“… did you mention the name of Tomosh Sigel?”
Dennis looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the finery of a fabulously wealthy magnate—though Dennis now knew him for a prisoner like himself. Something about the man’s face looked familiar. But Dennis’s mind was too cluttered to give it more than an instant’s thought.
“Bernald Brady!” Dennis shouted and struck his palm. “He said there was a subtle difference in physical law here! Something about the robots seeming to get more efficient…”
Dennis patted his jacket and pants. He felt lumpy objects. The guards had taken his belt and pouch but left the contents of his pockets alone.
“Of course. They didn’t even notice them,” he whispered half frantically. “They’ve never seen zippered pockets before! And those zippers have had practice getting to be better and better zippers ever since I got here!”
The crowd suddenly grew hushed as he zipped one pocket open and drew out his journal. Dennis flipped the pages.
“Day One,” he read aloud. “Equipment terrible. Cheapest available. I swear I’ll get even with that S.O.B. Brady someday…” He looked up, smiling grimly. “And I will, too.”
“Sir,” the tall man persisted, “you mentioned the name of...”
Dennis flipped ahead, tearing at the pages. “Day Ten… Equipment much better than I’d thought…1 guess I must have been mistaken, at first.…”
But he hadn’t been mistaken! The stuff had simply improved!
Dennis snapped the notebook shut and looked up. For the first time since arriving on this world, he saw.
He saw a tower that had become, after many generations, a great castle—because it had been practiced at it for so long!
He saw gardening tools that would day by day get better with use, until they were like the marvels he had seen on the steps of Tomosh Sigel’s house.
He turned and looked at the men around him. And saw…
“Cavemen!” he moaned.
“I won’t find any scientists or machinists here, because there aren’t any! You don’t have any technology at all, do you?” he accused one prisoner. The fellow backed away, obviously having no idea what Dennis was talking about.
He whirled and pointed at another. “You! You don’t even know what the wheel is! Deny it!”
The prisoners all stared.
Dennis wavered. Consciousness flickered like a candle going out.
“I should… I should have stayed at the airlock and built my own damn zievatron…Pixolet and the robot would’ve been more help than a bunch of savages who’ll prob’ly eat me for supper…and practice my bones into spoons and forks… my scapulae into fine china…”
His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, then went face-first into the sand.
“It’s my fault,” someone above him said. “I never shoulda’ let him get up with a bump on his head like that.”
Dennis felt strong arms grab his legs and shoulders. The world swayed about him.
Cavemen. They were probably going to put him in a cot so he could practice it into a feather bed just by laying in it.
Dennis laughed dizzily. “Aw, Denze, be fair… they’re a little better’n cavemen. After all, they have learned that practice makes perfect…”
Then he lost consciousness altogether.
6
It was a late-night talk show on the three-vee. The guests were four eminent philosophers.
Desmond Morris, Edwin Hubble, Willard Gibbs, and Seamus Murphy had just been interviewed. After the commercial break the show’s host turned to the holo-cameras, smiling devilishly. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve heard a lot from these four gentlemen about their famous Laws of Thermodynamics. Maybe now it would be a good time to get a word from the other side. It’s a great pleasure, therefore, to bring out tonight’s mystery guest. Please welcome Mr. Pers Peter Mobile!”
The four philosophers stood up as one, protesting.
“That charlatan?” “Faker!” “I won’t share the stage with a con artist!”
But while they fumed, the orchestra struck up a sprightly, irreverent tune. As the fanfare rose, a high-browed chimpanzee rolled out onto the stage, grinning a buck-toothed grin and bowing to the cheering audience.
On his head he wore a little beanie cap with a toy propeller.
The chimp caught a microphone tossed from the wings. He danced to the music, spinning the toy propeller with one finger. Then, with a scratchy but strangely compelling voice, he began to sing.
Why’s it so?
Oh, why’s it so?
The refrain was catchy. Pers Peter Mobile grinned and sang a couple of verses.
The chimp capered to the music, but never stopped spinning the little propeller. The blur at the top of his head became hypnotic, like the meshing and weaving of moire patterns.
The music swelled, accompanied by the growing whine of the propeller. The dancing ape returned to the refrain.
The blur at the top of his head no longer needed a ringer to keep it going. In fact, it wasn’t a toy propeller anymore at all! The beanie cap had become a space helmet and the whirling blades lifted him into the air, much to the dismay of the other guests.
The camera panned close to the chimp’s face. Two rows of big, yellowed buck teeth grinned at the audience. The music soared to a crescendo.
The chimp zoomed about the studio, his cap now a full ornithopter suit. He buzzed the furious philosophers, sending them diving behind their chairs in dismay. Then he swooped about in a sharp turn and streaked straight for the camera, laughing, howling, shrieking in mirth.
“Uh!” Dennis flailed and grabbed the edge of the cot with both hands. He stared into the darkness for a long time, breathing hard. Finally he sank back against the bedding again with a sigh.