“Suppose you start translating,” Casker suggested wearily, “and maybe find us something to eat.”
They opened boxes until they found a likely-looking substance. Laboriously, Hellman translated the symbols on it.
“Got it,” he said. “It reads:—‘USE SNIFFNERS—THE BETTER ABRASIVE.’”
“Doesn’t sound edible,” Casker said.
“I’m afraid not.”
They found another, which read: VIGROOM! FILL ALL YOUR STOMACHS, AND FILL THEM RIGHT!
“What kind of animals do you suppose these Helgans were?” Casker asked.
Hellman shrugged his shoulders.
The next label took almost fifteen minutes to translate. It read: ARGOSEL MAKES YOUR THUDRA ALL TIZZY. CONTAINS THIRTY ARPS OF RAMSTAT PULZ, FOR SHELL LUBRICATION.
“There must be something here we can eat,” Casker said with a note of desperation.
“I hope so,” Hellman replied.
* * * *
At the end of two hours, they were no closer. They had translated dozens of titles and sniffed so many substances that their olfactory senses had given up in disgust.
“Let’s talk this over,” Hellman said, sitting on a box marked: VORMITISH—GOOD AS IT SOUNDS!
“Sure,” Casker said, sprawling out on the floor. “Talk.”
“If we could deduce what kind of creatures inhabited this planet, we’d know what kind of food they ate, and whether it’s likely to be edible for us.”
“All we do know is that they wrote a lot of lousy advertising copy.”
Hellman ignored that. “What kind of intelligent beings would evolve on a planet that is all mountains?”
“Stupid ones!” Casker said.
That was no help. But Hellman found that he couldn’t draw any inferences from the mountains. It didn’t tell him if the late Helgans ate silicates or proteins or iodine-base foods or anything.
“Now look,” Hellman said, “we’ll have to work this out by pure logic—Are you listening to me?”
“Sure,” Casker said.
“Okay. There’s an old proverb that covers our situation perfectly: ‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison.’”
“Yeah,” Casker said. He was positive his stomach had shrunk to approximately the size of a marble.
“We can assume, first, that their meat is our meat.”
Casker wrenched himself away from a vision of five juicy roast beefs dancing tantalizingly before him. “What if their meat is our poison? What then?”
“Then,” Hellman said, “we will assume that their poison is our meat.”
“And what happens if their meat and their poison are our poison?”
“We starve.”
“All right,” Casker said, standing up. “Which assumption do we start with?”
“Well, there’s no sense in asking for trouble. This is an oxygen planet, if that means anything. Let’s assume that we can eat some basic food of theirs. If we can’t we’ll start on their poisons.”
“If we live that long,” Casker said.
Hellman began to translate labels. They discarded such brands as ANDROGYNITES’ DELIGHT AND VERBELL—FOR LONGER, CURLIER, MORE SENSITIVE ANTENNAE, until they found a small gray box, about six inches by three by three. It was called VALKORIN’S UNIVERSAL TASTE TREAT, FOR ALL DIGESTIVE CAPACITIES.
“This looks as good as any,” Hellman said. He opened the box.
Casker leaned over and sniffed. “No odor.”
* * * *
Within the box they found a rectangular, rubbery red block. It quivered slightly, like jelly.
“Bite into it,” Casker said.
“Me?” Hellman asked. “Why not you?”
“You picked it.”
“I prefer just looking at it,” Hellman said with dignity. “I’m not too hungry.”
“I’m not either,” Casker said.
They sat on the floor and stared at the jellylike block. After ten minutes, Hellman yawned, leaned back and closed his eyes.
“All right, coward,” Casker said bitterly. “I’ll try it. Just remember, though, if I’m poisoned, you’ll never get off this planet. You don’t know how to pilot.”
“Just take a little bite, then,” Hellman advised.
Casker leaned over and stared at the block. Then he prodded it with his thumb.
The rubbery red block giggled.
“Did you hear that?” Casker yelped, leaping back.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Hellman said, his hands shaking. “Go ahead.”
Casker prodded the block again. It giggled louder, this time with a disgusting little simper.
“Okay,” Casker said, “what do we try next?”
“Next? What’s wrong with this?”
“I don’t eat anything that giggles,” Casker stated firmly.
“Now listen to me,” Hellman said. “The creatures who manufactured this might have been trying to create an esthetic sound as well as a pleasant shape and color. That giggle is probably only for the amusement of the eater.”
“Then bite into it yourself,” Casker offered.
Hellman glared at him, but made no move toward the rubbery block. Finally he said, “Let’s move it out of the way.”
They pushed the block over to a corner. It lay there giggling softly to itself.
“Now what?” Casker said.
Hellman looked around at the jumbled stacks of incomprehensible alien goods. He noticed a door on either side of the room.
“Let’s have a look in the other sections,” he suggested.
Casker shrugged his shoulders apathetically.
Slowly they trudged to the door in the left wall. It was locked and Hellman burned it open with the ship’s burner.
It was a wedge-shaped room, piled with incomprehensible alien goods.
The hike back across the room seemed like miles, but they made it only slightly out of wind. Hellman blew out the lock and they looked in.
It was a wedge-shaped room, piled with incomprehensible alien goods.
“All the same,” Casker said sadly, and closed the door.
“Evidently there’s a series of these rooms going completely around the building,” Hellman said. “I wonder if we should explore them.”
Casker calculated the distance around the building, compared it with his remaining strength, and sat down heavily on a long gray object.
“Why bother?” he asked.
* * * *
Hellman tried to collect his thoughts. Certainly he should be able to find a key of some sort, a clue that would tell him what they could eat. But where was it?
He examined the object Casker was sitting on. It was about the size and shape of a large coffin, with a shallow depression on top. It was made of a hard, corrugated substance.
“What do you suppose this is?” Hellman asked.
“Does it matter?”
Hellman glanced at the symbols painted on the side of the object, then looked them up in his dictionary.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, after a while.
“Is it something to eat?” Casker asked, with a faint glimmering of hope.
“No, You are sitting on something called THE MOROG CUSTOM SUPER TRANSPORT FOR THE DISCRIMINATING HELGAN WHO DESIRES THE BEST IN VERTICAL TRANSPORTATION. It’s a vehicle!”
“Oh,” Casker said dully.
“This is important! Look at it! How does it work?”
Casker wearily climbed off the Morog Custom Super Transport and looked it over carefully. He traced four almost invisible separations on its four corners. “Retractable wheels, probably, but I don’t see—”
Hellman read on. “It says to give it three amphus of high-gain Integor fuel, then a van of Tonder lubrication, and not to run it over three thousand Ruls for the first fifty mungus.”
“Let’s find something to eat,” Casker said.
“Don’t you see how important this is?” Hellman asked. “This could solve our problem. If we could deduce the alien logic inherent in constructing this vehicle, we might know the Helgan thought pattern. This, in turn, would give us an insight into their nervous systems, which would imply their biochemical makeup.”
Casker stood still, trying to decide whether he had enough strength left to strangle Hellman.
“For example,” Hellman said, “what kind of vehicle would be used in a place like this? Not one with wheels, since everything is up and down. Anti-gravity? Perhaps, but what kind of anti-gravity? And why did the inhabitants devise a boxlike form instead—”