“Of course I would.”
“Then come with us. Be our Pusher.”
The Pusher stood up and walked up to an Accumulator. He sat down on it and doubled the ends of his upper limbs.
“How the hell can I stop all wars?” the Pusher demanded. “Even if I went to the big shots and told them—”
“You won’t have to,” Talker said. “All you have to do is come with us. Push us to our base. Galactic will send a Contact Team to your planet. That will end your wars.”
“The hell you say,” the Pusher replied. “You boys are stranded here, huh? Good enough. No monsters are going to take over Earth.”
Bewildered, Talker tried to understand the reasoning. Had he said something wrong? Was it possible that the Pusher didn’t understand him?
“I thought you wanted to end wars,” Talker said.
“Sure I do. But I don’t want anyone making us stop. I’m no traitor. I’d rather fight.”
“No one will make you stop. You will just stop because there will be no further need for fighting.”
“Do you know why we’re fighting?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Yeah? What’s your explanation?”
“You Pushers have been separated from the main stream of the Galaxy,” Talker explained. “You have your specialty—Pushing—but nothing to Push. Accordingly, you have no real jobs. You play with things—metal, inanimate objects—but find no real satisfaction. Robbed of your true vocation, you fight from sheer frustration.
“Once you find your place in the galactic Cooperation—and I assure you that it is an important place—your fighting will stop. Why should you fight, which is an unnatural occupation, when you can Push? Also, your mechanical civilization will end, since there will be no need for it.”
The Pusher shook his head in what Talker guessed was a gesture of confusion. “What is this pushing?”
Talker told him as best he could. Since the job was out of his scope, he had only a general idea of what a Pusher did.
“You mean to say that that is what every Earthman should be doing?”
“Of course,” Talker said. “It is your great specialty.”
The Pusher thought about it for several minutes. “I think you want a physicist or a mentalist or something. I could never do anything like that. I’m a junior architect. And besides—well, it’s difficult to explain.”
But Talker had already caught Pusher’s objection. He saw a Pusher female in his thoughts. No, two, three. And he caught a feeling of loneliness, strangeness. The Pusher was filled with doubts. He was afraid.
“When we reach galactic,” Talker said, hoping it was the right thing, “you can meet other Pushers. Pusher females, too. All you Pushers look alike, so you should become friends with them. As far as loneliness in the Ship goes—it just doesn’t exist. You don’t understand the Cooperation yet. No one is lonely in the Cooperation.”
The Pusher was still considering the idea of there being other Pushers. Talker couldn’t understand why he was so startled at that. The Galaxy was filled with Pushers, Feeders, Talkers, and many other species, endlessly duplicated.
“I can’t believe that anybody could end all war,” Pusher said. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
Talker felt as if he had been struck in the core. Thinker must have been right when he said these Pushers would be uncooperative. Was this going to be the end of Talker’s career? Were he and the rest of the Crew going to spend the rest of their lives in space, because of the stupidity of a bunch of Pushers?
Even thinking this, Talker was able to feel sorry for the Pusher. It must be terrible, he thought. Doubting, uncertain, never trusting anyone. If these Pushers didn’t find their place in the Galaxy, they would exterminate themselves. Their place in the Cooperation was long overdue.
“What can I do to convince you?” Talker asked.
In despair, he opened all the circuits to the Pusher. He let the Pusher see Engine’s good-natured gruffness, the devil-may-care humor of the Walls; he showed him Eye’s poetic attempts, and Feeder’s cocky good nature. He opened his own mind and showed the Pusher a picture of his home planet, his family, the tree he was planning to buy when he got home.
The pictures told the story of all of them, from different planets, representing different ethics, united by a common bond—the galactic Cooperation.
The Pusher watched it all in silence.
After a while, he shook his head. The thought accompanying the gesture was uncertain, weak—but negative.
Talker told the Walls to open. They did, and the Pusher stared in amazement.
“You may leave,” Talker said. “Just remove the communication line and go.”
“What will you do?”
“We will look for another Pusher planet.”
“Where? Mars? Venus?”
“We don’t know. All we can do is hope there is another in this region.”
The Pusher looked at the opening, then back at the Crew. He hesitated and his face screwed up in a grimace of indecision.
“All that you showed me was true?”
No answer was necessary.
“All right,” the Pusher said suddenly. “I’ll go. I’m a damned fool, but I’ll go. If this means what you say—it must mean what you say!”
Talker saw that the agony of the Pusher’s decision had forced him out of contact with reality. He believed that he was in a dream, where decisions are easy and unimportant.
“There’s just one little trouble,” Pusher said with the lightness of hysteria. “Boys, I’ll be damned if I know how to Push. You said something about faster-than-light? I can’t even run the mile in an hour.”
“Of course you can Push,” Talker assured him, hoping he was right. He knew what a Pusher’s abilities were; but this one ...
“Just try it.”
“Sure,” Pusher agreed. “I’ll probably wake up out of this, anyhow.”
They sealed the ship for takeoff while Pusher talked to himself.
“Funny,” Pusher said. “I thought a camping trip would be a nice way to spend a furlough, and all I do is get nightmares!”
Engine boosted the Ship into the air. The Walls were sealed and Eye was guiding them away from the planet.
“We’re in open space now,” Talker said. Listening to Pusher, he hoped his mind hadn’t cracked. “Eye and Thinker will give a direction, I’ll transmit it to you, and you Push along it.”
“You’re crazy,” Pusher mumbled. “You must have the wrong planet. I wish you nightmares would go away.”
“You’re in the Cooperation now,” Talker said desperately. “There’s the direction. Push!”
The Pusher didn’t do anything for a moment. He was slowly emerging from his fantasy, realizing that he wasn’t in a dream, after all. He felt the Cooperation. Eye to Thinker, Thinker to Talker, Talker to Pusher, all inter-coordinated with Walls, and with each other.
“What is this?” Pusher asked. He felt the oneness of the Ship, the great warmth, the closeness achieved only in the Cooperation.
He Pushed.
Nothing happened.
“Try again,” Talker begged.
Pusher searched his mind. He found a deep well of doubt and fear. Staring into it, he saw his own tortured face.
Thinker illuminated it for him.
Pushers had lived with this doubt and fear for centuries. Pushers had fought through fear, killed through doubt.
That was where the Pusher organ was!
Human—specialist—Pusher—he entered fully into the Crew, merged with them, threw mental arms around the shoulders of Thinker and Talker.
Suddenly, the Ship shot forward at eight times the speed of light. It continued to accelerate.
WARM
ANDERS lay on his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes and black bow tie, contemplating, with a certain uneasiness, the evening before him. In twenty minutes he would pick up Judy at her apartment, and that was the uneasy part of it.