[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
stomach to aspire to that. They d had ten thousand years to fix things, those giants, and still all they
could tell you was go dig yourself a hole.
It was just that in the old days the possibility of relaxation and petty self-indulgence, against the
magnificent sham background of galactic empire, had permitted him to pretend life had a meaning.
Yet at a time like this, when such an illusion was needful, it ran out on you, jeered at you along with the
lesser lies it had nurtured.
A three-legged creature skipped out of the shadows, halted at a distance, and subtly intimated it would
like food. At first he thought it must be some Rigelian tripedal, but then he saw it was an Earth cat
lacking a leg. Its movements were grotesque, but efficient, and not without a certain gracefulness. How
it could have got to this planet, he found it hard to imagine.
But you don t worry about that or even about other cats, Three-legs, he thought bitterly. You hunt
alone. You mate with your own kind, when you can, but then only because it is most agreeable. You
don t set up your own species as a corporate divinity and worship it, and yearn over the light-centuries
of its empire, and eat out your heart because of it, and humbly spill your blood at its cosmic altar.
Nor are you hoodwinked when the dogs bark about the greatness of humanity under a thousand
different moons, or when the dumb cattle sigh from surfeit and gratefully chew their cuds under red,
green and purple suns. You accept us as something sometimes helpful. You walk into our space ships as
you walked up to our fires. You use us. But when we re gone, you won t pine on our graves or starve in
the pen. You ll manage, or try to.
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruisw...Fritz%20Leiber%20-%20Best%20of%20Fritz%20Leiber.html (138 of 242)22-2-2006 0:35:39
best of fritz leiber
The cat mewed and he tossed it a bit of meat which it caught in its teeth, shifting about cleverly on the
two good hind legs. But as he watched it daintily nibble (though scrawny with famine), he suddenly saw
Kenneth s face, just as he had last seen it on Alpha Centauri Duo. It seemed very real, projected against
the maroon darkness towards the other end of the cellar. The full, tolerant lips lined at the corners, the
veiledly appraising eyes, the space-sallow skin were all exactly as they had been when they roomed
together at the Sign of the Burnt-Out Jet. But there was a richness and a zest about the face that he had
missed before. He did not try to move toward the illusion, though he wanted to. Only looked. Then there
came the sound of boots on the floor above, and the cat bounded away, humping its hind quarters quite
like a tripedal, and the vision quickly faded. For a long time he sat staring at the spot where it had been,
feeling a strangely poignant unhappiness, as if the only worthwhile being in the world had died. Then he
started to eat his food with the vague curiosity of a two-year-old, sometimes pausing with the spoon
halfway to his mouth.
It was night and there was a ground mist through which the wine-colored moons showed like two sick
eyes, and anything might have been moving in the shadows. He squinted and peered, but it was hard to
make out the nature of any object, the landscape was so torn and distorted. Three men came out of the
place of underground concealment to the left, joking together in hushed, hollow voices. One whom he
knew well (a stocky soldier with big eyes and smirking lips and reddish stubble on his chin) greeted him
with a friendly gibe about easy jobs. Then they wormed their way up and started to crawl toward where
enemy scouts (six legs or eight?) were supposed to lie. He lost sight of them very quickly. He held his
weapon ready, watching for the sight of the enemy.
Why did he hate the soldiers of the enemy so little? No more than a Martian hunting sand-dragons hates
sand-dragons. His relationship with them was limited, almost abstract. How could he hate something so
different from himself in form? He could only marvel that it too had intelligence. No, the enemy were
merely, unfortunately, dangerous targets. Once he had seen one of them escape death, and it had made
him feel happy, and he wanted to wave in a friendly way; even if it could only wriggle a tentacle in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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stomach to aspire to that. They d had ten thousand years to fix things, those giants, and still all they
could tell you was go dig yourself a hole.
It was just that in the old days the possibility of relaxation and petty self-indulgence, against the
magnificent sham background of galactic empire, had permitted him to pretend life had a meaning.
Yet at a time like this, when such an illusion was needful, it ran out on you, jeered at you along with the
lesser lies it had nurtured.
A three-legged creature skipped out of the shadows, halted at a distance, and subtly intimated it would
like food. At first he thought it must be some Rigelian tripedal, but then he saw it was an Earth cat
lacking a leg. Its movements were grotesque, but efficient, and not without a certain gracefulness. How
it could have got to this planet, he found it hard to imagine.
But you don t worry about that or even about other cats, Three-legs, he thought bitterly. You hunt
alone. You mate with your own kind, when you can, but then only because it is most agreeable. You
don t set up your own species as a corporate divinity and worship it, and yearn over the light-centuries
of its empire, and eat out your heart because of it, and humbly spill your blood at its cosmic altar.
Nor are you hoodwinked when the dogs bark about the greatness of humanity under a thousand
different moons, or when the dumb cattle sigh from surfeit and gratefully chew their cuds under red,
green and purple suns. You accept us as something sometimes helpful. You walk into our space ships as
you walked up to our fires. You use us. But when we re gone, you won t pine on our graves or starve in
the pen. You ll manage, or try to.
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruisw...Fritz%20Leiber%20-%20Best%20of%20Fritz%20Leiber.html (138 of 242)22-2-2006 0:35:39
best of fritz leiber
The cat mewed and he tossed it a bit of meat which it caught in its teeth, shifting about cleverly on the
two good hind legs. But as he watched it daintily nibble (though scrawny with famine), he suddenly saw
Kenneth s face, just as he had last seen it on Alpha Centauri Duo. It seemed very real, projected against
the maroon darkness towards the other end of the cellar. The full, tolerant lips lined at the corners, the
veiledly appraising eyes, the space-sallow skin were all exactly as they had been when they roomed
together at the Sign of the Burnt-Out Jet. But there was a richness and a zest about the face that he had
missed before. He did not try to move toward the illusion, though he wanted to. Only looked. Then there
came the sound of boots on the floor above, and the cat bounded away, humping its hind quarters quite
like a tripedal, and the vision quickly faded. For a long time he sat staring at the spot where it had been,
feeling a strangely poignant unhappiness, as if the only worthwhile being in the world had died. Then he
started to eat his food with the vague curiosity of a two-year-old, sometimes pausing with the spoon
halfway to his mouth.
It was night and there was a ground mist through which the wine-colored moons showed like two sick
eyes, and anything might have been moving in the shadows. He squinted and peered, but it was hard to
make out the nature of any object, the landscape was so torn and distorted. Three men came out of the
place of underground concealment to the left, joking together in hushed, hollow voices. One whom he
knew well (a stocky soldier with big eyes and smirking lips and reddish stubble on his chin) greeted him
with a friendly gibe about easy jobs. Then they wormed their way up and started to crawl toward where
enemy scouts (six legs or eight?) were supposed to lie. He lost sight of them very quickly. He held his
weapon ready, watching for the sight of the enemy.
Why did he hate the soldiers of the enemy so little? No more than a Martian hunting sand-dragons hates
sand-dragons. His relationship with them was limited, almost abstract. How could he hate something so
different from himself in form? He could only marvel that it too had intelligence. No, the enemy were
merely, unfortunately, dangerous targets. Once he had seen one of them escape death, and it had made
him feel happy, and he wanted to wave in a friendly way; even if it could only wriggle a tentacle in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]