[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Before passing judgment, just ask yourself
one question: Would you like answering for
humanity any better than Ernie Meeker did?
The Invisible Being shifted his anchorage a bit in Earth's
gravitational field, which felt like a push rather than a pull to him,
and said, "This featherless biped seems to satisfy Galaxy Center's
requirements. I'd say he's a suitable recipient for the Gifts."
His Coadjutor, equally invisible and negatively massed, chewed that
over. "Mature by his length and mass. Artificial plumage neither
overly gaudy nor utterly drab--indicating median social level,
which is confirmed by the size of his bachelor nest. Inward maps of
his environment not fantastically inaccurate. Feelings reasonably
meshed--at least neither volcanic nor frozen. Thoughts and values in
reasonable order. Yes, I agree, a satisfactory test subject. Except...."
"Except what?"
"Except we can never be sure of that 'reasonable' part."
"Of course not! Thank your stars _that's_ beyond the reach of Galaxy
Center's keenest telepathy, or even ours on the spot. Otherwise you and
I'd be out of a job."
"And have to scheme up some other excuse for free-touring the Cosmos
with backtracking permitted."
"Exactly!" The Being and his Coadjutor understood each other very well
and were the best of friends. "Well, how many Gifts would you suggest
for the test?"
"How about two Little and one Big?" the Coadjutor ventured.
"Umm ... statistically adequate but spiritually unsatisfying. Remember,
the fate of his race hangs on his reactions to them. I'd be inclined to
increase your suggestion by one each and add a Great."
"No--at least I question the last. After all, the Great Gifts aren't as
important, really, as the Big Gifts. Besides...."
"Besides what? Come on, spit it out!" The Invisible Being was the
bluff, blunt type.
"Well," said his less hearty but unswervingly honest companion, "I'm
always afraid that you'll use the granting of a Great Gift as an excuse
for some sardonic trick--that you'll put a sting in its tail."
"And why shouldn't I, if I want to? Snakes have stings in their tails
(or do they on this planet?) and I'm a sort of snake. If he fails the
test, he fails. And aren't both of us malicious, plaguing spirits,
eager to knock holes in the inward armor of provincial entities? It's
in the nature of our job. But we can argue about that in due course.
What Little Gifts would you suggest?"
"That's something I want to talk about. Many of the Little Gifts are
already well within his race's reach, if not his. After all, they've
already got atomic power."
"Which as you very well know scores them nothing one way or the other
on a Galaxy Center test. We're agreed on the nature and the number of
our Gifts--three Little, two Big, and one Great?"
"Yes," his Coadjutor responded resignedly.
"And we're agreed on our subject?"
"Yes to that too."
"All right, then, let's get started. This isn't the only solar system
we have to visit on this circuit."
* * * * *
Ernie Meeker--of Chicago, Illinois, U.S. of A., Occident, Terra, Sol,
Starswarm 37, Rim Sector, Milky Way Galaxy--rubbed his chin and slanted
across the street to a drugstore.
"Package of blades. Double edge. Five. Cheapest."
At one point during the transaction, the clerk lost sight of the tiny
packet he'd placed on the coin-whitened glass between them. He gave a
suspicious look, as if the customer had palmed them.
Ernie blinked. After a moment, he pointed toward the center of the
counter.
"There they are," he said, dropping a coin beside them.
The clerk's face didn't get any less suspicious. Customer who could
sneak something without your seeing could sneak it back the same way.
He rang up the sale and closed the register fast.
Ernie Meeker went home and shaved. Five days--and shaves--later, he
pushed the first blade, uncomfortably dull now, through the tiny slot
beside the bathroom mirror. He unwrapped the second blade from the
packet.
Five shaves later, he cut himself under the chin with the second blade,
although he was drawing it as gently through his soaped beard as if it
were only his second shave with it, or at most his third. He looked at
it sourly and checked the packet. Wouldn't have been the first time
he'd absentmindedly changed blades ahead of schedule.
But there were still three blades in their waxed wrappings.
Maybe, he thought, he'd still had one of the blades from the last
packet and shuffled it into this series.
Or maybe--although the manufacturers undoubtedly had inspectors to
prevent it from happening--he'd got a decent blade for once.
Two or three shaves later, it still seemed as sharp as ever, or almost
so.
"Funny thing," he remarked to Bill at lunch, "sometimes you get a blade
that shaves a lot better. Looks exactly like the others, but shaves
better. Or worse sometimes, of course."
"And sometimes," his office mate said, "you wear out a blade fast by
not soaking your beard enough. For me, one shave with a stiff beard and
the blade's through. On the other hand, if you're careful to soak your
beard real good--four, five minutes at least--have the water steaming
hot, get the soap really into it, one blade can last a long time."
"That's true, all right," Ernie agreed, trying to remember how well he
had been soaking his beard lately. Shaving was a good topic for light
conversation, warm and agreeable, like most bathroom and kitchen topics.
* * * * *
But next morning in the bathroom, looking at the reflection of his
unremarkable face, there was something chilly in his feelings that he
couldn't quite analyze. He flipped his razor open and suspiciously
studied the bright metal wafer, then flipped it closed with an
irritated shrug.
As he shaved, it occurred to him that a good detective-story murder
method would be to substitute a very sharp razor blade for one the
victim knew was extremely dull. He'd whip it across his throat, putting
a lot of muscle into the stroke to get through the tangle, and--_urrk_!
Ridiculous, of course. Wouldn't work except with a straight razor.
Wouldn't even work with a straight razor, unless ... oh, well.
He told himself the blade was noticeably duller today.
Next morning, he was still using the freak blade, but with a persistent
though very slight uneasiness. Things should behave as you expected
them to, in accordance with their flimsy souls, he told himself at the
barely conscious level. Men should die, hearts should break, girls
should tell, nations perish, curtains get dirty, milk sour ... and
razor blades grow dull. It was the comfortable, expected, reassuring
way.
He told himself the blade was duller still. Just a bit.
The third morning, face lathered, he flipped open the razor and lifted
it out.
"You're through," he said to it silently. "I've had the experience
before of getting bum shaves by trying to save a penny by pretending to
myself that a wornout blade was still sharp enough, when it obviously
couldn't be. Or maybe--" he grinned a little wryly--"maybe I'd almost
get one more shave out of you and then you'd fall to pieces like
the Wonderful One Horse Shay and leave me with a chin full of steel
porcupine quills. No, thanks."
So Ernie Meeker pushed through the little slot beside the mirror and
heard tinkle faintly down and away the first of the Little Gifts, the
Everlasting Razor Blade. One hundred and fifty thousand years later,
it turned up, bright and shining, in the midst of a small knob of red
iron oxide excavated by an archeological expedition of multi-brachs
from Antares Gamma. Those wise history-mad beings handed it about
wonderingly, from tentacle to impatient tentacle.
* * * * *
That day, Ernie felt a little sick, somehow. After dinner, he decided
it was the Thuringer sausage he'd eaten at lunch. He hurried up to the
bathroom with a spoon, but as he clutched the box of bicarbonate of
soda, preparatory to plunging the spoon into it, it seemed to him that
the box said distinctly, in a small inward-outward voice:
"No, no, no!"
Ernie sat down suddenly on the toilet seat. The spoon rattled against
the porcelain finish of the washbowl as he laid it down. He held the
box firmly in both hands and studied it.
Size, shape, materials, blue color, closure, etc., were exactly as they
should be. But the white lettering on the blue background read: