The Science Fiction Anthology. Fritz Leiber
me with a gold-headed cane and said that apparently we were not yet attuned to the high mental plane of the planetoid, and would we mind going into protective custody while they worked over our egos and cured our kineticism.
I said suppose we wouldn’t. He looked shocked and waved his flower and said that then, although it had never happened before, he supposed he would have to call the space patrol and have us thrown into the hoosegow on Ganymede.
I translated that into basic wrestler for the boys and we agreed we’d better go along. We’d heard about the jail those tough space patrol babies operate on Ganymede.
The flower lovers took us to an old erydnium pit and asked us to please go down. Now they’re perfuming us every hour and feeding us flower bulbs to make us gentle.
We could climb out of this rat-hole whenever we wanted, but that would be climbing straight into a striped spacesuit.
I think about you all the time. And if you think they’re beautiful thoughts, you’re as crazy as I’ve always suspected.
Michaels
P.S. The boys asked that I enclose this note from them:
Dear Mr. Horox:
We do not like it here Mr. Horox. The Grub is no good. You come get us. Plese Mr. Horox. Come soon.
Gorilla Man Thorpe
Choker Jonas
R. Z. Zbich, light-heavyweight champion of the Moon, Mercury and the inner rings of Saturn
Gorgeous Gordon
Barefoot Charles Anya
X, the Faceless Wonder
ROCKET MAIL (First Class)
Mr. Jed Michaels
Mr. Michaels:
Don’t think you can sit around doing nothing and collect pay from the Interplanetary Amusement Corp. You’re suspended until you get out of there.
Horrocks
SPACEGRAM (Collect)
Mr. H. E. Horrocks,
Cosmopolis, Earth
MY RESIGNATION IS A MISTAKE. I WITHDRAW IT. YOU ARE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE BOSSES. IMPROBABLE AS IT SEEMS, I LOVE YOU.
JED
SPACEGRAM
Mr. Jed Michaels,
Ryttuk, Eros
ONLY ONE POSSIBLE CAUSE FOR YOUR LAST SPACEGRAM. HAS SHE A SISTER?
HANK
ROCKET MAIL (Second Class)
Mr. H. E. Horrocks
My dear employer and pal:
Eros is a wonderful asteroid!
Toward the end of the second day in the pit, the wrestlers limbered up. Zbich and the Gorilla Man worked out on headlocks, Gorgeous Gordon did calisthenics, and Barefoot Charley, Choker Jonas and the Faceless Wonder got themselves into a grunting free-for-all.
After that got under way, I heard a squeal and a girl came bounding down the pit side. She was young and dark-haired and pretty. She might have been as intellectual as the president of Harvard above the shoulders, but what a framework she had to hold up that brain!
She went over to Gorgeous Gordon and she said, “Ooh!” With all the flower lovers around here, it was probably the first man with muscles she had ever seen.
The big ham swelled up. He flexed his arms and stuck out his chest. “OOH!” said the girl, and went bounding back up the side of the pit.
I stopped the exercise and the wrestlers sat and mused blankly at each other.
In a few minutes, our little visitor was back again. With her were about a dozen pals, differing in details, but resembling her in the important points.
The leader was a tall, brown-haired, gray-eyed girl, with a face where intellect fought a losing battle with a dimple. The others helped her down the pit side as if she were something fragile and precious, like maybe a new bottle of perfume.
Then our pal went back to Gorgeous Gordon. “More ooh!” said the girl guide.
You know how wrestlers are. They’ll slap each other silly to get the cheers of four kids on a street corner, or commit mayhem for a purse big enough to buy a ham hock. In five seconds, we had going one of the finest wrestling matches in the history of good, clean sportsmanship. And over the cracking of wrestler’s bones rose the shrieks of the girls, showing that their throats were in the right place, even if their brains weren’t.
The gray-eyed girl sat with me on a flange of unmined ore. She was Aliana, a direct descendant of the leader of the Eros pioneers. As such, she was princess of the planetoid, although she left most of the governing to a council of elders, apparently as outstanding an array of mossbacks as ever smelled a gardenia or just plain smelled.
“I sometimes think, Mr. Michaels,” Aliana told me, “that we of Eros have laid too much stress upon the cerebral. I wonder if our lives would not be fuller if we also included some of the more vigorous activities, such as the one in which those men are now engaged.”
“If it’s a vacation for your mind that you want, Princess,” I agreed, “those boys are your meat.”
Just then the Gorilla Man got a leg split on Barefoot Charley and began to braid his toes.
“How stimulating,” breathed Aliana. “What is proper for the onlooker to remark in such a situation?”
“A satisfactory outcry, Princess,” I explained, “is, ‘Break it off!’“
“Break it off!” encouraged Aliana.
I had to wind it up, finally, before the wrestlers reduced themselves to blubber, thereby forcing the Interplanetary Amusement Corp. to go out and lasso itself another herd.
The girls went giggling up the side of the pit. At the top, Aliana waved at me. The others blew kisses, not caring much where they landed, as long as the receiver had muscles.
Next morning, a young man came into the pit. He announced that, upon Princes Aliana’s orders, we were to have the freedom of Eros, so that contact with the planetoid culture could win us from our uncouth ways.
He was too young to be wholly gentled by the flowers and the council of elders. So the Choker showed him a wristlock. And when the Choker tossed him on his ear in the erydnium ore, he said words that were not beautiful. Maybe there’s something to the people of this asteroid.
Anyway, everything is great now. We wander wherever we please, as long as we return to the pit to sleep. When nobody is looking, we sneak into the royal palace courtyard and put on a wrestling show for the girls.
And the nights! Ah, the nights!
Don’t turn entirely green with envy, Hankus. At least leave your nose the familiar red.
Jed
SPACEGRAM
To: Jed Michaels, Ryttuk, Eros
FINE WORK. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. WILL MEET YOU AT MARS. MAYBE YOU CAN PERSUADE SOME OF THE GIRLS TO ACCOMPANY YOU THAT FAR. AM SENDING THE WRESTLERS TO SATURN.
HANK
ROCKET MAIL (First Class)
To: H. E. Horrocks,
Cosmopolis, Earth
Dear Hank:
Go to Mars, the man says. I can’t go anywhere. The elders caught us giving a rassle when Aliana was away and we’re in again.
These flower roots taste terrible.
Jed
SPACEGRAM
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