above the storm. A great arc of earth to the south, uplifted by exposed roots, opened a gaping cavern.

  Now the storm moved on, thundered down the slope trailing its retinue of tattered debris and driving rain. A last vengeful gust whipped branches in a final frenzy; then the victor was gone.

  And on the devastated promontory, the stupendous mass of the ancient tree leaned with the resistless inertia of colliding moons to the accompaniment of a cannonade of parting sinews, falling with dream-like grace.

  And in the heart-brain of the tree, consciousness faded in the unendurable pain of destruction.

  Pantelle climbed down from the open port, leaned against the ship to catch his breath. He was feeling weaker than he expected. Tough luck, being on short rations; this would set him back on getting started on his weight-lifting program. And he didn’t feel ready to take on Malpry yet. But just as soon as he had some fresh food and fresh air—

  “These are safe to eat,” Gault called, wiping the analyzer needle on his pants leg and thrusting it back into his hip pocket. He tossed two large red fruits to Pantelle.<
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  “When you get through eating, Pantelle, you better get some water and swab down the inside. Malpry and I’ll take a look around.”

  The two moved off. Pantelle sat on the springy grass, and bit into the apple-sized sphere. The texture, he thought, was reminiscent of avocado. The skin was tough and aromatic; possibly a natural cellulose acetate. There seemed to be no seeds. That being the case, the thing was not properly a fruit at all. It would be interesting to study the flora of this planet. As soon as he reached home, he would have to enroll in a course in E.T. botany. Possibly he would go to Heidelberg or Uppsala, attend live lectures by eminent scholars. He would have a cosy little apartment —two rooms would do—in the old part of town, and in the evening he would have friends in for discussions over a bottle of wine—

  However, this wasn’t getting the job done. There was a glint of water across the slope. Pantelle finished his meal, gathered his buckets, and set out.

  “Why do we want to wear ourselves out?” Malpry said.

  “We need the exercise. It’ll be four months before we get another chance.”

  “What are we, tourists, we got to see the sights?” Malpry stopped, leaned against a boulder, panting. He stared upward at the crater and the pattern of uptilted roots and beyond at the forest-like spread of the branches of the fallen tree.

  “Makes our sequoias look like dandelions,” Gault said. “It must have been the storm, the one we dodged coming in.”

  “So what?”

  “A thing that big—it kind of does something to you.”

  “Any money in it?” Malpry sneered.