by Philip K. Dick
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Orbit volume 1
number 2, 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: A TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY GROWS UP FAST WHEN HISTORY CATCHES UP
WITH THE HUMAN RACE.]
Reddish-yellow sunlight filtered through the thick quartz windows into
the sleep-compartment. Tony Rossi yawned, stirred a little, then opened
his black eyes and sat up quickly. With one motion he tossed the covers
back and slid to the warm metal floor. He clicked off his alarm clock
and hurried to the closet.
It looked like a nice day. The landscape outside was motionless,
undisturbed by winds or dust-shift. The boy's heart pounded excitedly.
He pulled his trousers on, zipped up the reinforced mesh, struggled into
his heavy canvas shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the cot to tug
on his boots. He closed the seams around their tops and then did the
same with his gloves. Next he adjusted the pressure on his pump unit and
strapped it between his shoulder blades. He grabbed his helmet from the
dresser, and he was ready for the day.
In the dining-compartment his mother and father had finished breakfast.
Their voices drifted to him as he clattered down the ramp. A disturbed
murmur; he paused to listen. What were they talking about? Had he done
something wrong, again?
And then he caught it. Behind their voices was another voice. Static and
crackling pops. The all-system audio signal from Rigel IV. They had it
turned up full blast; the dull thunder of the monitor's voice boomed
loudly. The war. Always the war. He sighed, and stepped out into the
dining-compartment.
"Morning," his father muttered.
"Good morning, dear," his mother said absently. She sat with her head
turned to one side, wrinkles of concentration webbing her forehead. Her
thin lips were drawn together in a tight line of concern. His father had
pushed his dirty dishes back and was smoking, elbows on the table, dark
hairy arms bare and muscular. He was scowling, intent on the jumbled
roar from the speaker above the sink.
"How's it going?" Tony asked. He slid into his chair and reached
automatically for the ersatz grapefruit. "Any news from Orion?"
Neither of them answered. They didn't hear him. He began to eat his
grapefruit. Outside, beyond the little metal and plastic housing unit,
sounds of activity grew. Shouts and muffled crashes, as rural merchants
and their trucks rumbled along the highway toward Karnet. The reddish
daylight swelled; Betelgeuse was rising quietly and majestically.
"Nice day," Tony said. "No flux wind. I think I'll go down to the
n-quarter awhile. We're building a neat spaceport, a model, of course,
but we've been able to get enough materials to lay out strips for--"
With a savage snarl his father reached out and struck the audio roar
immediately died. "I knew it!" He got up and moved angrily away from the
table. "I told them it would happen. They shouldn't have moved so soon.
Should have built up Class A supply bases, first."
"Isn't our main fleet moving in from Bellatrix?" Tony's mother fluttered
anxiously. "According to last night's summary the worst that can happen
is Orion IX and X will be dumped."
Joseph Rossi laughed harshly. "The hell with last night's summary. They
know as well as I do what's happening."
"What's happening?" Tony echoed, as he pushed aside his grapefruit and
began to ladle out dry cereal. "Are we losing the battle?"
"Yes!" His father's lips twisted. "Earthmen, losing to--to _beetles_. I
told them. But they couldn't wait. My God, there's ten good years left
in this system. Why'd they have to push on? Everybody knew Orion would
be tough. The whole damn beetle fleet's strung out around there. Waiting
for us. And we have to barge right in."
"But nobody ever thought beetles would fight," Leah Rossi protested
mildly. "Everybody thought they'd just fire a few blasts and then--"
"They _have_ to fight! Orion's the last jump-off. If they don't fight
here, where the hell can they fight?" Rossi swore savagely. "Of course
they're fighting. We have all their planets except the inner Orion
string--not that they're worth much, but it's the principle of the
thing. If we'd built up strong supply bases, we could have broken up the
beetle fleet and really clobbered it."
"Don't say 'beetle,'" Tony murmured, as he finished his cereal. "They're
Pas-udeti, same as here. The word 'beetle' comes from Betelgeuse. An
Arabian word we invented ourselves."
Joe Rossi's mouth opened and closed. "What are you, a goddamn
beetle-lover?"
"Joe," Leah snapped. "For heaven's sake."
Rossi moved toward the door. "If I was ten years younger I'd be out
there. I'd really show those shiny-shelled insects what the hell they're
up against. Them and their junky beat-up old hulks. Converted
freighters!" His eyes blazed. "When I think of them shooting down Terran
cruisers with _our_ boys in them--"
"Orion's their system," Tony murmured.
"_Their_ system! When the hell did you get to be an authority on space
law? Why, I ought to--" He broke off, choked with rage. "My own kid," he
muttered. "One more crack out of you today and I'll hang one on you
you'll feel the rest of the week."
Tony pushed his chair back. "I won't be around here today. I'm going
into Karnet, with my EEP."
"Yeah, to play with beetles!"
Tony said nothing. He was already sliding his helmet in place and
snapping the clamps tight. As he pushed through the back door, into the
lock membrane, he unscrewed his oxygen tap and set the tank filter into
action. An automatic response, conditioned by a lifetime spent on a
colony planet in an alien system.
* * * * *
A faint flux wind caught at him and swept yellow-red dust around his
boots. Sunlight glittered from the metal roof of his family's housing
unit, one of endless rows of squat boxes set in the sandy slope,
protected by the line of ore-refining installations against the horizon.
He made an impatient signal, and from the storage shed his EEP came
gliding out, catching the sunlight on its chrome trim.
"We're going down into Karnet," Tony said, unconsciously slipping into
the Pas dialect. "Hurry up!"
The EEP took up its position behind him, and he started briskly down the
slope, over the shifting sand, toward the road. There were quite a few
traders out, today. It was a good day for the market; only a fourth of
the year was fit for travel. Betelgeuse was an erratic and undependable
sun, not at all like Sol (according to the edutapes, fed to Tony four
hours a day, six days a week--he had never seen Sol himself).
He reached the noisy road. Pas-udeti were everywhere. Whole groups of
them, with their primitive combustion-driven trucks, battered and
filthy, motors grinding protestingly. He waved at the trucks as they
pushed past him. After a moment one slowed down. It was piled with
_tis_, bundled heaps of gray vegetables dried, and prepared for the
table. A staple of the Pas-udeti diet. Behind the wheel lounged a
dark-faced elderly Pas, one arm over the open window, a rolled leaf
between his lips. He was like all other Pas-udeti; lank and
hard-shelled, encased in a brittle sheath in which he lived and died.
"You want a ride?" the Pas murmured--required protocol when an Earthman
on foot was encountered.
"Is there room for my EEP?"
The Pas made a careless motion with his claw. "It can run behind."
Sardonic amusement touched his ugly old face. "If it gets to Karnet
we'll sell it for scrap. We can use a few condensers and relay tubing.
We're short on electronic maintenance stuff."
"I know," Tony said solemnly, as he climbed into the cabin of the truck.
"It's all been sent to the big repair base at Orion I. For your
warfleet."
Amusement vanished from the leathery face. "Yes, the warfleet." He
turned away and started up the truck again. In the back, Tony's EEP had
scrambled up on the load of _tis_ and was gripping precariously with its
magnetic lines.
Tony noticed the Pas-udeti's sudden change of expression, and he was
puzzled. He started to speak to him--but now he noticed unusual
quietness among the other Pas, in the other trucks, behind and in front
of his own. The war, of course. It had swept through this system a
century ago; these people had been left behind. Now all eyes were on
Orion, on the battle between the Terran warfleet and the Pas-udeti
collection of armed freighters.
"Is it true," Tony asked carefully, "that you're winning?"