what the outcome will be,” the cook said. “Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear.”
“Sure,” Jones said. “Sure.”
The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. “You must forgive me,” it said. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—”
The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get started. You’re a wub? Is that correct?”
The wub shrugged. “I suppose so. That’s what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term.”
“And you speak English? You’ve been in contact with Earthmen before?”
“No.”
“Then how do you do it?”
“Speak English? Am I speaking English? I’m not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—”
“My mind?”
“I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—”
“I see,” the Captain said. “Telepathy. Of course.”
“We are a very old race,” the wub said. “Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—”
“How do you live?”
“Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We’re very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That’s how we’ve gotten along.”
The wub eyed the Captain.
“And that’s why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—”
“So you read minds?” the Captain said. “How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?”
“A few odds and ends,” the wub said absently, staring around the room. “A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—”
“Indeed.” The Captain nodded. “But to get back to the problem—”
“Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—”
The Captain stood up. “Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—”
“I know.” The wub nodded. “But wouldn’t it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—”
The Captain walked to the door.
“Nuts to you,” he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.
He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.
The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.
The room was quiet.
“So you see,” the wub said, “we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—”
Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.
“Go on,” he said. “Please go on.”
“I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation.”
“But Odysseus returns to his home.” Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. “Finally he goes home.”
“As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race....”
The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.
Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.
“Are you all right?” French said.
“Do you mean me?” Peterson said, surprised. “Why me?”
Franco lowered his gun. “Come over here,” he said to Peterson. “Get up and come here.”
There was silence.
“Go ahead,” the wub said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Peterson stood up. “What for?”
“It’s an order.”
Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.
“What’s going on?” Peterson wrenched loose. “What’s the matter with you?”
Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.
“It is interesting,” the wub said, “that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why.”
“Get up,” Franco said.
“If you wish.” The wub rose, grunting. “Be patient. It is difficult for me.” It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.
“Shoot it now,” French said.
“For God’s sake!” Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.
“You didn’t see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn’t come down, he’d still be there.”
“Who? The Captain?” Peterson stared around. “But he’s all right now.”
They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.
“Come on,” Franco said. “Out of the way.”
The
