The Complete Short Stories: The 1950s. Brian Aldiss

Now are you ashamed?’

      ‘Don’t say anything, please, Rick,’ Neata said distantly. There was something so commanding in her tone that her husband turned away and abjectly switched back to Green Star.

      Neata walked pensively out of the room. She still clutched the wicked little device which McBryon, alias Black Jack, had pressed into her hand. Then, it had been startlingly cold; now, her palm had made it hot. She knew what it was, she knew what she had to do with it.

      ‘Deadly …’ she whispered to herself. ‘Deadly … The end of civilisation as we know it.’

      The metal was a challenge in her grasp.

      Ah, but McBryon was clever! She was dizzy at his impudence. Although evidently a leading tellystar, he was nevertheless a saboteur, a member – perhaps the leader! – of the subversives. And he had dared to pass on this weapon and to deliver his inspiring message of doubt in front of thousands of viewers.

      ‘What a man!’

      Neata was out in the snow now. She looked with strained face at the little device. It had to be fitted on to Rick’s helic. Poor Rick – but he would never know! The thought that she was helping in a mighty, silent revolution lent her determination.

      Quickly, she bent down and fitted the anti-telly suppressor into Rick’s helic.

       Pogsmith

      Dusty Miller and his wife were lucky. Not lucky to be on a year’s holiday, because everyone higher than esp-inspectors qualified nowadays. Not lucky to be on Mercury, because although the new atmosphere breathed well enough it had not yet stabilized and typhoons were frequent. Not lucky to visit the Galactic Zoo, because its gates were open wide to all who could afford the entrance fee. But lucky because they were the one millionth and one millionth and one (or one million and oneth) human beings to go in.

      The celebration of this numerical achievement entailed a lavish lunch, followed by a personally conducted tour round the zoo by the Director.

      ‘I don’t like him,’ Daisy whispered.

      ‘Shut up, he’ll hear you,’ Dusty snapped. He had reason for his belief. The Director possessed three of the largest ears Dusty had ever seen. But then the Director had been hatched on Puss II.

      Nevertheless, the tour was highly stimulating. Dusty was delighted with every animal he saw. His wife was less happy, but she never enjoyed wearing space suits; by a quirkish, claustrophobic effect, they gave her asthma. Unfortunately, they were highly necessary, since each block of the zoo naturally contained the atmosphere of the planet whose animals it housed – and nine-tenths of them were nothing less than death to human nostrils.

      They had visited the Puss II block, whose inmates looked to Daisy and Dusty surprisingly like their distinguished escort, and had traversed the impressive Ogaeiou chain of buildings housing the Knitosaurs, gigantic crabs who weaved their own shells from a natural-nylon seaweed, when they came to a large domed erection.

      ‘This,’ the Director claimed impressively, ‘is our latest addition to the zoo. Within, we shall find the only extant life form of the newly discovered planet Pogsmith.’

      ‘Wasn’t that the place there was all that fuss about?’ Daisy asked.

      ‘There is always a fuss about a newly discovered planet,’ the Director said severely. ‘Territorial rights, etc …’

      ‘Shall we go in?’ Dusty asked hastily. He had known for years that his wife was dull and provincial; he just happened to love her that way. While for the Director he held every respect – but a growing repulsion.

      ‘First,’ replied the great man, ‘depress the yellow switch you will feel just in front of the central ridge of your helmets.’ He showed them by example. ‘That will protect us from the thought waves which this creature sends out. It sets in action a dead field about the brain.’

      He looked pointedly at Daisy, as if to imply that she was already safeguarded by such means. When they had complied, they entered.

      The ground plan was the usual one. A spiralling observation ramp circled an enormous glassite dome which contained the alien species and fragments of its customary surroundings. At the beginning of the ramp was a fortified gate into the dome and a large panel of information, such as details of topography, atmosphere, planetary year, etc.

      The lighting was dim.

      ‘Low angstrom range,’ the Director commented.

      ‘I can’t see them,’ Dusty said, peering into the bowl of gloom.

      ‘It,’ said the Director. ‘We only managed to catch one.’

      ‘What is the name of the species?’

      ‘Er – Pogsmith.’

      ‘Oh … After the planet? I thought they only named dominant species after the planet?’

      ‘This is the only, consequently the dominant, species, Mr. Miller.’

      ‘I see. Then how do you know they are not – people, rather than animals?’

      ‘Why, they behave like animals.’

      ‘I don’t see that that’s any – never mind; where is this creature, Mr. Director? I can see nothing in there but an old bucket.’

      ‘That, at the moment, is Pogsmith.’

      Taking hold of a wheel set in an upright in the glassite, the Director spun it, setting in motion an automatic prodder. It reached out and tipped the bucket gently over. The bucket turned smoothly into a red nose, from which a hand extended in the direction of the Director.

      The latter coughed, turned away, and said: ‘Until the creature condescends to turn into its usual shape, you might be interested to hear about the first and only expedition to the strange and remote planet of Pogsmith.’

      ‘Well, thanks very much,’ Daisy said, ‘but I think perhaps we’d better be – ’

      ‘It so happens,’ the Director said, ‘I was on the exploratory ship as zoologist at the time. You are singularly fortunate to hear this first-hand account.

      ‘Pogsmith the planet was so named after Pogsmith, our radio operator – a sort of memorial to the poor fellow. The only thing they had in common were peculiar features. The operator had one eye and a ginger beard, and the planet – well …’ He rotated his claws in the famous Puss gesture of amazement.

      ‘Pogsmith is the only planet in a system of three giant suns, a red, a yellow and a blue one. It is smaller than Mercury and, containing no heavy metals, has an extremely low density. Yet during a period of its orbit it comes almost within Roche’s Limit of two of the suns. The wonder is that this fragile little world did not disintegrate eons ago! It only seems to survive this perilous part of its course by speeding up its axial revolution tremendously.

      ‘This we noted as we glided in for a landing. The amazing thing was that the planet held an atmosphere, a pungent mixture of neon and argon that we found stayed electrostatically attracted to the surface, due to the continual absorption through it of random and charged gamma particles which combined – ’ Noting the blank expression on Dusty’s face, the Director cleared both his throats and changed his tack.

      ‘There were no seas, but the ground was broken and mountainous. We found a plain near the equator and feathered down. The ship immediately rose again. The captain swore, touched the fore jets and set our tail firmly in the dust once more. The ship was immediately flung back into the air. We could not stay down! So we floated and chewed our nails. On other planets, the difficulty is always getting off them; yet here the situation was paradoxically reversed.

      ‘Everyone was completely baffled, until I came forward with the obvious solution. The planet’s mass was so low and its axial rotation so fast that centrifugal