The Collection (26 page)

Klarloth himself was at the psychograph.

^"
There is life inside the rocket," he
told Bemj. "But the impressions are confused. One creature, but I cannot
follow its thought processes. At the moment it seems to be doing something with
its teeth."

"It could not be an Earthling, one of the dominant
race. One of them is much larger than this huge rocket. Gigantic creatures.
Perhaps, unable to construct a rocket large enough to hold one of themselves,
they sent an experimental creature, such as our wooraths."

"I believe you've guessed right, Bemj. Well, when we
have explored its mind thoroughly, we may still learn enough to save us a
check-up trip to Earth. I am going to open the door."

"But air-creatures of Earth would need a heavy, almost
a dense atmosphere. It could not live."

^"
We retain the force-field, of course. It
will keep the air in. Obviously there is a source of supply of air within the
rocket or the creature would not have survived the trip."

Klarloth operated controls, and the force-field itself put
forth invisible pseudo-pods and turned the outer screw-door, then reached
within and unlatched the inner door to the compartment itself.

***

All Prxl watched breathlessly as a monstrous gray head
pushed out of the huge aperture yawning overhead. Thick whiskers, each as long
as the body of a Prxlian--

Mitkey jumped down, and took a forward step that bumped his
black nose hard-into something that wasn't there. He squeaked, and jumped
backward against the rocket.

There was disgust in Bemj's face as he looked up at the
monster.
^"
Obviously much less intelligent than a woorath. Might
just as well turn on the ray."

"Not at all," interrupted Klarloth. "You
forget certain very obvious facts. The creature is unintelligent, of course,
but the subconscious of every animal holds in itself every memory, every
impression, every sense-image, to which it has ever been subjected. If this
creature has ever heard the speech of the Earthlings, or seen any of their
works-besides this rocket--every word and every picture is indelibly graven.
You see now what I mean?"

"Naturally. How stupid of me, Klarloth. Well, one thing
is obvious from the rocket itself: we have nothing to fear from the science of
Earth for at least a few millennia. So there is no hurry, which is fortunate.
For to send back the creature's memory to the time of its birth, and to follow
each sensory impression in the psychograph will require-well, a time at least
equivalent to the age of the creature, whatever that is, plus the time
necessary for us to interpret and assimilate each."

"But that will not be necessary, Bemj."

"No? Oh, you mean the X-19 waves?"

"Exactly. Focused upon this creature's brain-center,
they can, without disturbing his memories, be so delicately adjusted as to
increase his intelligence-now probably about .0001 in the scale-to the point
where he is a reasoning creature. Almost automatically, during the process, he
will assimilate his own memories, and understand them just as he would if he
had been intelligent at the time he received those impressions.

^"
See, Bemj? He will automatically sort out
irrelevant data, and will be able to answer our questions."

"But would you make him as intelligent as-?
^"

"As we? No, the X-19 waves would not work so far. I
would say to about .2 on the scale. That, judging from the rocket, coupled with
what we remember of Earthlings from our last trip there, is about their present
place on the intelligence scale."

"Ummm, yes. At that level, he would comprehend his
experiences on Earth just sufficiently that he would not be dangerous to us,
too. Equal to an intelligent Earthling. Just about right for our purpose. Then,
shall we teach him our language?"

"Wait," said Klarloth. He studied the psychograph
closely for a while. "No, I do not think so. He will have a language of
his own. I see in his subconscious, memories of many long conversations.
Strangely, they all seem to be monologues by one person. But he will have a
language-a simple one. It would take him a long time, even under treatment, to
grasp the concepts of our own method of communication. But we can learn his, while
he is under the X-19 machine, in a few minutes."

"Does he understand, now, any of that language?"

Klarloth studied the psychograph again. "No, I do not
believe he- Wait, there is one word that seems to mean something to him. The
word `Mitkey.' It seems to be his name, and I believe that, from hearing it
many times, he vaguely associates it with himself."

"And quarters for him-with air-locks and such?"

"Of course. Order them built."

***

To say it was a strange experience for Mitkey is
understatement. Knowledge is a strange thing, even when it is acquired
gradually. To have it thrust upon one--

And there were little things that had to be straightened
out. Like the matter of vocal chords. His weren't adapted to the language he
now found he knew. Bemj fixed that; you would hardly call it an operation
because Mitkey-even with his new awareness--did know what was going on, and he
was wide awake at the time. And they didn't explain to Mitkey about the
J-dimension with which one can get at the inwardness of things without
penetrating the outside.

They figured things like that weren
^'
t in Mitkey's
line, and anyway they were more interested in learning from him than teaching
him. Bemj and Klarloth, and a dozen others deemed worthy of the privilege. If
one of them wasn't talking to him, another was.

Their questioning helped his own growing understanding. He
would not, usually, know that he knew the answer to a question until it was
asked. Then he'd piece together, without knowing just how he did it (any more
than you or I know how we know things) and give them the answer.

Bemj: "Iss this language vhich you sbeak a universal
vun?
^"

And Mitkey, even though he'd never thought about it before,
had the answer ready: "No, it iss nodt. It iss Englitch, but I remember
der Herr Brofessor sbeaking of other tongues. I belief he sboke another himself
originally, budt in America he always sboke Englitch to become more vamiliar
mitt it. It iss a beaudiful sbeech, is it nodt?"

"Hmmmm," said Bemj.

Klarloth: "Und your race, the mices. Are they treated
veil?"

"Nodt by most people," Mitkey told him. And
explained. "I vould like to do something for them," he added.
"Loogk, could I nodt take back mitt me this brocess vhich you used upon
me? Abbly it to other mices, and greate a race of super-mices?"

"Vhy not?" asked Bemj.

He saw Klarloth looking at him strangely, and threw his mind
into rapport with the chief scientist's, with Mitkey left out of the silent
communion.

"Yes, of course," Bemj told Klarloth, "it
will lead to trouble on Earth, grave trouble. Two equal classes of beings so
dissimilar as mice and men cannot live together in amity. But why should that
concern us, other than favorably? The resultant mess will slow down progress on
Earth-give us a few more millennia of peace before Earthlings discover we are
here, and trouble starts. You know these Earthlings."

"But you would give them the X-19 waves? They
might-"

"No, of course not. But we can explain to Mitkey here
how to make a very crude and limited machine for them. A primitive one which
would suffice for nothing more than the specific task of converting mouse
mentality from .0001 to .2, Mitkey's own level and that of the bifurcated
Earthlings.
^"

"It is possible," communicated Klarloth. "It
is certain that for aeons to come they will be incapable of understanding its
basic principle."

"But could they not use even a crude machine to raise
their own level of intelligence?"

"You forget, Bemj, the basic limitation of the X-19
rays; that no one can possibly design a projector capable of raising any
mentality to a point on the scale higher than his own. Not even we." All
this, of course, over Mitkey's head, in silent Prxlian. More interviews, and
more.

Klarloth again: "Mitkey, ve varn you of vun thing.
Avoid carelessness vith electricity. Der new molecular rearranchement of your
brain center-it iss unstable, and-
^"

Bemj: "Mitkey, are you sure your Herr Brofessor iss der
most advanced of all who eggsperiment vith der rockets?"

"In cheneral, yess, Bemj. There are others who on vun
specific boint, such as eggsplosives, mathematics, astrovisics, may know more,
but not much more. Und for combining these knowledges, he iss ahead."

"It iss veil," said Bemj.

***

Small gray mouse towering like a dinosaur over tinier half-inch
Prxlians. Meek, herbivorous creature though he was, Mitkey could have killed
any one of them with a single bite. But, of course, it never occurred to him to
do so, nor to them to fear that he might.

They turned him inside out mentally. They did a pretty good
job of study on him physically, too, but that was through the J-dimension, and
Mitkey didn't even know about it.

They found out what made him tick, and they found out
everything he knew and some things he didn't even know he knew. And they grew
quite fond of him.

"Mitkey," said Klarloth one day, "all der
civilized races on Earth year glothing, do they nodt? Vell, if you are to raise
der level of mices to men, vould it not be vitting that you year glothes,
too?"

"An eggcelent idea, Herr Klarloth. Und I know chust
vhat kind I should like. Der Herr Brofessor vunce showed me a bicture of a
mouse bainted by der artist Dissney, and der mouse yore glothing. Der mouse vas
not a real-life vun, budt an imachinary mouse in a barable, and der Brofessor
named me after der Dissney mouse."

"Vot kind of glothing vas it, Mitkey?"

"Bright red bants mitt two big yellow buttons in frondt
and two in back, and yellow shoes for der back feet and a pair of yellow gloves
for der front. A hole in der seat of der bants to aggomodate der tail."

^"
Ogay, Mitkey. Such shall be ready for you
in fife minutes.
^"

That was on the eve of Mitkey's departure. Originally Bemj
had suggested awaiting the moment when Prxl's eccentric orbit would again take
it within a hundred and fifty thousand miles of Earth. But, as Klarloth pointed
out, that would be fifty-five Earth-years ahead, and Mitkey wouldn't last that
long. Not unless they-And Bemj agreed that they had better not risk sending a
secret like that back to Earth.

So they compromised by refueling Mitkey
^'
s rocket
with something that would cancel out the million and a quarter odd miles he
would have to travel. That secret they didn't have to worry about, because the
fuel would be gone by the time the rocket landed.

Day of departure.

"Ve haff done our best, Mitkey, to set and time der
rocket so it vill land on or near der spot from vhich you left Earth. But you
gannot eggspect agguracy in a voyach so long as this. But you vill land near.
The rest iss up to you. Ve haff equvipped the rocket ship for effery
contingency."

"Thank you, Herr Klarloth, Herr Bemj. Gootbye."

^"
Gootbye, Mitkey. Ve hate to loose
you."

"Gootbye, Mitkey."

"Gootbye, gootbye ..."

***

For a million and a quarter miles, the aim was really
excellent. The rocket landed in Long Island Sound, ten miles out from
Bridgeport, about sixty miles from the house of Professor Oberburger near
Hartford.

They had prepared for a water landing, of course. The rocket
went down to the bottom, but before it was more than a few dozen feet under the
surface, Mitkey opened the door-especially re-equipped to open from the
inside-and stepped out.

Over his regular clothes he wore a neat little diving suit
that would have protected him at any reasonable depth, and which, being lighter
than water, brought him to the surface quickly where he was able to open his
helmet.

He had enough synthetic food to last him for a week, but it
wasn't necessary, as things turned out. The night-boat from Boston carried him
in to Bridgeport on its anchor chain, and once in sight of land he was able to
divest himself of the diving suit and let it sink to the bottom after he'd
punctured the tiny compartments that made it float, as he'd promised Klarloth
he would do.

Almost instinctively, Mitkey knew that he
^'
d do
well to avoid human beings until he'd reached Professor Oberburger and told his
story. His worst danger proved to be the rats at the wharf where he swam
ashore. They were ten times Mitkey's size and had teeth that could have taken him
apart in two bites.

But mind has always triumphed over matter. Mitkey pointed an
imperious yellow glove and said, "Scram,
^"
and the rats
scrammed. They'd never seen anything like Mitkey before, and they were
impressed.

So for that matter, was the drunk of whom Mitkey inquired
the way to Hartford. We mentioned that episode before. That was the only time
Mitkey tried direct communication with strange human beings. He took, of
course, every precaution. He addressed his remarks from a strategic position only
inches away from a hole into which he could have popped. But it was the drunk
who did the popping, without even waiting to answer Mitkey's question.

But he got there, finally. He made his way afoot to the
north side of town and hid out behind a gas station until he heard a motorist
who had pulled in for gasoline inquire the way to Hartford. And Mitkey was a
stowaway when the car started up.