The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Orneks and the Gogos This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Orneks and the Gogos Author: Charles E. Fritch Release date: November 5, 2026 [eBook #79926] Language: English Original publication: New York: Star Publications, Inc., 1953 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79926 Credits: Tom Trussel - Stories of Futures Past (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ORNEKS AND THE GOGOS *** The Orneks and the Gogos by Charles E. Fritch =“We’re Orneks,” the pig said. “You’re Gogos.” And apparently, that explained everything.= The rocket engines muttered an exclamation of relief as Captain Hawkins flipped the switch that gave them rest, and the spaceship glided on wings of steel across the shimmering Martian landscape. The three men were staring, fascinated, at the vast expanse of red sand, splotched with yellowish green ferns, that slipped past beneath them. “What do you suppose they’ll look like,” Stallman said. “The Martians, I mean.” Captain Hawkins shrugged. “Plenty of time to find out when we land.” His hands were busy pulling and pushing controls. “May not be any. Those ferns down there might very well be the only form of life. “It’d be a pretty ferny planet, in that case,” Bryant said. Captain Hawkins groaned loudly, “Twenty million people on Earth I could have taken on this trip, and I had to choose you.” “I didn’t know you cared, Cap,” Bryant grinned. To Stallman, he said: “Martians there will be, if only because Cap here has no romance in his soul. They’ll be about eight feet tall, have spindly bodies, and heads like ostrich eggs. All the science fiction magazines say so.” “I don’t care what they look like,” Stallman said, “as long as there are some.” “Will you two youngsters stop your infernal gabbing,” Captain Hawkins said. “I want to concentrate on this.” “Sh,” Bryant sh-ed. “The great man is at work.” He leaned over the Captain’s shoulder and peered into the viewscreen. “How about that spot right there?” he said, pointing. “It’s as good as any.” “I know, I know,” Captain Hawkins muttered gruffly. “Don’t be a back seat driver. I’ve got eyes.” “Hang onto your hats, boys,” Stallman advised. “Here we go.” Bryant cried enthusiastically, “Tim-m-m-mber!” The ground came rushing up to fill the viewscreen, and they touched Mars. Bounced. Touched. Bounced. And finally settled in a cloud of dust. “Well,” Captain Hawkins said proudly. “Pretty sloppy,” Bryant said, contemplating his fingernails. “A person’d think you’ve never landed on Mars before.” Captain Hawkins glared at him. “Uh—we’d better check to see if anything got damaged,” Stallman suggested hastily. “Mmm,” Captain Hawkins said. For the next several minutes, they rummaged around, and everything appeared to be intact. Suddenly from the porthole Bryant let out a gasp that sounded explosive in the narrow confines of the spaceship’s control room. “Pigs,” he said. His voice was high-pitched and incredulous, and on his face was a look of intense bewilderment. “What!” Captain Hawkins and Stallman joined him, crowding to see through the small opening. “Pigs,” Bryant repeated weakly, not certain that he believed it himself. He pointed a limp finger towards the quartz window. “You’re kidding!” “Don’t be silly. I know a pig when I see one. Pigs is pigs. Look for yourself.” Captain Hawkins looked for himself. He frowned. “Let me have the glasses.” Stallman took a pair of field glasses from a drawer and reluctantly handed them over. “I don’t know what I expected to see first on Mars,” Bryant complained, “but it certainly wasn’t pigs.” “Maybe other forms of life are similar,” Stallman suggested eagerly. “Maybe life on the planet was parallel to ours. Maybe even the natives—” “Pigs, hell!” Captain Hawkins said, lowering the field glasses. “They’re walking upright, on their hind feet. Those are Martians!” “Let me look,” Stallman begged, but Bryant grabbed the glasses and held them to his eyes. After a while, Bryant said sadly, “I was afraid of this. After all those grandiose stories of the great civilizations on Mars, this has to happen.” He moaned and gazed through the window. “They still look like pigs, though, except—the one on the left’s wearing glasses!” “A near-sighted pig,” observed Stallman, with interest. “Let me look.” “And the other,” said Captain Hawkins triumphantly; “notice anything different?” “For gosh sakes!” The hand holding the field glasses drooped, and Stallman seized his opportunity to confiscate them. He completed the statement: “It’s carrying an umbrella!” He looked up, a little startled by his own statement. “A pig with an umbrella? That’s crazy.” “A Martian with an umbrella,” Captain Hawkins corrected impatiently. “So they look like pigs. So what.” “So what?” Bryant grimaced, for his romantic nature was highly disturbed by the discovery. He had hoped for beings super-human in both physique and intellect, something on the order of Greek gods, and disappointment showed in every corner of his face. “Ants, hippopotami, anything,” he lamented, “but why—pigs?” “Why not?” Captain Hawkins wanted to know. “When we started on this little jaunt to Mars we realized that if Mars was inhabited at all, it might be with people who wouldn’t win any beauty contests on Earth. People who might, in fact, resemble an Earth animal of some kind.” “Like pigs, for instance,” Stallman sighed. “Like pigs, for instance,” Captain Hawkins agreed. Martians or not, Bryant told himself, the two individuals coming across the red sand did look as much like pigs as anything, including pigs, could. Put them on Earth, minus the glasses and umbrella, and they’d wind up on a blue plate special faster than either could say, “Don’t stick that fork in me; I’m a Martian.” The thought failed, however, to still the romantic rumblings in Bryant’s soul, for he was still hoping the Captain was wrong; hoping that perhaps the pig-creatures were merely a form aside from the more human inhabitants, perhaps in themselves intelligent, but definitely a minor form of life. “This trip may turn me into a vegetarian,” he groaned. When the Martians were within ten feet of the spaceship, they stopped and stared. They had been talking and gesturing with much enthusiasm and did not notice the rocket until they were almost upon it. The one with the glasses carefully adjusted the lenses upon his pink-colored snout and cautiously came closer. The one with the umbrella followed him. They walked completely about the ship. The one with the umbrella experimentally tapped it and seemed pleased with the metallic response. The one with glasses peered through the quartz window. “Now what?” Bryant wondered. “We can’t just make faces at each other through the porthole.” He felt an urge to stick out his tongue at the fat, piggish face hovering a few inches away, just to see what the other’s reaction would be. “Let’s go out,” the Captain suggested. To Stallman: “How’s the air?” Stallman consulted gauges. “Thin and cold. But breathable, if we take it easy.” “One of us better stay in here. Stallman?” “Yeah,” the man grumbled assent. “Bryant and I’ll go out. If one of us hasn’t reported back in four hours, take off. Got that?” Stallman showed his disappointment in a grimace, but he said, “Right.” “Expecting trouble, Cap?” Bryant asked. Captain Hawkins shook his head. “Just preparing for it.” The two men put on wool clothing, strapped pistols to their hips, and went through the airlock. The outer door opened, and the air grew cold and thin around them, turning their breaths to white vapor. Bryant blinked, his eyes moist and smarting from the sudden chill and the sight of an endless expanse of red sand, punctuated at intervals with the sickly-green vegetation. There was an alien taint to the air which Bryant decided with a naive instinct was not chemical. He shivered. “What happened to our friends?” he wondered. Captain Hawkins pointed. “There they go. Must have lost interest.” He yelled, and his voice made white streaks in the cold air. He yelled: “Hey. Hey, there!” The two Martians were continuing their walk, apparently unconcerned over their discovery of an alien space ship. They had been gesturing determinedly, but at the sound of the Earthman’s voice they turned, startled, their mouths hanging open. “Hey, there!” Captain Hawkins shouted again, and waved his arms. The Martians paused, shrugged their round pink shoulders, and waddled back to the space ship on thick pink haunches that ended in hoofs. Bryant watched them with ill-concealed displeasure, wondering if they oinked. Captain Hawkins smiled and extended his hand. “We’re Earthmen,” he said proudly. “We just landed.” The Martians looked like a vaudeville team with stage fright. The one with the umbrella fidgeted, while the other adjusted his glasses and stared vacuously at the hand. “Er—nice day for a walk,” the eyeglassed one observed in a high-pitched, piggish voice. “And they speak English yet,” Bryant moaned. “Oh, no!” Captain Hawkins’ jaw sagged. The one with the glasses turned to the one with the umbrella. “I wonder—” The other shrugged. “We’ve been alone out here a long time, away from the city. Do you suppose—?” The other nodded to concede the unvoiced possibility. Captain Hawkins, recovering from his astonishment, tapped the eyeglassed Martian on a pink shoulder and gazed determinedly into the thick lenses perched on its snout. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said with a strained patience. “We’re Earthmen. From Earth. The third planet.” He pointed into the sky, and the two Martians gazed upward and seeing nothing unusual, shrugged nervously. Bryant stepped forward, a determined look on his face. “I haven’t played charades in years,” he said, “but here goes.” He squatted and drew pictures in the sand with his finger, and at various times he pointed to himself and Captain Hawkins and to the Martians and to the rocket ship, punctuating his gestures with attempts at pidgin English. After awhile, he got up, wiping a thin layer of cold sweat from his brow. “There,” he said, “now do you understand?” The Martian with the glasses carefully scrutinized Bryant’s face. “Incredible,” he said. “I hope he means my explanation,” Bryant said, “and not my face.” “It’s not, really,” Captain Hawkins was saying modestly. “Just another engineering triumph is all.” “Incredible,” the Martian repeated. “Yes,” agreed the one with the umbrella. “Let them have it their way,” Bryant muttered, a trifle disgusted. “This is a hell of a reception for visitors.” “Their customs are just different,” the Captain defended. His nose was quivering oddly from the cold, and Bryant turned away to keep from laughing. “Yeah, well I still say pigs is pigs, even if they’re Martians.” “Gogos?” asked the Martian with the umbrella. “Visitors from another planet?” “That’s what I was thinking,” answered the other. “I’ve heard—” The Martians began whispering excitedly together, pausing now and then to look over their shoulders at the two Earthmen. An occasional “incredible” drifted from the huddle. The Martian with the eyeglasses had turned and was bowing. “Gentlemen, welcome to Mars,” he said. “Well,” Bryant said, grinning happily, “this is more like it.” He was too pleased with the arrival of his long-awaited recognition to laugh at the ludicrous figure of a pig, with glasses, bowing and talking like something out of a comic strip. “What a way to talk,” the Martian with the umbrella said, sulking. The eyeglassed Martian poked him to be quiet. “My name is Overwood.” He jerked a hoof over his shoulder. “This other is Bender. We’re farmers.” Captain Hawkins introduced himself and Bryant. “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is, how can you speak our language?” “Strange,” Overwood said, “I was about to ask you how you could speak ours! Incredible, isn’t it?” “Yeah,” Bryant said wryly. “Incredible.” “A fine way for an Ornek to talk to a Gogo,” Bender sulked, giving his head a disturbed toss and jabbing at the sand with his umbrella. “What are these Orneks and Gogos?” Captain Hawkins asked. “We are Orneks,” Overwood announced proudly, “and the Gogos, well they’re something else again.” “Foreigners?” suggested Captain Hawkins. “Something like that.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Don’t pay any attention to Bender. He’s mad because I proved conclusively to him today that exactly four thousand, eight hundred fifty-one schmoogelbrubs can dance on the head of a pin.” “What in the devil are—” Bryant began. “Oh, never mind.” He kicked the sand absentmindedly. “What I want to know is, are we going to stand here all day talking about schmoogelwhatchamacallits? I’m getting hungry.” “Forgive me,” Overwood apologized. “We’d love to have you for dinner. Wouldn’t we, Bender?” “Well—” “Our house is just over the dune there,” Overwood continued hastily. “It’s not much, way out here in the country, away from city conveniences, but at least we can talk more comfortably there.” “Okay,” Captain Hawkins said. “Lead on.” The Martians did, and the Earthmen trailed behind. Bryant’s nose, cold at first, began to twitch, but he made an effort to control it. “At last we’re getting somewhere,” Bryant said, a little more satisfied with the way things were progressing. “You know, Cap, I just thought of something. This language business. Maybe some others from Earth made attempts at Mars, and maybe some of them got here and were stranded. That’s one way the Orneks might have learned English.” * * * * * Captain Hawkins grunted. “After all,” Bryant continued, proud of his reasoning, “they’ve got a name for us, so they must have encountered others.” He rolled the name over on his tongue, tasting the sound. “Gogos. What did you say?” Hawkins shook his head and mumbled something unintelligible. “Oh,” Bryant said, deciding it was of no importance. The pig-like Martians waddled ahead of them, whispering together, until they got to their house, a perfect square made of some hard, chalk-colored material. Bryant wondered why there were no other Martians around, and then he remembered. These two were farmers. He wondered what they raised. They paused at the doorway, and Bryant strained his eyes to see across the red sand. He pointed curiously. “What’s that?” They looked. Several hundred yards away was a corral or pen in which several light-colored animals moved about. Neither of the Earthmen could tell what Earth species they resembled, for the animals were too far away. Overwood looked nervously at them and answered: “Those are only—er—our livestock. Let’s go in.” “Wait a minute,” Bryant said. Loose facts in his mind tried desperately to combine. Something Bender had said before. “I’d like to go over and have a look at them,” he said finally. He shook his head; suddenly it felt cobwebby. Overwood and Bender exchanged knowing glances. Their pig-like faces were almost expressionless, but Bryant could have sworn they were grinning at him. He didn’t like it. “Coming, Cap?” Captain Hawkins grunted helplessly, his gaze disturbed. “Okay, okay,” Bryant said. “Hold down the fort. I’ll be right back anyway.” He turned and walked away, the red sand feeling soft and crunchy and comfortable beneath his feet. He felt a sudden desire to kick off his boots and romp through the sand on all fours. He controlled himself, however, and wondered a little nervously at the impulse. He was aware that his mind wasn’t as clear as it might have been, as though he had been drinking some strange alien beverage for the first time. Something was wrong somewhere; he knew that, and he had the strangely unpleasant sensation of not giving a particular damn whether it was or not. It was an indifference that surprised him, for usually he took sides, feeling either one way or the other about a thing. He was a little ashamed, too, of this lazy animal contentment that crept over him, and of its alien, numbing philosophy that all was right in a world in which all was obviously not right. Helplessly, he kicked at the sand, sending a red spray into the air before him. His nose twitched. Bryant wasn’t surprised; he knew, somehow, before he ever got to the pen that the animals would be human beings, or reasonable facsimiles thereof, and he was not disappointed, although a remote part of him wished that he had been. There were about ten of them, male and female, stark naked, running about the enclosure on all fours, muttering and grunting. And for some idiotic reason, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to Bryant that it should have been this way. “Hello,” he said, aloud. No, that wasn’t what he said. He tried to, but it was something else. What? He didn’t know. The problem tortured his peace-seeking mind, and he fought to resolve it. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. Something was happening to him that shouldn’t. No, that was not it; that was not it at all. There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all. This was it. The status quo. The status Gogo. Things were as they should be. Yes, that was it; there was really no problem at all. Bryant’s nose quivered at the smell of his kin. Gogos, he thought. These were the Gogos. They looked up suspiciously as he approached. There was a blonde female, very well-formed, who looked at him with animal interest; but the others regarded him with a mixture of uncertainty and apprehension. A large, shaggy male with coal-black eyes roughly shoved the female aside and placed himself before her. Bryant resented the intrusion, and he sat on his haunches and regarded the Gogo with unconcealed hostility. There was something he had to do, though; now, what was it? It had something to do with that house back there. He turned away, grunting over his shoulder to let the others know he would return, and headed back toward the house, trotting on all fours. To his left was the glinting top of a spaceship just visible beyond a red dune. In one thought he wondered what it was and in the next decided it could be of no consequence. Stallman, he thought as he saw it. He frowned. Now what did that mean? It occurred to Bryant suddenly that he should be walking erect, on his hind legs. The thought startled him, for it was foolish. Why should he want to do that? On impulse he tried it and found the position uncomfortable to bear and impossible to maintain. He was startled at the weird thoughts he had and ashamed that he gave in to them. The odor of food met him at the door, and his animal nostrils quivered hungrily. The odd taint he had noticed in the thin, cold air had disappeared and was forgotten. “Look who’s here,” Bender said pleasantly. Bryant couldn’t understand the language, but he grunted amiably. Overwood came over and scratched Bryant’s ear. It felt good. “After dinner, we can put him with the others,” the Martian said. Bryant murmured drowsily, happy in the attention being lavished upon him. “You almost gave the thing away,” Overwood said, annoyed. “You and your talk about Gogos.” “Well, I don’t like it,” Bender muttered. “I don’t like this familiarity with such creatures.” His tone was full of disgust. “It’s something in the air,” Overwood said tolerantly. “Something like an evolution with built-in safeguards to insure the supremacy of our species.” He fell to musing. “They seemed to be almost rational creatures at first, just as were the first group that arrived generations ago. But then—well, here’s an example of what happened.” He indicated Bryant and then turned to thoughts more pleasant. “How’s the meal coming?” “I’m getting it ready,” Bender said. “Be patient.” “It should be a tasty morsel,” Overwood anticipated. “I can hardly wait.” Bryant curled up in the sunlight streaming through the doorway and felt content, even as a dog or cat on Earth must feel content because of its remoteness from the cares and worries of the world. He yawned disinterestedly at the stretch of sand in front of him and the silver rocket ship that lay beyond it. He raised his head a bit more, curiously, as he saw someone coming over the dune. Unaccountably, his heart raced. Stallman, he thought desperately; it’s Stallman coming to rescue me. Stallman? he thought immediately afterward: what was that? The creature was only another Gogo, like him. No, that was not quite right. It only looked like a Gogo. It was standing on its hind feet, of all things, and had a long flexible nose that curved under one foreleg to a metal tank strapped to its back. Under the other foreleg it carried two extra noses attached to tanks. At the sight of this strange creature, Bryant felt both glad and afraid, and the opposing emotions fought within him. He cried out excitedly, and the two Martians came swiftly to the door. “Another one,” Overwood said, sighing; he was more annoyed than frightened or angry. “I thought there were only two.” “We can take care of him,” Bender said confidently. “It’s just the inconvenience,” Overwood complained. “Give him a light blast; we don’t want him killed.” Bender nodded and took his umbrella from a corner and pointed it at the approaching Stallman. This was not right, Bryant told himself; not right at all. He leaped up suddenly and threw himself against the Martian. The sand in front of Stallman exploded. The Earthman fell to the ground, rolled over, and then leaped up, gun in hand, and started running toward the house. Bender steadied himself for another shot. “Take care of that animal,” he said quietly. Bryant lay on the floor and watched Stallman racing across the sand, still carrying the two tanks under one arm. The Earthman waved the gun and fired it once. The bullet bounced harmlessly from the outside wall. As the man came closer, Bryant felt afraid, and he wondered why he had deliberately spoiled the aim of the fat, pink one who was defending him. Perhaps he felt a kinship with the stranger who resembled him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know either which side to be on, and as he was trying to decide, there was a blast, and Stallman staggered a few steps and pitched headlong into the sand a few yards from the door. The gun and an oxygen tank hurtled forward and struck the floor with clanking sounds. “I’d better start the main course going,” Bender said, turning to the kitchen. “It’s a nice day for a picnic,” Overwood observed. “We really should have made some sandwiches.” Curious, Bryant crept cautiously forward to see what the metal objects were which had been thrown into the room by the force of Stallman’s fall. He sniffed at the gun, ran his tongue across it, and decided it was inedible, or at least bad tasting. The tank was a few feet away, trailing a pleated length of hose. Bryant regarded it with curiosity, and smelled about it. The tank itself was smell-less, but a strange odor was seeping from the end of the hose. Bryant sniffed it, shook his head, sniffed it some more, and then sneezed violently. Now what the devil, Bryant wondered suddenly, was he doing down on all fours. He looked up into the amused pig face of Overwood, and unpleasant memories came. He leaped up and hit the Martian in the stomach. The skin felt soft and flabby, and his fist became buried in rolls of fat. The Martian grunted, like a pig, and collapsed. “What’s that?” Bender wanted to know. He came into the room, looked frightened for a moment, and then fell to the floor. His head had made a sharp cracking noise against the umbrella weapon in Bryant’s hands. * * * * * An hour later, the rocket ship was murmuring high above the atmosphere of Mars, as Bryant, Stallman, and Captain Hawkins compared notes. “... and so,” Bryant was finishing, “after I got a whiff of that clear oxygen, things cleared up. Just in time, too.” “I made a few tests after you two left the ship,” Stallman said. “Nothing much else to do. I tried the atmosphere on a couple of white rats from the lab and they acted sort of peculiar. That’s why I brought out the oxygen.” “What about those Gogos?” Captain Hawkins wanted to know. “You say they’re human?” “Well, nearest I can figure, they must be descendants of space travelers who made it to Mars years ago, and never got back because of this ‘evolution safeguard.’ That’s probably how the Orneks learned the language. After I dragged you two invalids into the ship, I went back and rounded up four of the more friendly Gogos. They’re down in the hold. I had to throw out some stuff to make room, but nothing essential. We’ll make it okay.” Bryant grinned. “She’s one of them. They’re probably second or third generation at least, so we’ll have to re-educate them with more than a sniff of oxygen.” “Maybe on successive trips we can get more,” Captain Hawkins suggested. “What I can’t figure out, though,” he continued bewilderedly, “is what happened to me. When I went into that house, I just got woozier and woozier, and then, pft! nothing—until I woke up in the ship here.” “Yeah, what did happen to him?” Stallman asked. Bryant hesitated. He recalled how he had discovered Captain Hawkins, unconscious and naked, crowded into a large pan being readied for the oven; he’d had a look of sublime contentment on his face and an apple in his mouth. “Nothing,” Bryant said finally. “Nothing at all. In fact, he had an easier time than either of us.” After all, there was no sense in _all_ of them becoming vegetarians. Transcriber’s note: This etext was produced from Cosmos Science Fiction and Fantasy September 1953 (Vol. 1, No. 1). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Obvious errors have been silently corrected, but minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed. 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