Of Course

by Chad Oliver

The Aliens in their titanic star-cruiser said they would take one man—and pay with whatever his culture needed. But—what was their idea of Earth’s highest culture…?

Illustrated by van Dongen

An A\NN/A Preservation Edition.

Notes

In Bern, Switzerland, quite early in the morning, the President woke up with a splitting headache. He hadn’t been sleeping well for the past three weeks, and last night had been worse than usual. He stayed in bed for a few minutes, frowning at the ceiling. It was an unpleasant situation to be in; there was no denying that. The President, however, had confidence. Surely, with its record since the Congress of Vienna in 1815, the outlook was good for his country. The President managed a smile. Switzerland would be the one, of course.

In Moscow, Russia, seated at the end of a long table, the Premier listened intently to his chief military advisors. He didn’t like what he heard, but he kept his face expressionless. He didn’t like the position in which he found himself, but he wasn’t really worried. There could be no doubt whatever that the Supreme Soviet would be the one chosen. Of course!

In London, England, the Prime Minister stepped out of 10 Downing Street, his pipe smoking determinedly. He climbed into his car for the drive to the Palace, and folded his strong hands. Things might be a bit touch-and-go for a short time, but the Prime Minister was undismayed. England, with its glorious history, was the only possible choice. Of course, it would be England!”

To the east of Lake Victoria in Africa, the tall, slender priest-chief of the Masai, the Laibon, looked out upon the humped cattle grazing on the grassland and smiled. There was but one true God, Em-Gai, and the pastoral Masai were proud. At long last, ancient wrongs would be corrected! The Masai would rise again. They were the only logical choice. Of course…

And so it went, around the world.

The somewhat dumpy gentleman in the rimless spectacles and the double-breasted suit had a name: Morton Hillford. He had a title to go with the name: presidential advisor.

Right now, he was pacing the floor.

“You say you’ve investigated all the possibilities, general?” he demanded. “All the… um-m-m… angles?”

The general, whose name was Larsen, had an erect bearing and iron-gray hair, both of which were very useful when senators had to be impressed. He was a general who knew his business. Naturally, he was upset.

He said: “Every possible line of action has been explored, Mr. Hillford. Every angle has been studied thoroughly.”

Morton Hillford stopped pacing. He aimed a forefinger at the general as though it were a .45. His expression indicated strongly that if there had been a trigger he might have pulled it. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that the United States Army is impotent?”

The general frowned. He coughed briefly. “Well,” he said, “let’s say that the United States Army is helpless in this matter.”

“I don’t care what words you use! Can you do anything?”

“No,” said the general, “we can’t. And neither, may I point out, can the Navy, the Air Force, or the Marines.”

“Or the Coast Guard,” mimicked Morton Hillford. He resumed his pacing. “Why can’t you do anything? That’s your job, isn’t it?”

General Larsen flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hillford. Our job, as you point out, is to defend this country. We are prepared to do that to the best of our ability, no matter what the odds—”

“Oh, forget it, Larsen. I didn’t mean to get under your hide. I guess my breakfast just didn’t agree with me this morning. I understand your position in this matter. It’s… embarrassing, that’s all.”

“To say the least,” agreed General Larsen. “But I venture to say that we’ve thought of everything from hydrogen bombs to psychological warfare. We have absolutely nothing that stands the ghost of a chance of working. A hostile move on our part would be suicide for all of us, Mr. Hillford. I deplore melodrama, but facts are facts. It wouldn’t do to let the people know just how much in their power we are, but nevertheless we are on the hook and there isn’t any way that I know of to get off again. We’ll keep trying, naturally, but the President must have the correct facts at his disposal. There isn’t a thing we can do at the present time.”

“Well, general, I appreciate your candor, even if you have little else to offer. It looks as though we will have to keep our fingers crossed and a great big smile on our collective face. The President isn’t going to like it though, Larsen.”

“I don’t like it either,” Larsen said.

Morton Hillford paused long enough to look out the window at the streets of Washington. It was summer, and the sun had driven most people indoors, although there were a few helicopters and cars visible. The old familiar buildings and monuments were there, however, and they imparted to him a certain sense of stability, if not of security.

It’s not the heat, his mind punned silently, it’s the humility.

“We’ll just have to trust to their good judgment, I suppose,” Morton Hillford said aloud. “It could be worse.”

“Much worse,” the general agreed. “The position of the United States in the world today—”

Hillford brushed the words aside impatiently. “There isn’t the slightest doubt of it! That isn’t our problem. Of course the United States will be chosen.”

“Of course,” echoed the general. “And then everything will be all right, won’t it, Larsen?”

“Of course!”

“Just the same,” said Morton Hillford pointedly, “you find us a weapon that will work, and do it in a hurry.”

“We’ll try, Mr. Hillford.”

“You do it, general. That’s all for today.”

The general left, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Morton Hillford, presidential advisor, resumed his pacing. Fourteen steps to the window, fourteen steps back. Pause. Light a cigarette. Fourteen steps to the window—

“Of course,” he said aloud, “it will be the United States.”

And his mind added a postscript: It had BETTER be the United States.

Three weeks ago, the ship had come out of space.

It was a big ship, at least as far as Earth was concerned. It was a good half-mile long, fat and sleek and polished, like a well-fed silver fish in the shallows of a deep and lonely sea. It didn’t do much of anything. It just hung high in the air directly above the United Nations building in New York.

Waiting.

Like a huge trick cigar about to blow up in your face.

Simultaneously with its appearance, every government on Earth got a message. Every government got the same message. The ship wasn’t fussy about defining “government,” either. It contacted every sort of political division. In certain instances where the recipients were illiterate, or non-literate, the message was delivered vocally.

Every message was sent in the native language. In itself, that was enough to give a man food for thought. There were a lot of languages on Earth, and many of them had never been written down.

The people who came in the ship, what was seen of them, looked quite human.

There was a great deal of talk and frenzied activity when the spaceship and the messages appeared. For one thing, no one had ever seen a spaceship before. However, the novelty of that soon wore off. People had been more or less expecting a spaceship, and they tended to accept it philosophically, as they had accepted electricity and airplanes and telephones and atom bombs. Fine Stuff, naturally. What’s next?

The message was something else again.

The United Nations and the United States greeted the ship from space with about one and a half cheers. Contact with other worlds was very dramatic and important and all that, but it did pose a number of unpleasant questions.

It is difficult to negotiate unless you have something to offer, or else are strong enough so that you don’t have to dicker.

Suppose the ship wasn’t friendly?

The United States dug into its bag of military tricks and investigated. They weren’t fools about it, either. No one went off half-cocked and tried to drop a hydrogen bomb on an unknown quantity. It was recognized at once that dropping a bomb on the ship might be like hunting a tiger with a cap pistol.

The military looked into the matter, subtly.

They probed, gently, and checked instruments.

The results were not encouraging.

The ship had some sort of a field around it. For want of a better name, it was called a force field. Definitely, It was an energy screen of some sort—and nothing could get through it. It was absolutely impregnable. It was the ultimate in armor.

If a man has really foolproof armor and you don’t, then you’re out of luck.

The military couldn’t fight.

After digesting the message, there didn’t seem to be much for the diplomats to do either.

The message contained no explicit threat; it was simply a statement of intentions. If anything, it suffered from a certain annoying vagueness that made it difficult to figure out exactly what the ship was going to do.

The message read:

“PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED. WE HAVE COME IN PEACE ON A MISSION OF GOOD WILL. OUR TASK HERE IS TO DETERMINE TO OUR SATISFACTION WHICH ONE AMONG YOU HAS THE MOST ADVANCED CULTURE ON YOUR PLANET. IT WILL BE NECESSARY TO TAKE ONE REPRESENTATIVE FROM YOUR MOST ADVANCED CULTURE BACK WITH US FOR STUDY. HE WILL NOT BE HARMED IN ANY WAY. IN RETURN FOR HIM, WE WILL UNDERTAKE TO SUPPLY HIS CULTURE WITH WHATEVER IT MOST DESIRES, TO THE BEST OF OUR ABILITIES. WE SINCERELY HOPE THAT WE WILL CAUSE YOU NO INCONVENIENCE AS WE WORK. IT IS SUGGESTED THAT YOU DO NOT ATTEMPT TO COMMUNICATE WITH THIS SHIP UNTIL OUR CHOICE HAS BEEN ANNOUNCED. IT IS ALSO SUGGESTED THAT HOSTILE ACTION ON YOUR PART SHOULD BE CAREFULLY AVOIDED. WE HAVE COME IN PEACE AND WISH TO LEAVE THE SAME WAY WHEN OUR JOB IS DONE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COURTESY. WE ARE ENJOYING YOUR PLANET.” That was all.

On the face of it, the message was not too alarming, however unprecedented it may have been. However, second thoughts came fast.

Suppose, thought the United States, that Russia is chosen. Suppose, further, that what Russia most desired was an unbeatable weapon to use against the United States—what then? And suppose, thought Russia, that the United States is chosen—

The situation was somewhat uncomfortable.

It was made decidedly worse by the complete helplessness of the contestants.

There wasn’t a thing they could do except to wait and see.

Of course, every single government involved was quite sure that it would be the one chosen. That being the case, the more discerning among them realized that no matter who was selected it would come as a shocking surprise to all the rest.

It did.

Morton Hillford, advisor to the President, got the news from the chief American delegate to the United Nations. The delegate hadn’t trusted anyone with this hot potato; he had come in person, and at full speed.

When he got the news, Morton Hillford sat down, hard.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“I know it,” said the delegate. The shock had partially worn off for him, and he kept on his feet.

“I don’t believe it,” said Morton Hillford. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I just don’t believe it.”

“Here,” said the delegate, handing him the message, “you read it.”

Hillford read it. His first impulse was to laugh. “Why, they’re crazy!”

“Hardly.”

Hillford managed to get to his feet and resume his pacing. His rimless spectacles were getting fogged from the heat, so he wiped them off with his handkerchief.

“I feel like a fool,” he said finally. He shook the message, almost angrily. “It’s such a terrific anticlimax, Charlie! Are you sure they’re not joking?”

“They’re dead serious. They’re going to exhibit the man in New York tomorrow. After that, they’re going to show him off in every other capital on Earth. After that—”

He shrugged.

Morion Hillford felt a sick sinking in the pit of his stomach. “Do you want to tell the Boss, Charlie?”

“No,” said the delegate. “A thousand times no. I’ve got to get back to the U.N., Mort. You tell him.”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

Morton Hillford accepted his burden with what stoicism he could muster. His not to reason why—

“Let’s have a drink first, Charlie,” he said wearily. “Just a small one.”

As it turned out, they both told him.

The President eyed them intently, hands on his hips, and demanded to see the message. They showed it to him.

The President was not a handsome man, but he had strength in his features. His rather cold blue eyes were alert and intelligent, and they seldom followed his mouth’s lead when he smiled.

He wasn’t smiling now, anywhere.

“Well, Boss,” asked Morton Hillford, “what do we do now?”

The President frowned. “We’ll have to go on with a telecast as soon as possible,” he said, speaking with authority. “We’ll have to tell the people something. Get Doyle and Blatski on that right away, Mort—and tell them to write it up with some sort of a positive slant if they can. Soothe their pride, indicate we’re not unwilling to learn, throw in something about unknown science and mysterious factors… you know. After that, we’ll have to get a project set up to study this whole affair.” He consulted the message again. “Hm-m-m. I see they’re coming back again in one hundred of our years to check up on us. Fine! By then we may have something to argue with in case they mean trouble, although I doubt it. I pity the man in office when they come back—I hope he’s a member of the Loyal Opposition. Now! We’ve got to find out what this is all about.”

The United Nations delegate ventured one word: “How?”

The President sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke out through his compressed lips, slowly. It was a good pose, and he liked it. As a matter of fact, he was a man who relished difficult problems—even this one. He liked action, and routine bored him.”

“We need a scientist,” he announced. “And not a nuclear physicist this time. We need someone in here who can tell us something about these people. The fact is, we need a social scientist.”

Morton Hillford warned: “Don’t let the Tribune find out. They’ll crucify you.”

The President shrugged. “We’ll keep it quiet,” he said. “Now! As I said, we need a social scientist. The question is, which kind?”

“Not a psychologist,” mused Morton Hillford. “Not yet, anyway. I’m afraid we need a sociologist. If the Tribune ever finds out—”

“Forget the papers, man! This is important.”

The President got to work on his private phone. “Hello… Henry? Something has come up. I want you to get over here right away, and I want you to bring a sociologist with you. That’s right, a sociologist. What’s that? Yes, I KNOW about the Tribune! Bring him in the back door.”

In due course of time, Henry—who was Secretary of State—arrived. He brought a sociologist with him. The sociologist was unexpectedly normal looking, and he listened respectfully to what the President had to say. He was naturally surprised when he heard about the ship’s choice, but he recovered himself quickly.

The sociologist was an honest man. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “I could take a stab at it if you like, but what you really need is an anthropologist.”

The President drummed his fingers on his desk. “Henry,” he said, “get me an anthropologist over here, and hurry.”

Henry hurried.

Four hours later, the anthropologist was shown into the President’s office. His name was Edgar Vincent, he had a beard, and he smoked a foreign-looking pipe. Well, that couldn’t be helped.

Introductions were hastily made. “You are an anthropologist? ” asked the President.

“That’s right, sir,” said Dr. Vincent.

“Fine!” said the President. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Dr. Vincent looked blank.

“Tell me, doctor,” said the President, “what do you know about the Eskimos?”

The anthropologist stared.

“You don’t mean—”

To save time, the President handed him the message that had been sent by the ship to the United Nations. “You might as well read this, doctor,” he said. “It will be released to the papers within an hour anyway, and then everybody will know.”

Edgar Vincent puffed on his pipe and read the message:

“WE BRING YOU GREETINGS AND FAREWELL. OUR WORK AMONG YOU HAS NOW BEEN COMPLETED. WE HAVE FOUND THE MOST ADVANCED CULTURE AMONG YOU TO BE THAT OF THE CENTRAL ESKIMO OF BAFFIN LAND. WE HAVE SELECTED ONE MEMBER OF THAT CULTURE TO GO BACK WITH US FOR STUDY. AS INDICATED EARLIER, WE WILL UNDERTAKE TO PROVIDE HIS CULTURE WITH WHATEVER IT MOST DESIRES, BY WAY OF PAYMENT. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE HIGHEST CULTURE ON YOUR PLANET WILL BE EXHIBITED IN ALL YOUR POLITICAL CENTERS, AT TIMES WHICH WILL BE INDICATED IN A SEPARATE COMMUNICATION, TO PROVE TO YOU THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN HARMED. WE WILL RETURN TO YOUR WORLD IN ONE HUNDRED EARTH-YEARS, AT WHICH TIME WE HOPE TO DISCUSS MUTUAL PROBLEMS WITH YOU AT GREATER LENGTH. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR YOUR COURTESY. WE HAVE ENJOYED YOUR PLANET.”

“Well?” asked the President.

“I hardly know what to say,” said the anthropologist. “It’s fantastic.”

“We already know that, doctor. Say something.”

Edgar Vincent found a chair and sat down. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “In the first place,”, he said, “I’m not really the man you want.”

Henry groaned. “You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I’m a physical anthropologist. You know—bones and evolution and blood types and all that. I’m afraid that isn’t quite what you’re after here.” He held up his hand, holding off a wave of protest. “What you need is an ethnologist or social anthropologist, and the man you ought to get is Irvington; he’s the Central Eskimo man.” He held up his hand again. “Just a moment, please gentlemen! As I say, you need Irvington. You won’t be able to get him for some time, however. I suggest you put in a call for him—he’s in Boston now—and in the meantime I’ll fill you in as best I can. I do know a little cultural anthropology; we’re not as specialized as all that.”

Henry left to put in the call, and then hurried back. Vincent permitted himself a faint smile. It had been a long time since he had an audience this attentive!

“Can you think of any possible reason why an Eskimo might have been chosen? ” asked Morton Hillford.

“Frankly, no.”

“A secret civilization?” suggested the United Nations delegate. “A lost tribe? Something like that?”

Vincent snorted. “Nonsense,” he said. “Sir,” he added.

“Look,” said the President. “We know they live in igloos. Go on from there.”

Vincent smiled. “Even that isn’t quite correct, I’m afraid,” he said. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the Eskimos don’t live in igloos, at least not most of the time. They live in skin tents in the summer, stone and earth houses in early winter—”

“Never mind that,” the President said. “That’s not important.”

Vincent puffed on his pipe. “How do you know it isn’t?”

“What? Oh… yes. Yes, I see what you mean.” The President was nobody’s fool. It was hardly his fault that he knew nothing about Eskimos. Who did?

“That’s the catch, as you are beginning to understand, sir,” Vincent said.

“But look here,” put in Morton Hillford. “I don’t mean to belittle your field of learning, doctor, but the Eskimos simply aren’t the most advanced civilization on this planet! Why, we’ve got a technology hundreds of years ahead of theirs, science they can’t even guess at, a Bill of Rights, a political system centuries in the making—thousands of things! The Eskimos just don’t rate.”

Vincent shrugged. “To you they don’t,” he corrected. “But you’re not doing the evaluation.”

Morton Hillford persisted. “Suppose you were making the choice, doctor. Would you choose an Eskimo?”

“No,” admitted the anthropologist. “Probably not. But then, I’m looking at it from roughly the same values that you are. I’m an American too, you know.”

“I think I see the problem,” the President said slowly. “The people on that ship are far ahead of us—they must be, or they wouldn’t have that ship. Therefore, their standards aren’t the same as our standards. They’re not adding up the points the same way we are. Is that right, doctor?”

Vincent nodded. “That’s what I would say, at a guess. It stands to reason. Maybe our culture has overlooked something important—something that outweighs all the big buildings and mass production and voting and all the rest of it. How do we know?”

The President drummed his ringers on his desk. “Let’s look at it this way,” he suggested. “Could it be that spiritual values are more important than technological progress—something like that?”

Vincent considered. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “It might be something like that, but then why choose the Eskimos? There are plenty of people worse off in a technological sense than they are—the Eskimos are quite skilled mechanically. They’ve invented a number of things, such as snow goggles and hunting techniques and intricate harpoon heads. They’re quite good at gadgetry, as a matter of fact. I don’t think we can throw technology out the window; it isn’t that simple. And as for ‘spiritual values,’ they’re apt to be tricky to handle. Offhand, I wouldn’t say that the Eskimos had any more than other people, and it’s even possible that they have less. Look at India, say—they have really put the emphasis on religion. I think you’re headed in the right direction, maybe, but you’re not on the right track yet.”

The delegate from the United Nations wiped his brow. “Well then, what have the Eskimos got?”

“I can only give you one answer to that,” Vincent said. “At any rate, only one honest answer: I don’t know. You’ll have to wait for Irvington, and my guess is that he’ll be just as surprised as anyone else. I haven’t the faintest idea why the Eskimos should be picked out of all the peoples on Earth. We’ll just have to find out, that’s all—and that means we’ll have to know a lot more about every group of people on this planet than we know now, to find out what the Eskimos have got that the others haven’t got.”

“More money,” sighed the President, a trifle grimly. “Doctor, can’t you give us something to go on, just provisionally? I’ve got a cabinet meeting in an hour, and I have to go in there and say something. And after that, there’ll be a television address, and the newspapers, and the foreign diplomats, and Congress, and God knows what all. This won’t be so funny a few years from now. Any ideas, doctor?”

Vincent did his best. “The Eskimos have made a remarkable adjustment to their environment at their technological level,” he said slowly. “They’re often used as examples of that. I recall one anthropologist who mentioned that they have no word for war, and no conception of it. That might be a good angle to work on. For the rest, you’ll have to talk to Irvington. I’m out of my element.”

“Well, thanks very much, Dr. Vincent,” the President said. “I appreciate your help. And now, let’s all have a small drink.”

They adjourned to another room, all talking furiously, to get ready for the cabinet meeting to come.

Morton Hillford was the last to leave the President’s office.

“Eskimos,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Eskimos.”

Next morning, strictly according to schedule, a smaller ship detached itself from the huge spaceship that hovered high in the sky above the United Nations building in New York.

For the onlooking millions, in person and via television, it was difficult to avoid the impression of a cigarette emerging from a large silver cigar.

The little ship landed, as gently as a falling leaf, in the area that had been cleared for it. A small bubble of force, glinting slightly in the morning sun, surrounded the ship. A circular portal slid open and the exhibition began.

It was simplicity itself.

Two tall, pleasant-looking men stepped out of the ship, staying within the energy shield. Their dress was unique, but rather on the conservative side. They leaned back into the portal and appeared to be speaking to someone.

A bit reluctantly, the Eskimo stepped outside and stood with them. He was dressed in new clothes and looked uncomfortable. He was short, a little on the plump side, and his hair was uncombed.

He gaped at New York City in frank astonishment.

He smiled with shy pleasure.

With only a trace of prompting from the two men, he waved cheerfully to the crowd that had gathered to see him. He stood there, smiling, for two minutes, and then he was escorted back into the ship.

The ship floated soundlessly into the air, and curved up to rejoin the larger ship above.

That was all there was.

The exhibition was over.

Right on schedule, it was repeated elsewhere.

In Bern, Switzerland.

In Moscow, Russia.

In London, England.

In the land of the Masai, in East Africa.

In China, Sweden, Australia, Mexico, Finland, Brazil, Samoa, Turkey, Greece, Japan, Tibet—

All around the world.

And, of course, everywhere the ship went it raised some highly annoying questions. Of course, every government knew that a mistake had somehow been made.

But just the same—

As suddenly as it had come, the great spaceship was gone. Its jets flickered with atomic flame, its outlines blurred, and it flashed back into the dark sea from which it had come.

It was headed for Procyon, eleven light-years distant, to check up on the results of a previous experiment that had taken place roughly a century ago.

The Eskimo wandered about the ship, munching on a fish, and tried to figure out what was going on.

Two men watched him, amused but not impressed.

“Well, anyhow,” observed the first man, “his people will have plenty of seals from now on.”

“Right enough,” agreed the second man. “And we can put him down on Armiqe—he should be right at home there, and no harm done.”

“It’s high time we got around to Earth, if you ask me,” said the first. “That planet is getting to be the eyesore of our sector.”

“Oh, Earth will come along,” said the second. “They really are making some progress down there, finally.”

The Eskimo selected another fish out of his private bucket and watched the two men without interest.

“It must have been something of a shock when we selected him. An awfully nice chap, but he is a bit on the primitive side.”

“A slight stimulus never hurt anyone, my friend. By the time they get through worrying about that Eskimo, they ought to have a real science down there.”

The first man yawned and stretched. “And when we come back in a hundred years,” he said, “you know which one of them we’ll find with a culture really advanced enough so that we can offer them a place in Civilization.”

The second man nodded. “Of course,” he said, and smiled.

The Eskimo helped himself to another fish out of the bucket and wandered over to the window.

The End.

Notes and proofing history

Scanned with preliminary proofing by A\NN/A

March 14th, 2008—v1.0

from the original source: Astounding, May 1954