Only Human (43 page)

Who knows? Perhaps I'll get a job in the prison workshop?

There was, of course, another alternative. There were highly placed people, Up There and Down Below, who owed him favours; or, at the very least, who could use his skills. If he yelled loudly enough, would they hear him and send angels with pickaxe handles and boltcutters to set him free? They should do, by rights, but he doubted it somehow. Trained machinists? Ten a penny. Stroll into any job centre and crinkle a fiver between forefinger and thumb, and you'll attract enough skilled labour to build five galaxies.

Later, when the cell door had slammed shut and the key had turned noisily in the lock (obviously not a good fit; with a small file and an oilstone he could tune it so that its wards moved frictionlessly, but he had an idea that it wasn't even worth offering), he lay back on the hard wooden bench and stared at the ceiling, allowing his mind to wander. It's all very well being able to do things, he realised, but that's never the end of the story. People - human beings - have to want the things to be done. And tools cost money, and so do materials; therefore it's only the people with money who have the tools and the materials, and people like that only ever want one thing made, namely more money. Which is why better mouse-traps are invented by people whose houses are not necessarily infested with mice, and why the human race can make anything and has so very little (but ever so much more than they deserve).

I could dig a tunnel, Len mused. Piece of cake, digging a tunnel. First though, I need something to dig with, probably a length of jagged metal ripped off this bed. Now then, what would be the most ergonomically efficient design of digging tool that I could make, using the materials available? And when I've made a digger, I'll need to make cunningly disguised receptacles to store the excavated earth in, and improvised pit-props to stop the roof caving in; and some light to dig by would be nice, maybe I could rig up a makeshift extension lead using wire from the bedsprings unwound and wrapped in bits of plastic peeled off the washstand trim. Hey, a crane for lifting the earth out of the hole would come in handy, how'd it be if I unpicked thread from my socks and used a chairleg and the lid of the chamber pot . . .?

Len's eyes sparkled as he faced the new challenge, and human ingenuity coursed through his veins like the tame lightning in Dr Frankenstein's laboratory.

 

Zxprxp poured himself into the cockpit of his ship, engaged the stardrive and watched the viewscreen as the stars became silver needles and the planet Earth dwindled into a speck of dust. He sighed, wiggled his livers until he was comfy and switched on the recorder. His mission was at an end, and it was time to compose his final report.

How was he going to put this? What words would convey in a concise and intelligible manner his impressions of the human race, enabling his fellow creatures to understand the inhabitants of the blue and green planet, justifying his research grant and keeping the heads of his faculty from stringing him up by his
uhjlkhj
? He took a deep legful of cyanide gas and began:

Well, that was the easy bit. The rest would require a certain delicacy of touch. How about:

In any event we must ask ourselves: do we really want to invade this miserable lump of wet rock? It is remarkably inhospitable. During my stay on Earth the entire planet was in darkness, the result of a total eclipse of the sun that lasted for twenty-nine
hjgflk
, Homeworld Standard Time. That this was an everyday occurrence can be deduced from the casual attitude of the humans.They took no notice. It was business as usual. A world that spends most of its time in darkness is surely not worth considering as a potential colony.

To summarise; if we invade Earth we will be facing a race who are in complete control of their technology, who are under the direct protection of their God, who live in an idyllic form of society on which it would be impossible to improve, and who are so perfectly adjusted as to represent the highest and most advanced form of sentient life we have yet encountered. The conclusion is inescapable. On Earth, to coin a phrase, everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Don't tangle with these guys; they'll have our
lkhjgfsd
for
ertwgsq'ccr.
Report ends.

Zxprxp played the report back a couple of times, altering a few words here and there, until he was satisfied. Then he directed the computer to set a course for home, engaged the ship's standard cruise velocity of eight million times the speed of light, and leaned back in his tank, thanking his lucky stars for his species' lucky escape.

 

Below them, the waters of the fjord tumbled and foamed about the needle-sharp rocks of Lemminggagrjot Sound. The wind ruffled their fur against the grain and scoured their eyes, and its scream deafened them.

‘Well,' a lemming observed, ‘here we all are.'

An unusually violent wave dashed itself into spray against the cliff face, showering the lemmings with droplets of salt water. Instinctively, they flinched.

‘Nice day for it,' a lemming said.

Although physics, mathematics, Sir Isaac Newton, Galileo and thirty-two-feet-per-second weren't part of their species' mental database, the lemmings instinctively knew what was coming next. They saw it all in rather less complex terms - trot-trot-AAAAaaaaaagh-splosh! - but the basic essentials were all there, encoded in their DNA. If pressed, they'd have come up with something like
When you've gotta go, you've gotta go
, or even
It's a far, far better thing
.

‘You can see ever such a long way from up here,' a lemming said. ‘Look, isn't that the little grassy hollow where we found those particularly tasty roots?'

A lemming craned its neck. ‘I do believe you're right,' it said. ‘My, those roots were scrummy. Next year, we must make a point of . . .'

The sentence faded away. The lemmings avoided looking at each other, but all that left for them to look at was the extravagantly copious quantity of Down below their feet. More Down, they couldn't help feeling, than we know what to do with. Easily a lifetime supply.

‘Oh well,' sighed a lemming, its mouth full of a last nibble of tender, fleshy grass. ‘Might as well get on with it, now we're here.'

Not a lemming spoke. Not a lemming moved. In their minds, where an ancient voice should have been chanting, there was an awkward silence.

‘Duty calls,' muttered another. ‘A lemming's gotta do what a lemming's gotta do.'

Far below, the sea curled its lips, opening a gap under the crest of a wave just the right size for a multitude of lemmings to fit into. It waited. If the sea had had hands, it'd have clapped them slowly.

‘Alternatively,' a lemming said.

It paused, embarrassed. Suddenly, it was aware that it had its species' undivided attention.

‘All I was going to say was,' it said, ‘we could try that other method.'

‘What other method?'

The lemming waggled its whiskers. ‘Well,' it said, ‘there was that lemming, remember, and it wanted to be the leader, and it said
Don't jump.
And so what I was thinking was, instead of jumping, why don't we try politics instead?'

Some of the lemmings asked for further details. What, they asked, is politics?

‘Ah,' the lemming replied enthusiastically. ‘Listen to this.'

So the lemming told them about politics; and after a show of paws, they decided to give it a whirl. First they had an election. Then, once they'd chosen their leader, they held an improvised inauguration ceremony and invested their new head of state with full powers to represent their interests and act with full and unfettered discretion on their behalf in all matters appertaining to the public interest and the future of the species.

Then they threw him over the cliff.

‘So that's politics, is it?' a lemming said, as they made their way back towards the grassy hollow where the nice roots were. ‘You know, I think it could quite easily catch on.'

 

A glorious pink sunset, seen from above. Two men walk up the path, fishing rods over their shoulders, tackle-boxes in their hands. At the door, a younger man waits.

‘Hi, Dad,' he calls out. ‘Hi, Jay. Have a good trip?'

The older man nods. ‘It made a nice change,' he said.

‘Catch anything?'

Both men nod and hold their hands apart, indicating the approximate size of notional fish. ‘But you should have seen the one that got away,' the older man adds.

‘That's great. Come on in out of the cold, Martha's got the kettle on.' The younger man turns to lead the way.

‘Anything happen while we were away?'

The younger man shrugs. ‘All fairly quiet, really,' he replies. ‘A slight glitch with the computer. Sun went on the blink for a day or two. Spot of trouble with a revolt in Hell. All sorted. Shall I carry your rods for you?'

‘Thanks,' the older man replies. ‘They're heavier than they look. When you say a slight glitch—?'

His elder son frowns disapprovingly. ‘Dad,' he says, ‘you've only just got home. Relax. You did say it was all under control now, didn't you, Kevin?'

‘Oh yes. All in apple-pie order.' Fortunately he hadn't specified which apple. His father and brother nod.

‘That's all right then,' his father says. ‘Had a good time while we've been away? Been behaving yourself? No wild parties?'

‘Actually, it was pretty boring,' Kevin says, with a shrug. ‘Next time you go, can I come too?'

‘Next time . . .' his father says; and then they pass through the door, and it shuts, and here we are on the other side.

Next time. Well. We'll see.