Read Online Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley by Robert Sheckley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Sheckley
Tags: Science-Fiction
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shaping his main seeing organ for high-powered telescopic reception. Even in this emergency, Eye couldnât resist making verses. He announced that he was at work on a new narrative poem, called Peripheral Glow . No one wanted to hear it, so Eye fed it to Thinker, who stored everything, good or bad, right or wrong.
Engine never slept. Filled to the brim on Pusher, he shoved the Ship along at several times the speed of light.
The Walls were arguing among themselves about who had been the drunkest during their last leave.
Talker decided to make himself comfortable. He released his hold on the Walls and swung in the air, his small round body suspended by his crisscrossed network of filaments.
He thought briefly about Pusher. It was strange. Pusher had been everyoneâs friend and now he was forgotten. That wasnât because of indifference; it was because the Ship was a unit. The loss of a member was regretted, but the important thing was for the unit to go on.
The Ship raced through the suns of the periphery.
Thinker laid out a search spiral, calculating their odds on finding a Pusher planet at roughly four to one. In a week they found a planet of primitive Walls. Dropping low, they could see the leathery, rectangular fellows basking in the sun, crawling over rocks, stretching themselves thin in order to float in the breeze.
All the Shipâs Walls heaved a sigh of nostalgia. It was just like home.
These Walls on the planet hadnât been contacted by a galactic team yet, and were still unaware of their great destinyâto join in the vast Cooperation of the Galaxy.
There were plenty of dead worlds in the spiral, and worlds too young to bear life. They found a planet of Talkers. The Talkers had extended their spidery communication lines across half a continent.
Talker looked at them eagerly, through Eye. A wave of self-pity washed over him. He remembered home, his family, his friends. He thought of the tree he was going to buy when he got back.
For a moment, Talker wondered what he was doing here, part of a Ship in a far corner of the Galaxy.
He shrugged off the mood. They were bound to find a Pusher planet, if they looked long enough.
At least, he hoped so.
There was a long stretch of arid worlds as the Ship speeded through the unexplored periphery. Then a planetful of primeval Engines, swimming in a radioactive ocean.
âThis is rich territory,â Feeder said to Talker. âGalactic should send a Contact party here.â
âThey probably will, after we get back,â Talker said.
They were good friends, above and beyond the all-enveloping friendship of the Crew. It wasnât only because they were the youngest Crew members, although that had something to do with it. They both had the same kind of functions, and that made for a certain rapport. Talker translated languages; Feeder transformed foods. Also, they looked somewhat alike. Talker was a central core with radiating filaments; Feeder was a central core with radiating tentacles.
Talker thought that Feeder was the next most aware being on the Ship. He was never really able to understand how some of the others carried on the processes of consciousness.
More suns, more planets. Engine started to overheat. Usually, Engine was used only for taking off and landing, and for fine maneuvering in a planetary group. Now he had been running continuously for weeks, both over and under the speed of light. The strain was telling on him.
Feeder, with Doctorâs help, rigged a cooling system for him. It was crude, but it had to suffice. Feeder rearranged nitrogen, oxygen, and hydrogen atoms to make a coolant for the system. Doctor diagnosed a long rest for Engine. He said that the gallant old fellow couldnât stand the strain for more than a week.
The search continued, with the Crewâs spirits gradually dropping. They all realized that Pushers were rather rare in the Galaxy, as compared to the fertile Walls and Engines.
The
Engine never slept. Filled to the brim on Pusher, he shoved the Ship along at several times the speed of light.
The Walls were arguing among themselves about who had been the drunkest during their last leave.
Talker decided to make himself comfortable. He released his hold on the Walls and swung in the air, his small round body suspended by his crisscrossed network of filaments.
He thought briefly about Pusher. It was strange. Pusher had been everyoneâs friend and now he was forgotten. That wasnât because of indifference; it was because the Ship was a unit. The loss of a member was regretted, but the important thing was for the unit to go on.
The Ship raced through the suns of the periphery.
Thinker laid out a search spiral, calculating their odds on finding a Pusher planet at roughly four to one. In a week they found a planet of primitive Walls. Dropping low, they could see the leathery, rectangular fellows basking in the sun, crawling over rocks, stretching themselves thin in order to float in the breeze.
All the Shipâs Walls heaved a sigh of nostalgia. It was just like home.
These Walls on the planet hadnât been contacted by a galactic team yet, and were still unaware of their great destinyâto join in the vast Cooperation of the Galaxy.
There were plenty of dead worlds in the spiral, and worlds too young to bear life. They found a planet of Talkers. The Talkers had extended their spidery communication lines across half a continent.
Talker looked at them eagerly, through Eye. A wave of self-pity washed over him. He remembered home, his family, his friends. He thought of the tree he was going to buy when he got back.
For a moment, Talker wondered what he was doing here, part of a Ship in a far corner of the Galaxy.
He shrugged off the mood. They were bound to find a Pusher planet, if they looked long enough.
At least, he hoped so.
There was a long stretch of arid worlds as the Ship speeded through the unexplored periphery. Then a planetful of primeval Engines, swimming in a radioactive ocean.
âThis is rich territory,â Feeder said to Talker. âGalactic should send a Contact party here.â
âThey probably will, after we get back,â Talker said.
They were good friends, above and beyond the all-enveloping friendship of the Crew. It wasnât only because they were the youngest Crew members, although that had something to do with it. They both had the same kind of functions, and that made for a certain rapport. Talker translated languages; Feeder transformed foods. Also, they looked somewhat alike. Talker was a central core with radiating filaments; Feeder was a central core with radiating tentacles.
Talker thought that Feeder was the next most aware being on the Ship. He was never really able to understand how some of the others carried on the processes of consciousness.
More suns, more planets. Engine started to overheat. Usually, Engine was used only for taking off and landing, and for fine maneuvering in a planetary group. Now he had been running continuously for weeks, both over and under the speed of light. The strain was telling on him.
Feeder, with Doctorâs help, rigged a cooling system for him. It was crude, but it had to suffice. Feeder rearranged nitrogen, oxygen, and hydrogen atoms to make a coolant for the system. Doctor diagnosed a long rest for Engine. He said that the gallant old fellow couldnât stand the strain for more than a week.
The search continued, with the Crewâs spirits gradually dropping. They all realized that Pushers were rather rare in the Galaxy, as compared to the fertile Walls and Engines.
The
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