With Friends Like These... Part 1

Foster, Alan Dean.

With Friends Like These...

Introduction.

When I was very young, which was not so very long ago, my friends and I wanted to grow up to be firemen, policemen, airline pilots, and presidents. I suspect it says something for my generation when you consider that as youngsters our aspirations were to be successful civil servants. Certainly no one ever came up to me after a hard afternoon of sockball or kick-the-can and said, "Alan, when I grow up, I'm going to be a science-fiction writer."

Even more certainly, I never said it to anyone. But it happened. Where, as my mother was once wont to ask, did I go wrong?

Probably by giving me all those comic books. Comic books are dangerous to the American way of life, you see. I've always agreed with that theory. A child raised on comics can't help but grow up with a questing mind, an expanded imagination, a sense of wonder, a desire to know what make things tick-machines, people, governments.

No wonder our gilded conservatives are afraid of them.

I don't remember when I first started drawing s.p.a.ceships. I know I blossomed in the fifth grade. They weren't very good s.p.a.ceships, but in my soul I knew they were astrophysically sound. Someday I'd design real ones. I might have become an engineer, save for one inimical colossus who always loomed up to block my dream-way: mathematics.

I wasn't helpless, but neither did I display a pre- sicocious apt.i.tude for differential calculus. My feelings were akin to those I experienced when I discovered that it took more than six piano lessons to play Rachmaninoff's Third Concerto-or even his First Concerto. Mentally, I drifted, my chosen profession blocked off to me at the tender age of eleven. - If it hadn't been'for that d.a.m.n book, The s.p.a.ceship Under the Apple Tree . . .

I persevered with my school work, finding in myself certain talents for the biological sciences. Math always cropped up somehow, somewhere, stopping me. What to do? I was good at English and history, but I wanted to design s.p.a.ceships* dammit!

I kept on drawing them, knowing it was futile, but unable to resist the smooth lines, the sensuous curves of propulsive exhausts, the sharp stab of some irresistible power-beam. When I started fiddling around with writing, I stayed away from science fiction. Impossibly complex, intricate, challenging ... I wrote love stories, mysteries, even fantasy. How could I consider writing science fiction when The World of Null-A read like Chinese? I didn't even read that much sf, turning instead to natural history, politics, science, literature-I immersed myself throughout high school in tons of such nonscience fiction. Little did I know.

It started in college, at UCLA. The more arcane philosophy I was forced to read, the more I looked forward to relaxing with the directions of the good doctor Asimov. Thomas Hobbs drove me to relax in the humor and humanity of Eric Frank Russell. The painful details of political science were less hurtful when salved with judicious doses of Robert Sheckley, or buried beneath the smooth logic of Murray Lein-ster. I read enormous amounts of science fiction.

I discovered E. E, Smith and John Tame, whose s.p.a.ce-time concepts made those of the lectures I attended shrink into laughability.

But I was that second-most-crippled college b.a.s.t.a.r.d, a political science major (the worst, he who majors in English). No where to go save law school. So I girded myself for the challenge. At least I would someday make money.

And in my senior year, with required courses laboriously shoveled away, I discovered the motion-picture department at UCLA. And screenwriting. I found they would give me credit for-oh glory of glories!-watching movies! And for writing, for writing any old yam that came into my head.

School changed from drudgery to pleasure. I told stories and watched them, and that was all that was required of me. And I learned the joy of those whose lives were concerned primarily with artistic creation, saw the naked exuberance of a young guest-instructor displayed while he taught a seminar in the films of director Howard Hawks. Peter Bogdanovich wasn't an especially fine instructor, but he was enthusiastic. His enthusiasm has done him right well since he taught that cla.s.s.

He gave me a B, but wrote on my final exam, "You have good instincts ... you should continue."

But law school still beckoned. Until a miracle happened. Despite unspectacular grades, perhaps because of a good Graduate Entrance Exam score, possibly due to the odd letter I wrote in which I explained I wished first of all to be the world's greatest gigolo and, second, to write, I was accepted into the graduate writing program.

My parents wailed silently, stoically, and finally reconciled themselves to the idea of their young Perry Mason blowing a fat raspberry at the whole legal profession. I turned down USC Law School and entered the wacky world of graduate film at UCLA. I started at the unprodigal age of twenty-two to write, seriously, for the first tune.

I wrote a love story set in j.a.pan, a western, a s.e.xy comedy. I wrote a science-fiction detective film. I wrote an epic. And I started, to amuse myself, to write science-fiction stories. I would become a combination Elh'son/Stapeldon/Clarke/Heinlein. I would smear brilliance like the high-priced spread across reams of virgin twenty-pound rag.

My first attempt was about an aluminum Christmas tree that took root and started to grow. It was rejected. Often.

Crushed? I was wrecked, ruined, psychologically destroyed. I should have gone to law school, vet school, learned a trade. I would starve, miserably, begging for chocolate-chip danish in the streets ...

I sold a story. My twelfth. And it wasn't even written as a story. But the next one was, and it sold too. I kept getting rejection slips, but some of them weren't mimeographed, they were actually written to me. I joined the Science-Fiction Writers of America and met my G.o.ds-and was crushed when they turned out to be human. Sometimes more than human, sometimes less. But I was one of them.

I began to understand how a leper feels.

Harlan Ellison expressed an interest in a story of mine. Would I care to come over to his place to talk about it? Did Washington free the slaves? Did Lincoln cut down cherry trees?

I met the Harlan Ellison. I'll never forget his first words to me, the first words from a Writer to a writer.

"First of all, Foster, you know that ninety percent of this story is s.h.i.t."

But basically, he liked the ending. Would I try again?

Did Washington free the slaves? Did Lincoln ... ?

In two days I buried Ellison under three or four complete rewrites. Becase I was excited. Because I was anxious. And because the next week I had to report to the Army. Yup. And I also wanted to finish the novel I was working on, my first.

I never satisfied Harlan, but I finished the novel. It was rejected. And then it sold. And I-I was lost. I was one of the happy lepers, come what may. I might be a starving leper, I might be a wealthy one, but I had chosen my disease.

I got out of the Army, went to work writing press releases for a tiny local public relations outfit. I also ran the duplicating machine and cleaned out the fish tank. I made $400 a month, to start. A year and some months later, I began to feel like those fish.

If I could only find something I liked, something to put seafood in my mouth while I resumed writing. I knew n.o.body made a living writing science fiction, except people like Heinlein and Anderson and Asimov and what the h.e.l.l, they were immortal anyway, so what difference did it make?

A part-time teaching position opened at Los Angeles City College. I applied and was accepted. Furthermore, I enjoyed it. A course in film history and one in writing. I've also taught writing at UCLA, and even a seminar on the works of H. P. Lovecraft.

I kept writing. Things Started To Happen. Books sold, stories sold. Other people would pay to share with me yarns I wrote for my own enjoyment. I was happy, content. Who wouldn't be? I've never known a storyteller who was unhappy when telling stories.

Now I'm a writer, but I feel guilty. This is too much fun. It's sinful to enjoy life so much. I haven't suffered enough to be a writer. I like other human beings, I like this sad, smoggy world. I like my agents and my publishers and editors. I even like critics. I love my wife, who is much too beautiful for me.

Clearly, there is something drastically wrong with me.

Or maybe it's all a dream-yeah, tomorrow I'll wake up and have to go read law books; put on a suit and tie; smile at people I'd like to be honest with. But for now, today, this minute, I'm going to enjoy every second of that dream.

I can't give it to you. But I can share a little of it. It's in this book.

With Friends Like These

My favorite writer of science fiction was, and still is, the inimitable Eric Frank Russell. When I was turning in short stories to the magazines instead of papers to my college professors and collecting rejection slips instead of credits and grades, I often wondered why Russell had stopped writing. I miss him.

At the 1968 World Science-Fiction Convention in Oakland, Johm Campbell told me that Russell was his favorite writer, and that he too sorely bemoaned the lack of yarns Russellian. So I decided to try a Russell-flavored Terra uber attes story. Campbell liked it. He never sent acceptance letters-just checks.

And man and boy, that was a change from rejection slips.

As she commenced her first approach to the Go-type sun, the light cruiser Tpin's velocity began to decrease from the impossible to the merely incredible. Her multidrive engines put forth the barely audible whine that signified slowdown, and she once more a.s.sumed a real ma.s.s that the normal universe could and would notice.

Visual observation at the organic level became possible as the great ship cut the orbit of the last gas giant. Those of the vessel's complement took the never dull opportunity to rush the ports for a glimpse of a new solar system; those whose functions did not include the actual maneuvering of the craft. Curiosity was a fairly universal characteristic among s.p.a.ce-going races. The crew of the Tpin, although a grim lot, were no exception.

Within the protected confines of the fore control room of the half-kilometer-long bubble of metal and plastic, Communicator First Phrnnx shifted his vestigial wings and asked Commander First Rappan for the millionth time what-the-h.e.l.l-equivalent they hoped to find.

"Phrnnx," Rappan sighed, "if you haven't been sufficiently enlightened as to the content of the legends by now, I fail to see how I can aid you. Instead of repeating yourself for the sake of hearing yourself oralize, I suggest you bend a membrane to your detection apparatus and see if you can pick up any traces of that murfled Yop battleship!"

Phrnnx riffled his eyelids in a manner indicative of mild denial, with two degrees of respectful impatience. "We lost those inept yipdips five pa.r.s.ecs ago, sir. I am fully capable of performing my duties without any well-intentioned suggestions from the bureaucracy. Do I tell you how to fly the ship?"

"A task," began Rappan heatedly, "so far beyond your level of comprehension that... !"

"Gentlebeings, gentlebeings, please!" said the Professor. Subordinate and commander alike quieted.

The "Professor"-his real t.i.tle was unp.r.o.nounceable to most of the crew-was both the guiding force and the real reason behind the whole insane expedition. It was he who rediscovered the secret of breaking the Terran Shield. He came from a modest three-system cl.u.s.ter nearly halfway to the Rim-far re- With Friends Like These . . .

moved from their own worlds. Due to the distance from thing's and to their own quiet, retiring nature, his folk took little part in the perpetual cataclysm of the Federation-Yop wars. What small-if important-role they did deign to play in the conflict was not determined by choice. Rather, it was engendered by the Yop policy of regarding all those peoples, who were not allies of the Yop, as mortal enemies of the Yop. There was room in neither Yop culture, nor Yop language, for the concept of a "neutral." Yop temperament was such that their total complement of allies came to a grand total of zero. The members of the Federation had matured beyond prejudice, but it was admitted hi most quarters that the Yops were not nice people. Possibly some of this att.i.tude stemmed from the Yop habit of eating everything organic that moved, without regard for such minor inconveniences as, say, the intelligence of the diner, or his desire to be not-eaten.

Against them was allied the total remaining strength of the organized galaxy; some two hundred and twelve federated races.

However-due to diet, perhaps-there were a lot of Yops.

The avowed purpose of the expedition was to make that latter total two hundred and thirteen.

The Professor continued in a less stern tone. "H you must fight among yourselves, kindly do so at a civilized level. At least out of deference to me. I am an old being, and I possess a perhaps unreasonable allergy to loud and raucous noises."

The^others in the room immediately lowered their voices in respect. In the Federation age was a revered commodity, to be conserved as such. And there was the Professor's age. His antennae drooped noticeably, his chiton was growing more and more translucent, losing its healthy purple iridescence, and his back plates were exfoliating in thin, shallow flakes. That he had held up as well as he had on this trip, with its sometimes strenuous dodging of Yop warships, was in itself remarkable. He seemed to grow stronger as they neared their objective, and now his eyes, at least, glowed with a semblance of vitality.

All eyes were trained on the great mottled sphere turning slowly and majestically below them.

"Planet Three," intoned Navigator First. "Primary colors-blue, white, brown, green. Atmosphere . . ." and he dropped ofi to a low mumbling. At last, "It checks, sir."

"And the gold overlay?" asked Communicator Phrnnx, for being among the youngest of the crew, his curiosity quotient was naturally among the highest.

"That, gentlebeings, means that the'Shield is still up. After all these years I'd thought perhaps . . ." The Professor made what pa.s.sed for a shrug among his people. He turned from the port to the others.

"As you all recall, I hope, the phenomenon below us, the Shield, is the direct result of the Old Empire-Terran Wars of ages ago. At that time, the inhabitants of this planet first broke free of their own system and started to come out to the stars.

"They found there a multiracial empire nominally ruled by a race known to us as the Veen. The Terrans were invited to join the empire, accruing the same rights and privileges as had historically been granted to all new s.p.a.ce-going races for thousands and thousands of years."

"And they refused," put in Rappan. "Yes, they refused. It became quickly apparent to the Veen that the Terrans intended to carve out a little pocket empire of their own in another sector of s.p.a.ce. Since Terra was so far away from the center of things, so to speak, the Veen decided that for the sake of peace-and the Veen-this could not be allowed to take place. Accordingly, there was a war, or rather, a series of wars. These lasted for centuries, despite the overwhelming numerical superiority of the Veen. Gradually, the Terrans were pushed back to their own home world. A standoff ensued, as the Veen and .their With Friends Like These . . .

allies were unable to break the ultimate defenses of the Terrans.

"Then a great scientist of one of the allied races of the Veen discovered, quite by accident, the quasi-mathematical principle behind the Shield. The nature of the Shield forbade its use on anything smaller than a good-sized moon. It was thus useless for such obvious military applications as, for example, a ship defensive screen. Then someone got the bright idea of enveloping the entire planet of Terra in one huge Shield, making it into an impenetrable cage. At worst, it would provide the Empire with a breathing spell in which to marshal its sorely battered forces. At best it would restrict the Terrans to their own fortress until such time as the Veen saw fit to let them out. The chances of the Terrans accidentally stumbling onto the same principle was considered to be slight. As you can now see, this indeed has been the case." The Professor sighed again, a high, whistling sound.

"However, the wars with Terra had also depleted the resources of the Veen tremendously. Those races which had been allied to them only by virtue of the Veen's superior knowledge and strength saw an irresistible opportunity to supplant the Veen in the hierarchy of Empire. The result? The Time of Conflicts, which resulted in the breakdown of the Empire, the final elimination of the once-proud Veen, and after considerable bickering and fighting, the formation of our present Federation-in a much more primitive form, of course."

He returned his gaze once again to the blue-white planet circling below, its land areas blurred in the shifting golden haze which was the by-product of the Shield. They had already locked in to the Shield station on the planet's only satellite. "Unfortunately, the Ban still remains."

Rappan broke away from his console for a moment. "Look, we've been through all that. The supposed rule states that the penalty for breaking the Shield either . ..

partially, or completely, is death, for all those concerned. But that murfted law is millennia old!"

"And still on the books," retorted old Alo, the Commander Second.

"I know, I know!" said Rappan, adjusting a meter. "Which is one reason why every being on this ship is a volunteer. And if I thought we had a choice I'd never have commandeered the Tpin for this trip. But you know as well as I, Alo, we have no choiceV We've been fighting the Yops now for nearly three hundred sestes, and been losing ever since we started. Oh, I know how it looks, but the signs are all there. One of these days we'll turn around for the customary reinforcements and pifft, they won't be there! That's why it's imperative we find new allies . . . even if we have to try Terra. When I was a cub, my den parents would scare us away from the Gn>un/-fruit groves by saying: 'The Terrans will get you if you don't watch out!' "

" 'Ginst the Edict," murmured Alo, not to be put off.

Navigator First Zinin broke in, in the deep ba.s.s-rumbling of this heavy-planet civilization. "There will be no Edicts, old one, if the Yops crush the Federation. We must take some risks. If the Terrans are willing to aid us-and are still capable of it-I do believe that GalCen will agree to some slight modification of the rules. And, if these creatures have fallen back to the point where they can be of no help to us, then they will not be a threat to us either. GalCen will not be concerned."

"And if by chance mebbe they should be a bit angry at us and decide to renew an ancient grudge?" put in the ever-pessimistic Alo.

"Then the inevitable," put in Zinin, "will only be hastened."

Philosophizing was of needs broken off. The Tpin was entering the Shield.

Green, thought Phrnnx. It is the greenest nontropi-cal planet 1 have ever seen.

With Friends Like These . ..

He was standing by the end of the ramp which led out from the belly of the cruiser. The rest of the First Contact party was nearby. They had landed near a great mountain range, in a lush section of foothills and gently rolling green. Tall growths of brown and emerald dominated two sides of then- view. In front of them stretched low hillocks covered with what was obviously cultivated vegetation. Behind the ship, great silver-gray mountains thrust white-haloed crowns into the sky. Had the Tpin been an air vessel, the updrafts sweeping up the sides of those crags would have given them trouble. As it was, they merely added another touch to the records the meteorologists were a.s.sembling.

Somewhere in the tall growths-which they later learned were called trees-a brook of liquid H2O made gurgling sounds. Overhead, orinthorphs circled lazily in the not unpleasant heat of morning. Phrnnx was meditating on how drastically the Shield might have affected the climate of this world when he became aware of Alo and Zinin strolling up behind him.

"A peaceful world, certainly," said Zinin. "Rather light on the oxygen and argon, and all that nitrogen gives it a bit of odor, but on the whole a most pleasant ball of dirt."

"Humph! From one who burns almost as much fuel as the ship I wouldn't have expected compliments," grumbled Alo. "Still, I'll grant you, 'tis a quiet locale we've chosen to search out allies. I wonder if such a world did indeed sp.a.w.n such a warlike race, or were they perhaps immigrants from elsewhere?"

"They weren't, and it didn't," interposed the Professor. He had relinquished the high place to the commander and his military advisers, as then1 conversation had bored him.

"Mind explaining that a mite, Professor?" asked Alo.

The Professor bent suddenly and dug gently in the soft earth with a claw. He came up with a small wig- . ..

gling thing. This he proceeded to pop into his mouth and chew with vigor.

"Hmmm. A bit bitter, but intriguing. I believe .there is at least one basis for trade here."

"Be intriguing if it poisons you," said Phrnnx with some relish.

The Professor moved his antennae in a gesture indicative of negativity, with one degree of mild reproach. "Nope. Sorry to disappoint you, youngster, but Bio has already p.r.o.nounced most of the organics on this planet nontoxic. Watch out for the vegetation, though. Full of acids and things. As to your question, Alo. When the Terrans ..."

"Speaking of Terrans," put hi Zinin, "I'd like to see one of these mythical creatures. I don't recall seeing any cities on our descent."

"Neither did Survey. Oh, don't look so smug. Navigator. Survey reports their presence-Terrans, not cities-but they estimate no more than a hundred million of them on the planet. The only signs of any really large cl.u.s.terings are vague outlines that could be the sites of ancient ruins. Might have expected something of the sort. People change in a few Ipas, you know."

"My question," prompted Alo once more.

"Well, when the Terrans went out into extrasolar s.p.a.ce and began setting up their own empire, the Veen decided at first to leave them alone. Not only was there no precedent for a s.p.a.ce-faring race not accepting citizenship hi the empire, but the Terrans weren't bothering anyone. They were also willing to sign all kinds of trade agreements and such. Anything of a nonrestrictive and nonmilitary nature."

"Why'd the Veen change their minds, then?" asked the now interested Phrnnx.

"Some bright lad in the Veen government made a few computer readings, extrapolating from what was known of Terran scientific developments, rate of expansion, galactic acclimatization, and so on."