JABBERWOCK, BEWARE!

                        By Richard A. Sternbach

                The aliens offered Earth one chance for
            survival: beat them in an intellectual duel. So
           Joe Waters rose to the task, grim--and drunk!...

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                            September 1953
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The Security Council was in emergency session. The four delegates would
have had easier consciences had more nations been represented, but it
was hard to travel now. Only Russia, England and France were able to
send their men to New York.

Sergei Moskov, USSR, presided unofficially. He wore a harried look, and
addressed them wearily.

"To think, gentlemen, that it has taken circumstances like these to
bring us into accord!"

The others said nothing. Overhead, above New York's stone and glass UN
building that had been conceived in hope and wrought with faith, they
could hear the whine of the patrolling ships. The delegates stared at
the table in front of them.

"Your country, Mr. Conrad," Moskov said to the American
representative, "is the mother of our last hope." He looked around the
table for concurrence. Sir Manly straightened a bit, and M. Tourneau's
mustache twitched, but they all nodded. What use national pride now?
There was not much time, anyway. Tonight....

"He will be here?" Moskov asked.

Conrad cleared his throat. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled
out a slip of paper.

"Joe--I mean, Dr. Waters--sent an answer to our request." He read:

    "'I take my vorpal sword in hand. Beware, Jabberwock--I come. Joe
    Waters.'"

"The courage of youth," Sir Manly said, but he smiled.

Moskov looked at his watch. "He should be here, then."

"I am."

They all turned at the sound of that voice, and rose as Joe Waters
strode in. Just thirty years old, athletic, brilliant. He was
accompanied by a wizened character in a baggy brown suit and crumpled
felt hat.

"Gentlemen." Joe said, and bowed. They all sat down.

"A friend," he explained, indicating his companion. "Name of Mike."

"Friend _and_ buddy," Mike said in a whiskey-hoarse voice.

"We thought you understood, Dr. Waters," Moskov said, eyeing Mike
distastefully, "that this was to be a secret conference."

M. Tourneau, who had a sensitive nose, shifted his chair slightly away
from the bum.

Joe said, "I met Mike in a bar last night and he's been with me since.
I like his unsophisticated point of view."

"Bar!" Sir Manly exclaimed, visibly shaken.

"Bar." Joe answered. "For the same reason I'm here now." He leaned
forward.

"I happened to be looking at the moon with my girl when they blew it
up." His eyes narrowed at the memory. "She started to cry, and was
still at it when we got back to her apartment. That's when I went to
a bar to get drunk. It's also one reason I'm here. When they take the
moon away from lovers, it's the last straw!"

"Give 'em hell, kid!" Mike rasped. Joe silenced him with a wave of his
hand, and Mike slouched down in his chair looking hurt.

"Mr. Conrad," Moskov said, "will you be good enough to give Dr. Waters
the latest developments?"

"All right. Joe, you know what's happened this past week."

Joe nodded.

"In case you didn't get the overall picture--their ships," he jerked
a thumb at the whine passing back and forth above, "have completely
blanketed the world. They have destroyed every means of defense we've
used against them. Atomic anti-aircraft, even, hasn't fazed them in the
least.

"Yesterday they sent for us. The head of their expedition told us who
they are, and it accounts, perhaps, for their anthropoidal appearance.
They are from Jupiter, so it's not inconceivable after all that similar
forms of life should become dominant in the same solar system.

"They are easily twice our size--and if ability to learn and speak
fluently in a half hour, each of the three languages represented here
means anything, they have a proportionate I.Q.

"Their leader, Slan, says his title means he is the crown prince
of the royal Jovian family. Slan was nothing if not courteous and
chivalrous. He told us yesterday he would give us a sporting chance for
survival--why, I can't imagine. Apparently this expedition is like a
glorified fox hunt to them.

"We are to choose a person to represent the world in an intellectual
duel with him. If we win, they withdraw completely, never to bother us
again. If we lose, then, he said, we're not worth saving and we'll be
completely destroyed--hunted individually, which to them is great sport.

"To prove they could do it, he had his ship's guns turn on the moon.
You saw what happened--disintegrated completely."

"Them crumbs!" Mike grated. "We'll murder 'em, Joe!"

"Quiet, Mike."

Mike grumbled, pulled out a cigarette paper and tobacco and rolled his
own.

"That's why we've called on you," Conrad said.

"Waters," Sir Manly said, "the world rests on your shoulders."

"You have every qualification," M. Tourneau put in.

"Your brilliant theories in symbolic logic and theoretical
mathematics," said Sir Manly.

"Chess champion of the world," Moskov added respectfully.

"Your contributions to astrophysics," Conrad said.

"And don't you guys ferget--he won the decathlon when he was just a
high school kid. He'll murder them bums!"

Joe smiled. "Don't mind my pugnacious friend."

"You are, so far as we know, the finest representative the world
could have." Moskov looked serious, and Joe became aware suddenly of
the awful burden involved. What use intellectual ability or athletic
prowess, compared to Jovian standards? Wasn't there someone--even a
science-fiction writer, perhaps--better qualified to handle a situation
as fantastic as this? Apparently not.

"When's the funeral?" Joe asked drily.

"Please, m'sieu, a little respect for the situation!" M. Tourneau
looked pained.

"The contest is to be in Slan's ship at eight o'clock tonight," Moskov
answered. "They will pick you up here in five hours."

"You and me both, Joe," Mike said.

"Yeah," Joe answered, and now he was mentally reeling under the impact
of his responsibility. "Let's have a drink first. I think we'll need
one."

Sir Manly paled. "I say...."

"We'll murder them damn Greeks," Mike chortled.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Shay, I'm not goin' in that thing," Mike protested.

"Can't fight 'em if we don't," Joe answered mournfully.

"They're big enough, all right," Mike admitted respectfully. "Wouldn't
some football coach like to have one o' _them_ on his squad!"

"C'mon, le's go." Joe shoved Mike toward the waiting ship, at the door
of which a behemoth of a figure waited patiently, watching with some
apparent disdain as the two, arms around each other's shoulders, weaved
unsteadily inside.

Inside the ship, Joe took a long pull at the bottle Mike passed him.
Strange, he thought, how an unforseeable factor, upsetting life's
routine equations, produces unguessed mental reactions. Until last
night he'd never had a drink in his life. Then a little thing like the
moon being blown up. Aloud he quoted,

    "'Yet what are all such mysteries to me
    Whose life is full of indices and surds?
    x^2 + 7x + 53 - 11/3'"

"Whassat?"

"Lewish Carroll," Joe answered, and wondered greatly at the vast
amounts of liquor he had consumed in a short space of time.

    "'Beware the Jabberwock, my son....'"

And Joe Waters, the world's most brilliant human, passed out.

       *       *       *       *       *

They left Joe in the ship and dragged Mike before Slan. That gigantic
figure sat in regal splendor at the end of a long corridor that ran the
length of the vessel. On either side of Mike, as he stumbled toward the
throne which seemed miles away, uniformed giants stood at attention.
Had he stretched his arm he might have been able to rap a belt buckle.
The sensation of being a pygmy increased as he approached Slan.

Grouped around Slan, whose throne was on a platform several feet
high, stood members of what seemed to be a retinue. They sneered and
snickered as Mike drew near, and Mike had to strain his neck and
blurred eyes to see them.

"Are you ready to begin?" Slan asked in a voice that nearly deafened
Mike.

"We'll murder ya, ya bums," Mike answered belligerently. His
whiskey-fogged mind somehow assumed Joe was still by his side.

"Very well, then." And Slan extended an arm toward Mike, thumb pointed
up.

Mike promptly repeated the gesture, except that he pointed _his_ thumb
down.

Slan reached for a huge flagon of red liquid, which he poured slowly
onto the floor. Mike stared, then reached into a hip pocket and
produced a bottle of whiskey, swallowed some and vigorously smacked his
lips. Then he held the bottle out to Slan, grinning broadly.

Slan reached into a bag at his side, took out a handful of colored
pebbles, and scattered them on the floor. Mike scrambled after them and
stuffed them into his pocket, then struggled erect, panting with the
exertion.

Slan arose from his throne, stepped off the platform, and towered over
Mike.

"You surprise me," he boomed. "You and your little planet are smarter
than I expected. Go, and tell your people that they could not have
chosen a worthier representative."

It was a dazed and confused Mike who was led stumbling, and clutching
his bottle, back to the ship which was to take him to a free world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Slan, meanwhile, found himself besieged by annoyed and puzzled
followers. He held up his hand for silence, and relapsed into native
Jovian.

"That earthling," he said sarcastically, "seems to have fared better
than you who are so proud of your intellects.

"When I held my thumb up, indicating our superiority in size and
strength, he pointed his thumb down, to show that physical power is
really of minor importance.

"I poured a red liquid onto the floor, dramatizing the effect of
conflict on them, if that should be my wish. He demonstrated his
fearlessness by producing a light-colored liquid and sampling it with
enjoyment--as his kind would react to such an encounter.

"Finally I flung out a handful of colored pebbles, displaying the
confusing array of languages, races, and ideas their world contains. He
scooped them into his pocket, showing that their diversity could still
be united into single purpose."

Slan looked contemptuously at the crestfallen faces of his men.

"It would be to our benefit if we had half their spirit in proportion
to our size," he said. Then he bellowed,

"Order all ships to withdraw at once!" To an aide he muttered, "We'll
leave this planet to those worthy of it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mike and Joe were hiding from a world delirious with joy and anxious to
heap glory upon its saviour--whom they thought was Joe Waters. Joe had
no intention of deluding the world in this regard, but right now he was
plying Mike with whiskey to get from him the story of what happened.

They were in the rear booth of a bar, and Mike kept insisting that Joe
knew perfectly well what had happened because he'd been right there.

"All right," Joe said coaxingly, "I know what happened. But tell me how
you're going to tell it, so we can get our stories straight."

"Can't understan' it," Mike said thickly, shaking his head. "The guy
was nuts."

"What happened?" Joe pleaded. Mike, who apparently had no saturation
point, gulped some more whiskey.

"First thing," he said, "the guy sticks his thumb up in the air, like
he's gonna give me the bum's rush. So I point mine down--if he tries to
kick me outa there before we even get a chance to talk business, I'll
floor 'im."

"Yeah, you would."

Mike ignored this comment, took yet another drink and wiped his lips on
the back of his hand. Joe watched this display of alcoholic immunity
with admiration, and Mike continued.

"Then he takes a bottle of this awful-looking wine and pours it out on
the floor.

"No wonder they been raising such a rumpus, Joe. With nothing but that
stuff to drink, I would too! So I pulled out my flask and took a swig,
to show what we've got, and I offer him some. You know something, Joe,"
and Mike leaned forward earnestly, "when that guy saw the kind of stuff
we drink he got a new respect, 'cause he takes a handful of jewels and
rolls 'em at me. Now, I don't look no gift horse in the teeth--I pocket
'em as fast as I get my hands on 'em. I got the rocks with me--here."

He pulled out the "pebbles" Slan had referred to--and jewels they were.
Fire shot from diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts. Joe whistled.

"We can use the money that stuff will bring."

"Buy a liquor store?" Mike asked eagerly.

"Finance the development and launching of an interplanetary expedition."

"Ah, what the hell you want to do that for?"

"They've got eleven moons," Joe said grimly, "and all we want is one."