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Title: The well-fed birds
Author: Richard Rein Smith
Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller
Release date: November 11, 2026 [eBook #79977]
Language: English
Original publication: Holyoke, Mass.: Headline Publications, Inc., 1957
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79977
Credits: Tom Trussel - Stories of Futures Past (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Luminist Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL-FED BIRDS ***
The Well-Fed Birds
by Richard R. Smith
=The Martian science was advanced and the Martians had a wonderful
machine. It solved every problem for the planet-stranded
earthmen--every problem, except one.=
They stacked their supplies near the canal and then, as if a single
person with a single thought, they sat on the sand and watched their
ship.
From that distance, the _Starmaster_ appeared intact although it was
actually badly damaged and the engine room hurled deadly radioactive
rays for a radius of a mile.
“The first landing on Mars,” Marvin commented bitterly, “a flop!”
“A complete flop,” Scott echoed.
Houghton was the optimist of the group. During the long voyage from
Earth he had been liberal with optimistic quotations and now he
offered another well-worn phrase: “It could have been worse.” His
lean face paled visibly at the resultant expressions and he explained
defensively, “Look at the supplies we salvaged.” He waved a slender
hand at the items as if his friends had forgotten them. “Food rations,
weapons, clothes, pre-fab shelters--”
“What are you, a supply clerk? We know what we got!”
He closed his mouth with a firmness that indicated it would stay closed
for awhile.
Scott thrust his hand into the red sand, lifted a handful before
his eyes and let it trickle between his fingers. “Martian soil,” he
murmured. “Harry brought us all the way from Earth and never lived to
touch it.”
“It was a good landing,” Marvin complimented the dead pilot. “A good
landing, but the ship wasn’t good enough ... wasn’t strong enough. Next
time, they’ll build the ship better.”
Scott rose abruptly. “Let’s get to work. The next ship won’t land until
three years from now and we’ve got a lot of things to do.”
“_Work?_” Marvin’s dark features twisted with sardonic amusement. “What
work have we got to do?” He waved an arm at the barren terrain. “We’ve
done our job. We’ve reached Mars. That’s all they care about back on
Earth--they don’t care what sort of planet Mars is; they don’t care if
we explore or sit here and die. They just wanted us to be alive when we
reached here. They--”
Scott turned and walked toward the canal. Houghton hesitated briefly,
then followed.
“What’s the matter with him?” he asked when he reached Scott’s side.
“The medics gave him a high stability rating--one of the highest.”
“He’s probably suffering from shock. He’ll snap out of it.”
* * * * *
They stopped at the edge of the canal and stared thoughtfully at the
muddy water hundreds of feet below. Beneath their feet, the stone that
formed the top tier of the canal wall was covered with deep grooves
carved by centuries of relentless wind, rain and sand.
For several minutes, they studied the canal, the silence broken only by
the sluggish water as it echoed feebly between the ancient walls.
“I wonder where the Martians are who made this.”
Scott grunted. “I wonder _how_ they made it. Each stone on the walls
must weigh tons and--”
A shrill whistling sound interrupted him, and they turned to see a
glittering object fall from the sky and land near their supplies.
When they returned, they found Marvin gesturing frantically at a
strange creature. Several yards to one side, a featureless metal globe
glistened in the faint sunlight.
The Martian did not correspond with Scott’s preconceptions: it stood on
three stalk-like legs, its body was no larger than a basket ball and
the thin tentacles fluttered weakly as if a strong wind would break
them. There were no eyes, mouth or nose, but clusters of antennae were
directed toward them and Scott felt as if the Martian had a thousand
eyes that were watching his every movement.
“Welcome,” a voice whispered in his mind. When he looked at the others,
he knew by their expressions that they had also received the telepathic
message.
He concentrated on the thought, “We are from Earth; we come as friends.”
The Martian answered, “I also come as a friend and anxious to help you
in any way within my power.”
“Our ship is badly damaged. Is there anything you can--”
“I am sorry,” the alien replied. “There is nothing I can do that will
repair your space vessel. Our scientists have not explored the problems
of interplanetary travel.”
A soft breeze whispered over the red desert while the three Earthmen
stared thoughtfully at the Martian.
“_I would like to exchange knowledge with you._” It was a concept
transmitted from the Martian’s mind, and for the first time, Scott
realized that the alien had spoken to them before by telepathy but with
English sentences. Somehow, unknown to them, it had searched their
minds and learned their language!
Immediately after he replied affirmatively, he received a flood of
mental images. He closed his eyes and saw Mars when it was a young
planet, green and filled with energetic life. He saw great Martian
cities like clusters of jewels reaching toward the sky and millions of
Martians who lived in a pattern similar to that of Earthmen.
As the centuries passed, the cities slowly dwindled in size, the
green fields became barren plains and the populations decreased after
repeated wars, epidemics and famines. The last image depicted Mars in
its present state: a dying planet inhabited by only a few dozen members
of a once great race.
Next, delicate mental tendrils probed his mind. Like instruments
wielded by an expert surgeon, they skimmed lightly over a multitude
of irrelevant facts, located and extracted essential information
concerning Earth. When the Martian was satisfied, Scott glanced at his
watch. The exchange of background had taken two hours ... two hours
that seemed like seconds.
“I cannot repair your ship,” the Martian stated abruptly, “but there
is another way in which I can help you--” He gestured with a tentacle
and a small angular machine appeared by his side. “This machine was
developed centuries ago by our scientists and is perhaps their greatest
achievement. It can convert matter into kinetic energy and then back to
matter with different shapes and substances.”
He pressed a lever on the machine and as they watched in fascination,
the desert sands before them moved violently as if driven by a dozen
invisible bulldozers. In a few minutes, a twelve-foot mound was formed.
The Martian pointed at Scott. “Think of what you desire most, and the
machine will rearrange the atoms in the sand.”
* * * * *
Scott almost choked on his repressed laughter, but as instructed, he
closed his eyes and concentrated. He thought of Mary and Johnny, a
six-room stucco house and a grey Chevrolet.
When he opened his eyes, he still saw the stucco house encircled by the
white picket fence. On the driveway was a familiar grey Chevrolet....
The front door opened. Mary held Johnny in one arm and waved at him
with the other.
He went toward the house, not running or even walking fast, but
stumbling slowly like a man in a dream.
He walked up the sidewalk, the sound of his boots on the concrete
ringing in his ears, the odor of fried chicken from the kitchen teasing
his stunned senses.
_If this is a dream_, he thought, _it’s damned realistic!_
His wife set Johnny on the ground and was suddenly in his arms. Her
lips were soft and warm, and he felt her tears as they touched his
cheeks.
His mind screamed, _It’s real! She’s real!_ but, he asked the
inevitable question, “Is it really you, Mary?”
She pulled away from him and searched his eyes. “Of course it’s me.”
He glanced uneasily over his shoulder. Marvin and Houghton were
watching him, their jaws sagging ludicrously. The Martian waved several
tentacles at him--probably intended as a friendly gesture but in the
now bizarre surroundings, it seemed a weird, frightening gesture from
an unreal creature.
“Let’s go inside.”
Once inside the house with the familiar blond mahogany furniture around
him, it was hard to believe that he wasn’t in his house on Gerald
street in Chicago.
_A duplicate house, a duplicate wife_, he thought wildly. _None of it
is real!_
“Supper’s ready,” Mary said. “We’ve been waiting.”
She was like he remembered: Her hair as dark as the darkest night, her
soft, oval face accentuated by her twinkling eyes and crimson mouth.
“I’m not hungry.” He went to the kitchen, reached inside the cabinet
above the refrigerator and found the fifth he had left there. “You go
ahead and eat.”
She looked at the bottle and frowned, her lips quickly forming a firm
line as if to keep from trembling. He ignored the expression. If she
was a figment of his imagination or a transformed pile of sand, she had
no right to condemn his behavior.
He settled in a chair in the living room and took a long drink from
the bottle. The liquor burned his throat and stomach, but he soon felt
muscles relax throughout his body.
* * * * *
He awoke the next morning with a trip hammer pounding in his skull
and a dozen butterflies playing in his stomach. Resisting an impulse
to wake his wife and see if she was as real as she had been the night
before, he remained still and listened.
The house was realistic in every detail, but as he listened, he could
not hear the familiar sounds of Gerald Street. There were no sounds of
traffic, distant radios, birds and dogs. Only silence.
He rose quietly and went to the living room where he opened the front
door with trembling fingers.
A hundred yards to one side, a tremendous castle-like structure towered
above his stucco house. An equal distance to the other side, a weird
conglomeration sparkled in the sunlight.
When he reached the castle, he paused to touch one of the huge stones
in a wall. It was rough and firm beneath his fingers--as real as
anything he had ever sensed in his life.
He wandered through a labyrinth of rooms, corridors and winding stairs
and was awed by the brilliant tapestries, statues and luxurious
furnishings. He didn’t know who had obtained the castle from the
Martian’s scientific marvel but whoever it was, he had made him seem a
piker by requesting a six-room house!
He eventually found Marvin in a tremendous room sitting before an
ebony table covered with various foods and liquors. Perched on billowy
cushions on either side, a dozen half-naked women watched him like
animals eager to pounce on a willing prey.
Marvin’s deepset eyes widened at the sight of Scott and he
self-consciously stroked his growth of beard. “Hi! I was just thinking
about you. I intended to visit you last night but I--uh, somehow, I
never got around to it.”
“I wonder why,” Scott replied and grinned at the dark-skinned women who
surveyed him coldly as if he were an infidel in a holy place.
Marvin gestured and the women departed with a flurry of diaphanous
skirts.
He sat on a pillow beside Marvin and sampled a bottle of wine. It
formed a comforting burst of warmness in his stomach and he reflected
that this situation could easily turn him into a drunkard.
“Help yourself,” Marvin offered. “Some life, huh? Women, wine, song.
Everything a man could want, and all from a handful of sand.” He
chuckled, his eyes wild as he surveyed the luxurious room. “That crazy
Martian. That stupid, crazy little Martian gave me all this!”
* * * * *
Without warning, Scott seized his shoulder and expertly twisted certain
ligaments. Marvin winced with pain and pulled away. “What’s the big
idea?”
“I was trying to sober you up a little.”
He removed a cigar from his multi-hued tunic and lit it carefully. “I’m
sober.”
Scott rose and paced the floor nervously. “Listen. For a few minutes,
forget--” He waved an arm in a circle. “--all this. _Think_ and tell
me: why should a stranger do this for us?” He paused, and when Marvin
didn’t answer, continued, “It must be a trap. Can you understand that?
The Martians are probably afraid we’ll exploit their planet and this
_must_ be some sort of fancy, gold-plated booby-trap!”
Marvin grinned foolishly. “How?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe the Martian hypnotised
us. Maybe we’re actually on the desert starving to death and dreaming
this. Maybe--”
He was interrupted by Marvin’s raucous laughter. “I knew it. _I knew
it!_”
“Knew what?”
“You’re a worry-wart. A damned, incurable worry-wart! All the time
during the voyage, you had something to worry about. Sometimes you’d
tell us what it was and sometimes you’d keep it to yourself. But,
even when you kept quiet, I knew you were worrying.” He slapped the
table, and the sharp sound echoed through the room. “Here we are ...
on Mars ... safe and sound. We stumble on a good deal. A super-duper
civilization with super-duper hospitality and you look for a flaw, _a
gimmick!_”
“I--”
Marvin leaped to his feet, his face flushed and his eyes like cold
stones. “Get out of here.”
“But--”
Marvin screamed, and two men with gleaming swords entered the room.
“_Get out of here!_”
The swords looked real enough so he left quickly.
* * * * *
Entering Houghton’s private world was like stepping into a
kaleidoscopic abstract painting. A smooth expanse of glittering marble
stretched as far as he could see in every direction. Tall, colorful
plants set in the smooth surface produced exotic odors and music that
drifted lazily on gentle breezes. Sparkling waterfalls fell from the
empty air and disappeared into nothingness while angular statues of
apparently meaningless but symmetrical forms pulsed with varicolored
lights.
It was fully two hours before he spotted Houghton wandering aimlessly
among his new possessions.
“Scott!” Houghton ran to meet him and shook his hand warmly. “How do
you like my new world?” he asked, his face glowing with pride as he
looked at their surroundings. “It’s the kind of place I’ve dreamed of.
Different and perfect. There’s no flaws here, Scott. No crime, no ugly
noises, no conflict, no filth. Only beauty and peace.
“How do you like it?” he repeated.
“Nice. Very nice. You’re right, it is peaceful here.” He walked a short
distance and realized that even their footsteps were silent.
“I just saw Marvin,” he blurted. “I tried to explain to him, but he
couldn’t understand. Can you understand that there must be a gimmick in
this set-up?”
“Gimmick?” Houghton pursed his lips and shook his head thoughtfully. “I
don’t think so. I think the Martians are tremendously more advanced in
certain sciences than we are. The machine that makes all this possible
is as simple to them as a television set is to us. Giving us all this
is probably equivalent to one of us giving an African aborigine a room
in a fancy hotel....”
He paused abruptly, his eyes widening and wrinkles forming in his
forehead. “You think this is some sort of trap, don’t you?”
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “It must be. Why would an alien--”
Houghton turned and walked away.
With a sinking sensation, Scott realized he had accomplished nothing.
Both were too content with their new toys to even _consider_ his
viewpoint.
And now, what was he supposed to do? Walk out on the desert by himself?
Survival on a strange planet required teamwork. He might survive
physically ... but mentally? He knew he wasn’t built for endless days
and nights of solitude....
* * * * *
For nine months, Scott lived peacefully with his artificial wife and
son. At times he even forgot that his house was situated on an arid
desert. Occasionally he visited Marvin or Houghton, but they were
strained, brief visits born from curiosity rather than a desire for
companionship.
Eventually he was convinced that it _wasn’t_ a trap and that he would
continue a fairly normal life for years with a wife and son and house
that were as real as himself.
And then, shortly after his change of mind, he awoke one morning and
felt sand beneath his body.
He leaped to his feet like a poised steel spring that someone had
triggered. Houghton and Marvin stood nearby, their faces pale and
worried.
He opened his mouth to shout, _Where’s the Martian? What happened?_ and
then hesitated when he noticed their expressions. They didn’t know....
They examined their supplies and discovered to their dismay that the
food rations had rotted, the weapons and other machinery had rusted
beyond repair during the months of exposure to sand, sun, wind and rain.
“The seed!” Houghton exclaimed after opening a package. “The seed’s in
perfect shape. We can plant--”
“And what will you eat while you’re waiting for the seed to produce
food _if_ you find fertile land?” Scott asked as he gingerly opened an
odorous package of spoiled rations.
They speculated for hours: Had the Martian died? Had he moved to
another location and forgotten them? Had he purposefully left them
stranded with useless supplies?
“My wife once fed some birds,” Scott said tonelessly, his eyes blank as
if seeing something invisible to the others. “She fed them every day
from the day they were pushed out of the nest. When we returned from
our vacation, we found the birds in our back yard ... dead. They’d been
fed so much, they hadn’t developed their natural instinct and learned
how to find food.”
Marvin screamed, “_You’re crazy! Why would the Martian do that to us?_”
Scott shrugged his shoulders. “How would I know? Maybe the Martian
considered us invaders, trespassers. Maybe the Martians did away with
their weapons after their last war. Maybe the only way they could kill
us was with _kindness_.”
Their laughter seemed a small, lost thing on the vast desert. “He’ll
come back. You’ll see.”
They waited. They waited day after day, while the feeble sun gently
burned their faces, the coldness at night tore at their flesh and the
emptiness in their stomachs grew....
THE END
Transcriber’s note:
This etext was produced from Super-Science Fiction, June 1957 (Vol.
1, No. 4). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Obvious errors have been silently corrected, but minor
inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL-FED BIRDS ***
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