The Complete Short Stories: The 1950s. Brian AldissЧитать онлайн книгу.
160°. At the equator it had been about 245°.
‘I only tell you this to make the point that any life on such a world was bound to be eccentric.’
‘Oh quite, Director. Daisy dear, are you all right?’ Dusty Miller bent anxiously over his wife, who was fluttering her eyes.
‘Yes, fine, thank you. Don’t interrupt, dear. You were saying, sir?’
‘We climbed out, the five of us – in space suits, of course. It was eerie to a degree. The sky was nearly black, owing to the tenuous atmosphere, although there were a few very low grey clouds. The blue sun moved from about five to twenty degrees above the horizon, revolving so rapidly round the sky that it looked like an azure spiral. Every now and then, the red sun would appear, climb to zenith and sink again. Unfortunately, we were too far north to see the third sun; I remember feeling vaguely aggrieved about it at the time.
‘What a spectacle, though! We stood amazed. Both visible suns were at least fourteen times as big as a full moon on Earth and their shifting, blending shadow spun a kaleidoscope of stupendous colour. We cried our delight aloud, lifting up hands that had become unpredictable rainbows.
‘Pogsmith had no eye for beauty. He had, as I said, only one eye, and this was on the main chance. He disappeared over that low hill which is always near any spaceship about to encounter danger in all the science-fiction stories I have read. We heard his startled shout, and ran to see what was wrong. A hundred yards ahead of him was a torpedo. It was scampering towards him. It had legs. These changed to wheels, and the wheels to flappers.
‘Abruptly it stopped. It changed again – into something very like a terrestrial pig. That, we have found since, is its natural form. But under the fluctuating conditions that exist on its world it has developed protective and projective mimicry to an extraordinary degree.
‘“Come on,” Pogsmith bellowed. “Let’s capture it!”
‘I was naturally in favour of the idea. But Pogsmith acted first.
‘He flung himself on the creature. It was an unwise thing to do, and I should have behaved differently. Even as he moved, the amazing animal altered its form again. It grew boots, a ginger beard, a space suit. It turned, in fact, into an absolute double of Pogsmith.
‘They fought desperately together. We closed in upon them and pulled them apart – no easy matter for only four of us.
‘Then came a problem. Which of them was Pogsmith? Neither showed any inclination to turn into anything further. The pig, with a good deal of common sense, realised he was safe in his disguise.
‘Both cursed when we prodded them. Both vowed he was the only genuine and original Pogsmith. Both begged to be released.
‘So, at my suggestion, we released them, the idea being that the fake would immediately attempt to escape. But no, both stood tamely there and suggested a return to the ship. Evidently the pig’s curiosity had been roused.
‘We only resolved the deadlock by a brilliant idea of mine. Obviously the creature could only stimulate outward appearances; we had but to take blood slides to tell one Pogsmith from the other.
‘They both came meekly to the air lock. But there a strange thing happened. We stopped. We looked again at the twins. The Captain spoke first.
‘“Silly of us,” he said. “I know which the real Pogsmith is – it’s this one,” and he clapped his hand on the nearer of the two.
‘We all agreed vehemently with him. At the time it was suddenly more than obvious which was which. We pushed away the one we decided was the fake and hurried into the ship, shutting the lock behind us.
‘“Phew!” one of the crew said. “Lucky we suddenly saw sense. Let’s get away from here!”
‘And so we did. We were off and away at once, leaving the planet and its suns far behind. The incident had destroyed a lot of our self-confidence; for one thing, no doubt each of us had the thought: ‘Supposing more of the creatures had come up and joined in the fun? Should we ever have sorted ourselves out?’
‘Pogsmith, always taciturn, was more silent than ever. We did not like to remind him of his unpleasant experience, but finally I asked: “Are you feeling yourself again, Pogsmith?”
‘For reply, he winked his one eye at me and slowly – turned into a pig!
‘We saw it all then. We had been tricked by some form of mass-hypnotism into leaving the real radio op. behind. By then we were three days spaceborne, and poor old Pogsmith had air enough for, at a maximum, thirty-six hours. What could we do? As a memorial to our late friend, we christened the planet Pogsmith, and kept heading for home.
‘The crew were not only furious with the creature, they were frightened of it, and its power. They voted to scoot it out of the airlock at once. But I spoke up in the cause of science, and explained what a valuable zoological discovery we had made. After much argument, the masquerader’s life was saved, and we brought it here, to the zoo.’
There was a short silence in the dome.
‘A very extraordinary tale indeed!’ Dusty Miller exclaimed.
‘The truth is frequently extraordinary,’ the Director said, with emphasis.
‘Do you reckon he’s pulling our legs?’ Daisy whispered to her husband.
‘I don’t know.’
They turned and stared solemnly into the arena. Pogsmith had resumed its natural form. It was decidedly porcine, although its face bore an expression of almost classical serenity seldom noticeable on pig countenances. Seeing it was being observed, it commenced to change shape.
‘Actually, it is rather parrot-like,’ the Director said contemptuously. ‘It never composes its own shape, almost always copies something it has seen. Look, you notice it is doing me now …’
Mrs. Miller let out a loud shriek.
‘When has it seen you naked?’ she asked.
‘Madam, I assure you I’m not – ’
‘Never mind how good the likeness is,’ Dusty said sternly. ‘I did not bring my wife here to be insulted by that obscene creature or anyone else! I suggest we leave this instant.’
‘Very well then,’ snapped the Director angrily, ‘although I am in no way responsible for that thing’s behaviour.’
‘Do let’s get out,’ Daisy said, her face still crimson. ‘Take my arm, Marmaduke.’
‘You go on, dear, with the Director. I won’t be a minute – I just want to read this information panel again.’
He prodded her surreptitiously in the ribs to make sure he was obeyed. As soon as they were out of sight, he tried the inner door. It was merely a portion of the arena wall, indistinguishable from within, but easily movable from without by the turn of a wheel.
‘We’ll soon see whether it wasn’t a pack of nonsense he was telling us,’ Dusty muttered to himself. He never liked to believe anything until he had personally tested its veracity. The next moment he was inside the dome.
The naked Director withered and shrunk into Pogsmith’s natural shape. It turned and faced Dusty inquisitively, snorting quietly.
‘All right, old boy, there, there now, just want to have a proper look at you,’ Dusty said soothingly, making a coaxing noise and extending one hand. For a moment he was alarmed at his temerity. Was the thing carnivorous or not? He halted. They surveyed each other from five yards’ range.
‘The lighting isn’t very good in here,’ Dusty said apologetically. ‘Let’s see some of these stunts from close range.’
As if it understood – how efficient was that dead field round the brain? – the pig, with astonishing speed, grew a ginger beard and arms. It became Pogsmith. One eye glared at Dusty.
‘This